Protected by the Warrior

“’Tis just her usual tears, sir,” Brindi said, sitting down and putting her arms around Clara as if she were the older sister. “Ever since she offered her life to our Lord and pledged to care for the sick, her heart has turned as soft as lamb’s wool. Our aunt often said ’tis the price of having a heart for God and people.”

Clara flushed. Enough of this. She wouldn’t be exposing her heart to the man who would see Rowena punished for running away. Clara bustled to her feet and quickly swiped the wetness from around her eyes. She had no desire to lay bare her woolly, foolish heart in front of Kenneth. He’d only make her regret all she’d done so far and twist it to make her reveal where Rowena was.

Nay, she would not do such a thing, and no amount of fear for the consequences would change that.

She smoothed the skirt of her cyrtel. ’Twas her best one, and she should keep it good. That meant no tears to stain the material at her lap. “Never mind me. We will deal with the day as it comes. And I see it has already started. Brindi, we need to break our fast before we weed the garden, and you—” she leveled as firm a stare as possible at Kenneth “—you have a door to fix.”

* * *

Kenneth tried the door one last time, satisfied that, finally, it closed firmly, without scraping or catching. And none too soon, for his patience with this expensive board was growing thin. He was a soldier, not a carpenter. Still, his handiwork was satisfactory.

Though Clara may find some fault in it. When he’d escorted her to Dunmow from Colchester, she’d corrected him several times on his equestrian abilities. Aye, she was skilled on a horse, more than most men, which was unusual, for she’d been a fisherman’s daughter and then a midwife. But he would not ask her how she’d learned such talent. He refused to risk hearing even more pointers on how to ride a big horse properly.

He bent to gather the tools he’d borrowed from the smithy, a man who lived at the end of the road, beside the forest.

Not the safest place to live, but the smithy could easily defend his family, he was that strong. Kenneth’s thoughts wandered to Rowena and her safety. Where had Clara hidden the young mother and her babe? There were leagues between here and Colchester, with few homes and even fewer inns. The fens to the east, where peat had once been cut and dried for fuel, were unlivable. And Clara would be a fool to hide her in the forest. Those Saxons who defied the law and lived in the king’s forests were hardened men, criminals some. Not the safest place to hide a mother and child. Surely Clara would choose a hiding spot wisely. Perhaps to the west? A few abandoned sheep pens lay scattered about, but they would be just as unlivable.

Mayhap Clara was not wise. She’d been plucked from Colchester for her stubbornness, and the day he’d escorted her here he’d have had to have been blind to miss the fact that Clara didn’t wish to leave the town. At the time, he’d assumed it was worry at the unknown, but could it have been she’d made a hasty and unwise decision as to where she’d hidden Rowena?

If only she could just see how foolish her ideas were. ’Twas clear she feared Taurin would mistreat Rowena, but on what did she base her fears? Rowena, a runaway slave, would likely have said anything to win Clara’s sympathy and aid. Lord Taurin was not a soft man, but there was no reason to believe him to be brutal toward the mother of the child he clearly valued. Nay, Rowena would come to no serious harm if restored to Taurin’s care.

Indeed, after her punishment was past, she would likely find herself better off than she was now, with a good roof over her head and steady meals on her table. As for her child, the young son would be raised in privilege to take over a peerage and enjoy the favor of royalty. King William and his future heirs would reward strong Norman lords and their sons, legitimate or otherwise.

As he stooped to retrieve the final tool, he noticed a small section of the cloth on which he’d wiped the splinter fragments when ministering to Clara’s hand.

It had been a nasty injury she’d had. She’d endured the pain of that festering wound with no tears, but at the mention of helping the sick, she had practically wept openly.

He paused as he shoved the tools into their leather pouch. She was as dedicated to what she saw as her duty as he was. And even more stubborn. Nay, she would never reveal where Rowena was.

Oddly, such determination sparked admiration in him. Lord Adrien would love to have such strength of character in his troops.

Nay, he needed to set aside all admiration. He’d pledged to find the slave woman and her child, and turn them over to Taurin.

Though some punishment was warranted, and ’twould be hard on the new mother, Taurin would be a fool to kill her. Who would feed the babe? It would cost him to hire a wet nurse.

Rolling closed the flap of the tool pouch, he tightened his jaw. Clara had to be exaggerating the danger. People lied when they tried to support a rash decision.

’Twas nearly suppertime when Kenneth returned to Clara’s hut, having returned the tools and asked those Clara had visited that day how long she’d stayed with them. Thankfully, he had earned the respect of most of the villagers, and thus discovered that Clara, with Brindi in tow, had not left the village all day.

Poor little Brindi. Like many a child, she was expected to work alongside her mother—or in this case, her sister—with never a moment to enjoy life.

Rowena’s babe would end up as such, or worse, since he had no father figure to mentor him. Kenneth paused at the compact garden beside the hut. At least he might be able to do something for Brindi. For starters, he could teach her to read, and mayhap...

Mayhap he could make her a doll. Aye, she’d like a doll, he was sure, a toy to relieve the drudgery of work. He was a satisfactory carver, and if he found a knot of wood, or better still, a large apple, he could carve a head. With the apple, ’twould dry to imitate the features of a wrinkled old lady. Then he could ask Lady Ediva’s maid, Margaret, if she could fashion a soft body for it, something filled with wool or fine straw and dressed like one of those princesses Clara scorned.

Aye, and such a gift would go a long way to changing Clara’s attitude toward him.

As he approached the midwife’s garden, the air offered the coaxing scents of supper. Evening meals were often just leftover broth and old bread, but this meal smelled rich and satisfying. He could hear Brindi singing softly inside the hut and, suddenly, the clear, stronger voice of Clara as she filled in the rest of the song.

He smiled. ’Twas good to hear. His sisters and mother often sang, especially when minstrels visited. They’d beg their visitors to teach them new songs, and one time his oldest sister even managed to convince their father to purchase a rebec from one of the minstrels. She did eventually master the strings on it, but it took years, and Kenneth had fled their home on more than one occasion when practice began.

He stepped into the hut, through the open door, for the day was warm. The song they sang carried on for a short time, allowing Kenneth to enjoy it.

Then Clara looked up at him, her song dying and her expression immediately turning guarded. He offered a controlled smile, but received only caution from her for the effort.

Brindi, however, smiled innocently. “Thank you for the new door, sir. It works better than the old one.”

“I oiled the hinges and planed the edges to make it fit properly.”

The girl brightened further. “’Tis good work, sir!”

“Enough chatter, Brindi. Set the table.” Clara shot Kenneth a sharp look. “If we are to have a guard, he’ll need to eat.”

She lifted up a large quarter of cheese. “Lord Adrien sent this over, along with some meat and honeyed pastries. We’ll eat well tonight.”

“I can’t wait for the pastries,” Brindi chimed in.

He smiled at her. She was a pretty little thing, though not the stunning beauty her sister was, with that fiery hair, clear, pale skin and perfectly even features. Brindi’s hair was light brown, a simple color, and braided deftly. Her nose was upturned and dusted with freckles. Clara’s hair was wildly curly and obviously refusing to be restrained into braids. She opted to tie it back with a simple leather thong, barely seen amid the unruliness. She owned a wimple and veil, so where were they? Probably tossed on a pallet, for they would be too hot with all that thick hair. Not unlike his heavy chain mail and the helmet, with its annoying nosepiece.

As she turned, a thick lock of that hair found freedom and danced to her shoulder. A stray thought flitted through his mind that he’d love to plunge his hands through her mane and see it cascade down his arms. But he’d need an extra arm to deflect what would surely be Clara’s firm fist from his face.

With a smile at his addled musing, Kenneth sat down. At the far end of the table sat a small leather-bound book. He looked up at Clara with a question on his face.

“I thought that since you said you can read, you could read this to me.”

“You say it was hidden in the floor?”

“Aye. An odd place to put a book, but ’twas there.”

Kenneth worked his jaw. The old midwife had been a crafty woman, and she’d always asked for payment in coin, instead of provisions. Was this where she kept her records? Did she hide this book so that when the king’s men came for taxes, they wouldn’t know what she’d earned? They would never know, now that she was gone.

He looked down at the script. “’Tis in English, which I don’t read as well as French.”

“I can help you pronounce the words if you start them off. I know all the medicines, but wish to know the old midwife’s records of what she did with them. She opted to be paid in coinage, and I also want to know how much her healings cost, if that information is recorded within.”

Kenneth opened the book carefully, as the stitches that held it together were old and fragile. “I can more than just read it to you. I can teach you how to read, if you like.” Earning this woman’s trust would go a long way to achieving his goal of finding the slave woman and her child.

Brindi gasped. “And me, too!”

“Hush, girl,” Clara admonished her. “We’ll decide that later. For now, I want to know what is written in this book.”

Kenneth skimmed the earlier entries, dated many years ago. He turned the pages and found the few months leading up to the old midwife’s death. Several in the keep had been poisoned last year, including both Lord Adrien and Lady Ediva. The midwife had been murdered in order to cover up the identity of the man who had committed the crime. It had been a terrible blow to everyone in Dunmow. Even now, there were still questions unanswered. Perhaps this book held the key.

’Twould be good to have this record opened and hopefully find the truth.

And then destroy the book. It served as a reminder of a dark and painful memory that still roamed through the rooms of the keep like a hungry wolf.

“Why not start reading now?” he suggested. “We can begin with a few simple words just to get you used to seeing them.” He smiled at her hopefully. ’Twould be good to begin a lesson, not just for learning the secrets of this book, but to earn Clara’s trust. Aye, that would be needed, for the sideways look she had just shot him spoke of her suspicion more than anything else.

He shoved the book to his right and then dusted off the bench beside him, inviting her to sit. Her cyrtel today was soft green and a lovely color, the color of moss in autumn, complementing her pale skin. But her vibrant hair demanded something more daring. Briefly, he considered what colors she should wear.

A smile hovered on his lips. Red. Aye, a bold red that no modest woman should wear and no redhead would consider. But she would never own a cyrtel like that, for the color was far too expensive, and if nothing else, Clara was practical.

Discarding his silly thoughts, he opened the book to the first page and devoted his attention to it. Cautiously, Clara sat down beside him. Brindi looked from the pastries to him. Her annoyance showed clearly on her face as she realized supper was being delayed for a silly reading lesson.

“This looks like a list of herbs the old midwife had one year,” he commented as Clara leaned toward the book.

“It’s set up differently than the next few pages,” she said.

Kenneth turned the page. “This is a ledger of who bought what herb and what she charged for it. I can see the date here. ’Twas Michaelmas when she collected her fees.”

Clara leaned forward. “Hopefully by then I will be able to read what I need to charge. But let’s go back to the list of herbs. ’Tis best we start there.”

Encouraged, Kenneth carefully flipped back a page. The leaves of parchment were stiff and he decided to hold the corner rather than press the page open at its spine and risk tearing the pages. “We will start at the list. See this letter? ’Tis an N.” He made the sound as he traced the shape with his finger. His lessons as a youth, and even this past winter, were paying off. Holding open the page with his left forefinger, he took up Clara’s right hand, closing all but the forefinger into a fist as he carefully showed her how to trace the letter. She would feel nothing on the parchment, but ’twas important to figure out how the letter was formed.

Clara stiffened, but he continued the task. “The next letter is an E. Eeee. Then the next two letters are T.” He sounded out that letter, then put the word together so far. “N-e-t-t.”

Relaxing, Clara allowed him to trace her finger along the four letters. ’Twas the easy part, for the cursive script flowed easily along. But Kenneth didn’t know his herbs and Clara wasn’t volunteering the word in English. “What word is this?” he asked her. “Neet? Net?”

Clara shrugged. “Neet? I’m not sure ’tis an herb at all.”

“Nettle!” Brindi popped up between the pair, squeezing them apart as she cried out the word.

Glaring at her sister, Clara snapped, “Nettle has a different sound!” With a sharp glare, she shoved her sister’s head back down, pushing the girl to the floor.

Kenneth snickered. “I think Brindi may be right. In English, the letter E has two sounds. And I know the last two letters have the ‘le’ sound.”

On the floor, Brindi called out, “I told you so!”

“You were right, Brindi,” Kenneth said, leaning over to speak to her. “The description says something about causing a rash, but the stingers dissolve when boiled.” He looked at Clara. “Is that true?”

Clara opened her mouth, but her sister cut in before she could speak. “’Tis true!”

The tiniest of frowns creased between Clara’s fine reddish eyebrows, and she swallowed. She looked slightly annoyed and almost hurt.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked her quietly.

“No!” she announced. “Brindi is young and smart, too smart sometimes, so she will learn quickly. But I need to learn this, and my sister is not going to better me.”

“I don’t want to stop, either!” Brindi called out, her back leaning against the bench as she sat on the floor below them.

Clara twisted about and shot her sister another fast glare. Kenneth felt the smile that hovered on his face melt away. Was Clara jealous of Brindi?

“I want you to show me the next letters,” Clara announced.

Clearing his throat, Kenneth began on the next word, slowly pronouncing each letter. As they reached the last letter, having tried various forms of pronunciation, both he and Clara turned to peer down at Brindi, who looked up with curiosity.

“Are you going to guess this word, too?” he asked her.

Brindi looked over at her sister. Slowly, a soft, indulgent smile spread over Clara’s face and she nodded. “Go on. Say the word.”

“Tisane?” The little girl’s eyes were wide with caution.

Clara nodded. “Aye, that’s it.”

Kenneth asked, “’Tis a tea, ’tisn’t it?”

“Aye, but this word indicates you are to pound the herbs first. We also use this preparation for barley water. ’Tis good for babes, to prepare them for food.”

She smiled at him, any insecurity she had from Brindi shouting out the words now gone. Brindi popped back up between them. “Please let me read, too, Clara. I won’t be rude again, I promise.”

Clara shifted away from Kenneth. “I doubt that promise, but you may listen in.”

Brindi scrambled up between him and Clara, her attention focused on the worn book before them. She immediately asked which words they had pronounced.

Kenneth pointed to the two, and as the girl traced each scripted letter with great exaggeration, he looked across the top of her head to Clara.

She met his gaze, her smile hesitant.

“You will learn all of this, Clara. I promise.”

She laughed. “Aah, another empty promise?” Abruptly, she sighed. “I know, but I was only thinking of how this must be what a real family is like in the evenings.”

Kenneth felt his heart chill. How different her childhood must have been. Her father missing at sea, her mother unable to feed her children, shipping them off to other relatives, not being a mother at all. No wonder both sisters seemed to vie for his attention. His upbringing was far different. A strong family unit, separated only when his oldest sister decided she wanted to play that stringed instrument and drove her siblings from the house. He’d thought for many years that all childhoods were like his.

“Are we going to continue the lesson?” Clara cut into his thoughts.

The lesson had been meant to earn her trust so she would reveal Rowena’s location. That single purpose suddenly soured in his stomach as guilt flooded him.

But ’twasn’t the only reason, he told himself. He’d hoped to find a mention of the poison used on Lord Adrien and Lady Ediva. Still, what kind of honorable Christian man was he, that he would use this lesson time for his own purposes? He should just take this book and burn it, now, and never mention it to anyone in the keep.

Then what would he use to teach Clara? He didn’t want to stop this lesson. Seeing Clara move from jealousy to love for her sister and wistfully describe her thoughts was as potent as any dose of medicine she could mix up. It warmed him and settled something restless deep within him.

But ’twas all a ruse, and suddenly, he hated it. He stood. “Nay, it’s far too late, and I am hungry, as I am sure Brindi is, also.”

“Aye!” Brindi agreed. “Time for our sup!”

Kenneth scooped up the book and set it on the mantel. When he turned back, Clara set a bowl of pottage down in front of him. Then she did the same for Brindi. After serving herself, they all bowed their heads and gave thanks. The grace was barely finished when Brindi dived into her meal with the gusto of youth.

“Is there something wrong?”

Kenneth looked blankly at Clara, realizing he’d been mulling over the past again. “Last year was a dark and dismal time for the keep. This book is a reminder of that. I’d rather we move on and forget it.”

Then he lifted up his spoon to eat. As he swallowed his first delicious mouthful, a short scraping noise echoed in the quiet hut.

Kenneth’s head snapped to his left, at the wall a few feet away, waiting for the odd sound to repeat.

The scratching began again.

From the corner of his eye, he noted Brindi, her small, carved horn spoon hovering below her mouth and her eyes as big as her bowl. Beside him, Clara ate as if the noise didn’t exist. But her knuckles were white as she gripped her spoon.

He steadied his gaze on Brindi, whose look of horror grew with each passing heartbeat. Again, he looked to Clara. Her jaw was tight.

All three knew exactly who was outside.

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