Arrow To The Heart (De Bron Saga) (3 page)

“Another Norman nobleman put in his place,” she whispered to herself, taking great delight in knowing that the haughty stranger had been forced to buy his own clothing back. “What a wondrous turn of events.” As to the stranger’s purse, though it had not been as heavy as she might have liked, she knew the coins had brought comfort to the needy villagers. She had no regrets as to events. To the contrary, justice had been done!

Taking off her cap she sighed with relief and exhaustion, letting her long honey-blonde hair fall freely about her shoulders as she slowly collapsed to the ground. Laying full-length on the straw mat she closed her eyes, reliving her late night adventure.

“There is a fee for riding through this forest, my lord,” she whispered. “Now, get off thy horse lest you feel the sting of my arrow.”

Motioning with her hands she pantomimed shooting her bow, then felt a surge of regret that such high moments of adventure and peril were so brief and all too rare. Alas, it was time to return to the constraints of her female clothing and to her father’s side.

“Fie! Why could I not have been born a male?” Truly it would have made her life far more exhilarating and adventuresome, she thought, running her hands over her breasts, bound now to hide their alluring fullness. Were she truly a lad she would have been afforded far more freedom. As it was, the rules of her society dictated that she be under the governance of a man from birth until death, leading, as it were, a most tedious kind of sheltered existence.

Once again, Rowena ran her hands over her body, this time touching that place between her legs. It was said that a woman’s body was a mirror image of Adam’s body and that the female organs were similar in structure to
the male’s, but turned around--introverted. “More secret and thus more private.” But like anything hidden, suspect, requiring a more vigilant guard. To man fell the “task of surveillance”. Woman could not live without man and needed to be in a man’s power, it was said.

“And why not, considering that it is men who rule the world!”
It was an essentially masculine world, dominated by men’s constant warring. A lord granted land to a vassal in return for services that were primarily military, thereby making women seem unimportant in the scheme of things.

Oh, there were a few women, like Henry II’s queen, Eleanor, who had distinguished themselves in a man-dominated world, yet even they received patronizing credit. It was said that an able queen ruled “as if she were a man” or had a “man’s courage”. Only because of her father’s lack of a male heir was Rowena deemed of importance at all. Was it any wonder then that she so enjoyed dressing in male attire? Only then did she fully experience a freedom that could not be equaled when wearing skirts.

“In the forest, among the trees, I do not have to answer to anyone!” And best of all she could help all those who suffered from injustice far more than she. It was a hungry world, made hungrier by intermittent crop failures, a dismal existence that Prince John did little to better. With heartlessness he taxed the already burdened population far beyond common decency. Was it any wonder then how much Rowena loathed him and all those who followed him, or that she chose to torment them any time she could?

Reluctantly she rose from the mat and began to undress, tugging at her boots, pulling at the brown hosen that adorned her long legs. Removing her tunic she carefully bundled the garments toget
her. They would be hidden along the way in a place that would not tie her in any way to the villagers.

Padding on her bare feet across the dirt floor, she poured water into a bowl to wash herself. This done she combed her long hair with her fingers, noticing at once how tired her arms were. They ached with tension and the soreness that always accompanied the use of her bow, yet it was a discomfort she did not regret. Last night had been well worth it.

Laughing again, she scurried to the corner of the cottage, retrieving yet another bundle. With renewed vitality she donned a chemise, kirtle, soft leather shoes and a fine woven mantle. Not bothering to plait her hair she hurried to the door. She had an appointment to keep, for she and her father had been summoned by the prince to a celebration.

“As if while he is in control we have anything to celebrate,’ she murmured, pushing through the door. Flinging herself upon her horse, she paused just a moment, then with a sigh headed down the very same road that the men she had so lightheartedly robbed had taken.

The rough stones of the castle walls stood defiantly against the darkening winter sky as Kendrick de Bron rode forward.  Like some stern, giant knight, the circular watchtower loomed in the distance welcoming him.

"’T is about time….."  

Approaching the castle, crossing the drawbridge which reminded him of the open jaws of a snake, Kendrick forced himself to forget about his unpleasant experience
with the villagers and concentrate on the matter at hand. Diplomacy was the answer. Diplomacy and a cool head. He must not let anger goad him into acting unwisely. Above and beyond all else, he must ensure the prince's trust.  He must not act rash, as had his childhood friend, Robert Fitzooth, only to find himself cast out as an outlaw. Nor could he let anyone or anything stand in his way.  The de Bron lands would be reclaimed!

The hooves of the
horses clattered loudly against the stones of the courtyard as he entered the outer bailey, blending with the barking dogs and the buzzing voices of the castle servants.  Kendrick had been riding hard, and by the time he reined in his horse, the newly procured black animal was in great need of rest, as was he. Dismounting, he handed the reins to a groom, a grinning old man that reminded him of a squirrel.

"Keep my horse well
tended and fed until I return to claim him." Kendrick ordered sternly. 

The man grunted in answer, judging Kendrick to be a man of little consequence, with his garments covered with the
dirt of the road. This was soon to be altered, for Kendrick was a man who always asserted himself. Seeking out a steward, he insisted he be shown to chambers that befitted him as the prince's guest.

Following the steward up the steep, winding stone steps, opening the thick wooden door, Kendrick
opened the thick wooden door and stepped inside the chamber assigned to him. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, warming the room and casting light on the inner walls of the chamber. It was a large room, the floor covered with freshly strewn straw that smelled of herbs and spices. A large canopied bed nestled in the corner and looked inviting to one who had spent so long a time on horseback. For a moment, he was tempted to bury himself in the soft feathers and to forget about why he had come. But instead, he waved all thought of comfort aside. There would be time enough for sleeping just as soon as his plan was set in motion.

Standing before the fire, Kendrick slowly stripped o
ff his travel-stained garments, thinking and planning silently as he cast aside hose and tunic. Shaking out the dust from his clothing, he was startled when the door behind him opened. Ready to face any treachery, Kendrick reached for his sword and whirled around.

"My Lord, I seek thee no harm." stuttered a short, stocky man with deep set eyes and protruding jaw.  His eyes wide with fear, he added "I am Hugo, your most humble servant."

"My servant?"  Kendrick scowled. "I already have servants. I have no need of more."

The man was insistent.
"I served your uncle well," he hurried to explain, "and now look to you with fealty." Hugo bowed as he spoke.

“My uncle?”
Eyeing Hugo up and down, Kendrick slowly sheathed his weapon and motioned for him to come inside.

Strange that his uncle Geoffrey
had not mentioned such a man. Measuring him sharply, Kendrick wondered if this man could be trusted. Just where did his true loyalties lie, with Richard or with John?  Instinct told him to be doubly wary. He would seek to find out the truth in time, but for now, all he wanted was a hot bath and a change of clothing. 

As if sensing his new Lord's needs, Hugo quickly filled the large wooden tub, then sat down upon the bed to watch with pierci
ng eyes as the young Lord prepared to bathe.  "There is a feast tonight, m'lord.”

“A feast?”
 

“
The Prince is most generous in hosting his friends and servants." 

Kendrick shook his head. “Nay, I am much too tired.” He would choose to speak with John when they could be alone.

Offering Kendrick a half smile, Hugo advised, "It might be wise to attend......"

"A feast?" Kendrick q
uickly changed his mind.  What better way to make new friends and further his interests.

"Tis the Christmas season and the household has been preparing for the celebrating all week.  Tonight, the Prince plans to make an announcement."  A thick, dark brow was cocked in suggestion.

Kendrick nodded.  "Then by all means, I must attend."  Though Hugo seemed the faithful servant, Kendrick had not hidden from danger for so long to easily give his trust.  The man was just too obsequious. 

"Ah, good.....very wise to admire he who has the power....."

Carefully Kendrick chose his words, perceiving that what he said now would be reported. "John is a decisive and daring man, one after my own heart. I admire him and know that we will deal well together." 

“I’m sure that you will.”

Dismissing Hugo, Kendrick slid into the soothing warmth of the water. It enveloped him like a cocoon, taking away the stiffness from his  joints.  He leaned back, letting the grime of the road dissolve away with his apprehension.  He had been suspicions about a trap, but clearly, he was being welcomed here. Was it possible that all had truly been forgiven? Had John buried the past and forgiven the de Bron’s for siding with his father? For the first time in a long while, Kendrick held that hope.

Chapter Three

The large hall of the castle was bathed in light.  Flames danced about the hearth
, reflecting in it's glow the many brightly colored tunics and mantles of the lords and ladies assembled for the festivities. Fires from the many candles twinkled along the tables, illuminating the richly threaded tapestries which hung from the walls. Fresh rushes carpeted the floors, crackling as both servant and guest walked to and fro. From bower to bower, mistletoe hung to usher in the holiday with rollicking good cheer, and to bring good luck throughout the following year. It was a time of celebration, the Christmas festival, a time when a man's heart was filled with the brotherhood of his fellow man.

The plunk of harp and lute added a sense of gaiety that was emphas
ized by the dancers and jesters. Babbling voices and boisterous laughter abounded throughout, yet one face at least was not smiling. Lady Rowena Fitz Hugh frowned as she and her father took seats at the table--assigned to their station, above the salt yet a great distance from the reigning ruler. It was a reminder to them that they were but minor nobility and not yet entirely in John's favor.

"The Prince has clearly outdone himsel
f this year," a rotund, velvet cloaked man declared aloud, appraising the doings with awe. Indeed, trestle tables were covered with bounty from the king's forest, including venison and pheasant. The plump browning flesh of a wild boar roasted on a spit over the fire, tantalizing the palate. For those who craved tamer meat, the trenchers were piled high with mutton and beef.  The air was rich with the aroma of the sauces made from herbs, wine, and spices from the East. Fruit pies and tarts, freshly baked, tempted even the most jaded of palates.  Servants hurried from table to table, their arms laden with platters.  Wine and ale flowed freely from casks, bottles, and kegs.

Rowena leaned close to her father. "Outdone himself in his greed," she whispered, knowing well that the generosity displayed was at the expense of his subjects. "One would nearly
think he fashions himself the king."

Sir William mirrored
his daughter's dour look as he scanned the assemblage.  Smiling sourly, he added, "In truth, he has everything
but
the crown.  We would do well to remember that."

Richard the Lion Heart had been gone over a year now, to the Crusades, and his ambitious brother, John, assumed more and more power as time went on, despite the ever watchful eye o
f their mother, Queen Eleanor. Slowly, so slowly, Richard's kingdom was slipping away and he was nowhere near so that he might guard it. Like dogs fighting over scraps from the table, John's followers were slowing dividing England up and toasting themselves on their success.

Unlike the others, Rowena
saw no cause for celebrating. Her loyalty was staunchly behind Richard of the Lionheart, not his devious brother. She and her father had been ordered to Prince John's castle in Nottingham Shire to gather together with the other noble families of England, and they could only be apprehensive as to the reason.  Something was up the royal sleeve, but what?

Mingling with friends as well as those who were not so prone to offer friendship, Rowena pondered the question.  Though the guests drank much ale and seemed contented enough, she sensed an underlying current of tension and suspected that she and her father were not the o
nly ones who were ill at ease. It was no secret how fragile John's favor could be, nor that he hated those of Saxon origin and harkened to every opportunity he could to steal their property. What property they had left that is. His schemes and treachery had reopened old wounds between conqueror and conquered; wounds that had once been laid to rest. For he rewarded his favored Norman knights with lands that had once belonged to others. Bitterness and hatred was John's legacy.  As Rowena scanned the faces of all those bearing Saxon blood, she read apprehension and frightened curiosity upon their brows.

Rowena's mother had been a Saxon, the daughter of a prosperous
London wool merchant. Lovely and gentle, she had stolen Sir William's Norman heart. They had married and born a child of their love, Rowena. But fate had not been kind to the lovers. Edwina had died of a fever shortly after Rowena's birth. Grieving and heartbroken, Sir William had refused to marry again, and had instead placed his steward's wife, Gwyneth, in charge of their home and the upbringing of his motherless daughter.               

Gwyne
th had had no easy task. Rowena, headstrong from the first and surrounded mainly by men, had preferred the freedom of the forest, climbing trees and practicing her skill with the bow and arrow over the working of tapestries and other "woman's" activities. At first Gwyneth dealt strongly with her, but at last, realizing that Rowena would never bend to her will, she had accepted her ways and allowed her to be a happy and carefree child. Gwyneth had always understood that although some had called her wild, in truth Rowena was just a free spirit, an adventurer. 

With the first swelling of her bosom and her ripening into womanhood
, all had changed, however. Of late her father had begun insisting she modify her attire and appear more ladylike, at least in public. After several arguments it was a wish she grudgingly obeyed. Thus, Rowena cared not how she looked this evening, She had dressed to please her father.  She wore a gown of bright periwinkle blue and a mantle of velvet. The skirt hindered her movements, the bodice was so tight she wondered if she dare eat even a bite of food. She had worn her blonde hair plaited and uncovered, thankful that at least she was not married or she would have been expected to wear a wimple, that linen piece beneath her chin and atop her head. Looking around she felt a twinge of pity for those women who were not as fortunate as she. 

Why
on earth would any woman with a pittance of sense wear such a contraption,
she wondered.  Undoubtedly the wimple had been a man’s invention to hide the glory of a woman’s hair and much of her face.  In curiosity Rowena had put on Gwyneth’s wimple once only to tear it off when she found that it constricted head movement and made her feel imprisoned, unable to move her head from side to side. The style was a boon for older women, however, for it hid their now-sagging, fleshy chins. With a sigh Rowena put her elbows on the table, cradled her chin in her hands and watched the steady procession of servants bearing food. All sorts of exotic dishes were placed before her, heavily laced with spices. Wild swan with sage dressing, duckling floating in orange sauce, stewed and pickled vegetables of every kind. At least she would not go hungry.

"Hear ye, hear ye." warbled the page of the h
ousehold, "our noble prince and ruler of the realm bids a word with his noble subjects before we sup."

"Merry-go-up!  If I must listen to him I'll lose my appetite," Rowena whispered, only to be silenc
ed by her father's stern look. "Ah, well...." Unlike Rowena Sir William had no strong ill will towards John, had in fact been given some land in an obvious attempt to buy his favor.   By her father's reluctance to speak out, it appeared that John had done just that. But not Rowena. Never would she pay a usurper homage.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" cried out the page again.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" echoed a tiny little man dressed in yellow and green, a three pointed hat atop his head. The Prince's jester turned a cartwheel before the table where Rowena sat, winking at her in merriment. For a moment her ire was gone as she watched his antics, but it quickly returned as the Prince stood up and announced his intentions. From here forward, all taxes were to be increased.

"It is to pay for my brother's campaign against the unholy heathens in the East." John proclaimed with a grin, trying to put the b
lame on his brother, the king. His left hand played idly with his dark beard, curling and uncurling the waxed hair as he spun his treachery.

A rumble went up in the hall.
It was known by many that the monies that were supposed to find themselves into Richard's coffers went instead into John's treasure chests.  Even the jester's antics could not calm the assembly, though the little man tried and tried. For once the Prince had gone too far.

Rowena fou
ght hard against her own anger, figuring in her head what this new assessment would mean. Something on the estates would have to be sacrificed. Did the Prince not know that there was a limit to what burden he could put on even those loyal to him?  How she would like to humble him as Robin Hood had a few months ago. He had made the Prince an object of buffoonery by capturing him in Sherwood Forest and holding him for ransom. John would not be so haughty were he to find an arrow aimed at his brow!

"Like that haughty lord whose hat I sent flying.....
" she said beneath her breath. Anticipating this dull evening, she had wanted to do something fun and had therefore forced a confrontation with a Norman knight traveling through the forest. One of John's mercenaries, from the looks of him. "And John will be next...."

As if sensing her thoughts, Prince John's hypnotic e
yes traveled to where she sat. Rowena looked hurriedly away lest he set his sights upon her. The Prince was well known as a womanizer and despoiler of innocent young women. He was known to seduce a woman one night and boast of it openly the next. There were even those who swore he had a sorcerer's power in those eyes of his. Rowena could not control a shiver of disgust at the thought of finding herself his victim, he with his large sweating hands and bearded face.

"Excuse me....."  A hand lightly brushed Rowena's arm.  She turned, opening her mouth to speak but found herself suddenly without voice as glittering brown eyes looked deep into hers.  Merry-go-up!  It was the man she had accosted in the forest.  Her heart thumped wildly as she sat perfectly still, fearing to even blink. For just a fleeting moment Rowena lost h
er poise, fearing recognition. He had taken note of her across the hall and had come forth to denounce her before all!  

"I hope this chair is not taken....." Gleaming white teeth f
lashed in a smile of greeting. His hand touched the back of her chair, lingering on her shoulder.

For a long moment Rowena just stared then at last she found her voice.  "It is....."

He seemed not to care for he sat down beside her anyway. The overbold buffoon! Undoubtedly he was the kind who did exactly as he pleased, despite the consequences.  Even in the forest he had proven to Rowena that she might well have met her match. Remembering that meeting, she hastily looked away, but did manage to study him with a sideways glance.

Though she assured herself that he was much too arrogant to be handsome,
her eyes appraised him anyway, noticing details she had failed to notice during their forest encounter. He was tall, much taller than she. His hair was so dark brown as to be nearly black. Worn just below his ears, it brushed his tunic as he turned his head.  His shoulders were broad, his waist trim. Grudgingly she admitted that he was well put together. But though he was a strong and well-formed man, he was nothing out of the ordinary--or so she told herself. But his face! Now that she saw it clearly in the light, she had cause to stare. He had a face etched in strength, yet beautiful in a masculine way. His eyes were dark gray and penetrating, his nose.......

"My lady?"

To her dismay, Rowena realized that she had turned her head and was staring at him. Nor had her gawking gone unnoticed. The newcomer studied her in a manner that made her blush and caused a curious stirring in her stomach.  Something she ate, undoubtedly. So thinking she looked hastily away.

"I hope I am not unreasonably tardy.  Has John spoken yet?"

The very mention of the Prince unleashed her pent up frustration. "Of a surety he has! But you have missed naught but donkey's braying if you are asking me." She kept her eyes focused on the trencher before her, wishing the splendidly muscled vision in green velvet doublet and gold hose would vanish.  It was unnerving the way his very presence made her tremble. She, who could fence verbally with many a noble or swain.  Now, suddenly, she was as tongue-tied as a simpleton, all because of this man she did not even know. Well, it hadn't been that way in the forest.  Oh to have her bow and arrow in hand again!

“Sounds as if you care not for John’s rule. He is the true and rightful king in Richard’s absence.”
Kendrick's eyes swept appreciatively over the young woman at his side, bedeviled by the very sight of her. So Normandy was not the only country with lovely young women. This one's dark blonde hair was the color of honey, her wide blue eyes like the summer sky. Her slender form, with it's impudent breasts thrusting firm and strong, partially hidden beneath the loose gown she wore, nevertheless hinted at the budding young curves underneath. She was lovely, with the warmth and freshness of a summer breeze, yet with a certain spice to her countenance.  A spirited wench, Kendrick thought as he eyes swept over her.

“John is no king he is…”

Quickly placing his hand on Rowena’s, her father leaned forward, looking around her to catch Kendrick’s eye. ”Sir, I fear my daughter often speaks from emotion and not sense when it comes to politics. She is but a girl who has grown up without a mother and is a little rough around the edges.” Rowena’s father, seeing a note of understanding in  Kendrick’s eye, relaxed a little.

“Have no fear, sir. Your daughter is but a child and I am sure no one would take her seriously—though beautiful she is.”