cunningly using it like a carrot to dangle in front of her father’s nose. For the last few years it had been under Sir William’s control, and now without warning it had been wrenched away But why?
Because of me?
Her face flushed with warmth as she reflected on her mischievous plotting and scheming. She had thought herself to be so clever, daring and brave. She had taken on the prince’s men, provoking and ensnaring her quarry. Little had she realized that there might be consequence to her deeds.
For a long while Rowena was as still as a stone, going over in her mind every minute detail of what had transpired . She had cautiously tucked her hair under a hat or hood, kept her face in the shadows, and lowered her voice when she talked. How then could anyone have guessed?
It wasn’t possible. There was no way that her identity could have been discovered. Had the prince even a wit of suspicion as to who the mysterious archer was, he would have sent those men to the manor to capture her and take her back to Nottingham. Then why…..?
The more she wondered, the more the answer became obvious. John had sent his henchmen to the cottage to do just what he did. Steal it! “To reward some lord or other for obeying the prince’s whims.”
Maybe you will realize now, Father . The prince was evil personified and a man who had to be stopped before it was too late. As long as he was in power, no one was safe.
It was a chilling thought that shattered her false sense of peace. Rising from the bed, snatching up her clothes from a peg beside the bed, dressing hurriedly, Rowena moved to the doorway, strangely compelled to visit the scene of last night’s crime.
Alternating between walking and running, Rowena reached the small dwelling, pausing as its thatched roof came into view. Strange, how peaceful the cottage looks she thought upon her arrival. Silhouetted against the soft pink glow of the sky, the cottage’s wattle and daub walls, the trees surrounding it and the cool brook that babbled nearby, gave the semblance that all was well.
Thrusting aside a branch, Rowena cursed when it snapped back and hit her in the face, then made her way to the cottage’s small wooden door. Pushing inside she surveyed the scene, clenching her teeth in disgust as she viewed the damage.
“The bastards!” Debris was scattered everywhere. There were broken chairs, splinters of wood, shards of broken pottery. A wooden chest had been pried open, the garments inside torn and tossed wildly about. With a sigh she bent down, trying as best she could to salvage at least a few of Gwyneth’s belonging--cooking utensils, a wooden mug, a discarded tunic that had been Ethelred’s finest, a woven basket, some ribbons bought on market day.
“Poor Gwyneth, what does she have now?” Very little to call her own. The woman had been uprooted as surely as if a bolt of lightning had struck her home. A lightning bolt that had a name—John.
Vengeance controlled Rowena’s thought. How dare he do such a terrible thing? “Prince Loathsome, oh but you will pay.” It was written, an eye for an eye.
With a gesture of defiance she clenched her hand into a fist and raised it high. John no doubt thought that there was no one to take retribution, that no one would care about the injustice dealt out to mere Saxons. Well, he was wrong. She cared and because of that she was determined to strike back.
“Perhaps sooner than I could have supposed!”
Turning her head she stiffened as she listened. Horses! Springing to her feet, she moved quickly to the door, peering out. Specks moved across the horizon. “A hunting party!” No, the prince was up to hawking today. Even from a distance she could see the birds of prey, clutching to their owners’ wrists. Rowena counted the number of men—two, three, five, each with the type of bird that exhibited the owner’s rank in society. A king hunted with a gyrfalcon, a lord with a peregrine falcon, a woman with a
Because of me?
Her face flushed with warmth as she reflected on her mischievous plotting and scheming. She had thought herself to be so clever, daring and brave. She had taken on the prince’s men, provoking and ensnaring her quarry. Little had she realized that there might be consequence to her deeds.
For a long while Rowena was as still as a stone, going over in her mind every minute detail of what had transpired . She had cautiously tucked her hair under a hat or hood, kept her face in the shadows, and lowered her voice when she talked. How then could anyone have guessed?
It wasn’t possible. There was no way that her identity could have been discovered. Had the prince even a wit of suspicion as to who the mysterious archer was, he would have sent those men to the manor to capture her and take her back to Nottingham. Then why…..?
The more she wondered, the more the answer became obvious. John had sent his henchmen to the cottage to do just what he did. Steal it! “To reward some lord or other for obeying the prince’s whims.”
Maybe you will realize now, Father . The prince was evil personified and a man who had to be stopped before it was too late. As long as he was in power, no one was safe.
It was a chilling thought that shattered her false sense of peace. Rising from the bed, snatching up her clothes from a peg beside the bed, dressing hurriedly, Rowena moved to the doorway, strangely compelled to visit the scene of last night’s crime.
Alternating between walking and running, Rowena reached the small dwelling, pausing as its thatched roof came into view. Strange, how peaceful the cottage looks she thought upon her arrival. Silhouetted against the soft pink glow of the sky, the cottage’s wattle and daub walls, the trees surrounding it and the cool brook that babbled nearby, gave the semblance that all was well.
Thrusting aside a branch, Rowena cursed when it snapped back and hit her in the face, then made her way to the cottage’s small wooden door. Pushing inside she surveyed the scene, clenching her teeth in disgust as she viewed the damage.
“The bastards!” Debris was scattered everywhere. There were broken chairs, splinters of wood, shards of broken pottery. A wooden chest had been pried open, the garments inside torn and tossed wildly about. With a sigh she bent down, trying as best she could to salvage at least a few of Gwyneth’s belonging--cooking utensils, a wooden mug, a discarded tunic that had been Ethelred’s finest, a woven basket, some ribbons bought on market day.
“Poor Gwyneth, what does she have now?” Very little to call her own. The woman had been uprooted as surely as if a bolt of lightning had struck her home. A lightning bolt that had a name—John.
Vengeance controlled Rowena’s thought. How dare he do such a terrible thing? “Prince Loathsome, oh but you will pay.” It was written, an eye for an eye.
With a gesture of defiance she clenched her hand into a fist and raised it high. John no doubt thought that there was no one to take retribution, that no one would care about the injustice dealt out to mere Saxons. Well, he was wrong. She cared and because of that she was determined to strike back.
“Perhaps sooner than I could have supposed!”
Turning her head she stiffened as she listened. Horses! Springing to her feet, she moved quickly to the door, peering out. Specks moved across the horizon. “A hunting party!” No, the prince was up to hawking today. Even from a distance she could see the birds of prey, clutching to their owners’ wrists. Rowena counted the number of men—two, three, five, each with the type of bird that exhibited the owner’s rank in society. A king hunted with a gyrfalcon, a lord with a peregrine falcon, a woman with a
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