Page 4 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

M orwenna clutched the warm coin in her hand and watched as the Earl of Wolvesley ducked beneath the low timber door frame. She stayed still and quiet, crouched on the stool in the small room, listening to the heavy tread of his leather boots descending the wooden ladder and ringing through the stables. When at last they went quiet, she breathed out in relief.

He was a big, giant of a man. A handsome giant of a man. Sitting here, beneath the piercing impenetrability of his blue gaze, she had felt her pulse pound as it never had before. Even back in the carriage, straight after that interminable journey, the earl’s unexpected appearance had set her heart racing; and not because of her rational fears of the reception she was about to receive, but simply because that was the effect he had on her.

He left her breathless.

But at the same time, he somehow made her feel safe. And how could that make any sense at all?

No man in Escafeld had boasted anywhere near his height, nor the breadth of his shoulders. She’d seen his muscles rippling beneath his fancy tunic and fancied he would have the strength to fell a tree in just one blow. But somehow, she hadn’t felt fear in his presence. Not of him, anyway. He was like a big, strong horse which everyone but her was afraid of. She could see beneath the surface to the true man inside.

But it didn’t matter how drawn she was to the man’s deep blue eyes. He was the Earl of Wolvesley; renowned throughout the country for his wealth and privilege. And she was just Morwenna. A humble girl from Escafeld who lived in a leaking hut.

She gripped her hands together until the nails dug into the flesh. Nay, that was just it, she wasn’t simply a humble girl from Escafeld.

She was a suspected witch.

Gripped by a sudden need to see him once more, she rose from the table and crossed to the dirty window which filtered a grey, grimy light into the stablemaster’s room. There he was, on the edge of the cobbled courtyard. His golden blond hair shone in the blazing light of a dozen recently lit wall torches. He had stopped to talk to a horse, a fact in itself which lifted her heart. His large, capable hands patted the horse’s neck as the evening breeze whipped his fur cloak around his powerful body. He radiated energy, like a tightly coiled spring.

She swallowed hard and backed away from the window. What was happening to her? She wasn’t one to feel the pull of attraction for a finely built man. She’d rolled her eyes in derision when girls she’d grown up with became giggly and simpering over the pimply youths in their village. Only once had she faltered from this path.

Robin; a wandering bard, had passed through Escafeld more than three summers since. Unlike the other village youths, he didn’t think Morwenna was an unusual creature to be taunted. He didn’t look askance at her and her grandmother in their hut high above the settlement. Instead, they laughed together. She had thrilled at this joy of connection. And once, just once, they had come together as men and women did. Afterwards, Robin had asked her to leave Escafeld and come south with him. But she could no more leave her grandmother than he could find a new way to live.

Since his departure, she had remained unmoved and disinterested in romance. Not that she didn’t want to settle down and have a family one day; she just didn’t see that pathway as being open to her. Especially given the turn of recent events. And this really wasn’t the time to start going sweet on a man.

And not just any man…

She startled as a door banged somewhere beneath her. Footsteps were advancing nearer, but this wasn’t the heavy, measured tread of the earl. These footsteps were lighter and quicker. A small man, in a hurry. Seconds later, a brief knock heralded the door creaking open and a greying head appeared.

“Miss Morwenna?” enquired an ageing man clad in an emerald green tunic bearing the Wolvesley standard.

She nodded, keeping her hands folded to stop them from shaking.

He looked her up and down with no hint of emotion on his bearded face. “The earl says I’m to show you to your quarters. Come with me now. You’ll be quite safe. I’m stablemaster here and I don’t tolerate misbehaviour in my yard.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice coming out in a croak.

“Do you have bags or belongings with you?” He glanced around the room.

“I have nothing,” she admitted, shamed by the fact. She looked down at her feet, remembering the hot flush of fear that had flooded her veins when she opened the door of her shack to find the uniformed guard waiting outside. She’d thought he had come to arrest her, had acquiesced without question.

The stablemaster scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I can send someone back to fetch your things?” he offered.

“Nay, there’s no need,” she said quickly. She couldn’t risk any more of the earl’s men travelling to Escafeld and hearing the rumours about her.

The man shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. “We have grooms’ livery for you. But there is nothing made for a woman. Mayhap, come the morn, one of the serving girls can lend you a dress.”

“Pray, do not trouble anyone.” She tried to smile even as her cheeks flushed, for she knew this would be considered indecent. But she was here to work with a horse. And the horse would not care how she was dressed.

Besides, clad in braccae and tunic, like a young apprentice groom, it was more likely she would blend in with her new surroundings. She might pass the days unnoticed.

Which was all she’d ever wanted.

*

She awoke to a bewildering reality.

The straw mattress in her allocated chamber was much thicker than the one she slept on at home. She was warm, snuggled beneath a soft rug. She was safe, behind a sturdy locked door. And for the first time in many days, her stomach was not growling with hunger.

She would have been less surprised to be thrown into a dungeon.

Hardly daring to believe in her fortune, she stretched out her arms and legs, luxuriating in the familiar smell of sweet hay and horses which filtered up through the slatted wooden floor. Her chamber was small and narrow, lit with a square window which overlooked the yard. Morning light was already filtering past the oil cloth and patterning the bare wall behind her, but aside from occasional hoofbeats in the stables below, all was quiet.

She remembered the stablemaster’s words last night.

“I’ve put you in the room above his lordship’s horses,” he said, clearly discomfited by the obligation to find lodgings for a woman. “Most of the boys sleep over the main stable block, so you’re less likely to be disturbed.” He stumbled a little over the final word. “Although none would dare disturb you. That I promise.”

She had nodded in recognition of his consideration, sparing the details of how she had spent many nights in Escafeld listening out for footsteps and quaking with trepidation.

How my life has altered in just one day.

She got up from the comfortable mattress, stretching her arms above her head and rotating her shoulders. Yesterday’s long carriage ride had left her stiff and aching, for she was more accustomed to physical activity than sitting still. Today, at least, she would be outside.

With the earl’s challenging horse.

She’d wrapped her silver mark in a handkerchief and hidden it beneath the mattress, buoyed up by the possibility that this was her first step towards recovering her savings. Mayhap she would earn enough here to pay for repairs to her roof? Hope, unanticipated and even painful at first, lodged itself into her heart.

My luck is changing.

As her grandmother used to say, fortune’s wheel never stops turning.

Morwenna gripped her leather cuff and vowed to make the best of things, while fortune was on her side.

In two strides she reached the small, narrow closet into which she’d placed the tunic and braccae given to her by the stablemaster. She reached in and pulled them out, gazing in apprehension at the unfamiliar fastenings.

Boys’ clothing.

She would look ridiculous.

Morwenna immediately stamped down on the thought. Why should she care how she looked? It mattered only that she kept her head down and succeeded in her work.

She pulled on the braccae, wincing at first at the strange feeling of wool wrapped around her legs. They were far too long, of course, but she dealt with the extra fabric by rolling them up at the ankle. The tunic was loose around her waist, but tighter across her chest. Morwenna was glad of her slender frame; a more voluptuous woman could not have worn such an outfit.

Her hair was a problem. If only she had a cap to pin it beneath. But she had to be satisfied with tying it into a long plait, just as she had done the day before.

Finally, she could delay things no longer. It was time for her to emerge from her seclusion.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she walked across the stable yard towards the clatter and conversation of the grooms’ eating quarters. Jacob, the stablemaster, had pointed out the low-slung wattle-and-daub building to her yesterday.

“That’s where you’ll take your meals,” he said, shifting awkwardly in the manner she had grown used to. “I eat with the household servants in the great hall, but I’ll tell one of the lads to look out for you in the morn.”

She hoped he had not forgotten.

Pausing in the arched doorway to take in the scene, she almost turned away and fled back to the safety of her chamber. There were too many men in here. Men of all ages and sizes, but all of them clad in the smart green and gold colours of Wolvesley. Colours which she now sported in the crest blazoned across her tunic. They shouted to each other good-naturedly as they feasted on freshly-baked bread and salted fish, all sat at two long trestle tables running the length of the room.

The smell of the bread had her stomach rumbling afresh. Could she snatch up a heel and beat a hasty retreat?

Her eyes flickered to a wicker basket in which two loaves still remained. Most grievously, the basket had been placed on a low wooden table at the far side of the hall. Beside it were two large earthenware jugs of watered-wine.

If she wanted to eat and drink, she must enter the room and walk between the trestle tables full of men.

“Miss Morwenna?”

She jumped at the enquiry, which was softly-spoken and polite. A young boy, no more than twelve years of age, was standing by her side. They were evenly matched for height, but his build was sturdy and his dark hair stuck out in untidy tufts.

“You are Miss Morwenna, aren’t you?” The boy cocked his head to one side, watching her closely.

She nodded mutely and the boy grinned. “Gerrault told me to look out for you. He wanted to be here to greet you himself, but he’s been summoned to see Sir Henry.”

Gerrault!

Her knees went weak from a combination of fear and shock.

Gerrault, the cobbler’s son, was here in Wolvesley Castle.

“He said you most likely wouldn’t want to sit down with us,” the boy continued, oblivious to her horror. “In truth, miss, nor did I on my first day. It’s dreadful rowdy.”

Mind still reeling, Morwenna nodded again. If she made a sound, she might lose her composure altogether.

“So I’ve got you this.” He thrust forward a package, which Morwenna quickly took from him, barely aware of what she was doing.

“Thank you,” she croaked.

“I’ll tell Gerrault I saw you,” he chirped on. “He’s been talking about you non-stop.”

Her heart dropped like a stone and she leaned against a wooden beam for support.

“What did he say?” she managed.

“That you’re a wonder.” The boy grinned and Morwenna felt some of her worries lift from her shoulders.

It was a curious feeling, to be admired. It caused her belly to flutter, but not with nerves. Pride in her abilities was not something she had known in many a year. The first pinpricks began to warm her through.

“Is that her, Isaac?” came an enquiry from the benches.

Isaac didn’t turn around but shouted over his shoulder towards a cluster of the younger stable boys. “Aye, it’s her. But don’t come pestering her, Sam,” he ordered. “Jacob says she’s to be left alone to do her work.”

There was a discontented mumbling at this and Morwenna fixed her gaze onto the dusty ground, keenly aware of a blush heating her cheeks.

“Work that none of us could face doing,” Isaac added firmly, shooting a glare towards his young friends. He leaned forward with excited eyes. “Good luck, miss,” he whispered. “And I reckon you’ll need it. Sam over there thinks that horse has been cursed.”

“Cursed?”

Morwenna reeled backwards, but Isaac merely shrugged. “He’d believe anything,” he whispered confidingly. “But either way, miss, the horse is scared half to death.”

She took that as her cue to leave. Muttering an embarrassed thank you to Isaac, she clutched at the items he’d given her and stumbled from the hall into the brightness of the morning.

Her heart rate steadied as she walked across the stable yard, not knowing where she was going but wanting to put some distance between herself and the curious grooms. With relief, she found a path towards the paddocks, where horses grazed contentedly and spared her little attention. It was a blessing to be out in the fresh air, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and bare arms.

And a further blessing to be wearing braccae. She discovered she could lengthen her stride without fear of tripping over her skirts. She could skip over fallen logs and march past brambles, all without a care.

What liberty.

She must find a cap in which to hide her traitorous hair. Then she might pass unnoticed amongst the men.

When she was satisfied that she was far enough away from the eating quarters, she sank down onto a mound of long grass and looked more closely at what Isaac had presented her with. A flask of watered-wine and a wrapped loaf of bread. The loaf was crusty and still warm, and she wasted no time in tearing into it while she ruminated on what she had learned.

Gerrault was here.

Could he yet spoil everything?

He must have heard the rumours circulating about her before he left Escafeld. But no one here had approached her with fear or trepidation. On the contrary, Gerrault had clearly sung her praises, providing her with paid work and a second chance. No one in Escafeld would dare to speak slander about someone who had served the Earl of Wolvesley.

Mayhap I owe Gerrault my thanks.

She swallowed a mouthful of bread and washed it down with some watered-wine. She would owe Gerrault nothing if she did not make this work. She’d seen doubt in the earl’s eyes yesterday. He wasn’t sure she could do it.

She must prove him wrong. She must tame this so-called wild horse and leave Wolvesley Castle with her head held high.

And a bag filled with coin.

Gritting her teeth, she brushed the crumbs from her tunic and got to her feet.

The stablemaster told her she would find her charge set away from the paddocks. The earl’s newest horse was kept apart from the others, a fact she didn’t overly like. Horses were herd animals, happiest as part of a group. And the Earl of Wolvesley was not lacking in horses. She scanned her eye over the fenced enclosures, quickly losing count of them. There were others kept overnight in the stable yard itself.

Enough horses to seat an army of hundreds.

The horsemen here must have many years of experience. Yet Isaac had stated none of them could master the earl’s latest horse. For the first time, Morwenna felt a flicker of apprehension that she may not be equal to the task. But what she said to the earl was true, she had never met a horse she could not tame.

Though she had never worn braccae until today.

And it was some years now since she had been faced with a new and difficult animal.

Morwenna’s gifts had not become apparent until her thirteenth year; at least, not to other people. The ability to converse with horses, ponies and donkeys came as naturally to her as breathing, but the only time she wielded her abilities was when Farmer Jerome needed help from the village with bringing in the harvest. She would join the other able-bodied men, women and children in the fields, but her attention would soon wander to the horse pulling the wagon, or the ponies craning their hairy heads over a stable door. During that particular summer, Farmer Jerome had purchased a new horse for his daughter. Blackie, it was called. And the creature seemed doomed to the slaughterhouse for she would not allow anyone to stay in the saddle for more than a minute.

Farmer Jerome’s daughter, having twice been bucked off, had declared that she would not be trying again.

Morwenna was alerted to the poor creature’s plight by Blackie herself. Not thinking to hide her unusual abilities, Morwenna rushed to Farmer Jerome’s side and explained, loudly, how the horse’s saddle was causing her pain. Ignoring the scalding look from his wife, Farmer Jerome duly inspected the saddle and found a large thorn trapped on the underside of the pommel. Once removed, Blackie was the most docile creature anyone could hope to sit upon.

That day heralded a whole new chapter in Morwenna’s life. She was invited to ride the farmer’s horses and regularly called upon to help with difficult equine situations. Word of her talents began to spread, and soon folk were bringing horses from beyond Escafeld for Morwenna to tend to.

It was her grandmother who put a halt to it all.

“’Tis better we live a quiet life,” the old woman insisted.

And so instead of being a wonder, Morwenna gradually became known as simply an oddity. And instead of transforming their meagre household economy, she helped her grandmother find locally grown herbs, she mixed and sold her healing salves, and she learned how to make a handful of coins stretch through a winter.

The blackbird was in full song as she followed the path past the paddocks and up a high hill. She was panting slightly as she rounded a bend taking her out of sight of the castle.

Good. She did not want prying eyes watching her work.

Watching me fail.

Nay. Morwenna gritted her teeth. She must not allow doubt to take hold.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld a mighty wooden palisade, higher even than the earl himself. The wood was thick and strong, topped with spikes, such as villagers might erect to keep out marauding hordes.

The earl’s horse was kept behind this.

Morwenna walked closer, unable to deny her growing apprehension. She had not gone more than three paces further when she heard hoofbeats pawing at the ground, coupled with a frenzied snorting.

The horse had sensed her.

And what a beautiful horse.

His coat was a fiery chestnut red; his mane and tail long and flowing. He moved with a fluid grace, side-stepping across the circular paddock like a dancer. But his eyes were wild and full of fear. Even as she watched, he flung his finely-boned head up and down in a warning for her to keep her distance.

She would heed his warning, for now .

She paused some way from the gate and feigned a deep interest in the view beyond the paddocks, where dense forests wound their way along a gushing river. From her position of height, she had a glorious view of the Wolvesley lands; rolling green fields dotted with sheep and stone-built farmsteads. The air was filled with birdsong and not a cloud marred the deep blue sky.

Sky as blue as the earl’s piercing eyes.

Morwenna pursed her lips and chased away the memories of his ruggedly handsome face, deliberately emptying her mind. The horse must be her focus, not his master.

Although no one was this horse’s master. It was a creature of freedom and fire. Wild and untamed, exactly as she’d been told. She breathed deeply, quelling the flicker of fear uncurling in her belly. Fear begot fear. The horse would never come to trust her if she allowed her anxieties to surface.

She closed her eyes, allowing the sweet birdsong to wash away her worries. A slight breeze lifted the hair from her face and she widened her stance, planting her feet firmly into the ground.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

As her body relaxed, her mind cleared. She took a measured step closer to the paddock and waited until the ensuing rumble of alarmed hoofbeats ceased. Then she repeated the process.

When Morwenna opened her eyes, she was standing within reach of the gate. The horse had bolted to the far side of the paddock and stood on high alert, ears pricked, watching her closely.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The sun had risen higher in the cloudless sky, causing heat to prickle beneath her unfamiliar clothes. But she dared not break the spell she was weaving by pushing up the sleeves of her tunic or lifting her heavy plait away from her neck. She forced herself to ignore her discomfort, fixing her gaze deliberately on a singular oak tree stood to the left of the horse. From the corner of her eye, she could make out a ramshackle wooden shelter erected just outside the fence.

If she had spied the shelter earlier, she could have stood out of the way of the sun.

Minutes past. Minutes that felt like hours. From the corner of her eye, she noted the horse gradually beginning to calm. His head lowered and his ears flicked backwards and forwards as he contemplated this new visitor. By the time he took his first cautious step towards her, Morwenna’s stomach had begun to growl all over again. The sun was directly above them, and perspiration had broken out down her back.

But she was making progress. The horse gave in to his own curiosity and walked closer, nostrils flaring.

She didn’t allow herself to feel victorious. She concentrated entirely on projecting an air of calm. Her mind was a blank space, open to receiving the emotions of this highly-charged, highly-disturbed animal.

The horse came closer. If the mighty wooden palisade was not there, she would have been able to reach his side in three strides.

But she would not approach, for she could sense that things had already progressed far enough for one morning. There was no cause to rush. Slowly, Morwenna turned to leave.

“What progress,” came the low voice behind her.

The horse’s ears flattened back. Betrayed, he veered to one side and bucked twice, kicking his heels at the visitor he had so recently come to accept.

Morwenna’s heart had nearly jumped out of her chest, so great was her surprise. As the horse thundered back to the far side of the paddock, he projected a swell of frustration which came at her like a heady wind. It was so strong, she staggered backwards under the force of it.

“Steady,” came the voice again, and suddenly large hands were grasping her shoulders, righting her balance.

Morwenna felt as if she’d been woken from a deep sleep. She blinked slowly as the world came into focus, resisting her urge to reprimand the interloper who had spoiled all her morning’s work.

For she already knew who it was.

“Thank you,” she muttered, moving away from the beguiling warmth of his hands and holding onto the wooden fence for support.

“No one has been able to get so close, not in several days.” The earl rubbed his hands together, clearly delighted.

“I was making some progress.” She kept her words balanced, allowing herself a faint spark of gratitude at his praise.

“Wonderful progress,” he enthused. “Though it was never in doubt.”

Morwenna was still feeling her way back to reality. Her thoughts were muffled, her mind not quite her own.

“I do not believe that is true,” she said.

Several seconds passed before she realised her transgression. The earl had put his hands on his hips and was looking at her in surprise. Despite the warmth of the day, he was attired formally in a long cloak which fanned around his muscular body. His thick fair hair glowed more golden than ever in the noon-day sunshine. She felt her pulse pick up speed.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she tried.

He held up a hand to stop her. “I insist that you explain.”

She took a deep breath, considered fleetingly the wisdom of further prevarication, and decided to speak the truth. “When we talked yesterday, I had the impression you may not consider me equal to the task, my lord.” She clenched her hands together, her nails biting into the palm of her hands. It was bold of her to speak so, but it was no less than an honest answer to a direct question.

The horse snorted at some unseen enemy within the distant trees. His blonde tail flicked over his muscular quarters and he picked up his legs in a neat, diagonal dance.

The earl’s piercing blue eyes remained fixed on Morwenna. When he smiled, she was weak-kneed with relief.

“I cannot deny it,” he stated, suddenly looking less like an earl and more like a man. “But it was only because of your youth.”

“And my sex?” she added, shocked at her own daring as soon as the words left her mouth.

The earl put his head to one side and frowned as if thinking hard. “I’m minded to deny that allegation, Morwenna from Escafeld. One of the most dauntless riders I’ve ever known is a woman.”

That he gave her audacious comment any consideration at all was reason for her cheeks to flush a deeper shade of pink. She pushed away an instinctive urge to ask more about this dauntless woman.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” she said quietly, folding her hands behind her back and catching a glimpse of her dark-coloured braccae.

She had forgotten all about her unusual clothing.

What must he think of me?

The earl gave her another small smile which seemed to light a fire in her insides. “Indeed, my mother was the one who first taught me to ride.” He paused, as if weighing up his next words. “She did so wearing braccae, just as you are now.”

She had not imagined a titled lady would ever do such a thing.

“Your mother must be an unusual woman.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His expression became shuttered. “She is an unusual woman, in many ways.” He nodded sharply. “I will bid you good day.”

She lowered her head, blonde plait swinging before her eyes. “Good day, my lord.”

What a disaster.

She waited until his majestic figure had stridden over the brow of the hill before she allowed herself to fully exhale.

“I’m an idiot,” she said in the direction of the chestnut horse.

She was exhausted, hungry and increasingly light-headed from being out in the midday sunshine. It was time to head back to her chamber, to pull the oilcloth down over the window and lay in the dark until she was calm enough to resume her work.

Morwenna had made it as far as the paddocks when she heard someone calling her name. The voice was young and full of excitement, but when she spun around, she failed to recognise the tall, smartly-dressed youth running towards her.

“It’s me, Gerrault,” he called.

“Gerrault,” she gasped. The boy had grown at least an inch since leaving Escafeld. His face was no longer thin and drawn, and his Wolvesley uniform hung well over shoulders that were beginning to broaden.

“I’m so glad you came.” He fell into step beside her, swinging a halter rope by his side.

She pursed her lips, thinking she hadn’t been given a choice in the matter, but then remembered her decision to thank him. She stopped so she could look at him properly. There was so much she wanted to say.

Have you told anyone about the rumours?

Does anyone else from Escafeld know that I am here?

Most pressingly, do you believe that I’m a witch?

But these were questions that could never be voiced. Morwenna had to content herself with a smile and a nod.

“I owe you my thanks, Gerrault.”

He raised his eyebrows until they all but disappeared into his thatch of red-brown hair. “Never, Miss Morwenna, it’s I who should thank you. Ever since I told the earl I knew someone who could train his horse, things have gone better for me. Not that they were bad before,” he added hastily.

“How so?” she asked. They were almost at the stable yard now. She couldn’t decide if she was likely to attract more or less attention with Gerrault by her side.

His grin almost split his face in half. “I’ve been made personal groom to Sir Henry de Gaunt.” He saw her puzzled face and explained. “One of his lordship’s knights. His best knight, in fact.” Gerrault’s chest expanded with pride. “Sir Henry has just been made commander of the Wolvesley army.”

The stable yard was filled with more people than horses. A dusty cart had recently arrived and was being rapidly unloaded. Shouts rang out across the cobbles and Morwenna felt herself shrinking away from the noise, wishing the cool stone buildings could swallow her up but knowing that polite conversation was the least she could do.

“Is his lordship not commander of the Wolvesley army?” she asked, distracted by a black colt straining to look over his half stable door.

“Lord Lucan was.” Gerrault lowered his voice respectfully. “But the current earl is too busy with the judiciary.”

Morwenna hadn’t really been listening to Gerrault. She cared little who had command of the Wolvesley army. Her main concern was to reach her chamber without attracting comment or incident. However, the boy’s closing words could not help but snag her attention.

She stopped short, so caught up in the moment that she reached out a hand to grab his arm. “What did you say?”

“That I’m to be personal groom to Sir Henry, commander of the Wolvesley army,” Gerrault repeated, anxious that she understand.

“Nay, not that.” Morwenna closed her eyes, swaying with a combination of fear and frustration. “About the current earl?”

Gerrault looked at her with concern. “That he’s the judiciary. The lawmaker. If anyone does wrong in the north of England, it’s Lord Angus who deals out the punishment. Did you not know that?”

Aye, she should have known. And mayhap if she hadn’t been buried under a mountain of grief for her grandmother, she would have realised it sooner. Esme had been quick with her warnings about Wolvesley, but Morwenna had never considered the role of the earl. Her heart rate slowed as the meaning of this revelation slowly sank in.

Morwenna was a suspected witch. And she had come straight to the home of the lawmaker.