As kind as his offer was, Johanna shook her head. There was no escaping either Katel or the fate he planned for her. Not even her convent was beyond his reach. Despite her protests against leaving this morn, Theobald had pried her from its walls as easily as scooping soft butter from a dish simply by reminding the prioress that Johanna was yet Katel’s wife.
"I have nowhere else to go," she replied, her voice flat in hopelessness.
Watt gave a single nod in understanding and they strode forward together. By the time they entered the spice merchant's courtyard, Johanna was leaning heavily on his arm. She ached from head to toe, her weariness bone-deep. They and the gatekeeper were halfway across the tiny space when Katel charged out of the forebuilding.
"May God damn you as a slackard, what took you so long?" was the thanks Watt received for completing his chore. "Best you be grateful I am in a generous mood, else you'd not remain in my employ another day. Now, hie yourself inside."
As Watt and the other man swiftly and silently complied, Katel glanced at his wife and breathed sharply in dread. He snatched for her mantle's opening. Lifting one side of the garment, he hissed at her missing chain and what remained of her expensive gowns. He grabbed one of her hands, seeking the rings he demanded she wear in the pretense of the wealth he no longer owned. There was nothing for him to see but tattered leather and scraped fingers.
Katel dropped her hand. This loss of wealth was so devastating he was rendered momentarily beyond speech or movement. In the long moment of silence that followed, the wind howled around him, tearing fine strands of pale hair out from beneath his cap, flattening them against the brim with its ferocious breath.
Slowly, bright red color stained his neck. It seeped steadily upward, until his bloated face was suffused. Catching his wife by her arm, he dragged her toward the kitchen shed at the back of the courtyard, craving privacy in which to scream at her. As Johanna stumbled along beside him a touch of gallows humor woke beneath her paralyzing depression. It would hardly do for the neighbors to overhear Stanrudde's most loving husband abasing his wife.
The kitchen door slammed against the wall behind it as he shoved her into the usually crowded room. Johanna caught herself against the thick worktable. The chill gust of wind that accompanied her entry barely teased a forlorn crackle from the fire. She stared in shock at the hearth. The flames were dying, choked by the day's ashes. Impossible! The kitchen's fire was never allowed to die.
Johanna turned. Walls stripped of the foodstuffs and tools that usually cluttered their lengths stared blankly back at her. Where was Wymar, their cook, and his scullery lads? She caught her breath in understanding. Were the hungry really so great a threat that the cook and his supplies had to take refuge in the house?
Katel slammed the door. With the tiny windows shuttered the room plunged into smoky dimness. A single step brought them nose to nose. "You stupid cow," he shouted. "Do you realize what you've cost me?"
Exhaustion tightened its grip on Johanna as she prepared herself for what would surely be a long session of belittling. The only thing of which she was certain was that Katel would not strike her. Just as her father's will forced Johanna to remain virtuous, Papa had found a way to restrain Katel's native violence against her. Upon her complaint of abuse, those properties her husband so coveted, the ones whose rents now supported him, instantly ceded to Stanrudde's abbey.
"Thank God I will soon be rid of you! You cannot know how that prospect fills me with joy," he went on, his voice vicious and dark. "Only when I see you on your knees, pleading for your life, will I know the Cosmos has righted itself. It will be justice come at last when all that was stolen from me is restored."
Johanna bowed her head. Her eyes closed as she sought to shield herself from his venom. In the depths of her weariness, she forgot that she wore no wimple to hide her face from his view. Katel drew a sharp, startled breath.
His slap was so hard it spun her around and knocked her feet out from under her. Ears ringing, Johanna hit the beaten earth of the room's floor. Her mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood as she bit her lip. Shifting onto her side, she braced her forearm beneath her. As she lifted herself just a little, she shook her head, not so much to clear her thoughts, but in dazed disbelief at what he'd done.
Her husband leaned over her, his face nigh on purple with rage. "May God damn you to hell for the arrogant woman you are! You will heed me when I speak to you!"
Johanna looked up at him from where she lay. "You hit me," she said, yet too stunned by his attack to own any other emotion.
Katel stiffened. Frantic worry leapt to life behind his rage as he only now realized what he'd done. His gaze shot to the reddened spot on her cheek as if to gauge the possibility of a mark. Worry disappeared, eased by the scratches and ripening bruises that already covered her face.
"Why not," he murmured. "The whole town will soon know you were mauled. There's no one to say who laid which bruises."
Shielded behind the damage already done her a new and wicked eagerness came to life in his eyes. His fists closed. Fear shot through Johanna. Once he started, years of hatred would goad him to continue until she was no more. When she was gone, he'd cry to the world it was injuries suffered in the rioters' attack that had killed her.
In her exhaustion and hopelessness, a strange calm took possession of her. Trapped in its unearthly grip, her soul opened, and she looked in disappointment upon the woman she had been.
What a selfish child she was. Only once in his life had Walter of Stanrudde denied his daughter her will: when he took Rob from her and forced her to marry Katel in his stead. Rather than accept this and find what happiness she could in her fate, she had chosen to tantrum, setting herself to hating everyone and everything connected with the life her father had given her. She sighed. The only one she hadn't hurt by this was the sire she'd childishly sought to punish.
"Beg," her husband demanded, ready to play out the last act of this black farce. "I would hear you beg for mercy."
At the sound of his voice she looked up at him, her revelation so shattering that she was stirred to speech. "Do you know what I am thinking, Katel?" In her strange state, her voice was quiet and considering. Stark surprise filled her husband's gaze. Of all the responses he'd expected his threat to generate this was not one of them.
"I am thinking our son deserved better than me, a dam more intent on hating and hurting all those around her than seeing to his needs. I find myself regretting my selfishness. In my determination to repay the world for the wrongs I perceived done me, I cheated myself of what was good in my life. I cheated Peter. And," she shook her head in regret, "I cheated you of what any good wife owes her marriage."
Katel blinked rapidly. His fists relaxed, and he took a step back from her. There might have been a softening in his eyes, but it was gone in the next instant, indeed, if it had ever existed. Katel tensed and she could nigh on see his thoughts spin as he sought for the traps that must surely be hidden in her words.
In that moment the bell at their gate clanged in anxious call. Not content with a single announcement, the ringer continued yanking upon the string until the jangling grew to an urgent clamor. "Master Katel, Master Katel! The council calls you to come with all haste. There is new trouble afoot!"
This call brought triumph's glow to Katel's eyes, banishing both the desire to hurt her and his worry over his wife's strange words. "Nay, you will not get the better of me," he hissed at her, "not now, only days before my vengeance is complete. In fact, I must thank you for distracting me. I want you whole and well so you might cry to the world of your innocence as you die. I think that will be what I most enjoy." He started to leave, only to pause and turn to her again. "How I will laugh as I watch you and that bastard die for what you have not done."
Still, the bell jangled. "Can anyone hear me?" the desperate messenger shouted.
With a snarl Katel turned and threw the kitchen's door wide. "Someone answer his call!" he shouted toward the h
ouse.
As he stormed out into the courtyard, he spilled his troubled emotions on those beneath him. "What is wrong with you witless idiots, or do you expect the master to open the gate like some lackey? I vow I'll flay you all and feed your flesh to the pigs. Now, come and bar the gate behind me."
Johanna yet lay where she had fallen. Although she commanded her body to rise, not a muscle responded. Instead, she relaxed, tucking her elbow beneath her head to cushion her face against the cold, hard floor. Her eyes closed.
She would rest for just a moment. Aye, and after she had regained her strength, she'd call someone to stoke the fire and heat water for a bath. But not just now. As she drifted into sleep, a quirk of amusement woke in her, no doubt brought on by hysteria. All in all, death might well be worth that absurd look on Katel's face.
Stanrudde
Late April, 1174
"Well now, don't they look fine indeed," Philip said as he lifted the browned and baked meat pasties from the kitchen's oven with his flat-bladed, long-handled wooden shovel.
Johanna awaited the arrival of the small, steaming pies in pride. She'd done it all, from chopping and cooking the filling, to the mixing and rolling of the crust, to crimping them shut. Well, most all of it. Philip wasn't as strict as Helewise about making her do everything herself. It was a shame Papa was missing her first moment of triumph as mistress of his house; he’d already departed on his summer travels, but this year he'd left Katel behind to tend to their local affairs.
Learning the household arts was now hers to do. Papa had been furious over Brother Mathias's attempt to beat her, vowing she needed no more than what Helewise could teach her. Despite this edict, Katel continued to pressure Papa about her schooling, now talking about a nearby convent and how the nuns were willing to educate merchants' daughters the same way they tutored noblewomen.
Philip turned and let the pies slip off the shovel onto the thick table. Johanna's heart sank. They didn't look fine at all. Only two of them looked like pasties, the others being any shape but half-moon. Papa's cook raised a brow and set a hand on his hip at her downcast expression.
"Come now, you cannot expect perfection on your first try. The next time you make them, they will be better,” he told her.
Johanna looked up at him in despairing frustration. The next time? She had to do this again? Being the mistress was entirely too much work, and she was tired of being expected to do the same task over and over again. Her spirits fell even further. Now that the cooking lesson was done, she no longer had a reason to avoid Helewise and the pile of mending the housekeeper had waiting for her. The rest of this day would be spent stitching, with Helewise making her remove what had been sloppily done.
"Here now," Philip continued, his tone consoling as he turned all the pies face up, "appearance is not all that’s important in the kitchen. There's flavor, as well. Give one to Tom and see if he doesn't think them as tasty as mine."
At the sound of his name the lackwit raised his head from the chickens he was plucking. His brow was furrowed in question.
"You must taste one of these and tell our little mistress the sort of job she's done, Tom," his father told him. Tom’s frown deepened at so important a task as sampling his mistress's handiwork then gave a single, short nod to show he was up to the rigors of it.
Juggling a hot pie, Johanna crossed to the hearth and offered it to him. Tom bit into it, the bite moving from side to side in his mouth as he waited for it to cool enough to taste. At last, he swallowed. "Good," he said with a single nod and set into the remainder of crust and meat.
A triumphant glow took hold of Johanna's heart, and she loosed a tiny squeal of pleasure. She could cook! Dancing back to the table, she tried the ugliest of them. It was not just savory, it was delicious.
"Philip, can I take these two to Helewise?" Since the bite in her mouth blurred her speech, she pointed out the perfect two in case he hadn't understood which ones.
"I will give them all to you," the cook said, tucking the pies into a cloth. "When you've finished admiring them, you can give them to Arthur and Rob."
"Nay!" Johanna cried in instant refusal. Although Philip didn't seem to think misshapen pasties any great matter, both Arthur and Rob would tease her over them.
"Come now, little mistress. You cannot keep them all to yourself. Besides it'd be a boon if you fed those lads. Our meal is late enough already."
When she looked at him in confusion, Philip smiled. "Arthur will be here any moment to pester me for a bite to eat since he is always hungry upon his return from the abbey. No doubt he'll bring Rob with him when he comes, as they went off to lessons together this morn. If you feed them for me, I can finish our meal."
Pride grew in her with his words. A swift smile touched Johanna's mouth. Philip thought her work good enough to feed those who labored for Papa. Better still, as long as she did this for Philip she could delay her return to the house and the mending. That alone was worth any tease.
"I will do as you ask, Philip," she said, offering him what she hoped was a mistressly nod.
"My thanks," the cook said, waiting until she donned her mantle before handing her the knot of cloth. "Off with you, then."
The day's off-and-on shower had finally died into a gentle mist, leaving the whole world well and truly soaked. Johanna crossed the courtyard, carefully picking her way to prevent her hems from getting mucky, her thoughts on Rob and schooling. In the same fit of pique that had ended her education, Papa had decided to send Arthur to the Benedictines, whose abbey school educated the majority of Stanrudde's apprentices. Rob had wanted to go as well, but Papa had insisted Rob wait until he'd passed his saint's day and entered his eleventh year. That had been yesterday; this morn, Rob had left for the abbey with Arthur, his very own wax tablet and stylus in his scrip.
At the gate Johanna picked a dry spot just inside the opening and nibbled on her pie as she watched the passing traffic. Pack horses and carts were churning the lane into a sea of mud while those foot-bound slogged through the thick stuff in wooden sabots, their cloaks dampened to dark hues. A regrater passed, calling to all about the extraordinary flavor of his cheese.
The minutes passed like hours and still the lads didn't come. As her impatience grew, holding herself within the gate grew very difficult. Although Helewise said lasses who strolled beyond their fathers' walls gained a name for being too forward, it wasn't fear for her reputation that kept Johanna clinging to the woven fencing, but the threat of another round of chamber pots. Only when she was absolutely certain the apprentices had been too long did she dare step into the lane.
Her hands on her hips, Johanna peered in the direction of the abbey. Just then, Arthur rounded the corner as if the hounds of hell were after him. As he ran he kept his arms wrapped around his middle, holding himself together. His hair was filthy with mud. Deathly pale, blood streamed from his nose and dribbled from a cut in his forehead. His tunic was torn and one shoe was missing.
"Helewise!" Johanna shrieked, darting back into her father's compound.
Arthur flew into the gate then stopped in front of her, panting. "When they let me go, they were still holding Rob down. Someone must save him," he gasped out.
A burst of heat exploded in Johanna, too hot for just anger. Rob was hers to care for. She'd not stand for anyone hurting him. "Where?" she demanded, her fists tightening in preparation for battle.
"They've got Rob in the abbey's market field," he cried to Helewise, who'd appeared at the forebuilding's door. Then he began to sob.
Forgetting about chamber pots and reputations, Johanna hurtled through the gate. Down the ropemakers' lane she flew, past the chandlers' enclave, then through an alley to the coopers' lane. She burst out onto the small expanse that served as a marketplace for the abbey's once-a-year fair and stopped, her sack of precious pasties yet grasped tightly in her hand.
Beneath the sky's gray curtain, the field was mud in places and dotted with daffodils in others, the blooms vibrant agai
nst the bright green of spring grass. Rob was nowhere to be seen. Four of the town's apprentices stood in one corner of the expanse. All of them were near to Arthur's age, two attached to fullers, one to a butcher, and the last to Herebert the Ropemaker. They were gathered close to each other as if sharing secrets.
Her heart seethed. She'd beat them to a pulp for hurting her Rob. Sprinting toward them, she barely slowed before striking her first blow. The elder fuller's lad yelped as the hardened leather of her sole caught him full on his shin.
She whirled to set on the butcher's boy, but he grabbed her by the arms and held her away from him "Cease, I say!"
"You hurt Rob!" she screamed at them, kicking and swinging at her captor.
"He hit me first!" the younger fuller's lad lisped in protest. Blood dripped from his swollen and cut lips. He rubbed it off with his sleeve. "He nigh on tore off my face."
"It was a fair fight," Herebert's boy cried out. His brown tunic was torn, revealing a stained and patched shirt beneath it.
"Aye, one of him against four of us," the older fuller's lad said, a touch of shame in his voice. There was mud befouling his hair and tunic. A swath of red glowed angrily down the side of his face.
"There were two of them," the butcher's boy exclaimed in protest.
"You would count that puling infant, Arthur?" another retorted in scorn.
"What have you done with him?" Johanna shouted, her anger growing mostly because the butcher's boy was keeping her from landing a blow.
"Who? The bastard or Arthur?" he asked.
"Rob is not a bastard," Johanna retorted. Although she was uncertain of the mechanics, bastards were babes born from women who had no husbands. Rob had had both a mother and a father.
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