The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Air left the smith in a great gust, and his shoulders sagged. "Were I an innocent man whose name is being sullied by a false charge, I too would consider a suit."

  The goldsmith turned flinty eyes on his fellow councilmen. "Masters, if we are not certain he is our culprit then I vote we release him, telling the townsmen he is proved innocent. So too, will we inform them that the sheriff has been called to find the true evil-doer. God knows it will cost us dearly to house and feed the sheriff and his men, but that will be less than the damage Master Robert's suit might do us."

  Something hard hit the outside of the house, the sound of stone ringing against stone echoing into the hall. Another stone hit the wall. The third rock struck the window's covering with such force the skin tore from its mount. Stone and skin tangled as it bounced across the table, then rattled off its edge and came to a stop near Mistress Alwyna's foot.

  In the lane men shouted. Iron thudded dully against wood as the town guard banged swords against shields. Downstairs, the door flew open and someone roared up the stairs.

  "They gather," the gatekeeper panted out as he thrust into the hall, "more with every moment. The guard is trying to drive them away, but there will soon be more than they can handle."

  The shouting grew in volume, testifying to his claim. Yet another stone hit the house as the random calls sorted itself into a new cadence. Brutally and simply, the gathering mob began to call for the head of Robert the Grossier and death to all the councilmen.

  Chaos erupted around Rob. Master Jehan and Master Gerard nigh on flew out of the room, no doubt to set the household to defending their walls. The smith bellowed, ready to charge out the gate and decimate those who dared to threaten him. Master John sobbed in fear, while the goldsmith suggested they give Rob to the mob and make good their own escape. Amid all this, Katel remained an island of calm. Too calm. It said he'd known this attack would come.

  Rob drew a sharp breath. Katel had not trusted the council to go where he led. To make certain he achieved his goal the spice merchant would keep the town aflame until the council had no choice but to hang Rob to preserve their own lives. Jesu, but there was no escape from him. Once again, the reaction of the wool merchants mother to his face shot through Rob. It was an omen; he would die.

  He started as Mistress Alwyna touched his sleeve. It took all Rob's will to look at her, fearing he would see his death in her brown eyes. Instead, her gaze was filled with the need to aid him

  "Come and quickly so," she said softly. "My son has arranged to see you safely away."

  That Katel watched without complaint as Rob followed the old woman into the kitchen was a testimony to his certainty of success. Rob crossed the small chamber to squeeze himself down the narrow winding stairs that led to the cellar that lay beneath it. Out the cellar doors they went, across the courtyard to pass between the house and stable. Behind the stable was a narrow strip of kitchen garden, now slumbering for the winter under a frosty blanket of straw. At the garden's end was a stream, the water standing still and solid within its banks.

  Here Master Jehan and Master Gerard waited with six men armed with swords. At their master's sign, these men surrounded Rob. Their blades all pointed inward, rather than outward in defense.

  "What sort of rescue is this?" Rob bellowed, turning this way and that within the circle of his captors. Even as the thought of escape filled him he knew it was impossible. Should he manage to cross Stanrudde's lanes with his life intact to reach any of its gates, those exits were already closed to him. He was well and truly trapped.

  "God forgive us Master Robert, but the only sort we dare offer," the young wool merchant replied. "To keep Stanrudde whole, my servants must take you to our keep where you will be held as if arrested. Only there can we guarantee both your safety and our own. I ask you now. For your own safety, remove your gown to avoid identification."

  "You have my word that I will return to the abbey and wait for the sheriff's arrival," Rob said through his clenched teeth. Within him grew the conviction that once he was in that moldy tower, the only way he'd leave was at the end of a hangman's rope.

  Master Gerard only shook his head. "Nay Master Robert, not even the abbot can protect you now. Only separating you body from soul will ease the crowd's blood lust. If you wish to live, you'll retreat to the tower until the sheriff comes."

  Not even pride reacted anymore, so deep was Rob's defeat. Who knew how long it would be before the sheriff came? With Rob caught, Katel would not be content to wait for the lawman's arrival against the possibility his victim might slip from his grasp. Using the crowd as his tool, Katel would pry open the keep's door, then laugh while Rob dangled.

  "I will do as you bid without complaint only if you agree to send this message to my agent at the abbey," Rob said in the forlorn hope that he could yet save himself. After he opened his mantle pin, Mistress Alwyna took his mantle so Rob could loosen his tunic. "Hamalin must go at all speed to my home in Lynn. Once there, he should open my coffer, the one to which only he and I have the key, taking from it my personal book. This he must bring to me, as it both names and proves the guilt of the one at the root of this evil."

  "By God, man," Master Jehan cried, his brown eyes taking life in anger, "if you know who has done this, spill his name and let us arrest him. We'll give him to the crowd in your stead, just as he deserves!"

  Although Rob was yet certain he'd not be believed, he'd be damned before he died carrying the truth only in his soul. "If you will hear his name, then I accuse Katel le Espicer of seeking to destroy me by stealing my grain and releasing it onto the marketplace in my name."

  Both tradesmen stared at him as if he spoke in a language they did not understand. "Master Katel? But he is such a harmless man," Master Jehan stuttered. "Nay, you must be wrong. He is your supporter. What reason could he have for harming you?"

  "Jehan," the man's mother cried, "if Master Robert says it is so and that he can prove it, then it is so. Was not Master Katel the last to arrive, and did not the crowd come upon his tail?"

  As Rob handed the wool merchant's mother his tunic, her son shucked his own mantle and threw it across Rob's shoulders. Mistress Alwyna turned to Rob's guards. "Hie, off with you! Go and quickly so, knowing that if the crowd takes him and leaves you alive after, I'll see you all dead for your failure." It was a heartfelt threat.

  Two of Master Jehan's men grabbed Rob by the arms and guided him down the ice-bound stream's bank. Every step took him nearer to what would surely be his last resting place. Rob glanced over his shoulder at the two merchants and Mistress Alwyna.

  "Go," the old woman called to him. "Place your trust in me. Know that for the love I once bore your sire I will see your man protected and your proof safely transported."

  Mistress Alwyna's jaw was firm, her gaze resolute. That she meant to aid him he did not doubt. New bile rose behind his fear for his life. Rob choked on it as he understood that the old woman was once again and oh-so-subtly confirming that he was bastard-born. It was not for the sake of Ralph AtteGreen that she wished to aid him.

  Stanrudde

  October, 1179

  "Oh, Rob, I cannot believe she is gone!" Johanna cried, with all the substantial emotion a heart of ten and four could muster. She kicked at the distillery's hearth as if to show him how deep her desire to disbelieve was. The silken skirts of her orange and green gowns flew wide, scooping up crackling autumn leaves with her movement. "Why, I remember how at Eastertide she fair glowed with pride at finally conceiving a child. Something that makes a person so happy shouldn't kill them."

  Standing at her side, Rob could only nod in sad agreement. Mistress Katherine's death was neither fair nor right. As if she could call the apothecary's wife back from the grave by will alone, Johanna lifted her head to stare at the closed shutters of Master Colin's bedchamber window. Rob joined her in perusal of those plain lengths of wood.

  Only a week ago, when Mistress Katherine had begun her labor, she'd been full of life, bu
oyed against her pains by the excitement of producing the child both she and the master so desired. The hours passed, but the babe moved not at all. Using every potion and concoction they knew, the midwife and Master Colin battled to bring it forth. One day became two, then three. It had almost been a relief when the mistress at last gave way to death, for at least her torment ended. When she was gone, the midwife cut open her womb, only to find the babe within her dead as well. Since then the apothecary had said no word, passing through the last four days like the wraith his wife now was.

  It was Rob's helplessness in the face of Master Colin's grief that had driven him from the mourning feast yet going on in Master Walter's hall. In this familiar corner of the yard he sought to console himself since he could not console his master. As if she sensed his distress, Johanna appeared only moments later.

  Had it been any other lass, Rob would have driven her away, wanting privacy in which to struggle with his emotions. Johanna was different, being more friend than lass. Moreover, although she never said or did anything that remotely resembled an attempt at comfort, there was something about her presence that ever soothed him.

  He sighed. Oblivious to the tragedy of Mistress Katherine's demise, the world beyond the apothecary's shop went on. In the lane a regrater was calling out the quality of his walnuts. Cart wheels groaned, goads flicked, and muleteers shouted to their pack animals. Warmed by the afternoon sun the day's breeze brought with it the stench of the shambles. From two lanes over, a fuller, his apprentices, and his servants raised their voices in song as they fused newly woven cloth into finished goods to the tune's rhythmic beat.

  When her stare failed to conjure up the apothecary's wife, Johanna turned her gaze downward to the distillery's hearthstone. "I am glad Papa called me home so I might bid her and her son farewell."

  This almost made Rob smile, and he shot her a sidelong glance. "You make it sound as if your father keeps you trapped at that precious convent of yours when it's you who stays away from Stanrudde. I think me if that place were any nearer Master Walter would bring you home every night."

  Still staring at the hearth, Johanna pulled her face into an expression of disgust. "If you were going to be forced to marry Katel, you'd stay away too."

  Rob opened his mouth to tease that rich heiresses deserved no pity, when she lifted her head and smiled at him. His taunt faded as he stared at her, startled all over again by how she'd changed. Gone was the gawky girl whose nose had been too large for her face and whose wayward elbows had cost her dearly in his and Arthur's teasing last year. In that child's place was this new ... woman.

  Johanna had grown, her crown now reaching almost to his own newly elevated sixteen-year-old jawline. So too, had her face rearranged itself, shedding babyish roundness to reveal a high clear brow and strong cheekbones. Her lips seemed fuller, her eyes wider and bluer. Even her nose now suited her.

  Nay, it more than suited her; it gave her face a sort of elegance that took away his breath. Rob's gaze dropped to the slender line of her throat, then descended to where her sleek green and orange gowns clung to a new form complete with utterly beguiling curves. With startling swiftness the desire to feel the roundness of Johanna's breasts cupped in his hands exploded in him.

  Rob jerked his gaze back to the hearthstone, fighting this completely inappropriate reaction to his beloved master's daughter. To even think such a thing about Johanna was to betray the man who had saved his life, then given him both trade and happiness. Despite his will, the sensations lingered, filling every corner of Rob's being.

  This was all the fault of Alice, the ropemaker's maid. A year ago, Alice had decided she loved Rob instead of the draper's lad. As often as she could, she met with him in Master Walter's stable. What began as a mere kiss or two rapidly became caressing, which led to the wondrous sin of fornication. After almost a month of loving him, fickle Alice decided the smith's son was more interesting. Her rejection had broken Rob's heart, the pain far worse than all the pleasure she'd given him. Once he'd recovered and paid the penance his confessor set on him, Rob vowed to never again let a woman hurt him the way Alice had.

  Not too long after that he’d discovered that with a few of the precious coins he earned by laboring outside his regular duties, he could buy himself the same sort of pleasure from one of Stanrudde's contingent of whores. If there was still penance to be done for fornicating, his heart was safe; both he and Arthur agreed that no sensible man pined over a whore. Better still, one of the tarts had taken an interest in him, teaching Rob's body to feel in ways he never dreamed possible.

  From the corner of his eye Rob saw Johanna draw a deep, sad breath. Her breasts moved seductively beneath her gowns as she did so. Once again that wayward desire to touch her rose. Although he set to stamping it out, it evaded his attempts.

  "His heart is broken," Johanna said of Master Colin.

  Rob gratefully let himself be drawn away from his sinful preoccupation with her body. "Aye, I think so," he replied.

  Here was but another proof that no good could come of caring so deeply for a woman. If they did not throw you over for another, they died, as had his mother, Johanna's mother, and, now, Mistress Katherine.

  "He truly loved her, I think me." The sadness in Johanna's voice was mingled with an awed respect. Her tone grew soft and distant. "He is so noble, just like the knights in the tales the nuns tell. I think if Master Colin were a knight, he'd have done great deeds against all odds in order to win Mistress Katherine's heart."

  This ridiculous comment lifted Rob from both lust and grief. For reasons beyond his ken Johanna adored those fantastic tales of knights who spent their hearts in unrequited love for an unattainable lady. More to the point, she hated to be teased about her obsession with these tales. The corners of Rob's mouth tried to rise. Ach, but there was great joy in teasing her. If he went at it long enough, he could get her to strike at him.

  "Dear God in heaven," he said, laying a heavy coat of scorn atop his words, "why would you wish such a fate as knighthood on Master Colin? Better to be a pigherd than to be one of those noble thieves who tax honest tradesmen like ourselves in order to support their violent habits."

  Johanna frowned at him, a storm gathering in her eyes. "Knights do not tax us, the king does. You only hate them because your father claimed you were sired by one. You know nothing of them or their way of life."

  Rob looked down his nose at her. "And, you do? You said yourself once the convent began to take in merchants' daughters, the high and mighty found another place to send their own precious lasses, not wanting them contaminated by the stink of trade."

  She stomped her foot in impatience, not wanting to admit her ignorance to him. "I know how they act by those tales," she cried.

  "Only a lass would find anything the least bit admirable about those stories," Rob said, relieved and pleased that under her alluring exterior the real Johanna yet existed. "How is it you manage to ignore that the women whose hearts those knights seek to win are already married? Just like the whoresons they are, those noblemen are trying to tempt honest women into dishonoring their husbands and bringing ruin down upon themselves."

  Johanna turned on him, the blue of her eyes brighter at the dispersion he was throwing on her fancy. "How would an apprentice like you know anything about these men and their motives? All you know how to do is call, Come mistress, come good-wife, see my fine pepper! A pence will buy you a whole corn." It was an apt mimicry of the patter her father taught his apprentices to use.

  "I can do better than that," Rob sniffed as if she'd hurt his feelings, "or have you forgotten that I now travel the fairs with your father? You should hear me at our booth calling to fine merchants and lords, alike." He shifted, adopting the stance Master Walter had taught him to use. “Come you, men of rich tastes. See my cumin and my coriander, smell this caneel. Is it not enough to make your senses reel? And, this, my good lord, is our richest blend, made especially for those with the most discriminating of tastes. Can you
smell the ginger? Do you like it hot or mild?" The chant flowed from him in a fluid, easy stream. "Hotter, is it? Then, watch as I mix in a pinch of the finest red pepper." He made the appropriate stirring motion with his hands, as if the special trough they used to mix and measure this concoction was before him. "Watch now as the red mingles with the green of the herbs and gold of our spices. Does that not just speak of sumptuous flavor? More, is it? More it is. Watch, watch now."

  Johanna was trying to frown, but laughter bubbled from her. "Stop that!" she commanded him, slapping at his upper arm.

  Rob hunched his shoulder as if she'd hurt him. "Hey now. Just because I think your lais foolish is no call to leave bruises."

  "They aren't foolish," she protested, then stopped to stare up at him, a frown of confusion on her brow. "How do you know they are called lais?"

  "Do I look like an uncouth peasant to you?" Rob retorted, lifting his nose in mock arrogance as he shifted into French. "Abbot William is so pleased with my proficiency in his native tongue that he regales me with those idiotic things."

  Johanna squealed in pleasure, crying, "I forgot," in English then joined him in the language of those who ruled their land. "If you've heard the tales, then you know it's no base love these men hold in their hearts. They are content to adore from afar, living for a single glance from their lady love." A new earnestness came to life in her expression.

  "And twenty years worth of messages delivered by a swan," Rob sneered. Supported by his new education in bedding, he retreated to his native tongue and offered the death blow to her argument. "I tell you, no man is content with mere glances. If he cannot tumble with that woman, he'll swiftly find himself another to take her place."

  "What do you know of men," Johanna huffed and crossed her arms, her own eyes narrowing in a scorn to match his. "You are only a lad."

  "I am a man, full grown," he retorted, stung by her slur. "Do I not stand as tall as your father? Has my voice not deepened?" He let it fall to its lowest tone as he spoke. "Does not a beard grow upon my face?"