Who cared! No matter where they'd come from or that they were well darned and patched, they would do. They would more than do.
With the gift of these garments, faith took root in her. Too long had she been in the habit of concentrating on all that was bad in her life. Aye, so deep had her belief in the negative been that she'd nearly died. This morn she saw how much of what had happened yesterday was good. Aye, Katel threatened her, but had not both Leatrice and Watt offered their support? True, she'd been horribly attacked, but she had not been raped or killed. Rather, the Lord God had seen fit to send Rob to protect her.
She sighed. Would that she had not destroyed Rob's love, but even in that there was good. Only through her confrontation with him could this change in her have taken place.
When she was dry, she drew on the gowns and smiled. They were only a little short. There was a bit of cord to bind them to her waist, but no purse. Donning her own shoes and stockings, she once again draped Watt's mantle over her shoulders to keep the cold at bay. Then, taking up the comb, she smoothed her wet and tangled hair.
The scratch at the door was so faint Johanna thought she misheard until it came again. Startled, she turned to stare. For privacy's sake, she'd set the bar before stepping into the tub. If this was one of the household servants, they'd have tried the latch then boldly knocked when the door didn't open. The tap was repeated, this time, followed by a woman's quiet sob.
"Please Wymar, I know you're there. I can see the smoke coming from the vent. Please let me in. I am so cold and hungry."
"Leatrice?" Johanna breathed in surprise.
Throwing aside the bar, she opened the door. Her former maid tumbled into the room on a shaft of piercing winter's light so bright Johanna squinted against it. Leatrice glanced around the barren walls and empty corners then turned with a sharp breath of fright, only to gasp in deeper surprise. "Mistress, what are you doing here? Where is everything?"
Her eyes flew wide as she took in Johanna's bruised face. "May God have mercy! What has happened to you?"
"It is a story longer than I care to tell," Johanna replied, unwilling to discuss any of her personal situation with her former maid. "What are you doing here?"
"Wymar always has a crust of bread and a cup of broth for those unfortunates who cross his path." Leatrice hurried to the hearth and spread her cloak to capture the heat. "I never thought I'd be the one needing it," she added with a tiny sob.
Although not surprised that their cook would dare to defy Katel's edict that all charity be done outside these walls, Johanna shot her a stern look. "If either Katel or Theobald find you, they'll, beat you senseless."
"No one saw me come. The apothecary's new wife took pity and let me through their shop. There is a wee space between their back hearth and the kitchen wall, just enough to let me pass."
"Ah," Johanna murmured. As she once again barred the door to conceal from her husband and his lickspittle what they did not know, her many memories of using that same passage filled her. The last time had been the night before Rob disappeared. Master Colin had seen her, or so her father had told her. She leaned against the closed door as the thought of the apothecary's betrayal tried to stir the embers of her anger and hatred. It was without reluctance Johanna released her hold on those two emotions. If not Master Colin, it would have been someone or something else. Dear God, but she could have found herself in Leatrice's position.
"Please, mistress," Leatrice cried softly. "The babe within me cries for food. Might I have a bite to eat?"
"Let me see what I have to give you," Johanna replied, moving to the table and pulling back the cloth that covered the basket.
A goodly wedge of cheese lay alongside a thick slice of ham. There were also several slices of bread, not the lighter, wheaten stuff, but heavy, dark slices made from some combination of oats and rye. Taking the basket, she joined her former maid at the hearth.
Once Leatrice had grabbed a slice of the bread with a soft cry of thanks, Johanna set it aside to plait her hair. "You know you cannot stay here," she said, her fingers working wet strands into one long braid. There was no thong to tie at its end, but her hair had curl enough that it stayed as she left it.
Leatrice freed a worried sob around the food in her mouth. "Oh mistress, you cannot send me away. When my father saw my state and learned that I had lost my place with you, he sent me out onto the streets. Neither the monks at the priory or the abbey will let me in, as they already overflow with the starving. I have nowhere left to go."
"You cannot stay here," Johanna repeated with a shake of her head. Reclaiming the basket, she took a piece of cheese to break her own fast, then handed Leatrice another slice of bread. "If either Theobald or Katel find you, you'll not only be homeless, but bloody and bruised as well."
This time Leatrice gave a terrified moan. "But I cannot go back out on the streets! All the night long I moved from one hiding spot to another, trying to avoid the bands that roamed the lanes." This time when she paused, it was to wipe away the tears that dribbled down her face.
"What bands?" Johanna asked, before she remembered that Theobald had spoken yesterday of what violence the starving did to the town.
The maid stared at her in disbelief. "Do you not know? Last even Stanrudde was torn apart as men destroyed shops and set homes afire. It was terrible, mistress. I thought for certain I would be killed when a mob came to the abbey at the same time I knocked on their gate. The mob was raging, screaming for the abbot to give them the one on whom they blamed all their ills."
"It is no one man's fault that the crops failed," Johanna retorted. It was an absent comment, made as she explored the tickle of a thought at the back of her brain. Afternoon last, this kitchen had already been stripped of supplies, emptied as if against potential attack. How could Katel have known what had yet to occur?
"Nay mistress," Leatrice said, shaking her head at this misunderstanding, "they do not blame him for their hunger, but because what he did caused the hungry to rampage and destroy the town."
This brought Johanna out of her musing. "What sort of man can set a whole town aflame? Who is he?"
"Some foreign grossier. The folk around me said, he had promised to sell grain, then took back his product because those who wanted it wouldn't pay enough money for it. When he did so, the hungry went searching for what he had hidden in store, tearing apart warehouses and shops to find it. Or something like that." As she finished, Leatrice's eyes came to life with outrage. "Can you believe that the abbot protected him? I think me he should hang. How can a man let others starve when he has product to sell?"
Johanna raised her brows at this impossible story, one no doubt twisted many times over in its retelling. No tradesman would be so foolish. It was like calling the hangman to come and fetch him as that sort of price gouging and underhanded trade was punishable by death. "The abbot must have thought him innocent else he would have given him to the crowd."
"Aye, so the churchman shouted to those in the marketplace." Leatrice retrieved her eating knife out of her purse and cut the slice of ham in two. She offered half of it to her mistress. "I say the reason the grossier was protected is that he's rich. The rich take care of their own," she snarled, forgetting that Johanna was one of the class she condemned. "It's no different than what he"—the jerk of her head indicated the house and Katel—"did to me. He thinks because I am nothing and have no power against him, I can do him no harm. He is wrong. I will find a way to repay him for his betrayal, this I vow!"
Johanna smiled. "What heart you have," she said. If this slip of a girl, now without friend or family, believed she could wreak vengeance on a man many stations above her, Johanna would find a way to locate Rob and learn what it was she needed to expose Katel.
Outside in the lane, one man called to another, his voice loud, although his words were indistinct. Another shout followed. In the next instant, the lane was alive with voices. While Leatrice clung to the shadows in the kitchen, Johanna opened the door. Lean
ing outside, she peered toward the gate and the lane.
"What is it?" Leatrice asked, careful to keep her voice low. No matter her boldness, she was no fool.
Johanna frowned as she listened. "I'm not certain. They are yelling about going to the tower and seeing justice done."
"Mayhap the abbot has changed his mind about protecting that man. I'll wager it's the Grossier of Lynn they're going to hang." There was a touch of vindictive triumph in Leatrice's voice, as if seeing one rich man's life ended eased her own need for vengeance against Katel.
"Hmm," Johanna replied in disinterest. Unlike most folk she knew, she didn't much care to watch executions. However, the mention of Lynn brought with it the recall that her father had once had a friend from that town. Master Wymund he was, also a grossier. She remembered she had liked him, mostly because he never visited that he didn't bring her a length of ribbon. The last time she'd seen him was the month before her father's death.
"From Lynn did you say?"
"Aye, Master Robert by name."
Johanna's heart stopped. Her fingernails dug into the wood of the door frame. She closed her eyes, summoning up the image of Rob in the alleyway. His gown had been embroidered into blue lozenges. Within each oval there had been a stalk of wheat done in gold. In that moment she knew where her father had sent Rob all those years ago and who it was the crowd meant to kill. The need to protect her Rob exploded within her, driving her out of the kitchen.
"Mistress, wait," Leatrice hissed quietly after her as Johanna squeezed around the back of the tiny building. "Where do you go? Your hair is uncovered. Stop, I say! Don't leave me here alone!" The last was a low wail.
Johanna worked her way between the kitchen shed and the distillery's hearth. Rather than turn toward the shop's back door to pass through the workroom as Leatrice had done, she went instead to the side of the house. There, as she had done one time too many in the past, Johanna thrust her way through the tangled bushes. Without thought or plan for what she might accomplish, she raced down Market Lane toward Stanrudde's keep tower and Rob.
Stanrudde
Late June, 1180
Johanna leapt off her palfrey the very moment the abbess's man led their tiny party past her father's gate. The soft mist that was descending from a gentle gray sky had dampened the courtyard, and she slid on the slick surface as she landed. It was fear for her father that kept her upright.
Cloak flying, she tore across the short distance between gate and door, sprinting into the forebuilding. Her footsteps rang sharply against the stone steps, the sound of her panting, panicked breath echoing back to her from the cold walls. She raced across the landing and into the hall.
The day's serene stillness wafted through that big room's wide western window, filling the chamber with what seemed an unnatural quiet. Her heart rose into her throat. Despite that it was time for the meal the tables were yet dismantled and stacked against the far wall. Even the fire burning beneath its round and protruding hood seemed to hold its breath. Choking on the fear she was too late, she flew from the hall to the bedchamber's door where she came to an abrupt halt.
Borne on the day's warm wet breeze, misty light flowed into the room through the open window. It muted the brightly painted clothing chests to dull shadows of themselves and grayed the vibrant green and reds of her father's bed curtains. Master Colin, new white streaks in his black hair, stood at the bed's foot. His face was solemn, the set of his shoulders sad. Helewise sat on a stool at the bed's head.
The housekeeper shifted to look at her employer's daughter. Her eyes were red-rimmed, dark rings of exhaustion clinging beneath them. At Helewise's feet sat a basin of water and several leather flasks. Johanna drew a painful breath. Was she treating an invalid or bathing a dead man's body?
"Papa?" she cried softly, yet clinging to the doorway.
"Is that you, poppet?" Her father's voice was but a thready reflection of his usual deep growl.
Johanna's heart tore between relief that her father was not dead and dread that he might soon be. Fifteen was too young to be left without a parent. Swinging the cloak from her shoulders, she threw it aside as she leapt to his bed then caught her breath in horror as she looked upon her beloved sire.
Walter of Stanrudde's face was painfully thin, his skin seeming as fragile as that of an onion, its color just as sallow. Instead of wild red curls, his hair lay limp around his skull. The usual icy blue color of his eyes was now a dull gray, their life sapped by the terrible shadows that hung beneath them.
"Papa," she cried again, her voice tiny as she faced her father's death.
As he looked upon her, color returned to his cheeks and new life sparked in his eyes. He smiled, the movement of his mouth so familiar, yet so changed by his illness, it brought her to her knees. Lifting his hand, he clasped her fingers in a warm, tight grip.
Johanna's gaze caught and clung to his inner arm. One of the many moles that had ever dotted his skin had grown. Once the size of a pea, this one was now twice that and misshapen, the color a malevolent shade of black.
"Papa," she cried again as she pressed his hand against her cheek. Oh, but she could feel his bones through his flesh. Tears tumbled from her eyes as her heart broke then broke again. How could he be so ill, so soon? True, at Eastertide, he'd complained of feeling unusually tired, barely managing to walk from the stables to the hall without needing to rest. He'd blamed his exhaustion on too much work and vowed to let Katel, Rob, and Arthur do more.
"Hey now, poppet," he crooned to her in that awful voice of his, "do not mourn me yet. I will be here for some time to come. How can I leave this world before I see you wed and dandle my firstborn grandchild upon my knee?" It was a falsehood. Although he wished what he said were true he didn't believe it; she could see it in his eyes.
"Aye, Papa," she lied in return, wanting as desperately as he to believe.
"I am glad to have you home," he said, his eyelids drooping as he spoke, exhausted by even this much speech.
"You should have called for me sooner," she chided softly.
"What, to have you watch me lie abed? There's Helewise to do that," he retorted with a sigh. "You're too young to be trapped at an old man's bedside." His voice trailed off as his eyes closed and he drifted into slumber.
The silence that followed his words was awful and deep. Johanna loosed another tiny sob. She released his hand, gently laying his arm down atop his blanketed chest.
"He was holding himself awake in anticipation of your arrival," Master Colin said softly. "Take heart, lass. He is not always this tired. Although he can no longer rise, most days his mind is active and alert."
Johanna shifted on her knees to look up at Helewise, her gaze pleading for the woman to tell her what she saw with her own eyes was not true. Helewise only spread her arms in invitation. Already sobbing in grief, Johanna threw herself into the embrace.
"Hush sweetling," the housekeeper bid her, rocking her gently in her arms. "You must not let him see you so distraught. Be strong for him as he passes from this vale into the next."
Her words tore through Johanna. "Nay," she cried out in anger, pushing free of the woman's arms. She stumbled to her feet. "He is not going to die. He cannot die; I will not let him go!" With that, she turned and raced from the house, not caring where she went.
Rob, dressed in just his chausses and shoes, his tunic and shirt hanging off a peg in the warehouse's wall, swept half-heartedly at the cobwebs that dotted the big building. It was busywork, meant to keep him away from the spice merchant's house for the day. He did not care to be there when Johanna returned.
In order to see what he did, he'd thrown open the warehouse's waterside door. As the day's muted light flowed into the building it brought with it the gentle lap of the river against its bank. Just beyond the door the willows rustled in the same breeze that brought him the sweet smell of a gentle, summer mist. The mill was still for the moment. Against its silence he could hear the warble and cheep of the smaller birds, the
ir calls cheery in the general dullness of the day.
As always, the sylvan sounds eased what ached in him. Rob sighed and forgave himself his cowardice. This cleaning wasn't all busywork. The warehouse did need to be prepared for what would soon be coming his way.
Both Katel—Master Katel now—and Arthur, accompanied by Aleric, had departed some weeks ago as two separate parties, each with a different route to travel. At their backs were whole pack trains, the baskets on their beasts filled with the spices and those blends for which Master Walter was now renowned. Although both parties ultimate purpose was to reach London to replenish Master Walter's stores from the wholesale spice merchants, they would take their time as they journeyed, moving from fair to fair, from manor house to abbey, trading all the way. While some of what they took with them would be sold for coin, the remainder would be exchanged for goods. Of those goods, they kept what could be carried on a packhorse's back to the next stop, against the possibility of selling it there. What was too large, or was replaced by something more saleable, they sent back to Stanrudde. Once it was here, it needed to be assessed for value and a buyer found.
It was in the doing of this that Rob had found his talent. He never forgot what it was that this merchant or that said he needed. Some of his trades grew to great complexity, as wood went to one, who gave wool in return, which went to another in trade for fulled cloth, and so on. Each man got what he wanted, while Master Walter took a profit off every trade.
Sadness hit in a slow-moving wave. This would be his last summer to turn trades for Master Walter. Yesterday, after two months of growing steadily weaker, his master had finally relented and called for his daughter to return from her convent school. This meant the spice merchant no longer believed he would recover.
Rob's sadness grew. Once again, he was losing both home and family. When Master Walter was gone, Katel would be the master here. Rob had no doubt he'd swiftly find himself upon the street, fortunate if Katel left him his shirt upon his back.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 149
