The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "My thanks," he offered the shorter man, meaning it wholeheartedly.

  "Do not be so quick to thank me." A spark of amusement came to life in Lord Meynell's eyes. "Mama tells me you have made yourself into a wealthy man. You may one day find me knocking on your door, complaining against the money lenders' high rates and asking you to return my many favors."

  Rob gave the breath of a laugh. While he knew his new kinsman was yet working to steady him, there was something in the man's voice to suggest he truly meant to pursue that sort of private business arrangement. If this should come to pass, Rob would eagerly offer what he could. No matter how much it was, it would not be enough to repay Richard of Meynell for what he'd just done.

  "By God, Rob," the panted words echoed into the room from the hall beyond it, "what has happened to Stanrudde that its folks should so threaten one raised in its bosom?"

  Rob turned, dumbfounded, as Master Arthur, Cordwainer of Lynn, staggered into the room, huffing as if the box in his arms weighed four stone instead of less than one. If Rob's dearest friend was not as tall as he, Arthur was yet by far the broader. Just now, his face was reddened from the cold where his golden hair and beard did not cover it. Both the shoemaker's capuchin and the gown beneath his brown mantle were bright green, which made Arthur's eyes seem all the greener.

  "Pardon, my lord," he said as he passed the nobleman on his way toward the bed. Dropping the coffer on the mattress, he fell to sit beside it, groaning as if his back were broken. "I am done in, I tell you!"

  "What are you doing here?" Rob demanded, staring at the small, yet locked chest in which he kept his personal notes and books. Why had they brought the whole box, instead of just the book he'd requested?

  Lord Meynell cocked his head, one side of his mouth rising in suppressed amusement. "I only hope you do not mind that I deliver both a coffer and a man, but the one would not be separated from the other."

  "Where is Hamalin?" It was a worried question.

  The nobleman shook his head. "Your servant never came. Because my mother's note said your need for what lies within that box was urgent, I waited only an hour past the time he should have reached Lynn before deciding we could tarry no longer. That was when your housekeeper sent for this merchant, saying you trusted him like no other. Master Arthur rode with the box, against the possibility I was not who I appeared to be." There was no rancor in his voice at what had surely done him insult.

  As a wholly new fear rose in Rob, this one for Hamalin's welfare, he again damned himself as a blind fool. No man sits idly by waiting for his enemy's servant to fetch evidence to prove his innocence. Katel's men would have been watching the gate, waiting to see that Hamalin never reached his destination.

  With Katel's final blow, every bit of Rob's anger and arrogance returned. The need to see the spice merchant dead became like a living thing within him. It was better to bankrupt himself than to let this whoreson continue to walk the face of the earth.

  Rob looked to the small box. This was the first step in Katel's exposure. The sooner he was adjudged innocent, the sooner he would be free to find Johanna and make her a widow. If what lay within this coffer would satisfy the eleven who remained on the city’s council, they weren't the only ones to whom he needed to prove his innocence. It was the folk who besieged this tower, the men who'd been hurt by Katel's evil, that he needed to convince. To them, Rob was a Lynnsman, a foreigner, therefore suspect simply because he did not hail from Stanrudde. Now that their trust in their council was broken, he doubted they would believe anything their leaders told them. Still, nothing was achieved by standing here.

  He looked toward Mistress Alwyna. "The key for this box is with my belongings at the abbey." His voice was flat against what now raged in him.

  "Just as well," she replied, "since that is where we will be taking you. The council met early this morn so I could reveal to them your tale and the stolen wheat, as well as what my son has brought from Lynn. As they fear the townsmen will no longer heed them, they've asked the abbot to plead your case before the populace. Are you ready to pass through their ranks as we make our way to the abbey? We will walk you in the open, seeking to draw as many of them to the market field as we can. The more that witness, the better."

  If it meant a chance to do Katel hurt, Rob would have ridden through hell on the devil's back with his eyes open. "Aye, I would see this matter finished, once and for all."

  Stanrudde

  Two hours past Prime

  Saint Blesilla's Day, 1197

  Rob strode from the room ahead of his newly discovered half brother and that man's dam. Yet again groaning at the burden of the coffer, Arthur hurried to join him. "It is Katel who's done this." The shoemaker's voice was harsh with hatred. "May God damn that worm to hell!"

  "I intend to do worse than that to him," Rob snapped back, his voice low.

  As they crossed the hall toward the door at its far end, Rob's need for vengeance congealed into strategy. Of a sudden he was grateful he didn't wear his gown. To appear in so magnificent a garment before the townsmen would condemn him before he even had a chance to speak. He raised a hand to the expensive pin that closed his mantle around his shoulders. Even this was too much wealth to display before his accusers. He glanced at Arthur's plainer mantle and simple pin.

  "Hold a moment," he said, catching his friend by the arm, bringing him to a halt. "Trade me your mantle for mine."

  "As you will," the shoemaker replied without question. Setting down the coffer, Arthur eyed Rob in curiosity as he freed his overgarment from his shoulders. "Is this a permanent trade? If so, I'm getting the better bargain."

  "If I live past this day, I'll tell you that you are wrong," Rob retorted as he pinned Arthur's simple woolen sheet around his shoulders. As his friend donned the warmer, richer mantle, Rob leaned down and lifted his own coffer. It would be better if it seemed no man waited on him.

  "What are you doing?" Mistress Alwyna asked as she and her son came to a halt beside them.

  "Katel forever relies on appearances, making himself seem to be what he is not," Rob said. "I think me it is time that I did the same. If I appear to be a simple tradesman, rather than a wealthy merchant, will the folk not be more apt to hear me out?"

  The old woman's brows rose in appreciation of this ruse. "Aye, so they might."

  Once again, Rob started across the hall. When he stepped out to the wooden platform that hung a full storey over the bailey below them he blinked against the day's almost blinding light. Bright it might be, but there was no warmth to be had in all this day's sun; the icy air nipped at his unprotected fingertips.

  With no forebuilding to shield the landing or the stairs from the elements and the tower set so high above the city, he could see past Stanrudde's walls. A great sheet of gray filled the sky in the near distance, moving steadily toward them. He wagered there'd be sleet again before None this day.

  His gaze moved to that which was closer at hand: the jumble of houses set every which way between the city walls and this tower. The charred and broken timbers left by the fire lay like an untended wound on the body of the town. Still, where yesterday the lanes had been locked in the silence of death and destruction, the new day brought with it rebirth. The sounds of hammers filled the air. Workmen called to one another, seeking another peg or nail or a bit of wood or reed to stop a hole. Flashes of color appeared against the frigid gray-brown of the lanes. Although they were not many, folk again moved along the streets, out doing those everyday chores that gave life its normalcy. There was even a brave regrater out and about, calling aloud the quality of his roasted chestnuts.

  Rob descended into the bailey, only to stop in surprise when he reached the ground. His estimation of an army had not been wrong. Dozens of armed men filled the tiny space squatting near hastily lit fires, their mantles caught tightly around them against the cold. These were battle-hardened soldiers all, wearing boiled leather hauberks sewn with steel bits beneath their plain cloaks and metal c
aps upon their heads. If the swords buckled to their sides were without jewels, they were just as lethal as their lord's.

  "Up, you surly brutes," Lord Meynell shouted to them, his voice filled with affection. "We'll be taking this man to the abbey. On foot," he added.

  There were sneers of disgust at this, but not a man groaned aloud. Instead, they grabbed their shields and came to surround the four who made up their lord's party. The town guard opened the gates and Otto, son of Otfried, preceded them out beyond the wooden walls.

  "Make way," the captain of the town guard shouted. "Make way for Master Robert, Grossier of Lynn, who goes to the abbey to present his case."

  Noise exploded from the crowd at this news, every man there screaming for Rob's death. The more foolhardy among them exhorted the others to attack the soldiers so they might instantly wreak upon Rob the punishment they deemed he deserved. They were in the minority. The greater number had taken heed of what sort of damage trained soldiers could offer, and they shouted down these hotheads. With no choice left to them the shouts for action fell away into grumbling. The group closed ranks behind the armed men, not willing to let their sacrificial lamb out of their sight.

  They made a strange procession, soldiers in their brown and gray, followed by those dressed in colors far more gay. As the throng slowly made its way around sharp corners and down narrow lanes, more townsfolk came. Whether vengeance or entertainment brought them, none could know.

  Rob glanced behind him as they approached the abbey's market field and smiled in satisfaction, his need for retribution gratified by their numbers. The more who heard him denounce Katel and believed, the more certain the spice merchant's destruction became, no matter to what corner of the world that whoreson had run.

  The holy brothers were prepared for their arrival. Forewarned by the council, the monks had erected a dais near the gate, placing it against the outside of the abbey's stone perimeter wall. Their father abbot's grand chair sat at its middle, Abbot Eustace already seated in it.

  Once again, the churchman wore his jeweled miter on his head while the ermine that trimmed his mantle shone against his black robes. His gilded staff glinted in the sunlight, held forward to remind all that he was Stanrudde's rightful leader of souls. Behind his chair stood the higher ranking of the brothers; they made a solid wall of black through which there were but glimpses of the glittering samites and rich damasks that the hiding councilmen wore.

  "Come forward Master Robert," the abbot called, his powerful voice booming against the walls around him. His English was fluent, if heavily accented. "Come display to me the evidence of your innocence."

  This proclamation sent the mob's muttering to a higher pitch. Fed by their dissatisfaction with the council's handling of this issue, man after man called aloud the uselessness of this. In their shouts lived the fear that now the Church would join the council in trying to deny them what they saw as justice.

  His coffer yet tucked under his arm, Rob lengthened his stride to step up onto the dais, Arthur, Mistress Alwyna, and Lord Meynell on his heels. As he did so the shouting in the field grew until every soul chanted out that Rob should hang. Against their fury, Lord Meynell's soldiers spread themselves out before the platform, forming a wall of men, shields at the ready, swords in hand. The only opening was the space before the abbot's chair.

  Abbot Eustace rose to his feet. Again and again, the churchman slammed the base of his staff on the wooden planks beneath his feet in a demand for quiet. This only spurred on the chanting. Anger at their disrespect burned bright red in the churchman's narrow face. His eyes took fire at the insult the townsfolk did him.

  "Hear me!" he bellowed to them, but his words made no dent in the mob's outrage.

  Lord Meynell leaned forward to speak to one of the men before the dais. That man began to beat his sword against his shield. As the rest of the soldiers did the same, the din grew deafening as each side tried to outdo the other.

  There was a touch on Rob's sleeve. It was Colin, his face solemn. The former tradesman's mouth moved, but his words were beyond hearing. Rob leaned down.

  "Knowing that we have a long acquaintance, the council has asked me to be ready to testify to your character if called to do so," Colin shouted to him. "So too, did the council command that the key to your private coffer be located. As there was not room upon this platform for so many, your servants bid me bear this to you"—he tried to offer Rob his scrip—"saying the key lay within it. Rob, what goes forward here?" the monk asked, the outsized purse yet in his hands.

  Rob looked from the former tradesman to the scrip. He smiled. This couldn't be better. "Nay, hold it for me until I call for it," he said, his voice barely audible over the furor. "As for what happens here, I'll explain all to you later, over another sip of that wine."

  Colin's eyes widened, and his mouth turned down in disgust. "If you can jest over that now, this cannot be as bad as it seems." With that, he receded to his brothers.

  Once again, Lord Meynell leaned down to speak to his men. Two of the soldiers shouldered their shields then drew crossbows out of their back scabbards. As the men strung the cords in their bows as if preparing to fire, the chanting died a sudden death, leaving only an intense and distrustful silence.

  "What sort of sinners are you," Abbot Eustace bellowed at them, venting his ire. "How will you face your Maker if it is discovered the man for whom you demand death is not guilty of the crime? This morn, your council did come to me, begging me to be their intermediary. Master Robert says he has evidence of his innocence. Let me look upon what he brings. If it is not enough to convince me, know you I will command he be held for the sheriff and executed, just as you request!"

  As folk acknowledged that they must allow for at least the pretense of a trial they stirred in uneasy acceptance. The sound of so many moving in so small a space was loud, indeed.

  "Much better," the abbot told them as he reseated himself and looked up at Rob. "Master Robert, where is this proof you say you have."

  Rob held out the coffer that he carried. "It lays within this box, my lord abbot, which has come to me from Lynn only this morn. Before I open it, I would have those within the crowd know that the box has not been in my hands since I departed my home, now two weeks past, long before this false charge was levied against me."

  "Aye, it is no surprise you call the charge false as it's your neck we'd see stretched," a heckler threw back. "This is naught but mummery, meant to baffle us when we all know it was his man who went about our town offering outmarket grain to regraters."

  "Who says it was my agent?" Rob retorted. Many were the calls that attested to this. Rob shook his head. "I'll call you all mistaken. My man never left the abbey walls that day, save for a few moments to aid in quelling the tumult that took place before this house's gates. So the whole monastery will swear."

  It was Brother William, the porter, who stepped forward in response to this. "Aye," he called to the crowd. "Hamalin of Lynn passed by gateway but twice that day, once in and once out, all within a quarter hour's time, then not again."

  This sent a wave of shock crashing through those who watched, but there was no easing in the animosity that touched their faces. Not enough had been said to change what they held as true. Again, Rob held up the coffer.

  "I will repeat, what's stored in here has not been seen by me since my arrival in Stanrudde."

  When another murmur of disbelief rumbled through those who watched Lord Meynell stepped forward. "To this fact, I will swear," he called to the crowd in their own tongue, "for it was me who brought the coffer here from Lynn. Master Robert has not opened it since it came into his possession."

  From the field's far end a man raised his voice. "That is Temric Alwynason who speaks. I know him as a good man. If he says that this is true, it is."

  This testimony from one of their own caused a subtle relaxation in the throng's hostility. Rob shot the nobleman a quick aside at the odd identification, but this was not the time for curios
ity. "Brother Herbalist, will you bring me the key?"

  Colin came forward, Rob's scrip extended before him. Where before there had been concern in his face, his eyes now gleamed in understanding and appreciation for the show that Rob was staging. It was one tradesman's appreciation for another's ability to sell.

  Once Rob took the leather sack from him and knelt before the coffer with its key in his hand, Colin turned to face the townsfolk. "You know me, one and all, just as I know you, having given you posset and potion to ease your ills over all my years as apothecary of Stanrudde."

  He waited as the crowd shouted out his name. Some among them threw thanks and greetings in his direction. To this Colin nodded and smiled. "Now I would have you heed my word when I affirm that Master Robert has had no access to his key. It has dwelt within these walls"—he pointed to the abbey's gate behind him—"whilst the grossier was locked safely in yon tower. Moreover, I would testify to this man's character, telling you that he is an honest man. This I know, for I raised him at my knee."

  Again, a wave of sound flowed over the marketplace. The need for blood atonement was rapidly being replaced by frustrated confusion. If they could not blame Rob for what had happened, who then, would pay for the damages that had been done to them?

  In full view of all who watched, Rob threw open his chest and pulled his personal book from its depths. This was naught but a stack of sheepskin with holes punched along one side so a cord might be woven through them. Coming to his feet, he handed the thing to the abbot. "My lord abbot, will you tell them what it is you now hold?"

  The seated churchman turned leaf after leaf, skimming the many entries scribed upon the skin. In the ensuing moments, the silence in the field grew. Rob could hear the sparrows chittering to each other in the abbey's garden. A man coughed, another cleared his throat. A raven flew overhead, its harsh cry echoing raucously against the abbey's tall stone walls. From a few lanes distant, a woman's voice was raised in song as she did her daily chores.