The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "I see a man's weekly notes," the abbot said at last, "marking sales he's made, names of men he's met and what business he has done with them. He marks how long his journeys are as he moves about pursuing his own endeavors. This cannot be a concocted piece. There are times when the hand that writes it is strong and clear, while in others exhaustion shows in the forming of the letters."

  "Thank you, my lord." Rob reclaimed his book and opened it to the appropriate leaf. "Read aloud this entry," he said, pointing to where he wished the churchman to begin.

  The abbot nodded. "On this day, the feast of our Blessed Virgin's assumption into heaven, my agent does report to me that wheat which I last year contracted to buy has, instead, been sold to another. For this the folk in that hamlet are not to be blamed, as the one who purchased it didst pass himself off as mine own man, the thief holding in his possession a facsimile of mine own seal."

  Rob turned the leaf and pointed to another entry.

  "On this the day of Saint John the Baptist, I have made another sorry discovery," the abbot read. "Upon arriving at the hamlet where Emond Sparewe is headman I was informed that the one calling himself my new man had arrived before me, purchasing from them what I should have had. This is the second time the wily thief has struck, if it is indeed the same man, since these two events are separated by a great distance."

  The quiet in the marketplace was absolute. Once again, Rob turned a leaf and, once again, the abbot read. "On this St. Lazarus' day I have at last made the discovery for which I have so long awaited and am mortified at what I have found. Who would have—by the Virgin!" the abbot cried out, leaving off his reading when he saw the name that Rob had scribed upon the skin.

  "Say no more for first I must explain," Rob told him, careful to keep his voice loud enough so that all within the marketplace would hear him.

  He stepped forward to the dais's edge and spread his arms. "The grain that was stolen from me is the same seed that was sold illegally the evening before last, the same wheat that caused others to rampage. I tell you now it was not I who sold this grain." His pronouncement was followed by the growing demand that he name the thief. As Rob held his hands up to beg for quiet, a new call pierced the air.

  "Make way, make way for Katel le Espicer! Make way!"

  Rob's vision blurred, so great was his astonishment. The abbot looked at him. Amazement lived in every line of the churchman's narrow face but in Abbot Eustace's eyes there was the certainty of a Divine Hand at work.

  Katel, four men at his back, urged an almost staggering mount into the crowd. His progress was achingly slow as each person had to shift four others to make room for his horse to pass. The spice merchant wore a thick, fur-lined mantle atop a heavily embroidered traveling tunic done in shades of orange and blue. A thick gold chain lay atop his mantle, and rings gleamed atop his gloved hands. His gaze was caught on Rob, an expression somewhere between triumph and confusion settling onto his thick features.

  "Master Robert." This was but a hiss, coming from the forefront of the crowd. Rob glanced down. Leatrice looked up at him. "I would testify as well," she begged him.

  Her whispered words were drowned out by Katel's louder call.

  "What happens here?" It was the befuddled cry of one who has no other thought in the world than minding his own business.

  Rob raised a hand to point at Katel. "There is the one who stole my grain. It is Katel le Espicer who released illegal koren onto your marketplace and caused the destruction of your town."

  Gasps rose from the crowd at this surprising accusation.

  Katel threw back his head, his eyes wide in outrage. "Are you mad!" His voice carried to every corner of the field.

  Despite his protest, those nearest to him closed around his horse. One man dared to reach up and take hold of the tired mount's bridle. "Leave go," Katel commanded him. "How can you give credence to such a charge? I am a spice merchant. What would I have to do with grain?" The man did not comply.

  "What, indeed," Rob retorted. "What Master Katel did, he did for hatred of me. Years ago, he swore to see me hurt for a wrong he'd deemed I'd done him."

  "So I would confirm," Arthur called, coming forward to join Rob. "Master Katel made Master Robert's apprenticeship like unto hell with his torments."

  Colin stepped to the edge of the dais. "I too, would avow that Master Katel meant Master Robert only harm. Had not Master Walter already betrothed his daughter to you, Katel," the monk eyed his friend's former protégé, "he would have seen your apprenticeship with him ended."

  Katel sighed and looked around him, displaying naught but contrition for his observers. "I beg your pardons, Arthur, Master Colin, and, you, as well, Rob, for the sins of my youth. Would that I could return to the past and change what I did, but a misspent youth does not render a man a thief."

  "Nay, why lower yourself to steal, when you have Theobald of Peterborough to do it for you?" Rob retorted. "Here upon these parchments did I scribe the saga of your agent's deeds. Those at the hamlets where he struck described him well enough."

  He took his book from the abbot and turned to the appropriate entry. "Emond Sparewe says that the one who came was small of stature, delicate of feature, looking child-like despite his grizzled beard and hair. Today, I have learned that Katel le Espicer employs such a man." As some in the crowd called out in confirmation of this description, Rob spoke on. "When I realized it was you who'd done this I saw that the hamlets where your agent went were no farther than a day's ride from the fair you were attending at the time.

  "Once you had what was mine you waited for me to discover it was you who'd taken it, knowing I would come to confront you. And when I came, you released the wheat in my name, knowing that folk would riot. You did not care that lives and homes would be destroyed by what you did."

  A low thrum of hostility returned to the throng. Every man who stood upon the grassy stretch turned his head to see how their wealthy spice merchant would respond. Katel did not disappoint.

  "This is an outrage!" he shouted. "I cannot believe that you think these good folk fools enough to believe what must certainly be crass forgeries. How long did it take some clerk to make those things for you? You are a wealthy man. How much did it cost you to create evidence against me?"

  "I think me you are the wealthier," Rob retorted, touching Arthur's borrowed mantle and pin. "You gleam where I am drab."

  "They are not forgeries," someone in the crowd shouted out. "We have all heard Father Abbot attest that what he looked upon was genuine enough. Do we not all accept that those skins of Master Robert's came this morn, brought here in a locked box from Lynn by one we all trust to speak the truth?" Rob's new supporter cried out to his fellow townsmen.

  A flash of shock danced across Katel's bloated features. The spice merchant had been certain he'd succeeded in ending any threat from Lynn. If worry for Hamalin grew with Katel's reaction, it was in that instant that Rob forgave his mother for making him a bastard. He would not have had his proof to confront Katel if not for his father's other bastard, Lord Meynell.

  "From Lynn?" one of Katel's servants cried out in surprise. "Master, I thought you said the council named Theobald to retrieve those ledgers." There was more than confusion in the man's voice, a touch of vindictive triumph lurked in his tone.

  From behind the monks Jehan the Wool Merchant limped out. He stood before the crowd, braced on his crutch. "The council set no such mandate," he cried out. "We sent no man anywhere, being content to wait for the sheriff's arrival."

  This sent the noise level to a new and far more hostile tone. Folk began to call out that the spice merchant was guilty. One man cried out for hanging, but this time it was Katel he meant to see dangling.

  "Papa!" The call pierced the thrum. "You must tell them none of this is true."

  Rob scanned the crowd. A tall lad in his early teens, his hair a bright golden red, thrust his way through the throng toward the knot of folk around the spice merchant. He breathed in surprise. Joh
anna's son was Master Walter's image. With recognition came sudden pity and a strange sort of comradeship. Just as Rob's life had been destroyed when Ralph Attegreen refused to claim him, this boy was witnessing the end of the world he knew.

  "He cannot, lad," Rob called to Johanna's son then turned to look at the abbot. "My lord, someone should take that boy away from here. He should not have to witness this."

  Even before the churchman turned to him Lord Meynell sent a few of his men into the crowd. Folk parted to let them pass. When the soldiers took Katel's son by the arms, the boy thrashed against them. His resistance was futile. He couldn’t prevent them from steadily bearing him toward the dais.

  "Nay," the boy screamed, "you have no right to deny me. I will stand with my sire."

  "He does not need you to sacrifice yourself for the wrong he has done," the abbot told the lad.

  "I have done no wrong," Katel moaned, then continued with exaggerated drama. "Woe be it that a man is forced to reveal his wife's shame before his son!"

  As Katel buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as if he sobbed, the crowd grew quiet. It was quite the show Stanrudde's folk were getting this day, and they were enjoying it immensely. Rob glanced at Johanna's son. The boy had gone still between his captors. His face was so pale his freckles stood out as bright, tawny marks against his white skin. "Nay, Papa," he said almost to himself. "Do not do this."

  When Katel raised his head, there were tears in his eyes. "It is very difficult for a man to admit that his wife has made him a cuckold, but she has. I accuse the Grossier of Lynn of adultery with my wife. Years ago, they succumbed to their lust for each other. It is they who plot against me, not me against them."

  Leatrice did not wait for an invitation. The pregnant maid stepped boldly past the soldiers and clambered onto the platform. "He lies!" she screamed to all those in the field. "His wife is no adulteress. Two years have I served in that household, and not once has Mistress Johanna strayed from her vows to her husband."

  Katel wiped away the tears that touched his heavy cheeks. "Leatrice, lass," he said kindly, "I know you love your mistress well, but you can no longer shield her from the wrong she's done."

  "She has done no wrong," the maid sneered. "It is you who stole the wheat and you, again, who hid it in the mistress's warehouse." She looked around her. "I vow to you all that this is true, may God strike me dead if it is not." She paused to draw breath and allow the Almighty to do as she dared Him.

  More than a few who heard her glanced overhead for their Lord's reaction. When she continued to live the muttering for Katel's death reawoke, gaining new vigor. A touch of worry appeared on the spice merchant's flaccid face.

  "Leatrice," he said, new steel beneath his silken tones, "you know none of this is true. If the council believed any of it they would be accusing me, while the captain of the guard stood by waiting to arrest me."

  "What have I to fear?" the pretty maid retorted, holding her hands out. "Every soul here knows that the council has not yet had the chance to arrest you, as they are only now hearing the evidence along with the rest of us."

  That said, she scanned the crowd, throwing open her mantle to reveal the bulge Katel's child made within her. "If any man out there asks why or how I should know what I do, I will tell you all it is because I am the one who has shared Master Katel's bed these past two years. I know all his secrets, because he speaks in his sleep!"

  "You lie!" Katel roared.

  "Master, I can tolerate the sin no longer," called one of Katel's servants from behind him. "The lass speaks the truth about your plot. My pardon to all of you, neighbors," he called to those around him, "but I only discovered what he was about last even. Let me pass. I am for the spice merchant's house where I will gather my belongings and quit his employ."

  The muttering folk parted to let him pass then closed around the spice merchant once more. Katel could do no more than wrench himself around in his saddle to stare at the departing servant. Honest shock flowed over his face.

  "Nor can we," shouted another manservant. "Better to starve than live in the house of the man who meant for Stanrudde to burn. So do we all feel." Once again, the throng made way for the remainder of Katel's household to pass.

  "How can you lie like this?" Katel shouted at the man's back. "You know nothing of what I do."

  Rob shook his head, suspecting these were the first truthful words Katel had spoken since entering the field. They did him no good. Once more, simple men congealed into a mob, their threats rumbling from them, the volume rising swiftly upward until it became a muted roar.

  Lord Meynell leaned down to speak to his men. "Take the boy into the abbey." It was a brusque command.

  As the muted roar became a bellow of rage horror turned to terror on Katel's face. "Nay!" he pleaded to those around him. "She lies! They all lie, having no evidence to support their words. They know nothing of which they speak!"

  Truthful words, every one. They were also Katel's last coherent words. He squealed in terror as those around him grabbed him down from his horse.

  "Nay!" his son howled in pain and tore free of those who held him. The lad flew into the crowd as Stanrudde's folk did to his sire what Katel had planned for them to do to Rob.

  Panic exploded in Rob as the mob turned on the lad, intent on ending Katel's line. He could not let Johanna's son, Master Walter's grandson, die. He did not give himself time to reconsider before he leapt into the fray to save the boy.

  The Priory of Saint Anne

  One hour past Sext

  Saint Blesilla's Day, 1197

  Outside the prioress's office, sleet battered at the wooden walls. The wind howled at the door, demanding entry as it thrust icy fingers into the room. In response the single branch of candles in the center of this bleak room cast swords of light toward that portal. The light made the floor tiles gleam, all green, rust-red, and white, then threw new brightness onto the priory's chair of state.

  That piece was a homely item, untouched by paint or carvings, its tall back dwarfing its aged occupant. Rob watched the prioress, struggling to rein in his impatience. Now that Katel was dead, she had no choice but to release Johanna.

  The churchwoman, dressed in the black habit and white wimple of her order, leaned out of the chair's depths toward him. Caught in the frame of her headdress, the old woman's skin was soft and loose, seemingly held to her bones by the web of wrinkles that crisscrossed her face. "You may not see her." This was a steely proclamation.

  Rob stared at her, shocked by the harshness of her reply. The joy that had buoyed him against exhaustion slipped as his thoughts turned, trying to find some reason for so absolute a refusal. Certain she'd misunderstood his message, he tried once more. "My lady prioress, I have come to fetch Mistress Johanna back to Stanrudde. Her husband has died, and her son has been sorely injured. She must return to settle his estate."

  The old woman's faded green eyes narrowed to slits as her mouth tensed. "She cannot leave the priory."

  Rob's shock descended into anger. Johanna must be desperate for news of him and the outcome of their defense. Although her son, Peter, was being well tended by Colin and his own master's wife, Rob knew the boy had a soul-deep need for his mother just now.

  It had already taken him too long to get here as it was. First, all the councilmen had all wished to offer their apologies. Although he'd shrugged these off as swiftly as possible, the abbot had caught him next, wanting to speak to him about the stolen wheat. No matter how dearly Rob needed to find Johanna, he could not refuse the churchman, not after all the good the abbot had done him. An hour had been eaten simply in polite refusals of the offer to join the churchman at his meat.

  After that, he'd gone to Master Walter's house, seeking the servants who would know where Johanna was. They had been reluctant to open the gate to him, fearing he meant them harm for what their master had done to him. If more precious time had been wasted in soothing them, at long last one of them, Syward by name, had
agreed to lead him here. Now that he was here, this churchwoman was going to refuse to let him see Johanna? Nay, she would not.

  "I am telling you, I must see her," Rob demanded, his voice rising to a threatening tone.

  The old woman didn't even flinch. "Have you trouble with your hearing?" she snapped back. "Listen again as I tell you. You may not see her."

  Rob's fists clenched. Once again, someone was putting a barrier between him and the woman he named his. His emotions swelled past all his ability to control them. "You cannot deny me!" he roared.

  "In that you are wrong," she retorted, her own anger making her words cool, rather than hot. "You are no one I know. If she were truly widowed or her son injured, the city council would send a messenger with whom I was acquainted to inform me of this. As you are neither her husband nor her kin, you have no right to demand anything in regard to her."

  Rob caught his breath against the urge to cry aloud that he was, indeed, Johanna's husband. Were he to do this, the prioress would only call him liar. To her, and all the world, it was Katel who owned that title. Now that the churchwoman was set against him he had no choice but to retreat and find another way to pry Johanna free of this place.

  "That would be true were she a nun, but she is only a visitor." His voice softened. "Please, let her be the one to choose whether she will see me or nay."

  "How dare you argue with me!” The prioress rose from her chair, her face twisting in dislike of him. She had once been a tall woman, now she almost bent in half. Grasping the walking stick from beside her chair, she used it to brace her on her feet. "Once again, you are wrong," she spat out. "Johanna has chosen to retire from the world, seeking to find a closer relationship to her God, as well as forgiveness for her many sins. As a novice she can have no visitors. Now begone with you, granting me the courtesy of never returning. In case you have not that willpower, know that my gates will ever be barred to you." It was a cold dismissal.