Rob frowned. Wherever he was, it wasn't the kitchen at Blacklea Manor house where all the village women baked their bread. John the cook had only two long knives, two ladles, one rasp, and three sieves.
In dreadful realization, Rob closed his eyes. This was Master Walter's kitchen. Despair followed fear. His world was destroyed. No longer could he proudly call himself Robert the Counter, heir to Ralph AtteGreen, the richest man and only freeholder in all of Blacklea. Instead, he was disowned by his sire and sold like a slave to a merchant from someplace called Stanrudde.
A touch of outrage joined his despair. What if Master Walter forever after called him Robert the Bastard, instead of Robert, son of Ralph? It was neither right nor fair that he should be called so when he was no bastard.
"I know you are awake." It was a girl's voice. "Look at me, Robert of Blacklea!"
Rob clenched his eyes even more tightly shut. Was it not bad enough he'd lost everything important to him in life? Now some lass thought she could tell him what to do. She lifted his blanket, allowing cooler air to enter beneath it. With a gasp of shock, Rob shifted on the mattress to glare up at his tormentor. The girl sat on a stool beside him. Her reddish gold hair was tangled and loose. Bare wisps of that same golden-red color rose to peaks above her blue eyes and freckles were strewn like golden seeds across her face. Her gowns were blue trimmed with a band of glittering stones, but they were rumpled as if she'd slept in them. In the same hand that she had clenched around his blanket's edge she held a long straw.
Anger flared into being at this indignity. "Drop my blanket," he croaked.
A superior smile blossomed on her face, as if daring him to make her do so. He reached up to take the blanket from her, but his arm trembled so badly, he couldn't jerk it from her grasp. It was she who released it to him, and she knew it.
"Don't do that again," he warned in an effort to save some shred of pride, once again gathering the woolen sheet around him.
His gaze lowered to the kitten writhing in the crook of her elbow. Mama disapproved of any attempt to hold a cat, especially scolding when he let it dangle so. Rob leapt on the girl's misdeed. "You're not sup-posed to hold a cat that way. Don't you know anything?"
Her eyes widened at his insult, then her jaw firmed and thrust ever so slightly forward. A quirk of appreciation shot through Rob. She wasn't one of those weak-willed lasses, but the other sort, the kind that punched first and cried after.
"Puss is mine, and I may hold him any way I like. I can do anything I like, because I am Johanna, daughter of Walter le Espicer," she announced in a grand and lofty voice. "You are my servant and cannot tell me what to do."
Her words tore through his already aching self-image. "I'm no girl's servant! Master Walter hired me as his scullery lad," he cried, then struck out again at her. "Once I have earned the value of the ten coins he gave my papa, I will be a free man, unlike you, who will always be a girl."
That tweaked Johanna the spice merchant's daughter right prettily. She dropped Puss to the floor and set tight fists on her hips.
As the kitten skittered away to chase after mice and shadows, Master Walter's daughter leaned toward him, her skin reddening until her freckles stood out as pale, cool spots. "I am the mistress here! You are not being respectful. Everyone must be respectful of me."
Merchant's daughter or no, she was younger than he. No babe in arms was going to lord over him. "Respectful! Hah!" He paused a beat then threw out the comment that always destroyed the village lasses. "You are so nasty, I think no man will want to marry you."
This lass only lifted her chin, her lips again curving into that superior smile. "I will so wed. I am already betrothed to Katel."
Rob shrugged as if unaffected by her claim, all the while hiding his surprise. She was only a little girl. How could she know whom she would marry? In Blacklea no one thought of wedding until they were ready to start their own families. Stanrudde was, indeed, a strange place. Even more disturbing was the realization that her retort left him both weaponless and defenseless against her. Rob sorted desperately through his muddled thoughts for some way to put her in her place. When he'd found it, he smiled and raised a haughty brow.
"I am surprised he wants you. You are ugly, and your nose is too big."
Hurt far deeper than he'd intended flashed across her face. She set a hand atop the bridge of her nose, a much smaller version of the merchant's great, arching beak, as if to shield it from his eyes. "Papa says I have a nose of authority." Her voice was low and uncertain as if she'd been teased about this many times.
Regret destroyed Rob's moment of triumph. He'd only meant to bludgeon her into submission, not draw her heart's blood. He shrugged then offered an olive branch. "It's not that big and, mayhap, I do remember you gave me water when I ailed."
Puss meowed, the frightened sound coming from the nearby tabletop. With a frantic cry, Johanna leapt from her stool. Rob lifted himself up on his elbows until he could see. The kitten dangled over the edge of a large bowl on the tabletop. Before Johanna could reach it, the bowl rolled over the table's edge, crockery shattering around the cat.
With a wordless cry of horror, the master's daughter snatched up the dripping creature and turned on Rob. Her expression twisted in fear. "That was curded cheese for the morrow. If Philip learns Puss did this, he'll tell Papa, and Papa will take Puss from me. You must say you did this," she demanded.
"What?" he croaked, surprise making him tumble back onto his mattress. He liked the cat, but not enough to be punished for what Puss had done.
Johanna crouched down next to him. "You have to help. I'll die without my cat, I love him so. Say you were rising and stumbled into the table, please?" This time there was more pleading than command in her voice.
Rob frowned in consideration. Although he didn't much like to lie, Johanna was the master's daughter. Setting his jaw, Rob lowered his brows into the expression Papa had taught him to use when bargaining. "What do I get for taking your beating?"
"There’ll be no beating. If you help me, I vow to share Puss with you."
He shook his head. True, she might not be beaten for a broken bowl, but there was no guarantee the same would apply to him, were he to claim responsibility. Sharing the cat wasn't enough reward for the risk involved, and she knew it.
Johanna's eyes filled with tears. "I'll never again say you are my servant," she offered, suddenly sounding as young and helpless as Gretta. A teardrop dribbled down her cheek, and her lips began to tremble. "You'll be my friend, this I swear."
Even as the thought of friendship with a girl made Rob grimace in disgust, his long habit of protecting his sister wouldn't let him refuse her. Ah well, what could it hurt to let her think on him as her friend? He caught himself. Except if some other lad knew of it.
He offered her a nod. "As long as you vow to tell no one of this night's work and there's no beating, I'll say I did it. In return, you must vow to grant me a favor when I ask it of you." He went on in explanation, since she was just a lass and might not know about giving her word. "Be careful how you swear, for an oath is a promise made before God. You'll be damned to hell if you break it. Place your hand upon your heart as you say the words."
Johanna of Stanrudde placed her hand upon her chest. "I will grant you a favor, this I vow." When she was done, she breathed in relief and smiled. "Thank you, Robert."
"Rob. My name is Rob." He yawned. "Just know that if anyone's truly angered over this, I'll spill the truth."
"No one will be," she assured him. "I won't let them be."
He snorted in disbelief. "You're barely more than a babe. What can you do to stop them?"
Johanna shot him an impatient look. "I told you, I am mistress here. Everyone must do as I say. I have been mistress for six years, ever since my mother died with my newborn brother, just as your mother did."
Stunned, Rob gaped at her. "How do you know it was a babe's coming that took my mother?"
Johanna laid a hand on his shoulder. Od
dly enough, his skin didn't crawl at her touch. "Aleric told us your tale before he returned to Papa."
All the pain of Mama's death and Papa's betrayal poured over him, the wave of sadness dragging him down into despair once more. A shudder shot through Rob. If Master Walter's servant had said this much, it was certain everyone here also knew Papa had disowned him. He could never again return home. Tears stung at his eyes, and he buried his head into the folds of his blanket in shame.
"Rob?" Johanna's voice was hesitant. "Papa always says a good master is like unto a father to all those who dwell under his roof. If you like, I will share my papa with you."
Her words lit a fire in his heart. Rob wrenched himself around, not caring that she might see his tears. "I don't need your father, I have one of my own!" he shouted. "Go away, go away and leave me be."
He threw himself back down onto the mattress and pulled his blanket up over his head. To his horror, a sob escaped him, then another. Even the knowledge that Johanna listened did not stop them. Not only could he never go home, but there was no one left to love him.
Stanrudde
Two and a half hours past None
The eve of Saint Agnes's Day, 1197
Rob reached the abbey's gateway only to find the tiny portal inset into the much larger gate doors barred. As he tore the wood from its braces Johanna screamed once more. He yanked on the wee door's handle. It gave not an inch. He whirled. Brother William danced just behind him, near the entrance to the tiny room that was the porter's domain. The monk's eyes were wide in frantic worry for the woman beyond the walls.
"Open the damn door!" Rob roared at him.
Brother William squeaked. His hands fluttered in the air as if he had no idea how such a thing was done.
"Brother, your key," Colin called from the hospitium's window. The monk blinked then ducked into his cubicle. Iron jangled as he wrenched the key ring from its peg.
His heart consumed by worry, Rob yanked open the tiny square window in the door to scan the market's field. Trapped by the boiling crowd at the center of that expanse was a lone and mounted woman. Even though her face was hidden by her cloak and wimple, Rob knew it was Johanna. His fiery girl kicked out at those around her, which was far better than her mount was doing; the stupid beast but turned in confusion.
Rob drew a calming breath. That Johanna fought so said she was yet unharmed.
With a cooler head, he assessed the folk seething around her. Their shouts, threats, and curses re-bounded against the abbey's thick walls, then disappeared with the smoke that swirled up from the city's sea of thatched roofs and into the clouds. Despite the violence of their words, the horde seemed content to simply rebuke Johanna because she was wealthier and better fed than they. Then, from the corner of his eye Rob caught a snippet of stealthy movement amid so much honest fist shaking.
Again, he scanned the area, this time his gaze wandering to the far edges of the open expanse. Out of the darkened alleyways, brigand and ruffian alike slithered onto this field. The pustules on Stanrudde's underbelly were slowly working their way through the mob around Johanna, drawn to her by the lure of her rings and the gold encircling her throat.
This put a whole new urgency to the situation. Where the crowd was content to rage, these men would not hesitate to kill Johanna to make what was hers theirs. In the next instant, Brother William leapt from his room and iron grated on iron as he fitted it into its slot.
"Master Robert," Will's voice rose from the hospitium, where Rob's household guard now armed, "Hamalin says to tell you they'll be set in only a moment."
Rob relaxed. With his servants behind him, he could hold both laborer and thief at bay until the town guard arrived to clear the field. As the monk turned the key, Rob started to close the peephole's door then froze. Johanna had ceased kicking in defense and was digging into her purse.
"Nay," he breathed in horror, realizing she hoped to distract the crowd and win her freedom by strewing coins. "That is nothing," he told her. "It's your rings and your chain you must throw. Give them what they want, and they'll leave you be."
His warning went unheard. Johanna lifted her fist and rained coins down upon the crowd. Folk roared. Neighbor turned on neighbor in a desperate grab for these crumbs. With the scrupulous thus occupied, the ruffians howled in triumph, their chances of winning far richer treasures having just trebled.
"Nay," Rob shouted as Brother William began to open the door.
Grabbing the handle from the monk, Rob threw wide the burly sheet of oak. As it opened, those on the opposite side surged within, seeking sanctuary in the abbey's courtyard. It was their hands and feet they wished to keep, the loss of any one appendage being a rioter's punishment.
Using elbows and shoulders, Rob thrust into their ranks, forcing his way onto the field. His household guard was not so fortunate. Although they shouted and harangued, there was no penetrating the ever-growing throng between them and the now jammed opening.
Rob dared not wait on them. Across the field a man exploded from the tangle of folk around Johanna to grasp her horse's bridle. Fear made Rob's battle through the crowd all the more desperate. Johanna's attacker lifted his hand, a knife glinting dully in his fist. With a butcher's practiced stroke, he drew the blade across her mount's neck.
"Nay!" Rob bellowed.
As its blood flowed, the plump palfrey squealed and bucked in terror. Johanna flew from her saddle to disappear into the frenzied crowd as they closed on the dying beast. Rob forgot he wore a long dagger. Nothing existed but the distance between him and the spot where Johanna had fallen. With his fists, alone, he carved himself a path to the side of the woman he yet believed was his wife.
Johanna's heart nearly stopped as she left the saddle. Such a death would be too easy for a fool like herself. Dropping onto a man's broad back, she caromed off him to land on the marketplace's mucky ground. Stars came to life before her eyes, and she gasped as the breath left her lungs. What need had Katel of a plot to destroy her when she so obligingly destroyed herself for him? In her blind rage over something that had happened years ago, she'd ridden right into this attack.
Her vision cleared. Yet breathless from the impact, she braced trembling arms beneath her and began to rise. A foot caught her in the shoulder. With a yelp, she tumbled backward and rolled onto her side. Another man stepped on her legs. Still more folk stumbled over her as they streamed toward her dying horse, intent only on claiming a bit of free meat for their pots.
It was the horse murderer who yanked her to her feet. Clamping a blood-befouled hand over her nose and mouth, he pressed her head against his shoulder as if he meant to slit her throat as well. "I'll have that chain, see if I won't," he shouted as he yanked at the gold chain that nestled between her overgown and her cloak.
The links held. He yanked again. Johanna clawed at his hand, her lungs crying for air.
Other men encircled them. Her hopes lifted then plummeted. These newcomers cared only for what she wore.
They set on her captor, raining indiscriminate blows down upon both of them in an effort to claim her. Her assailant released her. Gagging and gasping, Johanna dropped to her knees. The butcher fell beside her, someone else's knife in his chest.
She was yanked to her feet by her cloak then reeled from hand to hand like a child's poppet as the group battled over her. Her cloak left her shoulders and her wimple her head, her hair tumbling free from the sedate traveling roll Leatrice had made of it. Her hands were wrenched and twisted as her rings departed, her forefinger ring taking both glove and skin with it. A knife's point scored her abdomen as her pearl-studded belt was cut from her.
Two men snatched her chain at the same time, pawing at each other over it. The tussle intensified, each man grabbing a handful of her gowns to aid their cause. A broken doll, Johanna sagged between the two, half senseless from her battering. As the fronts of her gowns gave way, so did the gold. The winner sprinted for the nearest alleyway, leaving her in the loser's disgusted grasp.
>
It was the sound of a miracle when the bleat of the town guard's horn rose in the field's far end. Screaming in new panic, the mob churned in the cramped marketplace. Folk scattered every which way, intent on preserving life and limb.
Johanna breathed against the impossibility of having survived to this moment and waited for her captor to release her to flee. Instead, he lifted her to her feet, holding her before him as if to assure himself she owned nothing further of value. Stunned beyond tears or pleas, she could only stare into his face. A hollow shell of a big man, he wore a thief’s "X" branded into his cheek.
His gaze dropped to the torn fronts of her gowns then he fingered a tress of her hair. Without a word, he clamped an arm around her waist and turned. Johanna had no choice but to stumble along beside him as he pulled her across the field and onto the coopers' lane.
He moved down the rutted and muddy street until he reached a tight, dark space between two houses. Sliding into its narrow dimness, he dropped her onto the filth of the alley's floor and wrenched up her skirts. A terror even greater than that of death woke in Johanna.
"Nay," she breathed, trying to shove her gowns back over her legs as she rolled onto her side.
He slammed a foot into her chest. Air whooshed from her lungs. Fighting for breath, Johanna struck at his leg, but her arms felt disconnected at the elbows, her blows kittenish and soft. His chausses freed, the thief fell atop her, holding her in place with his body as he worked her skirts up over her thighs. His bare flesh was obscenely warm against her chilled skin.
A Love For All Seasons Page 6
