A Love For All Seasons (20 page)

"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. Leaning 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.

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 bedcurtains. 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.

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.

"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, their 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.

From beneath the sadness came a sharp thrust of pain. Helewise had begun planning Johanna's wedding. Rob leaned heavily upon his broom, fighting the anger that followed pain. Johanna shouldn't have to marry that whoreson. Katel would never honor her the way a man should his wife.

Only then did Rob realize where his wayward thoughts were once again leading him. Even as he chided himself for the wrong he did, he could not stop himself. It wasn't just his body that had betrayed him with Johanna, it was his heart. Against all that was right and proper, he loved his master's daughter.

Nay, it was more than that. He needed her. From their earliest years he'd found such joy in sharing his triumphs with Johanna. More than even Master Colin, Johanna took great pride in his accomplishments. It was her praise and excitement over his achievements that kept him strong against Katel's constant, secret belittling.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain outstripped his sadness. Johanna, and how she made him special in her life, was more precious to him than any riches he could imagine. Although he might survive the loss of his trade and his master, the thought of losing her was tearing him in two.

From beyond the warehouse's wall he caught the sound of someone running. Whoever it was stopped along the river's edge. Rob frowned. Any other day he wouldn't have minded sharing this place with another. Just now, he craved complete privacy in which to cherish his mournful thoughts.

Not bothering to don either shirt or tunic, he set the broom into the corner and turned to the threshold of the water door. Here the river's bank was cut away to allow those barges bearing goods for Master Walter to dock before the opening. Water lapped at the warehouse's foundation, murky and swirling against the current.

He leapt from the threshold to the bank, landing upon the same spot that Johanna had once named hers. Gone was the shallow hole that had served them as a private place in those earlier years. The willows now owned it, their roots having spread across the surface to pry at the warehouse's foundation.

The memory of the first time he and Johanna came here rolled over him. It had been to protect him that she'd kicked that regrater. This almost made him smile; then the sadness returned. She'd protect him no longer, nor he her.

He kicked once at the twisted and woody ground then eased around the gnarled trunks. Crossing the bank, his footsteps absorbed by its thick carpet of moss, he peered through the cascading willow branches at the river's edge. There was a flash of blue beyond the waterfall of green and gold.

"Whoever you are, be gone with you," he called out. "This stretch belongs to Master Walter, and you may not trespass."

Rather than depart, there was a rustling in the foliage. Johanna pushed through the thick layer of branches. He stared at her in shock and not a little horror. For the first time in three years, she'd left her father's house without an escort. They were alone.

For months, ever since Mistress Katherine's funeral feast, he'd avoided being alone with Johanna. That did not mean he'd escaped her. Nay, not at all. She, and the wondrous feeling of her in his arms, haunted his dreams. Mornings found his shaft hard and aching for her.

As she stepped into the inner reaches of the trees, she let the branches fall behind her, concealing them from the outer world. The persistent mist left dark spots on her pale blue gowns, the damp silk clinging here and there to the slender line of her body. Loosened by her run, careless tendrils of bright golden-red hair escaped her plait to curl around her face and shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" he cried out, taking a backward step as he considered the valor of racing back into the warehouse and barring the door on her.

"Oh, Rob," she cried, her voice tiny with pain.

Worry against his reaction to her died. Seven years had passed, but he still remembered the despair of finding himself orphaned. "You have seen your father," he said softly.

She took a step toward him. Rob caught his breath. Sorrow made the lines of her face seem all the more delicate. Her mouth softened as her lips trembled. Tears shimmered in her eyes until they were bluer than blue.

"No one told me," she breathed, then bit her bottom lip to still its quiver. When she was successful, she continued. "Why did none of you tell me?" Anger's edge touched her voice.

"He would not let us," he said. "He was certain he would recover and did not wish to worry you."

If tears yet trembled in her eyes, bright pink spots took sudden life in her pale cheeks, making her freckles stand out in sharp relief. "I thought you were my friend," she shouted as her fists clenched. "You should have told me! How could you leave me in ignorance?"

"Johanna, he bid me to silence," he tried to explain, but she threw herself at him, slamming a fist against his bare chest.

Rob cried out, not so much hurt as surprised at her attack. He caught her by the wrist. "Johanna," he protested. Her retort was to send her other fist crashing into his shoulder. This time it did hurt.