The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "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. Oddly 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.

  Her stomach turned in horror and fear as she writhed beneath him. He pressed his mouth to hers. She raked her nails across his face. With a growl, he drew himself up far enough to deal her a heavy blow.

  Again, stars swam in a hopeless sea before her eyes, making blackness swirl around her, paralyzing her limbs. As he once more fixed his mouth over hers, there was movement in the shadows overhead then her attacker was lifted from atop her. With a bellow of furious ownership, the thief turned in midair and set upon this new challenge to what little value he'd snatched from the spice merchant's wife.

  Breath returned to her lungs. Johanna's head steadied. The battle moved away from her, back toward the alley's entrance. Hope rose. As long as they were busy killing each other, they'd hardly notice she was leaving.

  Struggling to her feet, she limped deeper into the alley's shadows. Every muscle ached. The need to sob filled her, but she fought it back, afraid she'd fall to pieces if she released even a single cry.

  Behind her, one of the two screamed, the sound choked off with a suddenness that spoke of death. Johanna moved faster. Ahead of her, a wall rose up to stand between her and freedom. With the tiniest of cries, she clenched her fist and hit the blind alley's end.

  The winner's footsteps echoed in the dimness as he came to claim his prize. Johanna turned, pressing her back to the wall. A man, taller and broader than her previous attacker, appeared out of the dimness. She would die.

  Anger at this filled her. Why should she have survived the attack in the field, only to perish even more horribly in this filthy place? It was the injustice of this that turned her fingers into talons. With a bold shout to hide her terror, she threw herself at this new threat. The man caught her hands then pulled her close into his embrace. Her head was pressed against his shoulder.

  "Nay, love," he said to her, his tone warm and low. "You're safe. I have you now."

  Johanna went still at the sound of his voice. Her fists opened, her fingers digging into the soft fur of his mantle. Beneath her cheek she felt the steady beat of his heart. She moved her head to the spot where it had always been most comfortable.

  "Rob?" she mewled, a piteous sound.

  "Aye love."

  Her heart, so long denied affection, sighed at this endearment. "He was going to ..." she began to tell him, only to fall silent as a terrible trembling started in the pit of her stomach.

  In the space of a breath her quaking spread to every inch of her body, until even her toes shook. The horror of what had and had not happened washed over her, again and again. A single dry sob left her then a tear trickled down her cheek, the harbinger of a bursting dam.

  "You're safe, love," he crooned, his arms tightening around her. "You're safe now."

  It was Rob; she was safe. Johanna buried her face into his shoulder and let the terror pour from her with her tears.

  When at last her sobs subsided, she lay spent against him, beyond thought or care in her relief. He let her stay so, but rocking her gently in his embrace. It was a long while before she had strength enough to lean back in his arms and look at him.

  Now that her vision was accustomed to the dimness, she could see the blood seeping from a set of scratches on his brow. His collar was torn. Light from the alley's opening gleamed against the familiar high thrust of his cheekbones, the gentle curve of his brow, and the narrow length of his nose.

  She frowned. It was Rob, but he was so changed. Fine lines touched the corners of his gray eyes, while a beard covered his strong jaw and outlined the curve of his lips. He'd let his hair grow longer than she liked it on a man.

  Without thought she raised a hand and pressed one dark brown strand into a curl against his cheek. Thick and soft, his hair did as she bid, just as it always had. He smiled at this familiar game of hers. His amusement set deep creases in his lean cheeks and brought warm lights
to life in the cool gray of his eyes.

  In that instant the boy who'd loved her reappeared. Time shifted, and the years melted away. It was the girl who loved him in return who raised herself to her toes and touched her lips to his.

  The meeting of their mouths was nothing more than a gentle press of flesh to flesh. Yet, it was so warm, so familiar, so right, she wanted nothing more but to stand so forever. That was, until a spark of sensation shot through her, infinitely short, but oh-so-pleasurable.

  Catching her breath against it, Johanna moved her lips on his as she fed her starving heart. Her caress made his kiss deepen, but just a little. This time the spark returned, lasting long enough to wake years of banked hunger from its uneasy slumber. Long suppressed carnal need stretched itself to life, demanding that she feed it. Johanna laced her hands behind Rob's neck, pulling herself closer in a plea for more. He groaned in soft compliance, the sound rumbling in his chest. His kiss deepened, until his mouth slashed across hers.

  She gasped, aware of every inch of him. There was the brush of his hair against her wrists, the movement of his beard against her cheek. A pulsing warmth shot through her as the smell of him filled her, the taste of him left her craving more. Trembling, she shifted against him, letting her body flow into his. Just as had always happened, their bodies melded as though they'd been created one for the other.

  Stanrudde

  Mid-June, 1173

  From his stool in the kitchen's darkest corner, Rob watched in misery as the midday meal was prepared. He hated Master Walter's house, or rather his kitchen, that being the only part of the house he'd seen since his awakening. There was nothing familiar or normal about this place.

  Not the folk. He watched Tom lift a cauldron from the flames and begin ladling thick mutton stew into a tureen. Although the lackwit was a man full grown he acted almost as young as Gretta. Nor the smells or tastes. Beside his son, Philip put the finishing touches on a fruit and marrow pie for the midday meal: a stranger creating an equally strange dish. Moreover, it was never quiet here. No amount of counting or imagining was strong enough to escape the endless noise coming from every corner of this city. Hammers pounded on anvils from dawn to dusk, bells clanged, and, worst of all, folk shouted and called to one another, even deep in the night when all decent beings should be at their rest.