A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “A good morrow to you, grandson,” she said, setting the bucket down on the table.

  He stood there and spluttered for several moments, then realization apparently began to dawn. She watched his fury battle with his respect for her. It was very engaging and she did her best not to laugh at him. Finally, he swallowed his ire and made her a low bow.

  “Grandmère,” he said. “Forgive me for not being at my best this morn to greet you.”

  She waved away his words. “’Tis nothing, Robin, my love.”

  “How lovely of you to visit,” he continued.

  “I’m not here to loiter without a purpose,” she said. “I’ve come to work.”

  “Work?” he echoed in horror. “You?”

  “Aye,” she said calmly. “I’ve a task to see accomplished.”

  “And that would be?”

  She waved expansively to her little flock behind her. “Why, your civilizing, of course.”

  He was speechless. Joanna smiled in satisfaction

  Perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as she feared.

  31

  Robin stood behind his father’s table and stared in horror at the souls that now filled his father’s hall. Minstrels and various other artistic sorts, the lot of them. If Robin hadn’t been so weary, he would have fled to his father’s solar and bolted himself inside for the duration. Not even a man of the staunchest courage could face that rabble and not feel a bit anxious.

  “Ah,” his grandmother said in satisfaction, “there is your lady. Anne, my dear, how fare you?”

  Robin looked to his left to see Anne coming down the last pair of steps into the great hall. He wondered absently how much of the proceeding madness she had been privy to. And he realized in an instant just how laughable he appeared, standing there drenched and gaping.

  “Lady Joanna,” Anne said, coming around the table and taking his grandmother’s hands. “How lovely to see you. I see you brought your courtiers.”

  Joanna laughed. “You flatter an old woman, love. I’m hardly holding court, but you know I can’t bear to be away from my little pleasures for long.”

  “I’m sure we’ll enjoy them as well,” Anne said.

  No doubt, Robin thought sourly. Anne wasn’t the one Joanna intended to torment with the louts. He could well imagine what his grandmother had in mind for him, for he had spent a goodly amount of time at her hall and seen the goings-on there. But he’d be damned if she would turn him into one of the perfumed peacocks strutting before him now.

  Though he had the feeling, judging by the look in his grandmother’s eye, that that was precisely what she had in mind.

  He suspected that he had just lost control of his own fate.

  “You’ll need chambers,” Anne said. “You are welcome to take Lord Rhys’s finest, of course—”

  “She is not,” Robin said, turning to look at Anne in astonishment. He turned to look at his grandmother. “The girls’ chamber is in fine shape.”

  Joanna only waved a hand negligently. “As you will, Robin. We can see ourselves settled. Perhaps you have things to see to?”

  Robin felt her pointed gaze sweep him from head to toe. He scowled at her. By the saints, he wasn’t the one who had put himself in this drenched state!

  “I need to train,” Robin said.

  “Didn’t you just finish training?” Joanna asked.

  Robin frowned. She would have him cornered if he weren’t careful. “A man cannot train too much,” he said firmly. She could hardly argue with that.

  “Surely,” his grandmother said just as firmly, “there are many things you must see to inside the hall. Though you would no doubt know much more about the manly workings of a keep than I.”

  Robin snorted before he could help himself. His grandmother had managed Segrave alone for well over a score of years—and managed to keep herself free of the various suitors who considered her a fine widowly prize. Hell, she could likely run the entire realm without perspiring. At over three score years, she was a formidable woman with an iron will.

  But Robin was, after all, her grandson and a goodly amount of that wily blood flowed through his veins as well. He leaned on the table and gave her his most disarming smile. He didn’t use it much, but he knew it was effective.

  “I should at least see to my men,” he said. “I won’t neglect you, Grandmère.”

  “It isn’t me I’m concerned with,” she said, leaning on her side of the table and putting her still very beautiful visage close to his. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You are freshly wed, my boy, are you not?”

  He scowled at her. “’Tis a marriage fraught with complications, my lady.”

  “Then you’d best be at the unraveling of them straightway, don’t you think?”

  “When I think, Grandmère, I always find myself in trouble.”

  His grandmother laughed, put her arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. “Ah, Robin, my love, I have missed you. Go be about your play, then come indulge me in a bit of conversation. I can see we’ve much to discuss.”

  And he could see by the purposeful glint in her eye—her sweet words aside—that his reprieve would be short-lived at best. So he grunted at her, fixed his squire with a pointed look, then started around the end of the table.

  Only to come face-to-face with his bride.

  It wasn’t that he had forgotten she was there. It was, well, it was that he had forgotten that she was his. Yet as he stood there like a half-wit and gaped at her, he wondered how he could have lost sight of such a thing.

  She looked disgustingly well-rested. Serene even. She certainly didn’t look like a maid who had spent her wedding night alone, sobbing into her pillow because of it.

  “You slept well?” he asked, because he could think of nothing else to say.

  “Well enough,” she replied, looking up at him solemnly. “You, my lord, have table marks still in your cheek.”

  He scrambled for an explanation. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he said, feeling very quick on his feet considering the amount of sleep he’d had.

  Anne only smiled a small, gentle smile in return. “I’ll have a meal ready for you after you’ve finished in the lists, if you like.”

  Robin frowned at her. Was she seeking to feed him to death? He wondered, absently, why she wasn’t shouting at him for having left her alone. Unless, of course, she was relieved about that. Though she didn’t look all that relieved. She looked, well, serene.

  It was enough to set his teeth on edge.

  A meal from his lady, then tortures from his grandmother to endure. It wasn’t much of a day to look forward to. Mayhap he would be better off to hide in bed.

  But nay, Anne would fetch him. For all he knew, his grandmother’s minstrels would come fetch him and he wasn’t sure he could bear the humiliation of that.

  The lists. He clung to that thought with his last shreds of dignity. He grunted at his lady as he set her aside and walked away. He heard Jason fall into step behind him. Joanna’s gaggle of artists scattered before him like frail leaves blown by a fierce wind.

  “Ah, Anne my love, how good it is to see you,” came floating along behind him and Robin suppressed a shudder. The saints only knew what havoc his grandmother would combine upon his wife.

  He paused at the door, wondering if he should perhaps separate the two for the morn. He looked over his shoulder and cursed. Too late. His grandmother had already swept his wife up and was propelling her toward the stairs. He had no doubts they would barricade themselves in one of the solars for the saints only knew what kind of conversation. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. With any luck at all, it might be conversation that included him. Favorably.

  Then again, it might not.

  He might have had Anne’s hand, true, but he wasn’t certain he had her heart.

  Was it too late to win that?

  He looked about him at the supposed masters of various arts and found himself scowling in spite of himself. He was to find
himself aided by these? Peacocks, the lot of them.

  He left the hall before he did them any damage. After all, they might have a suggestion or two he could use. It was possible.

  But he doubted it was very likely.

  With one thing and another, it was late in the afternoon before he managed to get himself inside the hall again. Preparations were just being made for supper and Robin looked forward to a hearty meal. Things certainly smelled good. Perhaps one of his grandmother’s lads had been hard at work. Robin followed his nose, which led him in a straight path back to the kitchen, only to find his way blocked by a stout figure of a man holding a cooking implement of some kind as if he intended to do damage with it. Robin stopped and folded his arms across his chest in his most intimidating pose.

  “Move,” he said without preamble.

  The cook bristled. “The lady Joanna commands that you attend her in the lord’s solar.”

  Robin pursed his lips, but decided that it was passing unfair to cut down a man who thought so highly of a wooden spoon, and likely wielded it with the same enthusiasm. Who knew what he would find at his place if he offended the man? He’d heard of souls receiving very unpalatable servings at his grandmother’s table for naught but a look askance. Who knew what sorts of nasty tidbits bloodshed might bring him?

  So Robin, who never backed away from a fight or found himself intimidated by another soul, stepped back and conceded the battle. He could do nothing less for the sake of his poor belly.

  He made his way to his father’s solar, sighing heavily with every few paces. He paused before the door, took a deep breath, and prayed he could control his temper. He suspected that even though he had forborne slaying his grandmother’s cook, he might not have that counted in his favor if he decimated the rest of her entourage.

  He opened the door and peeked inside.

  It was worse than he had feared.

  His sire would have come undone had he been privy to this sight. Every available surface was covered with either cloth, baubles, or his grandmother’s artistes. And, worse yet, all eyes were turned his way.

  Robin toyed with the idea of escape, but he suspected that the delicate souls before him were no doubt very fleet of foot. The humiliation of being chased down by his grandmother’s minstrels and such was just more than Robin could contemplate. So he took another deep breath, let it out slowly, then entered the chamber.

  The door was shut behind him and bolted. Immediately.

  “Ah, Robin,” his grandmother said, smiling what he could only assume she believed to be a disarming smile at him. “We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

  “No doubt,” Robin said as sternly as possible. Best to begin as he intended to finish—with some shred of dignity remaining him.

  “Our first task,” she continued just as pleasantly, “is to see you properly groomed and dressed.” She gestured expansively to a tub set before the hearth. “In there, if you please.”

  Robin grumbled but didn’t argue. There was little harm to be found in a bath now and then, despite what some thought about the perils of soaking in water. And Robin had to admit that there was something almost comforting about having his grandmother wash his hair for him—something he was certain she hadn’t done in years.

  But once his head was free of the soap and he had shaken the water out of his ears, he noticed the murmuring going on directly behind him.

  “I say we cut it.”

  “Nay,” another said thoughtfully, “’tis goodly hair.”

  “Unfashionably long, though.”

  “Perhaps it could be trimmed here and there,” offered another.

  “Nay, cut away a goodly amount,” insisted the first. “Don’t you agree, my lady?”

  “I defer to your expertise, Reynaud,” Joanna said blithely. “Lads, be prepared to hold him down if he fights.”

  Robin struggled to turn around and fix his would-be assaulters with a glare. “I don’t want my hair cut.”

  The three looked at him as if he were a new breed of vermin they must needs eradicate or face a lifetime of misery otherwise.

  “Cut it,” Joanna commanded.

  “I like it long!” Robin exclaimed.

  One of the three came at him with a knife and Robin looked about him frantically for a weapon. He caught sight of his gear—safely tucked behind his grandmother’s slender form. And then he found himself ringed by a collection of men whom he likely could have dispatched with his bare hands alone.

  Then again, maybe not. He looked at them and found in the group a lad or two with a glint in his eye that spoke of ample time spent in places much less civilized than Segrave’s great hall. Robin sank back into the tub in a wary crouch.

  “Very well, then,” he said. “But I’ll not have my head bared as these fools in court do.” He clutched the sides of the tub. “Not too short,” he repeated.

  The knife began its foul work and Robin closed his eyes. There was no sense in watching his poor hair falling about him in ignominious heaps.

  After that torture was over, he was instructed to rise. He didn’t dare touch his head for fear of what he wouldn’t find there any longer. So he dried himself off, then allowed himself to be dressed. The clothing was fine—even he had to admit that, though he did it in the sternest manner possible. There was no sense in allowing his grandmother to think she could do with him as she liked.

  But then some lout or other approached him with footwear. Robin gaped at the toes of the dainty shoes.

  “What is that foul protrusion?” he demanded, pointing a shaking finger at the same.

  “The latest fashion from Paris,” the shoe bearer said, fondling the toe with a rapturous sigh. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  It was without a doubt the silliest thing Robin had ever seen and he could hardly believe these dolts intended that he should wear the like on his feet. His were manly feet that demanded boots that could withstand mud and dung and all manner of manly elements. He sincerely doubted that he could cross the rushes in these without falling straightway upon his arse. And, given his luck of late, he would likely impale his eye upon the toe of his shoe in the process!

  “Absolutely not,” Robin said, folding his arms.

  Several daggers appeared out of voluminous sleeves and his grandmother cleared her throat meaningfully.

  “Damnation,” Robin snarled as he surrendered his feet to a humiliation they had never before had to endure. It did not bode well for the rest of the evening.

  But when two seamstresses materialized from the crowd and came at him with baubles, needles, and thread, Robin knew action had to be taken.

  “You will not,” he said to the two women, giving them his most formidable glare, “attach those to my clothes. Absolutely not. Never. I refuse and resist.”

  “Tie him down,” his grandmother said with a sigh.

  “What?” Robin screeched. He listened to himself and could hardly believe the sound was coming from him. He never screeched. He bellowed. He snarled. He commanded legions with a mere shout alone. Yet look what pointy-toed shoes and shorn hair had reduced him to.

  And then before he could reconcile himself to the fact that his grandmother had indeed been in earnest, he found himself overpowered, overwhelmed, and overcome. The wave of mankind receded and Robin found himself in a chair. Tied to it, actually, and completely unable to move. He glared at his grandmother.

  “If you think—”

  “I think you wish to win your lady,” his grandmother said shortly, “and we are here to help you do it. The sooner your lessons are done, the sooner she will be yours. Is that not what you want?”

  Robin scowled, but said nothing. He gave his grandmother a short nod and closed his eyes as he felt his clothing being attacked. Perhaps she had it aright and what he needed to win Anne was a little civilizing. Perhaps she would see him dressed as a fine lord and take a liking to him.

  Assuming she didn’t laugh herself into a faint first.

  “Feathe
rs now,” Joanna instructed. “And don’t be shy, mistresses. He has many appearances of less-than-lordly stature to make up for.”

  Robin snarled out a curse, but that was the best he could do.

  The saints only knew what Anne would think when she saw him.

  32

  Anne sat at a table in the healer’s house and contemplated two things. One was that she actually had the freedom to sit in peace without wondering when a stray knife might find itself between her ribs. The other was the sight of the herbs lying in bunches before her. She recognized most of them, but that wasn’t because she’d studied them diligently. She’d had them used on her so often during her convalescence that she could recognize most by smell alone.

  That was not necessarily a pleasant skill to have.

  “Rose,” Master Erneis said, gesturing with a slender finger.

  “Aye,” Anne said absently. “I know.”

  “Good for several things, though I daresay the lady Gwennelyn has them for beauty alone. These come from well-established plants.”

  “They were laid along with the stone for the keep,” Anne said.

  “Long before my time,” he offered. “I daresay Mistress Berengaria saw them planted though.”

  Anne smiled at his tone of reverence. She couldn’t help but agree with him. Berengaria had been Artane’s first healer, and the one who had seen Anne through her troubles. There had been a great many times when Anne had wondered if Berengaria had been adding something extra to her brews, though Anne couldn’t have said what. Her hands had been steady, her knowledge of herblore ample, and her gentleness a soothing balm. Anne had grieved mightily when Berengaria had found Erneis and brought him to Artane to train him in her skills so she might make her way in the world, but it hadn’t been for Anne to say who should go or stay.