"Come into the light," the former tradesman commanded, his strong voice belying his delicate state, "that I might better see you."
If Colin could speak so, he was not as frail as he appeared. Rob did as he bid, holding out his arms to give the man a better view. Years of sadness and care disappeared from the monk's thin face as he studied his dearest friend's former student. After a moment, he cocked his head to one side.
"You are the last man I expected to emulate the Lionheart," he said, referring to both the manner in which Rob wore his hair and beard and to Walter of Stanrudde's protégé’s dislike of the French-speaking aristocrats who ruled this land.
Rob shrugged, lowering his arms. "These days, many men choose to wear their hair almost to their shoulders and keep their beards trimmed close to their jaws. I do but keep fashion with a horde of others."
Colin raised a chiding brow. "What? No admission that you know how well it becomes you? Aye, and with that gown of yours," he pointed to the floor-length blue tunic embossed with embroidered lozenges, each oval containing a stalk of wheat done in golden thread, "were I a lass, faith, but I'd swoon."
As Rob laughed, the monk relaxed into the low-backed chair. The look on Colin's face intensified as if he sought the man concealed beneath the finery. It surprised Rob to find after years of being heralded as the best and brightest of his trade, he now nervously awaited this single man's judgment. At last, approving creases cut into Colin's lean cheeks.
"Beanpole," the monk teased gently. "I think me you're even taller now than when you departed Stanrudde. You should have stopped growing a full head sooner."
Tension drained from Rob at this ancient and familiar complaint. "I know taller men," he retorted, giving what had always been his standard response. "Have you forgotten there was once a time when you and Master Walter found my height handy? While other lads could duck and hide in a crowd to escape their master's eye, I was instantly visible."
"So you were," Colin replied, his eyes gleaming at their old game. Jerking his head to the side in a general rightward direction, he said, "See that?"
"What?" Rob asked in confusion, glancing between the bed, the brazier, and the stack of pallets at the far wall that had been provided for his servants.
"The bed, you great twit," Colin said in fond irritation.
Rob looked. It was a nice enough piece, with a mattress long enough for him to sleep comfortably upon it. At each corner of the mattress poles, onto which a spiraling line had been carved and painted a pretty green, thrust upward to support a wooden roof over the bed. A second set of horizontal poles supported curtains of thick, warm wool dyed a rich red color. He shrugged. "Aye, what of it?"
Colin grinned. "It's our finest piece, usually reserved for the bishop's visit. You have no idea the agitation your stay has caused our esteemed abbot. I'll take that as a gauge of your success in the business of selling koren, guessing you've done right well for yourself."
Pleasure and humility warred within Rob. "What I've done was built upon the generosity of others, yours, Master Walter's, and Master Wymund's. Moreover, I had help at the onset. Not only was there Master Walter's bequest, but Master Wymund made Arthur and me his heirs when his second wife also left him childless."
"He made Arthur his heir as well?" The words leapt from Colin's mouth before he could restrain them. Rob smiled as he watched a man given to blunt speech seek the facade of polite disinterest that better society demanded of its members.
"Of course, what I mean to say is," the monk tried again, his brow drawing down in frustration, “that Wymund stated such an intention before accepting you and Arthur as his apprentices. However, I must admit I never expected, bah!"
Colin's frustration vanished in the face of a curiosity that could not be denied. "Truly? His heir? Then, does Arthur remain with you in your trade? I never judged him the owner of the mental agility or social grace necessary for the level of trade you have achieved," he said, displaying his own lack of grace and far too forthright nature.
Rob laughed aloud, free of his cares and worries for this moment. "How could I ever have forgotten your penchant for blunt speech?"
"I have no idea," the former apothecary retorted with a healthy dose of scorn aimed at himself. He grinned. "Walter never ceased to point out how my refusal to play pretty games with words kept me trapped as his employee, working at street-level trade. It's a good thing that was all I ever wanted. Now, answer my question."
"Arthur chose not to remain with me," Rob said with a swift lift of his brows. "Instead, he sold me his portion and married himself a cordwainer's fair widow. While she crafts shoes, he waits on her. My apprentice is their first born. I am godfather to two others."
"That lad is Arthur's get," Colin cried, now even more astonished. "Frankly, I always wondered if he had energy enough to set his seed into a woman's womb. Does she hold him down and force him?"
Again, Rob laughed. "Ach, but I have missed you, Master Colin." The title slipped from his tongue without thought, born as it was of long habit.
"Brother Colin," the churchman corrected without rancor.
Rob shook his head. "I fear I've known you too long as one to remember you are now the other."
Colin only waved him toward the bed. "Come and sit near me that I need not crane my neck so to see you."
Rob did as he was bid, shoving aside the bed curtains to settle himself on the mattress's edge. As he shifted to stretch his long legs out before him, Colin rose to heave his chair around to face the bed. When the monk was again seated, the two of them were eye-to-eye and less than arm's length apart.
In that instant the circumstances of their parting and their long separation rose between them, creating a chasm almost too vast to be spanned. Tongue-tied, Rob could but stare at the man who, with Master Walter, he had adored. As if similarly affected, Colin said nothing.
The quiet in the room stretched. The rushes on the floor rustled and the bed's draperies sighed as the wind eddied in them. Sleet spattered against window's ledge and shutters. The next gust caught one of those wooden panels, lifting it and sending it clattering back against the hospitium's wall.
Colin looked in the direction of the noise, his gaze lingering on the spot where Rob had stood. His expression grew distant as he lost himself in the past. "You care for her still." It was a breath of a comment.
Rob opened his mouth to reject any conversation over Johanna then caught himself. To avoid his past was to destroy all hope of ever laying it to rest so he could move beyond it. With a sigh, he leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees.
"How could I not? We were as close as brother and sister, she and I," he said, politely skirting the truth as much to protect his own emotions as Johanna.
His gaze still fixed on the window, Colin loosed an amused and scornful snort. "Best not say that, lad. Incest's an even greater sin than fornication."
Rob rocked back on the mattress as the monk's brutal honesty tore past his carefully tended veneer, exposing the raw emotion seething beneath it. "You've no right to mock me and what I feel for her," he hissed. "Especially not after you said you saw what happened between us yet did naught to stop us. Damn you, but you aided Master Walter in seeing I carried her hatred with me for all my life's time."
When Colin turned his head to look at Rob, there was only sadness in his expression. "You harangue when I but stated the truth you yet choose to avoid. As for blame, know you that my guilt over what happened between you two lays heavily upon my shoulders."
As pain and anger retreated to its own private corner of his soul, shame washed over Rob. Somewhere, deep in him, he'd hoped Colin would return anger for anger. Then, could he have ranted over the unfairness of the way he'd been parted from Johanna and, in doing so, eased a little of what ached in him.
He bowed his head. "I beg your pardon, Master. My words do no justice to the love and kindness you and Master Walter showed me, nor to the gratitude that I yet bear you both. Know you that as a
man full grown, I understand the whys of what you did." Lifting his head, Rob hazarded a small smile. "I fear you found a wound in me that not even one of your potions could heal."
Death crept back to settle comfortably into the lines around Colin's mouth and the creases on his brow. "So I expected," he replied. "Unlike Walter, I harbored no illusions you would either rise above the hurt we did you or forget what you felt for her. I think me the constancy of your heart is both gift and curse for you, lad."
Once again Colin's words bolted through Rob. If this was true, he was tied to Johanna for all time, just as he'd promised her sixteen years ago. As Rob swallowed, then swallowed again, trying to force his heart back down into his chest, the monk sagged deeper into the chair as if his sadness weighed more than he could bear. If they didn't escape this subject, they'd both soon be sobbing.
"Master Robert, can you hear me?" Will's shout rose from beneath the window to shatter the gloom in the tiny chamber.
On any other day, Rob wouldn't have deigned respond to such a call. An apprentice did not shout to his master as if he were dog, an apprentice came into his master's presence and humbly begged his question be addressed. However, Rob was so grateful for Will's distraction that he rose and went to the window without hesitation. A half-storey below, the boy was hopping from foot to foot on the slick grass, trying to keep warm while he awaited his reply.
"I hear you," Rob called. "What is it, lad?"
Will looked up in relief. "Brother Porter eats sooner than the others, and since we are both Williams he says it's only right that I should share his bean soup. May I?" On Will’s face bloomed the hopeful look of a growing and ever hungry lad.
"As you will, but mind your manners," Rob said, his tone carefully modulated to remind the lad that even in sharing a cup of soup he represented the house of Robert the Grossier.
Will grinned. "I'll be very careful. My thanks, Master Robert." In the next instant he was gone.
"You let him speak so to you?" Colin asked, his now hollow voice touched with quiet disapproval.
Rob only shook his head as he returned to seat himself on the bed. Leaning over, he gave the monk's knee a pat. "Enough of me and mine. Tell me of your life here. Although I suspected you meant to take your vows, I am astonished that a monk's life is so full. Days, I have waited on your visit," he said, giving more emphasis to the complaint than he felt. "Did you forget I was here, or do you brothers truly work so hard?"
Colin lifted his shoulders in helplessness. "Know you, I meant to come each and every one of the past days. Any more, time seems to slip through my fingers, with the hours ending too soon for the number of chores I wish to complete. But then, you know how I can be when I'm busy at my pots and stills." He tried to smile.
"Do they give you no aide to ease your burden?" Rob retorted, his voice deepening slightly. It'd not surprise him to find Colin, an Englishman, misused by the Norman abbot of this place.
Sharp amusement snapped in Colin's dark eyes. "Watch yourself, lad. It could be your own sire you denigrate with your dislike." Then, knowing full well the hive he'd just stirred, the monk leapt swiftly into explanation, denying Rob the chance to protest the bastardy he refused to accept.
"Nay, it's starvation's contingent of diseases that is my taskmaster now. Each day I strive to replenish our meager defenses against them, all the while knowing they cannot be vanquished until bellies are once again full." His gaze fell to his age-twisted fingers in his lap as if he couldn't believe them incapable of miracles. "Most of those who die are but children," he whispered.
"Master," Rob cried softly, recognizing now the source of Colin's sadness. Slipping from the bed, he knelt before the monk, taking his hands to offer comfort. "Do not torture yourself so. Death comes for us all, sooner for some than others. If many of those outside yon gates are meant to die, then there's naught we can do to forestall it"
"You’re wrong. There is much that can be done," Colin spat out, lifting his head to reveal the frustration and anger twisting his face. "Not one, Rob, not one of the merchants in this town has dug deep into his own purse to aid the hungry. Oh, I'm not saying they haven't given to the abbey, but where Abbot Eustace sees open-handed generosity, I know better. I know each of their houses and how much they would have in store."
The fire in him died, leaving him naught but an old, tired man sitting in a chair far richer than any he'd ever owned. "I tell you, lad, the world's changed, and I like it naught at all. Stanrudde has grown into a crowded, stinking place filled with uncaring folk and iniquities I never dreamed existed two score years ago. These days, the honest man must work twice as hard to buy the same loaf of bread I bought for you. This winter, he'll buy no bread at all, no matter how hard he works."
Although Colin caught himself before his plea tumbled past his lips, there was no way to keep the question from his eyes. No longer did the former tradesman look upon the lad who'd been his employer's apprentice. Instead, he watched Robert the Grossier, buyer and seller of grains, who did his business in Lynn, the city built on East Anglia's wealth in wheat.
Rob sat back on his heels and rubbed at the creases in his forehead. Of late, they'd been trying to make themselves permanent marks on his face. "Would that I had grain to offer you." The words came out too flat, too hard, and he hurried to explain.
"You, better than any other churchman, knew what my answer must be. This year's harvest was sold even as last year's shipped. What I could delay sending on my contracts, I did, although it meant taking a grave loss this year. All I have, save for what I need to keep my own house throughout the winter, I've either sold or given to the priory at Lynn. I've no wish to profit off another man's misery, and so vows every God-fearing grossier I know."
Not all men feared God as much as they coveted gold. All across this land, speculators held back their stores. As they dribbled it onto the market, the price of grain rose to a king's ransom.
Of these men there were two kinds: the first had nerves of iron and strong connections at the royal court; the other was an utter fool. If discovery for the first meant ruin through the confiscation of all their worldly goods, for the second sort it was ruin, followed by a quick trip to the gallows. Since Rob knew Katel was not of the first sort, this left the spice merchant in the second category.
Again, he scrubbed at his face, this time trying to tame his worry over Johanna. True, Katel had proved himself a clever thief. It had taken months to track the one who'd bought a small portion of Rob's grain out from beneath his contracts. But then, Katel had always been adept at claiming what belonged to others. When it came to selling anything, even his own spices, the man was not so adept. Rob was certain that if and when Katel tried to put his ill-gotten grain on the market, he’d be discovered. Unless Rob could find a way to privately reclaim the seed before that time came, Johanna would either hang with her husband or be left shamed and impoverished by his demise.
Colin offered him a weak smile. "My pardon, since it was I and Walter who raised you, I should have known that of you," he started. The last of his words were drowned out as folk began to shout and scream outside the abbey's gate. A horse loosed a terrified cry.
"What now?" Colin said irritably, coming to his feet with a grunt. The monk crossed to the window.
Rob joined him, towering over his much shorter mentor as he peered in disinterested curiosity at the wall and gate. Judging by the ringing echoes, another of Stanrudde's wealthy personages had appeared. The folk without were haranguing the poor soul for the sin of eating when they did not.
Suddenly, the small wooden door in the gatehouse room that was the brother porter's domain flew open. Will dashed out and raced toward the stable, a wooden spoon yet in his hand. The brother porter flew out on the lad's heels, cowl falling back to reveal a pate as bald as a babe's. Panic brought the monk's habit high over his hairy knees. He started toward the guest house then veered in indecision toward the abbot's lodging. After a few steps, he again changed course, this time aim
ing for the hospitium.
"Brother William," Colin called to him, "what is it?"
The monk stopped, yet dancing in place with anxiety as he glanced around for the source of the voice. His gaze found Colin then leapt to their esteemed visitor. "Master Robert ... Young Will ... in the street ... they're trying to get her off her horse ..." he stuttered.
Beyond the wall, a woman screamed in terror. The sound of her voice raised the hair on the back of Rob's neck. Years or not, he knew his Johanna. Without a second's thought, he vaulted through the window. He was running for the gate almost before his feet hit the damp and springy earth.
Blacklea Manor
Late May, 1173
Robert of Blacklea's parched throat tried on its own to swallow while hunger gnawed at his belly. Although his home was no more than two hundred paces from him, he was too tired to crawl any farther. It had taken all of the night just to reach the garden's center.
Around him, beans rustled in the morn's fresh breeze while the earth beneath him was yet clammy with dew. The coolness of the ground seeped past his shirt and tunic to temper his overheated skin. As he drew another shallow breath, he could nigh on taste the rich stench of manure. Only two weeks ago, he and Papa had spread the wealth of their byre and latrine on the newly tilled portion of their croft, which lay nearby.
But, two weeks ago life had been normal. Now, Mama was dead and Papa had lost his mind. Ten was too young to be left with no one to love him.
Slowly, because his legs and arms were tender where Papa had hit them, he pulled his knees into his chest. When he was the smallest ball possible, he buried his head against his legs. If things were ever to be normal again, he had to succeed at bringing Mama back to them. His brow creased as Mama's image formed before his inner eye.
A Love For All Seasons Page 3