A Love For All Seasons

by Denise Domning

  Rob gave the hapless soldier no sign he'd heard. Instead, all energy and thought were turned inward. Before he faced the council he must be the master of himself; there was no room for muzzy thinking or aching pride.

  It wasn't until they passed the chandlers' enclave that Rob lifted himself from his inward reaches and glanced around him. As he did, the preternatural quiet in the empty lanes set his nerves to jangling. Even the day's frigid breeze cried in lonely protest, prying around corners and into alleys as if seeking a single, beating human heart.

  He stared at the cookshop ahead of him. A hole gaped, wattle and daub having been battered away to create a new entrance. What lay within had been smashed without regard for its value in the sheer joy of destruction. Next door, in an alemaker's house, a splintered wheel from a broken cart had been used to pry open the workroom shutters, where similar damage had been done to its contents.

  On the next street, ravens' hoarse caws echoed eerily against house walls as the carrion eaters rose from a dog's carcass. Rob stepped over it. The beast had been only half butchered, the remainder left to rot.

  He stopped in horror at the next corner. Between two lanes, where once had stood houses and workshops, all that remained were charred timbers and ashy walls. Wisps of smoke yet twisted and curled upward into the day's cold still air. It brought with it the acrid smell of scorched thatching and the even more horrible stench of burnt flesh, all that remained of the folk who'd been trapped in the blaze.

  "God have mercy," he breathed, sending his prayer heavenward for those poor souls.

  Otto stopped beside him. "The fire started in a warehouse. The crowd had pulled open its doors, seeking grain and, when they found none, they set the place ablaze in their outrage. By the grace of God did only twenty-three perish."

  It was with reason that the guardsman blessed himself. Cities were naught but a jumble of wooden-walled and reed-roofed structures set one against another. A fire beginning in one corner of a town could and often did decimate the whole place.

  The captain of the guard sighed, his breath clouding before him. "Do you see why I fear for your safety? With your name on their lips, those who were hurt by the rioters have found a scapegoat on whom to rest their troubles."

  Rob's hard won control strained as a new anger joined it. He had forgotten to what depths Katel's cruelty could descend. The spice merchant cared not a whit that innocents were hurt while he wreaked his revenge on Rob. It would be as much for the sakes of those who died as Rob's own that he made certain Katel was held accountable for this.

  After they passed the wreckage, they turned away from the city's center and entered a section of town that had not existed when Rob left Stanrudde. Here, Stanrudde's walls had been extended to capture more land, the new area parceled out to the richer of its denizens. Tall houses stood secure behind strong walls with sturdy gates, the riches within them protected by servants like his own, trained at arms. Because of this, there was far less sign of rioting in this district.

  It was at one of these gateways that Otto halted. Bits of fleece clung to the mortar and stones in the outer wall and along the eaves of the house, proclaiming this the home of a wool merchant. The soldier pulled the string on the bell hanging above the arched, wooden gate. That merry cup of brass swung, clanging happily. So joyous a sound felt wrong against the depths of tragedy Rob had just witnessed.

  "Who comes?" a man called, his voice deep and threatening.

  "Otto, son of Otfried," the captain replied.

  "What is your sign?" Undertones of suspicion remained.

  "I come to the drawer of the short straw," Otto said, as if so strange a question with as odd an answer were an everyday occurrence in Stanrudde.

  Behind the thick doors came the sounds of the bar being wrestled from its braces, then wood thudded hollowly to the ground and the gate creaked open. The one who guarded the portal stepped out into the lane. Before he moved aside to allow Rob's entrance, he glanced both up and down the empty street, as if to assure himself no one witnessed the Grossier of Lynn's arrival.

  Otto waved Rob within the wool merchant's walls. "Go, Master Robert. I must fetch the others else they'll not know where to come."

  Rob shot him a confused glance. Not know where to come? What sort of council did Stanrudde have? As the captain of the town's soldiery slipped away, the gate slammed shut behind Rob, and the bar dropped back into its braces.

  The courtyard within the walls was a small square caught between a three-story house, a stable, and two warehouses. Except for the stray bits of wool, it was a well-kept place. Even the cobbles on the courtyard's floor had been swept, as there was no trace of yesterday's mud left upon its face.

  The house's rear door opened, and a man no older than Rob appeared. Bearded, dark of hair and eye, on his forehead he wore an odd starlike scar, as if his flesh had once been badly torn. His tunic was a deep scarlet, his belt a length of leather studded with tiny golden knobs. Atop his fleece-lined mantle, he wore a braided golden chain. Leaning upon a single crutch, he stepped out into the courtyard.

  "So I am the one, am I?" the cripple called as he limped toward Rob. "We drew straws, showing what we'd chosen only to Otto, not even looking to see for ourselves. This was so no one save he would know where this meeting was to take place. The council wanted no chance slip of the tongue revealing where we took you. Should those who rioted discover your whereabouts, I fear none of us can vouch for your safety or our own. Once we are all within these walls, Otto will be back with this week's troop to guard my gate."

  He halted before Rob and thrust out a hand. "Well come to my home, Master Robert. I am Jehan, son of Peter the Wool Merchant. You may not remember me, but I recall you from the abbey's school. I fear you were too old and too advanced in your studies to notice a wee lad just beginning his own."

  Rob did not extend his arm. He came to defeat his foe, not to befriend those who so foully and unjustly sullied his name and repute. Master Jehan did not seem to notice the rejection. Instead, confusion filled his gaze as his hand dropped back to his side. "Odd," he said, "but you look like someone I know. Why I didn’t see this before I cannot fathom.”

  Rob paid no heed to the man’s strange reaction, only spoke the piece he’d concocted for himself while on the walk to this place. "When I have satisfied your council's questions"—he gave the word a sarcastic twist—"with my answers, know that I will be leaving Stanrudde with no plans of returning."

  "Ah," Master Jehan murmured, startled back into the role of warden. He briefly bowed his head, acknowledging as equal to equal the insult being done to Rob. "For that I can only beg your pardon. In all honesty the majority of the council finds it difficult to believe you are at the root of this unrest; however, our town is naught but a bit of dry tinder. Were we to ignore what all of Stanrudde believes it knows, it would seem we protected you because you are a successful merchant like ourselves. This would be just the spark needed to set our town to burning once more, mayhap with more devastating results this time."

  It was as much explanation as any man needed. Were Rob put into the same position, he doubted he'd have done differently. He nodded in understanding. "Well said, but I cannot pretend I am pleased over it."

  The wool merchant offered him a small smile. "Nor would I be, were I you. Since there is naught either of us can do to change the way matters lie in this present moment, why not come into the house and take your ease while the guard gathers the others?"

  "My thanks," Rob said, returning the man's smile with true gratitude for his offer. "I have yet to dine this day. Might I prevail upon you for a bite to eat?"

  "You can," Master Jehan said, turning toward the house. "Come, my wife has made the most wonderful cheese pie."

  Rob strode alongside the hobbling man, surprised that the wool merchant so easily kept pace with him. As Master Jehan pushed open the house's door, Rob glanced into the first-floor workroom. Beyond tools used in processing fleece and sheepskin, it was much the s
ame as his, complete with counting board and richly decorated coffers for contracts, account books, and coin. Up a set of steep stairs they went, Master Jehan managing with an ease that spoke of a long familiarity with his infirmity. The wool merchant lifted himself into the second-story hall. Rob followed him, glancing about with an eye to comparing this dwelling to his own.

  Light dimly penetrated the thin oiled skins covering the three slitted windows on the street-side wall. This bit of brightness showed him the painted linen panels that decorated the walls. There were also wooden cupboards, their shelves painted red and yellow, upon which was displayed a goodly number of horn and silver cups. A silver tureen sat in a place of honor amid them. Rob's estimation of his host leapt upward. Jehan the Wool Merchant did well for himself.

  Four high-backed chairs were clutched near the hearth in the hall's corner. Rob glanced from them to the hooded fireplace. The hearth's angle suggested that its twin sat on the opposite side of the inner wall and used the same chimney. A kitchen within the house? If so, this was an unusual feature, as most kitchens were separate from the houses they fed.

  At the room's back, two women were in the process of lifting the table boards onto their braces. One was young, the other moving into her middle years. Both wore the plain, sturdy attire given to those who served. An old woman watched them, clean table linen folded in her arms. The grandam's green gown was fine wool, trimmed with glittering braid. An embroidered belt encircled her age-softened waist, held in place with a jeweled clasp. A silken wimple covered her grayed hair, hair that had once been as dark as her son's, for the similarity of their faces claimed such a relationship.

  "Mama, come greet Master Robert, Grossier of Lynn," the wool merchant called, confirming Rob's supposition.

  The old woman turned toward him, a smile starting to form on her mouth then she shrieked. The linen in her arms tumbled to the ground. Rob watched in astonishment as she turned her back on her guest, muttering Aves and furiously blessing herself.

  "Mama!" Master Jehan cried, moving to his mother's side. "Clarice, come quickly!"

  At his call the door in the inner wall flew open, releasing the smells and sounds of cooking food into the hall. A young woman with pretty eyes and golden brown hair rushed into this room. She was a match for her husband, with her scarlet gown, gold-trimmed belt, and fleece-lined mantle. Putting her arms around the old woman, she cried, "Mother Alwyna, what is it?"

  "A ghost," the old woman said, her words broken by frightened gasps, "I have just seen a ghost."

  With that, Rob moved to stand at the windows, his back to the room. It was a polite effort to grant the family a moment of privacy in which to sort out the old woman's strange behavior. Behind him, Master Jehan said, "Mama, gather your wits. The councilmen will begin arriving at any moment." There was enough concern in his voice to suggest that flights of fancy were not his dam's way.

  The sense of being watched made Rob glance over his shoulder. The wool merchant's mother was staring at him. When her gaze met his she again started, the pink draining from her cheeks.

  Fed by the danger Katel's plot had already put in his path, a chill shot up Rob's spine. It was said there were folk who could see the shade of coming death in a man's eyes. Was her reaction an omen, foretelling Katel's success?

  This time the old woman lifted her chin and conquered whatever it was about him that frightened her. Without a word, she started toward him. He turned to face her. She stopped before him, still intently studying his features.

  "What is it you see in my face, good wife?" he asked, keeping his voice soft and private as he struggled to tame his worry over her answer.

  "I see the image of a man I once knew," she replied with an equal quiet. A frown of confusion formed on her brow. "This cannot be. I know all his sons, and you are not one of them. Surely, I am mistaken, " her voice trailed off into a question, saying she was not at all certain of this.

  In the courtyard below the bell again chimed merrily. The wool merchant's mother started at the sound and whirled away from him.

  "They come!" she cried, hurrying across the room to snatch up the linen she'd dropped. "Hie, hie, they come! Marta, fetch a fresh cloth for the table. Els, prepare a cup of spiced wine for Master Robert. Clarice—" the rest of her words cut off in the closing of the kitchen's door as all of the distaff side of the household disappeared.

  So sudden was their departure the air whirled and danced in their wakes. Master Jehan stared after them in the helpless confusion that affected all men when dealing with Eve's daughters and their emotions. At last, he turned to his prisoner-cum-guest.

  "Women! I apologize, Master Robert. I know naught what came over my dam. She is usually most sensible." He shrugged away his confusion and patted the back of one of the chairs. "Come, take your ease. I'll see to it you get your bite to eat."

  Stanrudde

  The hour of Sext

  Saint Agnes's Day, 1197

  While Rob dined on a full tray of cheese pie and cold meat slices, washing it all down with a cup of barley water instead of the spiced wine, the council arrived, one by one. As each man came, he stated his position on the matter at hand by either greeting Rob with an apology or passing him by to clutch in the corner nearest the windows. Since a position on the council required certain fiscal responsibilities for their districts, only the richest of Stanrudde's merchants were represented. Those who supported Rob's innocence included Master Edward, the grossier whose warehouse had burned, and a man Rob knew by his good reputation, a draper, two fullers, and Master Jehan and his father-by-marriage and fellow wool merchant, Master Gerard. At the window stood another draper, a goldsmith, two iron mongerers, and a miller. The last to arrive was the spice merchant.

  Startled, Rob watched Katel enter. Why was he surprised to find the spice merchant was a council member? In order to carry off so outrageous a plot, Katel would have needed to be beyond suspicion and reproach as only a city father would be.

  In that instant, Rob deeply regretted leaving his personal book in Lynn. Recorded on its leaves was his step-by-step documentation of the original thefts and the investigation that led him from those far-flung fields to Katel's doorstep. As his original purpose had been to quietly resolve the issue without exposing Katel's deeds, he'd left it behind. Now he saw that without this proof in hand, his accusation would not be believed.

  Well, it was an easy enough thing to retrieve. Lynn was but a half-day's ride if a man owned a hardened seat and a strong horse. Hamalin had both. He could be there and back in but a day and a night's time. With that comforting thought in mind, he studied Katel.

  The change was startling. Gone was the comeliness, taken by the years and concealed beneath his excess weight. The maroon color of Katel's tunic only enhanced the sickly undertone that lurked beneath his now florid coloring. No doubt it was the rottenness that had ever lived in him finally eating its way to the surface.

  Katel glanced at Rob as he greeted Master Jehan. Pleasure and disappointment tangled in his gaze. It said that, although the spice merchant had hoped Rob would have already hung, Katel retained complete confidence that Rob would not escape this fate.

  With all assembled, Master Jehan invited the council to seat themselves. Resembling Christ's disciples in their number if not their wisdom, the twelve filed behind the table to find a place on the waiting benches. As they did so, the kitchen's door opened and the wool merchant's mother slipped quietly into the room to sit in one of the chairs near the hearth. Offering Rob a glance that might have been meant to reassure, she disappeared into the shadowy depths of the seat's high back.

  Once again Rob shielded himself in his cloak of calm and stepped forward to scan the assembled merchants. When he had their full attention, he said, "Masters, you have called me here to inquire of me and my doings. Ask and I will answer you in all honesty. On this you have my word."

  The miller leaned forward to look down the table at the others. "If we are to keep up the form, must he swea
r upon the relics?"

  Rob's pride screamed, but there was no need to defend himself this time. Master Edward, the grossier, slammed a clenched fist down upon the tabletop. Anger at the insult done to one of his fellows was written clearly on his face.

  "This is Robert of Lynn," he shouted, "not some regrater selling onions today and ribbons tomorrow. You do not ask if his word is good. All the world knows it is."

  Katel straightened on his bench. "I would confirm what Master Edward says. When Master Robert served with me in Master Walter's household, he was never anything but truthful and honest. I cannot think that time has done aught to change that about him. We can accept his word without question."

  Anger surged through Rob. Katel intended to support him, thereby making his own accusation impossible, at least one uncorroborated by evidence. Rob damned himself all over again. How could he have forgotten Katel never fought in the open as honest men should, but forever cloaked himself in appearances?

  "Thank you, Master Katel," Master Edward said, then looked at Rob. "Know you Master Robert, I have protested your innocence to them from the first. If I can do so despite that the mob destroyed my properties, then these men should accept my word as true! Once again, I beg pardon for the insults they lay upon you."

  "You'll not beg his pardon on my behalf," one of the smiths bellowed, his voice as big as the arms straining beneath his sleeves. "I see no reason to doubt that it was he who did this. What other reason would the starving have to cry against him, save that it was his grain they could not afford to buy? He is not a local man."

  "All the more reason to ask yourself if it could have been him at all, Master Harold," Master Jehan protested. "We can all agree that Master Robert is no fool. Only a fool would come into a strange town and openly release illegal grain in his own name."