A Love For All Seasons

by Denise Domning

  Johanna stared at him in dread. Two hours? Did he mean to set the folk to rioting once more? Ach, but it would take longer than two hours for Mistress Alwyna to receive her message, reach the warehouse, and cart away the wheat.

  If it was even there, and if she was ever warned to go.

  Johanna refused to give way to these negative thoughts. It was hope that set her to seeking some way to stall her husband long enough for salvation to occur. One night's time was all she needed.

  First things first. Katel would remember how her hatred of Rob had yesterday driven her to race into a maddened crowd. If she didn't now react angrily to having her name tied to his, Katel might suspect all was not as it had been.

  Screwing her face into a mask of outrage, she spat out, "How dare you so foully tie my name with that betraying bastard." Inwardly, she begged Rob's forgiveness. "Tut," her husband replied, his smile glorious for having so tweaked her. "Why worry so over something we both know isn't true? I think me you should be glad I chose him as your lover. Better to stand at the gallows next to someone familiar than beside a stranger."

  He reached out to open her cloak. Mock dismay creased his brow. "Why, Johanna, wherever have you been, all dressed up like some poor and unmarried maid? One might think you were trying to disguise yourself so you could go a-trysting with your lover," he whispered to her. "What other reason would a woman who usually dresses in finery have for such attire save sin, eh? You were frustrated this night. Your lover is locked out of your reach."

  There was an odd vindictive pleasure in knowing how wrong he was, but since he was fishing for another reaction, she gave it to him. "The sooner they hang that bastard, the better for this town and me," she snapped, adding yet more mental apologies, then tried a jab of her own. "How can you do this to Peter?" This she made into a soft plea, a mother's prayer for her child.

  Katel's eyes hardened. "What care I for him or his inheritance? I should give him the same as I got from your sire," he whispered, his ancient rage over the terms of her father's will getting the better of him. "Let him try to trade on the glory of Walter of Stanrudde's name with no coins to aid him, just as was done to me," he finished, his voice rising.

  His words rang in the quiet room, echoing back to him. Katel started, sudden guilt appearing in the depths of his eyes as he frowned in confusion. Then he shook his head. "Nay, I have once succumbed to your manipulations. I'll do so no more. The fate I intend for you can only improve life for Peter. Once I am avenged, all will be as it should have been those many years ago. When I finally own the wealth your sire denied me, I will be able to rebuild my trade, creating wealth aplenty for Peter to inherit."

  He turned his gaze on her once more, his eyes dark with recrimination at the doubt she'd caused in him. "Mayhap I have been too hasty in plotting your death, forgetting that my son might be injured by your passing. It was a mistake to remove you from that convent of yours. I think I shall return you."

  A satisfied smile touched his mouth. He stepped away from the hearth and called out to the hiding men. "My wife and I are leaving. One of you fetch us mounts."

  Johanna stared at his back in bewilderment, not quite certain what had happened. Had speaking of their son convinced him not to kill her? Or, did he simply mean to confine her so she could not interfere while he played out the last of his plot? A quirk of triumph followed this. Praise God! My wife and I he'd said. He was not sending her, he was riding with her!

  She calculated the time it would take: three hours there at a gentle pace since Katel could do no better than that, then another three hours back. If the prioress was generous, she'd offer him a pallet in the stable so he might sleep out the remainder of the night. But even if he refused and rode directly back to Stanrudde, Katel wouldn't see the city's gates again until well after first light. She had done it!

  No one appeared out of the shadows in answer to Katel's command. "What is this?" His voice rose in irritation. "Have you all gone suddenly deaf? Or are you too dense to decide among you who's to go?"

  There was a shuffling in the darkness. As one, the group of them reappeared. They stood shoulder to shoulder just within reach of the fire's light. It was Dickon who spoke on their behalf. "Master, you have not been yourself this night. We've agreed among us that we'll not let you do your wife any harm, no matter how you command us." His was a hesitant proclamation.

  Johanna shot them a startled look at this offer of protection then willed them to withdraw it. She and Katel must ride out of Stanrudde. A flash of rage shot across Katel's fleshy features at so unexpected a challenge. This was followed by a mummer's mask of consternation.

  "My pardon to you all," he replied, then sighed. "I know I have behaved oddly this even. It's these threats the populace make against me and my family, but fie on you for thinking I would hurt my wife. When have I ever struck her?"

  He paused, bending a wounded gaze on each man. They all shifted as they acknowledged their master had never once abused their mistress, at least not with his fists. Only then did Katel continue. "Nay, the only reason I call for mounts is that I would return her to her convent. There will she be safe, far from the reach of this town's madmen."

  Johanna watched the menservants relax at this. In their minds the convent was a sensible place to put her, whether they thought they were protecting her from the rioters or from her husband.

  Katel waited a moment then delivered to them their punishment for daring to confront him. "Since you men are so concerned for my wife's safety, you'd best come with us. I know how upset you'd be were some rogue knight or daring thief to attack us on the road."

  There were tired sighs and quiet groans at the thought of a night spent in the saddle. "Master," one of them said in an attempt at rescuing himself, "you spoke earlier as if Stanrudde's troubles were ended. There may be no need to cloister your wife."

  "Would that this was true," Katel replied with a wistful sigh. The barest hint of cruelty gleamed in his eyes. "However as long as the council as a whole refuses to hang that man, I fear there will be no controlling the crowd."

  Johanna heard the promise in his words. Once he was returned from her convent, he meant to see the missives replaced then rouse the mob. If Mistress Alwyna had not received word, Rob would die on the morrow.

  This set her heart to aching all over again. She wanted more than just a single kiss between them before they were forever parted in this life. Would that she and Rob could escape to some far-off place to live as man and wife.

  Johanna nigh on jerked, so hard did the realization strike her. If Elyas succeeded, if Wymar went, if Mistress Alwyna found the grain, it would be Katel who hanged. She'd be a widow!

  The worry in her ebbed beneath the rising tide of joy. Once Katel was dead Rob would come to fetch her home. She knew to the depths of her soul, he'd ask her to wed him. This time, there'd be no one to say them nay.

  "Master," tried another, "it is full dark outside. Should we not wait until morn's light?"

  "God will guide us, His moon giving us the light we need," came Katel's sanctimonious reply. "Enough complaining. Ready yourselves. Against the possibility of attack we'll go as a group to the stables as soon as I am dressed." He glanced across their number. "Where's Syward?"

  "The privy, master," Dickon humbly replied.

  "Then he'll be the one to stay behind and guard our door." Katel caught Johanna by the arm. As he started for the bedchamber he pulled her along beside him. Wanting nothing to dissuade her husband from his current path, she walked happily at his side, her thoughts on a far more pleasant future.

  As her husband stopped to claim her lamp from atop the brass-bound coffer, he shot her a harsh glance. "They babble like babes, but you make no protest?"

  Johanna shrugged. "What is there to protest? You are only taking me to where I wish to be."

  Only when Katel continued to stare at her did she realize her mistake. Yesterday's woman would have spit and hissed, simply because her husband was forcing her to d
o what she did not wish to do. It was too late now to do anything save to raise her chin and stare down at the shorter man.

  Katel's brows rose, his smile beautiful as he devised some awful trick to use against her. "I am so glad you feel that way," he said, "for you will be there a very long time."

  "What do you mean?" Johanna retorted, trying for some of her old harshness.

  "When the prioress sees you with your hair uncovered and wearing these worn gowns, she will be convinced of your sin. I will tell her that only this very night did I discover that you had been committing adultery each time I departed Stanrudde for the fairs," her husband said, his voice sweet as he spun his plot aloud for her. "I shall cry in fear for you, telling her how your lover demanded that you leave me to live with him in sin. When you refused, he did you this damage." He raised a hand and touched a finger to one of the bruises on her face. "He is a violent man, your paramour. A great brute."

  "What nonsense," Johanna retorted in scorn. "The lady prioress is no fool. Do you think I will remain silent over my attack? While you might be able to convince her that I have sinned in the past, she'll not believe that any lover beat me."

  "You're right," Katel agreed all too quickly, "but then, that isn't my true intent. I need her to offer you sanctuary, not as a retiree, but as a sister. Thus, by subtle means, I will reveal to her that were I to ever hit you, those properties of yours go to Stanrudde's abbey. At the end of the interview, she will think it is I who have beaten you and that you concoct the tale of an attack in order to keep your child from losing his inheritance."

  "What?" Johanna cried out. "I have no calling and so I will say."

  "While this may be true," Katel said, shaking his head, "it does not really matter. On the morrow the world will believe you a heinous criminal. If the prioress has offered you sanctuary, you will have the choice between the hangman's noose and taking your vows. I suggest for our dear Peter's sake that you choose sisterhood. You can then dedicate the remainder of your days to praying for your son. He'll be needing all the heavenly aid he can muster, for who knows what I will leave him."

  With that, Katel shoved her into their private chamber ahead of him then released her. "Up, one of you," he called to the maidservants who were pretending sleep on the floor. "I want my finest traveling gown, the orange and blue, my boots, and my warmest cloak. Bring also the thickest of my chains and my rings, along with my better gloves. I have a prioress to bend to my will!"

  Johanna waited until he turned his back to her then closed her eyes. It wasn't clemency she'd bought by mentioning their son, it was a stay of execution followed by a lifetime's imprisonment.

  Nay, she refused to believe it. Katel would be exposed, and when he had been, Rob would come for her. Rob loved her. He would not leave her trapped and alone, not a second time.

  Stanrudde

  An hour past Prime

  Saint Blesilla's Day, 1197

  Rob sat in the bed, his back braced against its head. His fur-lined mantle was drawn tightly about him, his legs were covered by the blankets. So too, were the yellow woolen draperies tightly shut around the mattress. Despite all this the interior of the bed was only endurable, not truly warm. Then again, it was summer in here compared to the frigid, hearth-less room beyond this fabric shield.

  With a yawn, he rubbed at his burning eyes. It had been a long night. Plagued as he was by his fear for Johanna, sleep had been impossible. Instead, his mind busied itself in playing out every possible scenario that could lead to her death at Katel's hands.

  "Turn back! You'll not enter here! Hie all of you, keep them from coming!" The single shout rose from beyond the keep's wooden perimeter walls to float through the narrow slit of this chamber's wall. "Go back!"

  In the next moment every one of the souls who kept vigil before the tower took up the chant, and it rose to a thundering roar. Rob sighed as their venom reminded him of the fate that he wasn't convinced he could escape. To distract himself from his morbid thoughts, he tried to deduce who it was that came.

  It couldn't be the sheriff. The crowd wouldn't have bid him away. It wasn't a council member, for there were no calls for his or her family's death. Who, then?

  Staring up at the yellow cloth stretched from pole to pole overhead to make a ceiling, he waited to see just how brave this visitor of his was. The chanting erupted into screams of fear. This was followed by a wary quiet, punctuated by a few moans.

  "What sorts of idiots stand unarmed between bowmen and where they wish to be? You'll let me and mine pass or, by God, I'll command them to aim at you rather than over your heads the next time." Given in English, there was no doubting that this man meant to fulfill his threat, were the crowd to offer further resistance.

  Rob's brows raised at this. Not brave then, but strong. Who came to see him with enough bowmen to frighten the mob? Again he considered the sheriff, only to reject him once more. The shire's lawman wasn't English, and the one who'd issued that warning used the tongue like a native speaker.

  Outside, the gates opened and shut. Sailing up to Rob's tower room on the day's chilly breath came the rattling of harness rings, the stomp and blow of tired horses along with snippets of conversation from men even more tired than their beasts. His confusion deepened. This had the sound of an army, not just a few bowmen. Ah well, there was not much longer to wait before his curiosity was satisfied.

  Bad enough that he had to meet men in his shirt and chausses, but he'd not do it so whilst lying abed like some invalid, or a king. Pushing aside the bed curtains, Rob sat at the edge of the mattress and donned his boots. When they were again cross-gartered to his legs, he stood and straightened his mantle around his shoulders. It was native vanity that made him use his fingers to comb his hair as best he could. Earlier this day, Otto, son of Otfried, had brought him water and cloth for washing, no knife for shaving of course, but a comb was another matter. That was a private possession, rarely shared.

  It was a few moments before the key squealed into its slot. When the door opened, Otto entered, followed by Mistress Alwyna. Beneath her mantle the old woman yet wore yesterday's green gowns, now sadly rumpled. Framed in a sturdier wimple than what she'd earlier worn, her face was drawn in exhaustion. Dark rings that matched his own hung beneath her brown eyes

  Rob's surprise at seeing her here died beneath his overwhelming need for news of Johanna, but with Otto in the room he dared speak no word of her. The best he could do was to eye a silent plea to the old woman, begging for some sign to put him at his ease. Mistress Alwyna offered him a nod and a reassuring smile. If it wasn't enough to satisfy him, it did allow him to draw a deep breath, the first one he'd taken since parting from Johanna last night.

  On Mistress Alwyna's heels came a knight. Beneath a brown fur-lined cloak the man wore both tunic and chausses of knitted metal rings. Atop his armor there was a brown surcoat trimmed in golden embroidery. Like the needlework, the jeweled hilt of the sword belted to his side proclaimed that he was no simple bachelor knight, but a man of some consequence.

  Not a handsome man, this stranger's visage was raw¬boned, his nose slightly crooked, saying he'd once broken it. His hair, flattened from wearing his head gear, was brown as were his eyes. In facial hair, he affected the same fashion Rob did, wearing his beard trimmed closely to the line of his bold jaw.

  As Rob watched him in some bemusement, wondering who he was and what brought him to this tower, the knight came to an abrupt halt. His gaze locked onto Rob's face, his eyes widening. "Jesu Christus!" It was a cry of astonishment.

  Mistress Alwyna gave a tired laugh then clutched her hand into the crook of the warrior's metal clad arm. Rob's brows shot up when she nigh on leaned against the knight's shoulder. To see a merchant's mother behave so familiarly with one who was obviously classes above her was strange, indeed.

  "Did I not tell you?" the old woman said, speaking in fluid French. The knight made her no response; he but rudely stared.

  Fed by his tiredness and the stress
of contemplating a seriously shortened lifespan, Rob's irritation rose from simmering to claim a new and potent life. Caged he might be, but he was no animal to be ogled. He narrowed his eyes to glare at his better.

  "I beg your pardon, but what business have you with me?" he asked in French. "If you came only to stare, I suggest you leave."

  The knight caught his breath then looked at Mistress Alwyna. "Even his voice is the same, Mama. I did not believe what you wrote, but here he stands!"

  Mama? Startled, Rob looked to the old woman, then back to the knight. "What is this?" he asked, his voice lowering in confusion.

  His visitor stripped off his gloves. As Mistress Alwyna released him, he stepped forward to offer his hand in greeting. "My pardon, but I have forgotten all courtesy in my shock. I am Richard, Lord Meynell." He paused, a small smile bringing golden lights to the brown of his eyes. "And you, Robert of Lynn, are my brother, son to Henry, Lord Graistan, just as I am."

  Rob drew an outraged breath, spurning this nobleman's hand as his chin jerked upward in arrogant refusal of that estate. No man, no matter his station, had the right to call him bastard. Once again, the insult this did his mother's memory rushed through him, anger tumbling along behind it. It was the hurt child in him who screamed that she had been no rich man's whore.

  "Richard, have a care," Mistress Alwyna said gently, "he has no more liking for being called bastard than do you."

  That shocked the arrogance right out of Rob. He stared at the smaller man, only now seeing the knight's subtle resemblance to Mistress Alwyna. Yet, he'd called himself Lord Meynell. That could not be. What sort of Norman would offer his common by-blow lands and title?

  This Lord Meynell again smiled at the one he had named his kin. "I see you wondering," he said in English. Having learned it at his mother's knee, it was without accent. "To date, all of our father's family, save one, remains as mystified as you that Henry of Graistan should have so loved his bastard son. Did you ever meet your sire?"