A Love For All Seasons (16 page)

Stepping back from the doorway, the young man allowed the abbot's visitor to step inside, then pointed toward the stairs leading to the second-story hall. "The abbot and the others await you."

Others? Rob's confusion grew as he started up the stairs. What others? This was to have been a private meal. When he stepped out into the hall, he stopped in astonishment. This small chamber was not just full, it was jammed with folk, every one of them watching him.

On the raised dais at room's end, Abbot Eustace sat in his massive chair, gilded crook in hand. The black cowl he and all his monks wore was thrown back so his miter might be perched atop his head. That peaked cap was alive with light as metallic threads sparked around the cooler glow of the fine gems that trimmed it. There was naught of the ascetic saint to this churchman's form; instead, the narrow-faced Norman showed his roots lay in the knighthood of his fathers. His rich black cassock, trimmed in ermine, draped massive shoulders and bound around a great barrel chest while concealing an avid horseman's lean hips.

Clinging to their father abbot's chair like children to their mother's skirts were a number of the abbot's obedientaries, all wearing the black habit of their order. Among them, Rob recognized the sub-abbot, cellarer, sacrist, and the chamberlain. Standing before the abbot was a single soldier. Helmed, he wore a metal-sewn leather hauberk under his cloak. His scabbard was empty, as church law demanded.

Rob raised a brow, his stomach tightening in concern as he again wondered if the abbot had thought the better of last night's defense. Dealing with Norman nobles, whether Church or lay, thus subjecting himself to their sometimes changeable whims, always brought with it its own risk. Experience taught that to grovel or meet strength with strength could lead to catastrophic results. It was the appearance of calm and control that ever carried the day.

Drawing a cloak of composure around him as his shield, Rob shed his native English for the French Master Walter had insisted he learn. "Is something amiss, my lord abbot?"

It wasn't the churchman who answered him, but the soldier. "Master Robert, I am Otto, son of Otfried, captain of the town's guard. I have come to take you into my custody," he said in English.

No one saw the start of shock that went through Rob. The abbot was having him arrested?! Why? Simply because the crowd had cursed him? His pride writhed as new injury lay upon the old.

"I beg pardon, my lord abbot," Rob said to the churchman, forcing his neck to bend until his head achieved the posture appropriate to such a plea. "Have I done something to disparage you or this house that would cause you to relieve yourself of me in this manner?"

"Master Robert, you have no need to beg my pardon as you've done no wrong," Abbot Eustace said, rising slowly from the chair that symbolized his authority over this holy house. The churchman took a step forward, his dark gaze alight with unholy fire as he held his crook before him like a sword. "Rather, I think that we shall both soon be demanding apologies from the town council. Not only does the council seek to force from me one who is under my protection, they do so without showing their faces!" His voice rose to a thundering roar so none might mistake the depths of the wound done to him.

Otto, son of Otfried, dropped to his knees, his empty scabbard clattering against the wooden floor. He bowed his head. "My lord abbot, the council does, indeed, most humbly beg your pardon. They feared to come here, thinking that by doing so, they might bring the wrath of the populace down upon your holy house. Know you that the guild hall was burnt to the ground last even. It is to protect the abbey they hold dear that they stay away."

The abbot struggled with this, trying to maintain outrage against the sop being offered to him. A sharp, upward jerk of his crook commanded the solider to rise. Otto returned to his feet with the squeak of leather and scrape of metal. With a glance toward Rob, the soldier finished his explanation.

"My lord abbot, further civil unrest must be avoided. Although the council has sent to the sheriff, we cannot know when he might arrive to enforce martial law. It is in the hopes of preventing further damage to either property or trade that the council begs you release Master Robert to them."

"What reason has the council to think that arresting me will prevent further violence?" Rob snapped, yet clinging to his French.

"Master," the captain said, "you mistake me. I have not come to arrest you. The council prays only that you will stand before them to answer their questions."

The muscles in Rob's neck relaxed a mite at the news that this was no arrest, but confusion lingered. "Questions? What sort of questions?"

"The council wishes to determine if it was your grain that was released onto the marketplace evening last, against both custom and law."

The blunt words stripped away all of Rob's control. "The council does not dare accuse me of grain mongering!" he roared in English. It took every ounce of his will to keep from attacking the one who spewed such a foul accusation before these witnesses.

Otto blinked at this unexpectedly violent reaction and took a step back in caution. On his face appeared the blank look of one who but did his duty and took responsibility for no more. "Master, that is an issue best addressed to the council."

Sucking cool air into his steaming lungs, Rob won back his calm. "My lord abbot," he said, slipping back into French as he again faced the churchman, "this charge is as ludicrous as it is foul. You know I have no wheat to release. All my party brought is in your abbey's cellars."

The cellarer stepped forward, his bony hands concealed in his habit's wide sleeves, his long nose nigh on quivering in outrage. "Aye, and so I have said to this man, Master Robert, telling him I can account for every koren. However, he pays me no heed, continuing to stubbornly insist upon your release into his custody."

Because his thoughts were yet slow from last night's overindulgence, it was only now that Rob dissected exactly what the soldier had said. As he understood, he drew another swift breath. Last night, the name of Robert the Grossier had been on the rioters' lips. So too, according to the soldier, had grain been made available in the marketplace.

With that, all the pieces of Katel's puzzle fell into place and Rob damned himself for not seeing the trap laid for him. It was not the seed in the cellarer's storerooms that had prompted the council's interest in him; it was the stolen grain that had been released, and it had been done in Rob's name. Katel had not taken the grain to enrich himself at Rob's expense, but with every intention of using it to destroy the man he yet hated. Aye, and he'd very nearly succeeded. If the abbot had not been his defender last even, the crowd might well have strung him up.

Cold fury filled Rob. Katel was a conniving coward. Worse, he was an unethical tradesman. Did such a little man think he could threaten Robert, Grossier of Lynn?

In that moment he thanked Johanna for her rejection. In refusing his aid, she freed him from worrying over how a charge of theft against her husband would hurt her. Now, when he stood before the council, he'd do better than prove his innocence, he'd expose Katel's guilt.

Rob turned on the soldier. Once again, Otto, son of Otfried, stepped back, this time reaching for the sword he did not wear. Without moving his eyes from the town guardsman, Rob said, "My lord abbot, with your permission I will forgo our meal and submit myself to the council's questions."

Leaving Hamalin and Rob's household guard complaining and shouting in the abbey courtyard, the captain of the guard alone escorted Rob out onto the market field. Once they were in that unguarded space, Otto looked at him in warning. "Master Robert, draw your mantle tight shut over that gown. If they cannot see who it is that comes, they will not attack us. Although I expect no trouble, should you be identified, retreat directly to the abbey. There are more than a few folk who'd like to see your body dangling in the town's square this day. These sorts have no care as to guilt or innocence; they only wish to repay the hurt done them in your name."

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."

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."