A Love For All Seasons by Denise Domning Page B

three garments here. He'd be years repaying the debt. Panic roared to life in him. They meant to trap him, he knew it. He shoved the clothing off his lap. "I’d rather keep my own garments."
    "I'm afraid they are gone, lad," Helewise said. "They were ruined from blood and manure. The best I could do was make rags out of them."
    Rob jerked around on his stool to stare in shock, forgetting for the moment he was afraid of her. "You can't have made rags of my clothing!"
    The merest hint of confusion woke in the housekeeper's cool gaze. "Lad, you now serve in the household of Walter l’Espicer. As a sign of our service, we all wear his colors." She held out the skirts of her green overgown and brown undergown in example.
    Rob's pulse lifted to an anxious pace. So, if he had no choice but to take these garments, how much more did he now owe Master Walter? "Where are the tally sticks that show my debt, and how much does each day I labor count against what I owe?" he demanded of the housekeeper.
    Astonishment briefly crossed Helewise's round face, only to be swallowed by the coolness she ever aimed at him. "Oh my heavens, lad, who has taught you to think like that?"
    Her question confused him. In Blacklea every villager knew the value of his labor against what he owed his lord. Were things so different here? "No one taught me."
    Her lips almost curved into a smile "Well now, yours is a reasonable request, but one only Master Walter can address. You must ask your question of him when he returns in September."
    "September!" The word exploded from Rob, high-pitched and desperate. He wouldn't survive if he had to stay here so long. What if he began today and worked harder than he ever before had? They'd have to acknowledge his labor's value. Aye, he would surely be quit of his debt before August's end.
    Dropping the blanket from his shoulders, he yanked on the overly large shirt. It was too long and bunched in his lap. He shoved his feet into the legs of his chausses, the one-piece garment that combined both stockings and an undergarment, and hauled it up over his hips. Coming to his feet to knot the waist string, he snatched up his garters from the floor then thrust his feet into his shoes.
    As he sat to swiftly crisscross the green garters around his calves, he glanced up at Helewise. Philip had come to stand beside her. Both adults were watching him as if he'd gone mad.
    Rob tied his shoe lacings, then grabbed up the green tunic and stood to don it. The garment was huge, the sleeves extending beyond his fingertips, the skirt reaching well below his knees. Without a belt, it slid on his shoulders. He straightened as best he could then turned to face the housekeeper.
    "I will begin my work as Master Walter's scullery lad this very day."
    Tom gave a sharp gasp then moaned, "Nay, Papa."
    "Scullery lad?" Philip's voice overrode his son's complaint. The creases on the cook's brow shot backward onto his balding pate as he shook his head and looked at Helewise. "Master Walter cannot do this. You know as well as I that, with nigh on all the household's gone to the fairs with the master, there's naught for him to do here."
    Panic bounded higher in Rob. Not only would they add additional weight to his debt, but now Philip was going to deny him the right to labor. His gaze shifted to Helewise in the vain hope she would aid him. Instead, she put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
    "Sit, Rob." Her voice was cold and emotionless. "You are yet too ill for this."
    "Nay!" he cried, tearing free of her hold. Desperation made his voice rise to a shout. "I will begin this day! Master Walter told all of Blacklea he needed a new scullery lad. I am that lad!"
    Fear flashed through Tom's eyes as the lackwit looked to the housekeeper. "Nay, not for lads," he wailed, then turned and grabbed the wooden tray on which sat the marrow pie. "Tom's! Tom's!"
    "Nay, Tom!" Philip cried, lunging toward his son.
    He was too slow. The untouched dish splattered on the