Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (5 page)

Janna’s face brightened. Going to the market was a rare treat, even if she knew her mother’s offer stemmed from a need to keep her away for most of the day.

“I don’t want to argue with you. I just want you to tell me my father’s name,” she said, refusing to be diverted from her purpose. She avoided her mother’s eye, instead collecting up the goods she would sell and setting them carefully in a woven basket. She hoped that the beeswax stoppers were thick and tight enough to prevent the precious liquids from leaking out but, to make sure, she wedged fat scented candles around them to keep them in place. All the while, she waited for her mother to speak, but Eadgyth remained silent. Janna hefted the strap over her shoulder. The basket was heavy but she would carry it without protest, so long as her mother gave her something in return. Determined not to leave without an answer, she confronted Eadgyth.

“There may not be time to talk now, but I insist that you tell me my father’s name at least.”

“Janna!” Her mother threw down the spoon and, hands on hips, turned to glare at her.

“Who was he? Where did you meet him?”

“That’s enough, Johanna!” Her mother only called Janna by her full name when she was in serious trouble. Otherwise Janna was known by her baby name, which was what she’d called herself when she was just learning how to talk. Being called Johanna made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was someone different, someone who didn’t belong in the only world she knew. Now Janna felt torn between her usual obedience to her mother’s wishes and a wild impatience to know more. She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it as she struggled to find a compelling argument to change her mother’s mind.

Dismissing her daughter, Eadgyth turned back to the fire and picked up the spoon to give her decoction another stir. Janna pulled a face at her mother’s back, then instantly regretted her action. She wasn’t a child any more. How could she convince her mother of that if she still behaved like one? She scooped up the crock of honey and jar of healing salve her mother had placed on the table, then paused at the doorway, determined to speak her mind.

“I am sorry if the memory distresses you, Mother, but if you won’t tell me about my father then you force me to ask others for information.”

Eadgyth’s hand stilled. Her whole body went rigid with shock. “Questions, questions!” she snapped. “Why do you always plague me with questions?”

“Because you taught me to question everything! Why, then, should I not question the mystery of my father?” Janna met her mother’s hard stare, determined that this time she would not back down. For a long moment they defied each other. Finally, Eadgyth nodded slightly. “If you must hear of it, then ’tis better I tell you in my own words. Those who do not know the truth of the matter might not be so kind.” She paused, weighing her words carefully. “You believe your father to be dead, but in truth and for all I know, he may still be alive.”

“My father lives?” Janna’s eyes widened in amazement. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“I wanted to protect you.” Eadgyth touched Janna’s cheek in a rare gesture of affection. “I have many regrets in my life, but the one thing I shall never regret is giving birth to you. I’ll do anything to save you from making the same mistakes that I made.”

For a moment Janna was silenced by her mother’s unexpected tenderness. Yet her will to learn the truth was strong; she was impatient with her mother’s desire to protect her.

“All my life I have kept silent, thinking my father was dead and that it grieved you to speak of him. For all these years, you have let me believe a lie!”

“It does grieve me to speak of him. I loved your father. I still do. That’s why I—”

A timid knock interrupted Eadgyth. Startled, she glanced from Janna to the door. “Wait here,” she said, and went quickly outside, slamming the door shut behind her. Janna heard the soft murmur of voices. She moved to the door, listening hard. The door was suddenly flung open, catching her by surprise.

“Go now.” Eadgyth was in too much of a hurry to reprimand her daughter for eavesdropping. “We will speak later.” She pushed Janna outside, then followed her out and went toward the back of the cottage. “Go!” she shouted, as she noticed that Janna had stopped to watch.

Having secured her mother’s promise, Janna did as she was told, but she couldn’t resist a last look behind. Too late, she realized, as she heard the door slam. Her mother and the visitor were now both safely inside and out of sight. She turned then and walked on toward the small village of Berford. The day was cloudy; there was a hint of rain, but Janna’s spirits rose as she sniffed the fresh air, smiled at peacefully grazing sheep and listened to the melodious whistle of a lone blackbird.

Her path followed the contours of the gently sloping downs, taking her toward the Nadder River and Berford. A straggle of thatched cottages came into view, set along a track of beaten earth close to the river. Like Janna’s own home, the cottages were made from panels of woven wattle fastened between wooden posts and pasted over with a mixture of clay, dung and straw daub to keep out wind and rain. While still having only one room, these cottages were larger than the small cot Janna shared with her mother. Most of them boasted henhouses, vegetable gardens, goats and sometimes even a cow or pig. Beyond the settlement and above the water meadows were the open fields where villeins grew crops in their allotted strips, both for themselves and for the abbey.

The track was littered with human and vegetable waste. Pigs, goats, hens and ducks walked free, noisily scuffling among the rotting vegetation. Pools of scummy water added their stench to the ripe air. Janna picked her way past the worst of it, following the path that would bring her to the water mill and, by way of several small hamlets, to Wiltune itself. Near Bredecumbe she forded the river, splashing through clear pebbled shallows to the water meadows on the other side. She walked on to where the chalk stream divided and pooled into a small lake, turning the swiftly flowing tributary into the rushing torrent that powered the mill when the waters were released. Two low stone arches spanned the frothing water; above them was a thatched wattle-and-daub building where the grinding of the grain actually took place. Janna could hear now the thunder of the great wheel churning below.

She stopped, charmed by the sight of a mother duck paddling upstream with a string of babies behind her. Janna’s pleasure in the sight quickly changed to alarm as she noticed that one of the ducklings had lagged behind and become caught in the undertow. In spite of its frantic efforts to swim away, it was being dragged closer and closer to the powerful wheel. She looked about for a net or a bucket, anything to save it, but even those few seconds had taken all the time that was left. As she turned back to the river, the duckling disappeared from view.

Janna swallowed hard, and hoisted up the honeypot so that it fitted more snugly under her arm. This was nature’s way; it was stupid to get upset about it, she told herself as she walked up to the open door and peered in. The miller’s wife, hand to her back and heavy with child, stood beside the chattering pit wheel, watching as brown, gritty flour poured down through the chute into the meal bin. Above her head, Janna could hear the heavy tread of the miller as he hoisted another sack of grain to feed into the hopper. The millstones ground the wheat with a dull roar. Janna sneezed as a spray of flour dust tickled her nose. The sound alerted the miller’s wife to the fact that she had company.

She swung around. As she recognized her visitor, an expression of alarm flitted across her face. She took a quick step backward, and crossed herself.

Surprised, Janna held out the jar of salve, fixing a smile on her face as she did so. “I have here some ointment for you, Mistress Hilde. For the sores on your skin. My mother said I was to bring it to you.”

The woman made no move to take the jar. Instead she scratched her arm while she took the time to look Janna over. Janna felt sorry for her. It was common knowledge that the miller strayed from home, and that he spread his favors among several women.

“Her jealousy is eating away at her skin as well as her heart,” Eadgyth had said once. “I can soothe her sores, but she will never be free of them unless her husband stops straying or she ceases to care about it.”

“But surely he will stay at home now that his wife is with child?”

Eadgyth had given her daughter a cynical smile. “It’s at this time, when wives are large with child and become unwilling partners in bedgames, that most men are tempted to look elsewhere. Unfortunately for Hilde, her husband has already had a lot of practice in the art of straying. Nothing is likely to change him now.”

Her mother must have thought her comments naive, Janna realized, yet she truly believed that a marriage should be for love, and forever. She would never settle for a husband who strayed, whose tomcatting left her vulnerable and despairing, and an object of pity and scorn to others. Janna felt a great sympathy for this hurting, discontented woman.

“Please, take the salve,” she said, thrusting it into Hilde’s hand. She kept her eyes fixed on Hilde’s face so that she wouldn’t have to look at the weeping sores on the woman’s arm. Her mother had told her that there were sores on Hilde’s legs as well—another reason for the miller to stray.

Hilde’s fingers closed around the rough, home-made pot.

“I have also this crock of honey.” Janna placed it on the table. “My mother wishes to exchange it for a bag of flour as usual, if you please.”

The miller’s wife gave a grudging nod. Janna wondered if she might ask a final favor.

“I am bound for the market at Wiltune, mistress,” she said. “May I fetch the flour later?”

Undecided, the miller’s wife looked up, as though seeking advice from her husband. Janna heard a loud rattling noise as the miller fed grain into the chute; the millstones began to grind once more. Coarse flour poured down into the meal bin. For the moment, the miller was safely occupied. Hilde’s tight expression eased somewhat.

“You may come for it on your way home.” She gave Janna a push toward the door.

With a light heart, looking forward to her treat, Janna turned and left. It was going to be a wonderful day, she just knew it. Whether it rained or no, the birds sang and whistled about their business, the river chattered merrily beside her, and the frights of the night seemed long ago and far away.

Although Janna had been to Wiltune several times in the past, it had always been in the company of her mother. Now she enjoyed a new sense of freedom as she looked about her, fascinated by all that she saw. The abbess held the barony over just about all of the land she was walking through. Her villeins were out in the fields, working her lands and paying rent for the privilege of having a home and employment. Some, like the miller, paid rent and rendered services, while others paid their dues in labor. Every year Janna’s mother grumbled about having to find the fee for the abbess for, although they were free to leave if they wished, while they stayed they must pay for their cottage and the land that came with it. In bad seasons, payment caused hardship for everyone. Fortunately, this year had started well and promised fair, unless the civil war between the king and his cousin came close enough to upset smiling nature and wrecked the harvest to come.

The sun was peeking through the clouds. It warmed Janna’s face and dried her mouth. She shifted the strap of her basket from one shoulder to the other; her back ached from carrying it. She put it down and turned toward the river, squelching through mud and pushing apart sharp reeds to reach the water’s edge. There, she bent to scoop a handful of cold, clear liquid into her mouth, relishing the moisture as it slipped down her parched throat. She drank her fill, picked up her basket, and set off once more, coming at last to the high stone walls that encircled the abbey. Janna followed them around, heading for the market square outside the abbey’s main portal.

She heard the noise long before she got there: shouts of pedlars, shrill cries of children, yapping dogs and squealing, clucking livestock, and the rise and fall of voices as shoppers and traders bargained hard to get the better of each other. Janna sighed with pleasure. This is where I want to be, she thought. This is where real life is going on!

Pleasant odors wafted toward her—hot pies, spiced wine and gingerbread—but they were offset by the stink of sewage, newly tanned leather and salted fish. Traveling merchants had set up stalls among the more usual goods for trade. Janna stopped to admire a display of soft leather gloves and slippers, then moved on to inspect trays of ribbons, cheap trinkets, bone combs and buttons, strings of amber and glass beads and finely wrought brooches. She fingered her empty purse, imagining how it would feel to have enough money to buy whatever she wanted.

With a small sigh, she moved on to join a group gathered around a juggler. As she came closer, two women stepped out of her way, neither acknowledging her nor meeting her eye. Janna recognized them and was puzzled. One of them, the wife of a weaver from Berford, had made the journey to the edge of the forest several times to consult her mother. Surely she would not be influenced by the priest’s prejudice against them?

“I give you good day, Mistress Bertha,” Janna said, as she came closer.

“God be with you, Janna.” Bertha didn’t look at her, seeming absorbed instead in the antics of the juggler, who had now added a flaming sword to the three balls he was keeping in the air so skilfully. Janna scowled at Bertha’s back as the woman walked away, then chided herself for being silly. She would not allow anyone to spoil her pleasure in the day. So she watched the juggler, and clapped his performance when he was done. She wished she had a coin to put in his cap, for he’d entertained and delighted her with his skill.

She was about to move on when she recognized another face. There, in the marketplace, his black cloak flapping around his short, thin frame so that he looked like an old crow as he swooped about, was the priest from Berford. What was he doing here? Probably making sure none of his flock managed to enjoy themselves, Janna thought with a grin, and edged away out of his notice. There was so much to see and do; she had no intention of being waylaid and lectured by the priest.

She ambled on, fascinated by all the products for sale: fruits and vegetables, sparrows, pigeons and hens, woven cloth of varying quality, fresh bread, candles and soap, crocks of honey and blocks of cheese. Her nose twitched as she smelled once more the fragrance of hot meat pies. She had come out in such a rush that she’d not yet broken her fast. Her empty stomach rumbled to remind her of the fact. As soon as she had sold her wares, she would visit the pieman. She looked for a space to set out her scented candles, creams and rinses, enjoying her new feeling of independence.

The thud of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of a bridle alerted her to the presence of a stranger coming toward her. The first detail Janna noticed was the horse, a huge black destrier such as a soldier or a crusader might ride into battle. It was a sleek beast, quite unlike the shaggy ponies and plodding carthorses she usually saw in the fields. The horse’s glossy coat shone, and Janna shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight the better to admire it.

She became aware of its owner next, as he reined his mount to a standstill and surveyed the market scene before him. Dark, shoulder-length hair and clean-shaven face in the old Norman fashion. A long and decorated tunic, the sort worn by the nobility. A faint smile curled his mouth. Seeing it, Janna clenched her fingers into fists, feeling hot indignation on Wiltune’s behalf. Condescending
bricon
, she thought, automatically assigning to him the Norman word for fool. He must surely be a Norman, for no Saxon would sneer at the villagers as he was sneering now.

As if becoming aware of Janna’s gaze—and her judgment—the man glanced down at her. The smile died on his lips, burned away perhaps by her furious expression. Feeling no fear, for she had nothing to lose, she continued to glower up at him. A smile twitched his lips once more as he nodded to her from his horse and called out, “
Bonjour, ma belle petite
.”

Janna bridled anew. She tilted her head back and glared at him. Pretty little girl indeed!

“Can you give me directions to the manor house at Babestoche?” The man continued his careful inspection of Janna. There was warmth in his gaze; a smile of appreciation curved his mouth.

For a moment, Janna thought to send him off in the wrong direction entirely, but she had the sense that the stranger already knew the way and was using this merely as a ruse to speak to her. Telling herself she wasn’t in the least flattered, she said, “Follow the river to Berford, then ask again.” Although the stranger had asked directions in her own tongue, pride prompted Janna to answer him in the language of the Normans, taught to her by Eadgyth. She jerked her head in the direction the stranger should ride, and walked away, conscious that his eyes still watched her. Belying her cool manner, her mind was full of a jumble of impressions, not least of which was the stranger’s easy assurance, his fine tunic and hose and, yes, she was forced to admit it, his handsome face and strong physique.

Frowning, Janna considered the matter. Some years older, perhaps in his twentieth year, she thought. She could sense the experience behind his ease, the experience that told him his worth in terms of his birth but also in matters of life—and death. This was a man sure of himself, someone not to be disregarded or put aside. A scar down one cheek spoke of his having tested himself in combat, either of a personal nature or on the battlefield. A man of courage, then. A man’s man. A lady’s man too. Janna felt herself grow hot as she recalled how his bold glance had raked her body. He’d called her a pretty girl, but she was a Saxon serf and therefore unworthy of his notice; he was merely teasing her. This was a man who could pick and choose among women—and most probably did so, for who could not fail to be impressed by that proud, handsome face, that confident demeanor?

Janna was surprised how much she had noticed—and remembered—on such a short appraisal. Who was he? And what could he want up at the manor? These were troubled times for travelers—and for all of England. King Stephen had usurped the throne and was now forced to defend his position against his cousin, the Empress Matilda. Janna had a secret admiration for the empress. It seemed that, enraged by Stephen’s action and determined not to give up the throne, Matilda had gathered her own army of supporters and come to England to fight for her rights. Her claim seemed just, for she had been named heir by her father, King Henry. He himself was the son of the Norman bastard, William the Conqueror, who had taken England for his own and established the line of Norman rule. There had already been several skirmishes between Stephen’s army and Matilda’s supporters. Was the stranger here on Stephen’s behalf, to demand from the abbess and the manor house the knight service due to the king?

Telling herself his business was none of her concern, Janna found a space near to a traveler, a spice merchant. She pulled a clean linen cloth from her pack and spread it on the ground, having first cleared straw and assorted rubbish out of the way. Carefully, she laid out her goods for sale, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for the abbey guards or the shire reeve, for she had no permission to sell her wares. “Creams to perfume your skin, ladies!” she called, gesturing to the pots on the ground. “Smell like a rose for your husband tonight! I also have rosemary and chamomile rinses to cleanse and lighten your hair. I have fragrant lavender for your linen, and a mint rinse to freshen your breath. Only a ha’penny a jar.”

The spice merchant leaned over and inspected the pots, perhaps calculating whether or not their presence would damage his own business. In turn, Janna stared at his portable table, fascinated by the strange seeds, berries and plants upon it. She stepped closer, then bent over and inhaled, savoring their fragrance. “What are these?” she asked, pointing at a pile of light brown sticks.

“Cinnamon.”

“And those?” Janna gestured toward a crock of small black balls.

“Cloves.” His manner thawing in the face of Janna’s interest, the merchant kept on pointing out various spices, perhaps hoping that she might buy something. “My wares come from across the sea, from the east,” he told her, speaking loudly so that his voice might be heard above the hubbub of the marketplace. “It is a long journey, and my spices are highly prized because of it. See—I have yellow saffron, cardamom, peppercorns and caraway seeds.” While he answered Janna’s questions, the merchant kept a sharp eye out for passing trade. She became aware that he was using his answers to her questions as a means to tempt others to inspect his wares. His ruse was working, for first one and then another woman drew closer. There was quite a crowd of observers around when Janna pointed to a small phial of brownish oil, and asked its purpose.

“It is a marvel, a miracle cure, most efficacious for aching joints. A little of this oil rubbed in at night, and you’ll be as agile as a young spring lamb come morning.” His eyes twinkled. “Not that you’ll need it for quite a while yet, lass.”

“But what is in the oil?” Janna persisted, refusing to be either diverted or beguiled by his flattery.

The man hesitated for a moment, then said, “It is a substance of such danger that I am loath to sell it to any other than those who are skilled in the art of healing and who know well the care that must be taken in its employment.”

Was he sincere, or was he merely building up the mystery and therefore the desirability of his liniment? Janna wasn’t sure, and didn’t really care. Curiosity drove her on. “My mother is a healer, and would be interested to learn more of such a substance. Pray tell me what is in the oil?”

The man tapped the side of his nose, but stayed silent.

“Answer the lass,” said Bertha.

Janna hid a smile. No doubt Bertha was after the secret ingredient so she could cure her own aching back rather than continue coming to Eadgyth for a special liniment.

A sergeant-at-arms had joined the swelling crowd around the spice merchant, and now he stepped closer. “Give us your answer, trader, and tell it true or I’ll send you on your way. There’s no place for quacks and charlatans here in Wiltune.”

“I mean no harm, I mean merely to warn.” The spice merchant stood his ground, looking self-righteous.

“Then warn away, and tell us what it is we need to fear.” The sergeant moved even closer, dwarfing the spice merchant by many inches both in height and girth.

“It contains
Aconitum napellus
. The root is ground and mixed with oil and hot mustard and then rubbed into aching joints. It brings almost instant relief. It really is a wonder cure—but it is for external use only. Ingested, it may well prove fatal.” The man was anxious to ingratiate himself now—and perhaps to make a sale in spite of his warning.

Aconitum napellus
. Aconite. The man was making the herb sound more important by giving it the Latin name—unless it was a ploy to keep a common plant a secret? Janna was willing to wager that no-one present knew what it was but she knew what he was talking about. Her mother had instructed her well in the properties of herbs and the art of healing. The merchant could not bluff Janna with fancy Latin names.
Aconitum napellus
was known by several common names: monkshood, blue rocket, wolfsbane, helmet flower. Janna suppressed a shudder as she recalled the last time she’d seen it. It was the plant that grew near the strawberries she had risked so much to pick.

There was no secret here, for her mother already knew the properties of aconite, and no doubt the weaver’s wife had felt its benefit on more than one occasion. Janna felt some satisfaction in thinking that Bertha would have to continue relying on Eadgyth for relief if she wasn’t prepared to ask any more questions.

The sergeant nodded, and walked away. Janna breathed a sigh of relief that her own modest wares had not attracted his attention. Perhaps the sergeant had assumed that her pots were part of the merchant’s display.

The trader was busy with other customers now. They all wanted to finger his spices, and smell them before making a purchase. Taking advantage of the crowd, Janna sang out a temptation to the women to inspect her own wares. As she did so, she noticed that Bertha had taken her turn to hand over a coin, receiving from the spice seller a small phial of the rubbing oil. Had things come to such a pass that Bertha would rather hand over good silver than visit the
wortwyf
, who would treat her in return for a piece of woven woollen cloth or the gift of a few eggs?