Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (19 page)

“The priest has gone to make arrangements for the baby’s interment and to instruct the villagers to attend a requiem mass for the child’s soul. My aunt wishes it.”

“And Lord Robert?”

Hugh shrugged. “Perhaps he needs to report the baby’s death to the shire reeve.”

“Why does he hate me so?”

“Who? Robert, or the priest? Or the shire reeve?”

“Lord Robert. Truly, my mother and I did all we could to help Dame Alice and her infant son. Dame Alice understands that and seems grateful, but her husband has turned against me.”

Hugh was silent for a moment. “He blames you for his son’s death,” he admitted at last.

“But I—But we—”

Hugh held up his hand to silence her protest. “I know,” he said simply. “I know.”

Once in the garden, Janna looked about for the hairy leaves and stalks of comfrey. She was certain such a useful plant would be cultivated here and she soon found it, and in some quantity. She dug down, seeking the spread of roots below.She broke off a portion of thick root, and showed it to Hamo. Black on the outside, it was white within and full of a glutinous juice.

“Erk!” he said.

“It’ll help, I promise.” Janna applied the cool mixture to the boy’s smarting cheek, then turned to his nurse. “Take these roots and some leaves from the comfrey, and ask the cook to boil them up. When the water has cooled, bathe Hamo’s bruise with the decoction. It will soothe his skin and help to bring down the swelling.”

The nurse gave a reluctant nod.

“See to it,” Hugh said sharply.

She bobbed a curtsy and set to picking some leaves.

Hugh turned to Janna. “You have your mother’s skill with herbs, I see.”

“She taught me all she knew—and she knew a great deal.”

“Where and how did she gain her knowledge?”

“I know not,” Janna confessed sadly. “She would not speak about her past.” Fearing Hugh’s pity or, even worse, his judgment, she added quickly, “I must go now, sire. I want to be home before dark.”

“You could stay here tonight, at the manor.”

Janna flashed a sidelong glance at Hugh, suddenly suspicious of his motives.

“In case my aunt has need of you,” he added quickly.

“You heard the lord. He bade me go, and I must obey him, sire.”

“Then I will take you home, and also fetch the palfrey while I am there.” Hugh swerved off toward the barns, closely followed by Hamo, who still clutched the gummy root to the side of his face. “Go with your nurse, Hamo.” He bent down and gently pushed the child in the direction of the kitchen. “We’ll play ball again tomorrow,” he promised.

Reluctantly, and with many a backward glance, Hamo did as he was told. “Come.” Hugh beckoned Janna and together they went to reclaim his large destrier from a long wattle-and-daub shed. The horse blew softly from a stall at the far end. Janna looked about her as Hugh saddled the horse. Above her head was a trapdoor. Wisps of hay suggested that the space was a storage house through winter, while saddles and bridles and empty stalls told the use of the space below.

Janna marveled that the manor should have all these separate buildings just for livestock and storage. For people too, she thought, as she noticed several straw pallets and a hook from which hung a rough smock and breeches. Serfs must also sleep here, those who had no cottage or shelter of their own. They would be out in the fields now, tending the crops, weeding, digging ditches and getting ready for hay-making. It was early summer, and the grass in the meadows would soon be tall enough to cut.

Hugh led the destrier out into the fading sunlight. This time, he placed Janna in front of him so that she sat as decorously as any highborn lady. His arm came around her for support, and she leaned back against him as the horse made its slow journey across the downs. She was close enough to Hugh to smell the faint odor of his sweat mingled with leather and horse. It was masculine, unfamiliar and very exciting. Even while understanding the need for caution, her body responded to his with a longing so great she was unable to think, savoring instead the heat and turmoil of this time alone with him.

The ride seemed to last forever, yet was over far too quickly. Hugh dismounted and reached up to put his hands around her waist. He swung her down from the saddle, but kept on holding her. Janna trembled, consumed with desire as she leaned closer and closed her eyes.

His kiss was light and fleeting, but Janna thought there was warmth there too. She struggled to bring her emotions under control, although it took all her will to resist the urge to cling to him, to kiss him back. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst right out of her chest. But a small nugget of caution prompted her to free herself from his embrace. She took a step away from him, hoping that this small distance might keep her safe. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“For the kiss, or for bringing you home?” His voice was cool, amused. He seemed not to feel the churning emotion that so unsettled her. The realization strengthened Janna, and gave her the courage to give him a light reply in turn.

“I thank you for bringing me home, for it was kind of you to take the trouble. I feel sure kisses can be no trouble to you, for you must have bestowed kisses aplenty in your life, and to far more purpose than merely seducing a—a naive and ignorant child of the forest!”

A vision of Cecily’s tear-stained face flashed before her. She took another step away from him.

Hugh laughed. “I have already admitted that I misjudged you, Johanna—but now you misjudge me! I always kiss to a purpose, but I only bestow kisses where they are wanted.”

Now Janna wished she’d kept silent. She had no evidence that he wished to seduce her! In fact, he’d only ever been kind and considerate toward her. What must he think of her presumption? “I beg your pardon, sire,” she muttered.

“Shh.” He put a finger across her lips. “I understand.”

There was a moment’s silence while Janna became aware of the dark forest, silent at her back, and the green fields spread before her, rolling down to the river and to Berford. She felt as if she was standing on a lonely precipice. She had no protection against Hugh should she fall, no protection for a heart that was in danger of being stolen—save the memory of Cecily’s sorrow and disgrace. She stood straighter and rubbed her mouth. It tingled where his lips had touched it. She longed for Hugh and feared him in equal measure.

Perhaps he understood something of the storm of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her, for he moved away to untie the palfrey and bring it back to where the destrier waited. He remounted, then touched two fingers to his head in a casual salute. “May God be with you this night, Johanna,” he said, and turned the horses toward Babestoche.

The cottage felt cold and unwelcoming; it was all too silent. Tears came into Janna’s eyes as she thought how different it would be if Eadgyth was home. Knowing what Eadgyth would say if Janna told her how she felt about Hugh helped to brace her and give her courage. Turnip head. That’s what Eadgyth would call her, what she called Fulk and anyone else who got too puffed up with their own self-importance.

“Turnip head,” Janna repeated silently as she set about milking the goats and foraging for their food. But keeping busy could not disguise the fact that all her efforts to find the person responsible for poisoning her mother had failed.

She remembered that Cecily had said she’d brought a costly gift for Eadgyth. A flicker of interest stirred Janna into action. Where was it? Now she thought about it, she certainly couldn’t remember seeing anything unfamiliar about the place. She walked inside. She’d already searched through her mother’s medicaments; now she turned her attention to the rest of the small cottage. Her search didn’t take long—there was nothing to be found. Could Cecily have lied about bringing a gift? Or had she perhaps brought a cake, or something to drink? If so, might it have contained poison, a sure way to silence the
wortwyf
and keep her secret safe?

Janna shuddered at the thought. After further consideration, she dismissed it. If Cecily had brought a treat from the manor as a gift, her mother would have kept it to share with her daughter. They always shared everything. So what might she have missed in her search? Janna looked about, but there was nothing that she did not recognize. Nothing.

Too agitated to rest, she walked outside again and paced about the garden, pulling weeds from among her herbs and nipping off dead leaves and flowers, creating order where her mind could find none. Why hadn’t she thought to question Cecily about her gift? A moment’s reflection told Janna that, if guilty, the tiring woman would have lied. But if innocent, the gift should still be in the cottage, waiting to be found.

Janna busied herself with tasks until it was too dark to see. Weary now, she went inside. Her agitated thoughts continued to weave a tangled web in her mind. The only thing certain was that she could take the matter no further until she had another chance to speak to Cecily.

She took up flint and tinder to light the fire, then stopped as another possibility presented itself. If Cecily had stopped her mother’s tongue to protect her secret, she might well take the same action against Janna! She would have to be careful when dealing with the tiring woman—very careful.

With a fire burning and a small light also coming from a peeled rush soaked in fat, Janna began to feel a little more confident. The hollow feeling in her stomach returned, and she realized that she was ravenous. She took up a knife and unlatched the door. She peered out, fearful of what, or who, might be lurking outside. Cecily wasn’t the only one who might wish her harm.

All seemed quiet. No Cecily, or Hilde, or even a wild boar. Janna felt a crushing sadness as she recalled her angry accusation. Godric had risked everything to save her, to protect her and care for her, and had then suffered her insults at the graveside. He was a kind and decent man, and she owed him an apology. Could he, would he, ever forgive her for thinking such ill of him?

She bent to dig out some reddish purple carrots for the pot, adding a leek and some beans plus a couple of sprigs of marjoram. The herb would calm her troubled thoughts, as well as adding extra flavor to the pottage. The hens clucked around her. “Go and lay some eggs,” she told them as she searched the empty coop.

Inside, she emptied a jug of water into the large cooking pot and hung it over the fire to boil. She gave the vegetables a careful wash before slicing them up. She threw them into the pot to cook, along with a handful of oats to thicken the stock. She should save the goats’ milk to make cheese, she knew, but she mixed a little in with some flour to bake another cake on the griddle. Pottage might not suit the lord and lady of the manor, but to Janna the hot food was a feast and she savored every last morsel of it.

With the ache of hunger eased, she set the pot aside. She took off her kirtle and boots, and sluiced a quick lick of water over her face. Too weary to do anything more, she blew out the rushlight and lay down on the straw pallet to sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, I shall talk to Cecily again, and see if I can trap her into admitting what really happened between her and my mother—and what, if anything, Hugh means to her. I shall also tidy the cottage and sort through my mother’s possessions. A shaft of sorrow lanced through Janna. To banish it, she kept compiling a list of things to do. It hadn’t rained for some days; the soil where she’d dug out the carrots had felt very dry. She must fill some buckets from the dew pond to keep her precious plants alive and thriving, and also fetch fresh water for drinking. As well, the floor rushes needed changing. She must go down to the river to cut some more. Resolutely, Janna added chores to her list, although she wondered where she would find the hours in the day to complete them all. She must make cheese, and also more wax candles, perfumed creams, balms and ointments to sell at the market. She must pick herbs and hang them to dry, ready to be used in new medicaments. She must—

A sudden noise set her upright, ears straining to hear, eyes straining to make sense of the ghostly flickers of firelight cast by the dying embers in the center of the room. Was that someone standing in the corner, watching her? Her heart thundered in fright. She stayed still, waiting for the phantom to move, to betray its real and living presence. She could hear breathing, loud rasping breaths that spoke of terror. It was some moments before Janna realized that the breaths were her own.

Now she heard a voice calling her, the name unmistakable: “Janna!” Who could be visiting her at this time of the night? She bounded up from her pallet, and pulled on her kirtle and boots.

“Janna! Come outside!” The command was followed by a furious knocking, so loud Janna thought the door might come down. It was a woman’s voice calling her, but she could not place it. Was someone in trouble? With some reluctance, Janna pulled the door open and stepped out.

A group of villagers were gathered there, the leader bearing a flaming torch held high so that his face was illuminated. With a shock of recognition, she saw that it was Wulfgar, the miller. He stared at her, grim and determined.

“What do you want?” It was an effort to keep her voice steady. Sweat prickled her skin in the cool night air. She thought of the knife still lying on the table, and wished she’d remembered to snatch it up before opening the door. Alone and unprotected, she faced the villagers.

“Murderess! Child killer!”

Janna peered into the darkness behind the lighted flare, able now to identify the voice. Hilde, the miller’s wife. She stepped out in front of her husband, and shook her fist at Janna. Her face, savage and sneering, was lit by the flaring light from the torch. The rest of her was thrown into shadowed relief. With her swollen body and wild gestures, she looked like a huge and grotesque ogre.

“Why do you say such things when you know they’re not true?” Janna held her ground, determined to make Hilde explain her spiteful words.

“Everyone says you poisoned the baby up at the manor. You took the life of a young and innocent child!”

“Who says so?” It took all of Janna’s courage not to flee inside and slam the door on the group. She could read the hatred on Hilde’s face, a hatred which must be shared by all or they would not have come knocking.

Once again, Janna remembered Eadgyth’s warning. “
Never turn your back on a wild animal. Never let it see that you are afraid
.” But these were people—not animals! Yet, like sheep, they seemed to be following Hilde’s lead without question. Should she treat them like animals? Yes, if it ensured her safety!

“Who says that I am a child killer?” she demanded again, her voice loud to cover her fear.

“The priest says so! He says you do the devil’s work!” An angry murmuring followed Hilde’s reply.

“What reason does he give for these lies?”

“You gave the baby a potion of your own concocting—and he died.”

“The baby’s own mother and father know that is not true.”

“Fulk the apothecary told the priest that it was so.”

“Lord Robert and Dame Alice know that I did all I could to save their child.”

“The priest and Robert of Babestoche himself say that the baby died because of the poisoned physic you gave him.”

“The baby died because he was too weak to live.”

“Your mother died from drinking her own poisonous brew. And now you have poisoned Lord Robert’s newborn son.”

“I gave him no poison and you know it! You know also that my mother’s elixirs have helped save the lives of your own children.” Janna spread her hands out in appeal. Surely some among this small group must know in their hearts that she was innocent; surely they must feel gratitude for the healing she and her mother had given in the past?

She looked at their faces in the flickering torchlight, trying to recognize who was present. Her heart quaked as she saw the anger and ill-will reflected by them all. Aldith was not among them, she noted. Nor was Godric. It was a relief that they were not here to accuse her, yet she would have given anything for a friendly face, for some support against these vile accusations.

Torold swaggered forward, a baby in his arms and the rest of his children straggling along behind him. “Your mother’s death was a just reward for her godless ways!” It seemed he no longer thought of Janna as a potential wife, for he continued, “Just so should you pay for the death of a child with your own death.” He spat at Janna. The glob of mucus landed an ant’s width from her toes. Alarmed, she jumped back. He leered at her, his eyes hot and hungry, but Janna sensed that there was fear in them too.

Acutely aware of the peril she faced, Janna spread out her hands in appeal once more. “I swear to you, I did not harm the baby. Nor did my mother. She was skilled with herbs—you all know that for she has helped all of you at some time in the past.”

“She was a godless woman. Her death is a punishment for her godless ways!”

“She was a good woman. And she believed in God as much as any of you.”

“Why then would the priest not bury her in the churchyard? And why does he say that you, too, are damned?” The miller came forward to stand beside his wife and Torold, close enough that she could smell the ale on his breath and see the flecks of spittle around his mouth. She would have retreated, but the door behind her was closed. She could not trust the villagers if she turned to open it. There was nowhere else for her to run. All she had in her armory were her wits, her words—and the truth.

“The priest is ignorant. He does not understand.” It was not, perhaps, the best thing to say in the circumstances, Janna realized, as she heard the hissing intake of breath. Better to change the subject, and quickly. “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”

Now they watched her, silent and still. They were waiting for something to happen, someone to make the first move, just as she herself was waiting. Her heart raced harder; her frightened breaths came short and shallow. She wiped her damp hands down her kirtle. “Why don’t you go home?” she pleaded. “I’ve heard your accusations. There is no more for you to do here.”

Hilde grabbed the flaming torch from her husband and shook it at Janna. She was so close Janna could feel the hot breath of the flare burning her face. “You’ve killed a child. You’ve murdered an innocent babe! You’re a godless woman who whores after other women’s husbands. You bring disgrace to our village and we don’t want you here. You’ve got to go.”

Janna was furiously angry, yet she knew she should not speak of what else lay between her and the miller’s wife, that she should stay silent for her own sake. But she must also try to defend herself. She raised her voice to address them all. “I cannot go anywhere. I live here. This is my home, the only home I know.”

“Go, and take that devil black cat of yours with you!” The miller’s mouth contorted as he gathered saliva. He spat at Janna with a fine accuracy. With a shudder of revulsion, Janna wiped the mucus off her face, understanding that his action represented payback for the kiss she’d so painfully terminated.

“My cat is like any other creature that lives and dies,” she said coldly. “My cat once lived, but now it is dead.” She glared at Hilde.

“I saw the devil on our way up here, I swear I did,” said Torold.

“I saw the cat too,” Hilde chimed in eagerly. “It was in the shadows, but when I next looked, it had grown into something too large and fearsome to be human. In truth, I feared for my very life.”

Janna sucked in a sharp breath. “The cat is dead!” she insisted, remembering Godric’s warning about rumors of shape-shifting. She would not give them a further reason to accuse her.

“That cat is the devil in disguise, for I swear I saw it just moments ago.” Hilde smiled as an uneasy muttering broke out behind her back.

Janna knew a moment of pure, wild rage. “Do you carry a knife with you again tonight, mistress?” she hissed. “Would you use it on me as you have used it on my cat?” She turned to face the villagers, feeling sick as she tried to defend herself against their ignorance, and the hate and fear in their hearts. “My cat is dead, killed by Mistress Hilde,” she said. “She came to my cottage in the night and saw me with the villein, Godric.” Now she addressed Wulfgar directly. “She thought she was following you, she thought you were with me. To punish me, she slit my cat’s throat and tied it to a tree! She also threatened to use her knife on me if she saw you with me again. Pray tell me, who is the murderess here?” She stepped forward and thrust her face close to Wulfgar. “Be careful,” she warned. “Be very careful whose bed you lie in, lest your wife next uses her knife on you or your mistress!”

Taking advantage of the stunned silence that followed her words, Janna turned to the villagers.

“My home is here, far from the village. I will not trouble you, nor do you need to trouble me—unless, of course, you have some ailment that needs treatment. You will find me a willing and capable replacement for my mother. And now, please go away and leave me in peace.”