Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (21 page)

She unstoppered the bottle, eager to try her first taste of wine, but it was empty. How so, when her mother would have had no time to drink any of it? Janna cradled the bottle on her lap as she struggled to solve this new puzzle. If her mother had drunk all of the wine straight away, she would have been far too unsteady to follow Cecily to the manor and minister to Dame Alice. Cecily had not said that her mother was drunk when she arrived. Ill, yes, but not drunk. What, then, had happened to the wine? And why had her mother hidden the empty bottle?

Janna sighed. While her mother’s life had been a mystery, her death seemed to have uncovered even more secrets. The real question was: Where to start looking for answers? Although conscious of the need for haste, Janna sat on amid the ruins of the cottage. Random thoughts, a jumble of impressions, ran through her head. Somewhere in the events of the past few days lay the answer to her mother’s death, she felt sure of it. It was just a matter of fitting all the pieces together.

She looked down at the bottle in her lap. In case a little wine remained, she picked it up and tilted it to her mouth, hoping for a taste to satisfy her curiosity. A few drops moistened her tongue and she held them there, smacking her lips as she tasted the precious liquid. Her brow creased in thought. Unless wine tasted exactly like water, this was water! But the moisture was certainly proof beyond doubt that this was a recent gift, rather than an old token kept as a memento of her father. It must have come as a gift from Cecily—there was no other explanation.

Janna closed her eyes, and tried to imagine the last few hours of her mother’s life. Cecily had come knocking on the door, and had handed over her gift. In return, her mother had given Cecily the foul-tasting mixture that would result in the loss of her unborn child. But Cecily had not waited for that to occur. Nor did she share a sup of wine with her mother. She would have mentioned it, but instead she’d told of her great hurry to get straight back to the manor before her absence was noted.

So Eadgyth must have drunk the wine by herself, and washed out the bottle afterwards. This in itself seemed surprising to Janna, for she and her mother always shared whatever they had. A bottle of wine would have been a rare treat! Surely she would have kept some of it to drink with her daughter. But her mother had finished the wine without her. She had rinsed out the bottle and then gone to the manor house to see Dame Alice. No, that couldn’t be true. Aldith would have noticed that her mother was feeling the effects of too much wine and would have remarked on it, most probably loudly and often!

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Janna stroked the cold glass bottle, wishing it could spill its secrets. If her mother hadn’t drunk all the wine by herself, someone must have shared it with her. Not Aldith. She would have mentioned it—she would have been jealous of the gift. As it was, Aldith had been kind enough to share her own cordial because her mother had said she was thirsty. If she’d just drunk a bottle of wine, she wouldn’t have been thirsty—unless she was feeling the effects of the poison! Was the wine poisoned? Was that why her mother had died?

Startled, Janna set down the bottle and sprang to her feet. She began to pace while she tried to keep up with her agitated thoughts. Her mother could not have drunk the whole bottle by herself; the poison would have killed her long before she got to the manor house. Had Eadgyth perhaps tried just a sip or two, meaning to share the rest of it with Janna later on? Or had she perhaps intended to use some of the wine in the posset she was making up for Dame Alice, but first taken a sip to test its flavor? Not liking the taste, or maybe thinking the wine was tainted, had she then poured it out and washed the bottle, and hidden it so as to protect Cecily’s identity as she’d promised? She’d certainly not drunk enough of the wine to suspect the presence of monkshood, for she would have prepared a brew at once, and taken steps to combat the poison.

Janna contemplated where her thoughts were taking her. If her mother had taken only a sip or two, it would explain why the poison had taken some time to work its dark mischief. It would also explain why her mother had not suspected anything until its symptoms had become fully manifest. The problem was that Janna no longer had any proof of her suspicions, for the wine was gone.

She remembered the sight of her dead cat, the image sudden and shocking. So much blood, both under the animal and elsewhere. She had wondered about that patch of blood some distance from the animal’s body. Now she understood how she might have misread the scene. Not blood at all, but the stain of red wine, the stain left after her mother had poured the contents of the bottle away; a stain that matched the stain on Dame Alice’s fine linen when she’d knocked the goblet of wine from her husband’s hand. Had Dame Alice, too, suspected poison?

In growing agitation, Janna continued to pace while she pondered Cecily’s motives. Was her mother’s death a mishap? Was Dame Alice the intended target? But why? Cecily’s future depended on Dame Alice. But it also depended on Eadgyth’s silence.

Cecily was certainly implicated somehow, for the gift had come from her. But perhaps there was another way to look at the situation, starting with Cecily’s predicament and Dame Alice’s household. Janna recalled Hamo’s words, that he was Dame Alice’s heir, and would inherit everything. It would seem that, with no real prospects, Hugh would need to look for a far better marriage than his aunt’s tiring woman if he was to make his way in the world. Soon enough, Hamo would be old enough to come into his inheritance, to claim for his own the manor at Babestoche, as well as the manor now managed by Hugh. By then, Hugh would need to have married, and married well. Certes he could not afford news of a dalliance with Cecily, with a baby as proof, to come to the ears of either his aunt or his future wife. To what lengths might he go to keep that secret?

Hugh—or Cecily? Or were they in it together? Janna remembered the tiring woman’s tears of guilt and grief. She remembered also that Cecily had tried to care for Eadgyth as she lay dying, and had braved the priest’s wrath to watch her interred. She found it hard to believe a cold-blooded killer could be capable of such kindness as Cecily had shown. Nevertheless, the young woman hadn’t hesitated to lie when it suited her.

She would have to be careful, Janna thought. She’d made wrong judgments in the past, but if she got it wrong this time, her own death must surely follow. She could not afford to be careless. Fear and the need for secrecy lay at the heart of all that had happened, she understood that now. It was because of fear that Eadgyth had died. It was fear that might drive the killer to strike again. The key to the puzzle was Cecily and her unnamed lover. Was it Hugh? With all her heart, Janna wanted to believe the best about the man who had been so kind to her, but she let her heart rule her head at her peril. The poison had not got into the bottle by accident. Someone had put it there, someone who would stop at nothing to keep Cecily’s secret safe.

She held the bottle close to her eyes and looked through the thick glass, trying to put her whirling thoughts into order. She squinted at the distorted shapes that were the ruins of her home, and the view reflected how the world looked to her right now. If the bottle could only speak, it would tell her what she needed to know: the name of its owner.

The bottle stayed mute, but other voices spoke in Janna’s mind. She’d been focused on who had the knowledge, the wish and the opportunity for murder, but there was something else she needed to take into consideration in order to solve this mystery: the telltale gestures, the actions that revealed more than the speaker realized. Her heart quaked as she understood at last that there was someone else at the manor, someone with an even more urgent reason than Hugh to keep Cecily’s secret.

She lowered the bottle. Tendrils of fear twined and knotted her stomach. If her guess was right, not only did the killer want her dead, but he thought he’d already succeeded. Her safety depended on his continuing to believe it.

Yet she must go to the manor house one last time—she had to speak to Cecily. For her mother’s sake, for her own, and for Cecily’s, she had to establish that what she feared was, in fact, the truth. If she was right, it would mean that Cecily was in far more danger even than herself. But if she was wrong, and Cecily and her lover were in this together, then she would be walking into a trap—a trap that could end only in her death.

All Janna wanted was to flee to safety, but not if her safety was bought at the price of Cecily’s life. Not for anything would she have Cecily’s death on her conscience. So she must go, and quickly, for there was no time to lose. First, though, she would have to find something else to wear. She looked down at her kirtle, shredded from the fire and badly stained from her night’s rest in the forest. It would attract curious eyes and comments and she could not afford either, yet every other garment she owned had been destroyed.

Her tattered kirtle woke Janna to the danger she faced if anyone came looking for her. The villagers, too, had wanted her dead. They must all think they’d succeeded. She bent down and picked up her mother’s treasures, and hurried into the sheltering depths of the forest. Once safely concealed behind a large beech, she set down the box and bottle, and sat beside them to plan how she might locate a change of clothes.

“Janna!” The sound was like the howl of a wolf, a wild cry of desolation. With a gasp of fear, Janna flattened herself behind the tree and peeped cautiously around it. Godric was on his way up the hill. Had he seen her? He seemed to be looking her way. “Janna!” he shouted again, and turned in a slow circle to scan first the green downs and then the cottage and the forest.

Janna pressed closer to the sheltering tree. Truly, Godric looked distraught. His clothes and hair were unkempt; his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Or something else. As she watched, he scrubbed his face against his sleeve. Surely he could not be weeping?

Janna longed to go to him. She had so misjudged Godric; she desperately wanted to beg his forgiveness. Shame kept her hidden; shame and also caution. It would be for the best if everyone—even Godric—thought she was dead, or if not dead, then driven out and fled from her home. She tried to console herself with the thought that she and Godric hardly knew each other. He would forget her just as soon as some other comely young woman crossed his path, someone more deserving of his love, someone who would give him babies and make him happy. Someone who wasn’t an outcast: hated, feared and driven even to death.

Janna blinked back tears of self-pity, and continued to watch from her hiding place. Godric was now focused on the blackened ruins of the cottage. He walked among the debris, just as she had earlier. He was looking for something. He lingered for some moments beside the remains of the animal pen, carefully sifting through charred fragments of bones and feathers, before moving on into the remains of the cottage. There, he began a systematic search. He bent down time and again, now to move a blackened beam, now to sift through a pile of ash. Janna knew there were no bones for him to find, but she might have left footprints. She pressed closer to the tree, trying to become invisible.

Whatever Godric was looking for, he seemed pleased with the result for at the end of his inspection he stood up and looked around. It seemed to Janna that he stood taller; he seemed straighter, more confident. He called her name once more. His voice rang out loud and clear, startling a pair of blackbirds. They squawked and fluttered their wings before settling once more.

Janna pressed her hand hard against her mouth to stop herself from answering him. Godric must know now that she hadn’t died in the fire. She was touched by the change she’d observed in him, but reason told her there was no future for them, either in friendship or anything else. Godric was tied to the manor. He was not free to go wherever he chose, whereas she must flee the wrath of the villagers as well as the murderous intentions of those who feared her knowledge. She
had
to leave, had to flee as fast and as far from this place as possible. She felt a piercing shaft of sadness at the thought. Nevertheless, she longed to see him one last time, to say farewell and to thank him for his care and his concern.

A glance at her kirtle confirmed her decision. She didn’t want Godric to see her in rags, with her hair all but burnt to a stubble; she didn’t want this to be his last memory of her. So she stayed hidden, and listened while he began to search through the forest, all the while shouting her name. He was coming closer to her hiding place. Silent as a snake, she wriggled into a dense cover of leafy bushes and tall grass, stifling a cry as bare skin touched a patch of stinging nettles. She stayed hidden, and breathed a silent prayer of relief as he moved away in a different direction.

Godric’s cries grew fainter; she could no longer hear the crunch of leaves, the crackle of twigs under his boots. In the silence, birds began to chitter and sing once more. At last, when she was quite sure he had gone, Janna slid out from her bushy cover. She straightened cautiously. There was no sign of Godric, and no sound of him either. For the moment, she was safe.

She was also thirsty, so thirsty! She hurried down to the dewpond and cupped her hands into the water, splashing silver droplets as she drank. The ruffled surface gave her an idea, but she kept cupping her hands to drink until her thirst was slaked. She wiped her tattered sleeve across her mouth and waited until the water had stilled. She looked down at her reflection.

What a fright! Carefully, she washed the smut and ash from her face and hands before dipping her head into the pond to cleanse her sore, soot-blackened scalp. With water streaming down her face, blinding her, she raised a hand and fingered the long wet hanks of hair left among the singed stubble. She had no cap or veil to hide the bare patches and to leave it as it was invited ridicule and comment; she would have to cut her hair short, so that it was all of one length.

She drew the knife from her purse. Pressing her lips together to contain her distress, for she had been proud of her long, fair locks, she began to hack into them. As she cut, she remembered the admiration in Hugh’s dark eyes when first they’d met. He would not look at her again, not after this!