Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (9 page)

The sun was already up when Janna awoke. A beam of light slanted through the window slit, brightening the room and warming her face. Joyously, she sprang from her bed to greet the day.

Memory struck her with the force of a body blow. She crumpled back onto the straw pallet, holding her stomach and gasping with the pain of it. Not for one moment would she accept that her mother had been poisoned by one of her own potions. So who could have given the poison to her, and why did her mother not recognize it for what it was? Surely she would have known the truth when she was dying. Why did she not speak out?

Perhaps she did! Janna tried to recall Cecily’s words. Eadgyth had complained of feeling cold. Numb. She’d had difficulty speaking, but had called for a monk. Why?

Cold. Numb. Janna searched her memory for her mother’s instructions on the herbs she used, particularly her warnings about poisonous plants. Hemlock was one. It caused paralysis and loss of sight, but Cecily hadn’t said anything about her mother going blind.

Deadly nightshade? Her mother sometimes ground the tiniest portion of the plant into a powder to relieve a toothache. Janna knew there’d been no call for such a remedy recently, so it was unlikely that she’d had it to hand—but others might. The plant was common enough, and most people would know that it could be dangerous. If too much was ingested, rapid breathing was followed by convulsions and death. Not nightshade then. Cecily hadn’t mentioned anything about panting or fits. She’d said her mother had complained of feeling cold. Numb. And she was vomiting. Cecily had said she could barely speak, but it seemed she’d stayed conscious until the end.

The spice merchant’s face flickered into Janna’s mind. Why was he important? He’d had a whole selection of herbs and spices on display, some of them exotic substances she’d never seen before, but which were on sale to any who could afford them. Could her mother have been poisoned by something like that up at the manor house; something unfamiliar and therefore dangerous?

The only substance the spice merchant had warned about was his rubbing oil. Aconite was common enough. Prized for its pretty blue flowers, it grew in gardens everywhere. Most people would know its poisonous properties, although they would be more likely to call the plant by its common name: wolfsbane or monkshood.

Monkshood! It caused numbness of the face and tongue, making speech difficult. It also caused nausea and severe pain, leading to death. Eadgyth hadn’t called for a monk at all. She was trying to tell someone she’d been poisoned!

Anguish jerked Janna upright, and she cried out as she recalled how she’d gone into the forest, how she’d been so afraid of the boar that she’d grabbed at the strawberries and stuffed them into her purse. Had she been so hasty that she’d also pulled off bits of the poisonous plants growing alongside them, not noticing what she was doing in the darkness of the night? Her mother might well have eaten the fruits that were left over from the potion, not knowing that she was also swallowing bits of the monkshood that grew close by.

In her mind, Janna had accused everyone but herself. Now, she was faced with the knowledge that she alone was responsible for her mother’s death. Time and again Eadgyth had warned her of the need to be careful; warned her that she should never underestimate the power of the herbs they used. Now her mother had died as a result of her carelessness.

Janna didn’t know how it was possible to feel so much pain and fear, and still be able to breathe. She jumped up from the pallet and rushed over to the shelf that held Eadgyth’s medicaments. Her hands shook as she began a desperate search for any sign of the strawberries or the potion that may have contained them.

A new horror forced itself into Janna’s consciousness. Her mother’s important visitor! Had she also taken poison along with the strawberry mixture? Was she also lying dead somewhere?

Janna almost dropped jars and dishes in her haste to open stoppers and sniff the contents. Some she tasted before setting them aside to continue her search. Her heart gave a sudden lurch as she spied a rough earthenware dish pushed toward the back of the shelf. It contained several small, ripe strawberries. Janna inspected them carefully. Their bruised and torn flesh bore testimony to the haste in which they’d been collected and bundled into her purse. Yet they were quite clean, sitting in a small puddle of water that indicated they’d been washed.

Relief swept over her, leaving her feeling dizzy. She sagged onto a stool, blinking back tears of gratitude. Her mother had washed the strawberries before using them. Of course she had! How many times had Janna witnessed that very act, the careful washing of all roots, leaves, flowers, seeds, fruits and nuts she’d gathered. Her mother had always insisted on it.

Nothing took away from the fact that her mother had been poisoned, though, and not by anything unfamiliar either. Monkshood! Why had her mother not recognized its taste after the first mouthful, and taken steps to protect herself?

Janna poured a beaker of ale to break her fast. The first mouthful reminded her of the ale she’d supped at the alehouse, and how she’d wondered why it tasted slightly different from their own. What if that ale had contained poison and she knew not how ale should taste? She might well have drunk it down and died as a result. Was that what had happened to her mother: that the taste of the poison had been masked by something else? Janna sniffed the ale, then took a cautious sip. It smelled the same, and tasted as it always did. She quickly slaked her thirst and ate the remaining strawberries. Feeling somewhat more composed, she raked her fingers through her long hair to tidy it, then walked to the door and opened it.

“Alfred!” she called, expecting to find the cat waiting for her, miaowing and hungry. There was no sign of him, so Janna stepped outside to look around. “Alfred!” she bellowed, startling a woodlark. Its sweet trilling ended abruptly, replaced by the fluttering of wings as it flew away.

A glimpse of something hanging from a tree in the distance caught her eye. The dark shape shifted and changed as she watched. For a moment she stared at it, not fully comprehending what she was seeing. As her brain finally made sense of the image, she let out a long, ragged cry and began to run.

Alfred was tied to the tree, the cord looped around the tree trunk several times so that he was stretched out as if crucified. His limbs were stiff, and his fur was stained with blood. A swarm of flies buzzed around him, grouping and regrouping as they searched for wounds to feed on. Frantic, Janna brushed them away.

She saw that Alfred’s throat had been cut. He must have died sometime during the night. She began to shiver. Her teeth chattered as she forced herself to touch her pet. The cat’s fur was matted and sticky. The flies she’d disturbed buzzed around her in a thick black cloud and then settled once more on Alfred’s body. Looking down, Janna saw that she’d stepped into a puddle of blood that lay directly beneath the dead animal. Her thoughts splintered into fragments of grief as she tried to come to terms with Alfred’s fate.

It seemed clear that he had been killed right here, next to the tree, and then strung up straight away. She looked at the smudged footprints around the dark red puddle congealing underneath the cat’s body. Her own, or did some of them belong to whoever was responsible for Alfred’s death?

Janna examined them carefully; the prints of her own small boots were superimposed on prints made by other, larger boots. Whose? It was impossible to tell. Staining a patch of leaves nearby was another splatter of dark red blood. Head bent, Janna traversed the ground in a widening semicircle around the cat, searching for signs of disturbance. The path to their cottage bore the faint marks of boots: hers and her mother’s, and probably their visitors too: the groom from Babestoche Manor, Fulk and Godric.

She looked back to where she’d found the cat, some twenty paces away. Had the killer first cut Alfred’s throat, and then looked for a tree from which to hang the dead body so that it would be the first thing Janna saw when she walked out of the cottage? Suddenly anxious, Janna swung around to scan the forest in case the killer was still lurking somewhere nearby. She could hear only the churring of turtle doves as they puffed and preened in the warmth of the sun.

Dry-mouthed, trying not to panic, Janna hurried back to Alfred and began to wrestle with the tight knot around his neck. As she tugged and pulled at it, tears ran down her face. She was crying for the kitten with the will to live, who had struggled so hard to survive. The cat would have had no chance against a man with a knife in his hand, and hatred in his heart. Who could have done such a thing? Who could have anything to gain from Alfred’s death?

Godric! The thought was sudden and shocking, and Janna immediately tried to push it out of her mind. It would not go away. Yet she couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Could he really be so cruel? Surely it wasn’t possible! Yet the evidence hung before her, grisly and gory and only too real. Who else could have done such a thing, if not Godric? He had visited her in the night, had held her tight and offered help and comfort. And instead of being grateful, she’d flung his kindness back in his face and made it quite clear that she wouldn’t consider him for a husband.

Had he taken out his anger on Alfred? Janna remembered how he’d nudged the animal aside with his boot, and how he’d slit the boar’s throat without even blinking. Perhaps, like the villagers, he believed Alfred was the devil and that it would be wise to kill him. Tears almost blinded Janna as she tugged and pulled at the knots binding her cat, but a new thought filled her with a scalding anger. With such an act, did Godric think to frighten her out of the cottage and into his arms? She would rather scratch out his eyes! How could he have done such a thing to a defenseless animal? She would never forgive him—never!

Unable to vent her anger on Godric, she fought with the knot instead, until finally she managed to untie Alfred and bring him down from the tree. She laid the body carefully on the ground and went off to fetch a spade to dig a grave.

When she returned, a sudden thought made her pause: Should she save the body as evidence, in case she could call down justice on Godric’s head? She leaned on the spade while she reasoned it out. To whom could she report this crime? Godric’s liege lord would not punish him for the killing, not if it came down to Godric’s word against her own. The villagers certainly wouldn’t support her; she was an outcast, and they thought the cat was the devil. No doubt they would agree with Godric that it was better dead than alive. No, it seemed to Janna that if she wanted justice, both for the death of her mother and for Alfred, she would have to find it in her own way.

Starting with Alfred. She didn’t need his body to challenge Godric. He would know what she was talking about—and she would make him suffer in every way she could. She began to dig, attacking the earth with angry jabs as she thought of how she might make Godric pay for what he had done.

She had cried all the tears she could cry. Now she felt achingly empty and sad. And angry. Her anger added iron to her backbone and gave her the strength to do what had to be done. She rubbed her cheek against Alfred’s soft fur, then tenderly laid him down into the hole she had dug. The cat stared up at her, his wide eyes clouded now by death. Janna leaned down and gently closed them. She stroked Alfred’s black fur one last time, then covered him over with damp, dark earth. As a last gesture, she gathered up some late bluebells and red poppies to brighten the grave. So, too, would she find something to place on the grave of her mother.

Her mother! Janna straightened hastily and scanned the sky, noticing the sun’s position. By now her mother’s body would be lying in the church, probably unguarded and certainly unmourned. Janna knew it was up to her to see that her mother was washed, anointed and prepared for burial with the proper rites. Although she shrank from the task, it was her duty. But first and foremost, she wanted to keep vigil beside her mother’s body, to ask for her forgiveness, and to pray for God’s grace to go with her mother on this, her final journey. She ran inside to wash her dirty hands then snatched up a basket into which she placed leaves of soapwort and a jar of oil scented with roses, and hurried outside again.

Her mother’s livelihood had come from the herbs and flowers that she cherished, so it was only fitting she have some on her grave for her last journey. Janna made a careful selection: poppies and creamy purple pansies for consolation and loving thoughts; they would also provide a splash of bright color to mark her mother’s final resting place. And last, a healthy sprig of rosemary to mark forever what was in her heart. Regretting that she hadn’t left earlier, Janna set off at a run through the fields toward the village.

Although the sun was shining just as it had the day before, this time she could take no comfort from its warmth. Everything seemed black, full of shadows; her heart was full of anger and despair. She hurried on, not pausing to draw breath or ease the pain in her side, until she came at last to the small stone church in the center of Berford. She raced inside, pausing only to cross herself before looking about.

There was no sign of her mother’s body. As Janna bent over, trying to catch her breath and ease the stabbing pain in her side, the light from the open door was blocked by the batwing form of the priest. He advanced on her.

“Johanna,” he said. His narrow face was closed and hostile. Janna instinctively recoiled. “Your mother’s body lies outside, beyond the pale. You must go outside the churchyard walls if you wish to say your last farewells to her.”

“Beyond the pale?” Janna could hardly speak for horror.

“I cannot bury your mother in consecrated ground. You remember, I am sure, what happened the last time you and your mother came to church.”

Yes, Janna remembered only too well. The trouble with the priest had started as soon as he was appointed to the new church at Berford. She and her mother had attended his first service. Before the church was built, a preaching cross had served as a place of worship as well as being a focus for the exchange of news and gossip. An old priest had come regularly from Wiltune to hold a mass in the open air. Gentle and mild, he had welcomed them all and had happily absolved them from sin and given them his blessing every month. But at the new priest’s first service, he had gazed around his small congregation, taking their measure. It seemed he had taken the trouble to find out about his parishioners, for his gaze lingered longest on Eadgyth.