Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (17 page)

Observing the customers’ contentment, Janna thought it a shrewd move on the taverner’s part. She knew her brew was sweet, one of her best; they couldn’t help but enjoy it. Particularly if, as Ulf whispered to her in passing, they’d just come from Paradise!

A man in his middle age swept into the tavern, followed by a boy and an older man. Conversation came to a standstill as all eyes swiveled to observe the well-dressed newcomer. He carried himself with a lordly air, surveying the room in silence before selecting a table and drawing up a stool. Janna noted that his companion waited for his lord to be seated before sitting down himself. The man beckoned Sybil to him. Intrigued, Janna stopped what she was doing to watch.

“I’ll have a pitcher of your best ale, mistress,” he ordered. Sybil hastened away to fetch the ale herself, while Janna edged closer, unashamedly eavesdropping as the man began to question his underling. From what she could overhear of their conversation, it seemed that the underling was reporting on a property he was rebuilding. It also seemed that his lord was not at all satisfied with the progress he was making, for his tone was sharp and the underling kept shifting uncomfortably on his stool. The boy looked merely bored with the whole affair and stared boldly around the room. Janna was careful not to meet his glance, lest he accuse her of spying on them. Yet she was conscious of a nervous flutter of anticipation, for the man looked somehow familiar, while talk of rebuilding lent credence to a small and desperate hope that she was not mistaken.

Sybil placed the pitcher of ale and mugs in front of the lord with an ingratiating smile. After hesitating a moment to see if he would serve himself, she carefully poured ale into the mugs and stepped back, waiting for him to taste it.

He took a cautious sip, smacked his lips, and raised the mug for a long draft. “Your tavern was recommended to me,” he told Sybil, as he put the mug down and waited for a refill. “I can see my informant was right about the quality of the ale you serve here.” Janna stifled a smile. It seemed that Ulf had excelled himself when it came to spreading the word. Her ears pricked up as the man continued talking.

“I don’t normally drink ale unless there’s nothing else available.” He grimaced, perhaps in memory of inferior ale tasted elsewhere. He lifted the replenished mug to his mouth for another hearty swallow. “But this,” he said, as he lowered the mug once more, “this is how it ought to taste. This is how I remember it. Where did you learn to make ale like this, mistress?”

Janna stood stock-still, waiting for Sybil to reply, and perhaps to beckon her forward so she could take full credit for the brew. As she mulled over the significance of what she’d just heard, the flutter of hope, delicate as butterfly wings, grew into a whirlwind so strong she had to clutch onto the nearest table for support. She peered more closely at the lord.

His dark hair was lightly sprinkled with gray. He wore it long, and brushed into a fringe over his forehead in Norman fashion. As well, he sported both a beard and a mustache. He wore a long, pale blue tunic, elaborately embroidered at the neck and sleeves. Obviously a man of quality and style. Janna knew she had never seen him before, yet she was almost sure she knew who he was. She wished he would look at her, just for a few moments. What would she see if she looked into his eyes? But he was watching Sybil, leaning forward in anticipation of her answer.

The taverner clasped her hands and gave a saucy giggle. “’Tis an old family recipe, sire,” she said, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. Reading his thoughts through his reaction to Sybil’s news, Janna understood that the taverner might as well have saved herself the trouble of flirting with him. He blinked a couple of times, then slumped back onto his stool. He nudged the boy next to him. “Drink up, son,” he said, and drained the rest of his ale in one mighty swallow.

Janna snatched up a full jug of ale. She was about to offer him a refill, but one of their regular customers grabbed hold of her. He thumped down his empty mug and waited until she’d filled it to the brim before launching into a long and complicated story about his missing wife. “Always devoted to me and the children,” he rumbled, holding fast onto her sleeve lest she try to escape. “I can’t understand it. I just can’t.” And he went on then to tell Janna that his wife had last been seen visiting the blacksmith’s forge, “the one by the West Gate,” he said. He shook his head, downed the contents of his mug in one gulp, and held out the empty mug once more. “I can’t think why she’d go there when we don’t even own a horse!” he grumbled. “It’s not as though she needs a knife sharpened, or anything like that. I take care of that side of things. I keep everything in good repair. She’s never wanted for nothing, my wife. I’ve always taken good care of her too.”

Janna fretted impatiently, but he’d been a good customer in the past, albeit given to long monologues about everything from the weather, to his grievances over the troubles between the king and the empress, to the latest achievements of his young children. She knew she couldn’t shake him off now that they were so desperate for customers, not without risking a rebuke from Sybil, so she listened with half an ear while she watched the man and his son, and tried to learn what she could from her observation.

“But you’re a woman, so what do you think? Have they gone off together?”

“Eh?” Janna became aware that the customer was looking earnestly at her, waiting for her answer. Mentally, she kicked herself for not listening more closely, for she could see, now that she was attending to him, that he was in some distress and probably seeking comfort and reassurance from her.

“Because she didn’t take the children, and that’s not like her.”

Janna wondered what on earth he was talking about.

“The blacksmith!” he said impatiently. “And my wife?”

Janna gave herself a mental shake while she carefully considered her answer. “Where does your wife’s family live?” she ventured. “Could it be that she’s gone to visit them, and been delayed for some reason?”

An expression of great relief spread over the customer’s face. “That must be it!” he said, and banged the heel of his hand on his forehead as if to recall whether or not his wife had actually told him of her intentions. At last he let go of Janna, and shoved his empty mug in front of her again. “I need a drink,” he said.

Janna suppressed a sigh. As soon as she’d poured his ale, she stepped toward the strangers’ table, only to be brought up short when she saw that the stools were now unoccupied. At once she went to Ulf. “Did you notice two men and a boy sitting over there?” She waved a hand to indicate their position.

Ulf shrugged and shook his head. Janna tutted in annoyance. She hardly dared voice her hopes lest they come to nothing, but she couldn’t ignore what she’d just seen and heard either. Surely that was her father reminiscing over the taste of her mother’s ale! Or was she putting altogether too much importance on a recipe that her mother had taught her, which might well have been standard fare where her mother was born, and from where the traveler might also have originated? Quickly, she described the two men and the boy to Ulf. “Could you go after them, see if you can find them, see where their lodgings are?” she begged.

“Why on earth do you want me to follow three strangers?”

“I can’t tell you now, but it’s important. Hurry!” she urged. “Please,” she added as an afterthought, but Ulf was on his way out by then and didn’t hear her. Janna felt feverish with impatience and scolded herself for letting the party escape. What if Ulf couldn’t find them? The only comfort left to her was the knowledge that if the man had enjoyed the ale as much as he said he had, there was a good chance he would come back for another taste of it.

As she’d feared, Ulf eventually returned without news and full of apologies. “I’m sorry, lass. I looked everywhere for the men you described, but I didn’t see anyone like that. They might have gone into another tavern, or mebbe their lodgings, for I searched the streets up and down and there was nowt to see.” In spite of his failure, Ulf’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. Janna wondered what he’d found instead. She waited, half hoping, half dreading what she might hear.

“But?” she prompted at last.

Ulf could hardly contain his excitement. “But I told myself there must be a good reason you wanted me to follow them,” he said, and tapped the side of his nose. “So I went as far as your father’s estate. There’s summat different about it. A pile of stone, a new pile. I think someone’s about to start rebuilding.”

“A new pile of stone?” Janna’s heart gave a leap. “Will you go back tomorrow, see what you can find out?” she pleaded. “I’ll go myself as soon as Sybil gives me leave, but it’s hard for me to get away without a good excuse.”

“I will.” With an impish grin, Ulf swept her a sketchy bow. “Always glad to act as go-between for the son of a king and his daughter!”

Janna grinned back at him, feeling suddenly light-hearted. Mus, the troubles of the tavern – none of it seemed important now that she knew her father might be in Winchestre at last.

Her observation didn’t seem so fanciful now that she’d heard Ulf’s report. “You’re right about the man I sent you after. I’m almost sure he’s my father.” As she went on to explain her reasoning, Janna remembered Hugh’s promise. He’d said he’d make enquiries on her behalf, but he hadn’t been back to the tavern since she’d told him her news. Grateful that at least Ulf was looking out for her best interests, she made a final plea: “Will you continue to keep watch on the site for me, Ulf? And pray that I’m not mistaken.”

“I will.” Ulf beamed at her, reflecting her joy. “You’ve every reason to feel hopeful, Janna. I’ll certainly do all that I can to help you.”

“Thank you!” To show her gratitude, Janna refilled his mug with ale and also poured some into a pan for Brutus to slurp. She refused to take any coin in payment. Sybil could take it out of her wages if she wasn’t happy about it. But if she did, Janna would point out to the taverner that she owed thanks to Ulf for the customers who’d returned on the strength of his words of praise. That should be enough to guarantee Ulf free ale for at least a week.

Thereafter, Janna kept a closer eye on the customers than ever, and subjected Ulf to a desperate interrogation whenever she saw him. She tried to tell herself not to get her hopes too high, but inside she was coiled tight as twining bindweed, so desperate was she to see again the man who might be her father. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that she’d guessed right. And she made a solemn vow that, if he returned, he would not leave the tavern without first meeting his daughter. Whatever it cost in terms of her pride and his disbelief, she would tell him about her mother and herself. On that, Janna was entirely and utterly determined.

One thought bothered her. Her father had a wife and a family in Normandy, the steward had told her so. And in the tavern he’d called the boy accompanying him “son.” What would her half-brother think when she introduced herself to them? His father might not have told any of them about Eadgyth. It seemed certain that none knew of her own birth. She was a stranger to all of them. Would the boy see her as a usurper of his father’s affection, an older sister who might well become a threat to his own inheritance?

She must not expect to be welcomed with open arms. It saddened Janna to think that, in truth, she should allow for the fact that she might never be welcomed into her father’s family at all.

Janna woke to bright sunshine streaming through the kitchen window, and roused herself from her pallet. She stood and stretched, blinking sleepily against the shaft of light. Wat was still fast asleep, curled up like a squirrel. She walked over and gently shook him awake, prodding him with her foot when he grumpily turned over and relapsed into sleep. She wondered where Sybil could be. Normally the taverner woke them early, for there was always much to do before the doors opened to customers.

Janna hurried out into the yard to use the latrine. After washing her hands and face at the pump, she went to the tavern. Ossie was stretched out on his straw pallet, snoring, and Janna hastened up the stairs to fetch Sybil without disturbing him. But Sybil’s bed was empty.

Puzzled, Janna went downstairs again and out to the brew house, the only other place where Sybil might be. She gave the door a push, but it caught and wouldn’t open fully. Feeling the first stirring of unease, Janna pushed harder. When it still didn’t budge, she peered around the door to see what was blocking it.

“Mistress!” She clutched at her heart, breathless with shock. Not wasting any more time, she edged through and fell on her knees beside the taverner. Sybil lay face down. Her veil was stained red from the bloody wound on the back of her head. Fearing the worst, Janna snatched up her wrist and felt for a pulse, as Sister Anne had shown her how to do at the abbey. She found nothing, and her panic grew until, suddenly, her questing fingertips sensed something. She pressed harder and felt the faint palpitation that told her Sybil’s heart was still beating.

“Mistress Taverner!” she said urgently, and gently patted Sybil’s cheek, hoping to rouse her. But the woman stayed limp and still, locked in the dark night of the unconscious. Janna reassured herself that at least she was alive. She gently removed the blood-stained veil to reveal the wound on the back of Sybil’s head. Blood matted her hair, but when Janna parted the strands to examine the full extent of the damage, Sybil moaned pitifully and began to thrash about and try to turn over.

“Shh,” Janna soothed her. “You’re safe now, you’re safe. I’ll look after you.” Not daring to try to move the taverner on her own, she patted her back to reassure and comfort her. After a few moments Sybil lapsed back into a swoon.

Janna didn’t dare examine the wound again, for fear that Sybil might harm herself if she felt that she was threatened. She’d seen no fragments of bone mixed in with the blood, which led her to believe that the skull hadn’t been crushed and therefore the wound was not mortal. She sat, stunned by what had happened, and overcome with remorse.

This was all her fault. She should have known Mus would come back to finish what he’d started. She should have warned Sybil to be on her guard, lest she be mistaken for Janna. Their clothing was similar, dressed as they were in homespun tunics and aprons, and with their hair covered by a veil. True, she was slightly taller than Sybil, but someone coming from behind could easily have mistaken the one for the other. Someone like Mus. But reproaches and blame would have to wait; it was more important now to attend to Sybil. She rose to her feet and went to summon Ossie and Wat.

To her relief, she found Elfric also in the kitchen, and quickly explained to the horrified trio what had happened, and what she needed. “Two long poles with a bed sheet tied between,” she told them. “Sybil can’t walk, so you need to fashion a litter and carry her up to her bedchamber. I’ll gather together some medicaments to treat her wound.” A lotion of water betony and sanicle for cleansing, she thought, and a healing paste. Plus something to ease the pain and help Sybil sleep, for sleep was the best remedy of all.

While she kept watch over Sybil and waited for Ossie and Elfric to bring the litter, she looked about the brew house for the weapon. There were several possibilities, but nothing bore any of the signs she was looking for: blood and hair. Not a thief taking a chance on what he could find, then, but a premeditated attack. Whoever was responsible had come prepared, and had taken the weapon away with him afterward.

Mus, she thought. It all came back to him. But how to prove it? She prowled around the brew house, this time looking for anything that could tie Sybil’s injury to Mus. But all was neat and in place; there’d been no pot or pan throwing, nor were there any signs of a fight.

Janna knelt and checked Sybil’s hands and under her fingernails for traces of skin or hair, anything that might point to the identity of her attacker. She even inspected Sybil’s boots, but finally came to the conclusion that Mus must have escaped unmarked for it was obvious that Sybil had been taken completely by surprise. She’d had no chance to scratch or kick or bite him. He must have crept up behind her, mistaking her for Janna, and felled her with a single blow. She walked outside the brew house to look about, to see if the villain had left any trace of his visit.

Her search seemed hopeless. Customers regularly passed by on their way to the latrine. There were wet patches everywhere, puddles of piss, and spits and spats of vomit. She inspected the midden where scraps from the kitchen were deposited: rotting vegetables, skin, fur, feathers and offal all added to the stink, but yielded nothing of interest. Janna looked, and grimaced with distaste, and went back into the brew house.

As she tried to fathom the reasoning behind the attack, she felt increasingly uncomfortable. She didn’t like where her thoughts were taking her at all: that the would-be assassin might well return to make sure he’d succeeded. It was a great relief when Ossie and Elfric finally appeared with the litter, accompanied by an anxious Wat. With Janna’s help, they bore Sybil carefully upstairs, and eased her off the litter and onto the bed.

With Sybil resting safely, Janna hurried off to fetch what was already made up and to prepare what else she needed. How fortunate that she’d already put her plan into action and so had some medicaments to hand. Her first task was to persuade the half-conscious woman to sit up and sip some poppy syrup to dull the pain, after which she cleansed and medicated the wound, and bound it with a strip of clean linen.

“Don’t worry about anything, mistress,” Janna reassured her, as she helped Sybil lie down once more. “We’ll take care of the tavern and the customers. You just rest here and get well.” She hesitated; she was anxious to question Sybil, but didn’t want to upset her. But her fears for all their safety needed to be addressed.

“Did you see who did this to you?” she asked.

Sybil lay quietly with her eyes closed. Janna wondered if she was out of her senses once more, or merely asleep. She was about to creep out of the room when she heard a faint sigh, an exhalation that might even have been a word.

“No?” Janna queried quickly. “Did you say no?”

Sybil licked her lips and tried to push herself up on the bed.

“Lie still!” Janna commanded. She waited a moment or two, and then questioned her again. “Do you have any idea who might have attacked you?”

“No.” This time the answer was quite definite. “He must have come…from behind…and quietly…because I didn’t see anything.” Sybil’s face screwed up in painful thought. She shook her head, and winced. “Nothing,” she said faintly.

“Do you know anyone with a grudge against you who might have done this?” She held her breath, hoping against reason that Sybil might have been the intended target after all.

Sybil’s breath escaped in a puff of bitter amusement. “There’s plenty would like to see me go down.”

“Can you give me a name?”

Sybil shook her head once more, grimaced with the pain, and closed her eyes.

Ebba? One of the alewives? Or the merchant, Alan? Janna couldn’t rule any of them out.

“You must rest now,” she advised. “And you mustn’t worry. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

As Janna went about the business of the tavern, questions looped through her mind. The memory of the tainted ale and the mouse pie gave her some hope that she’d read the situation wrongly; that the attack on Sybil might have been motivated by a rival after all. But a deep disquiet soon overrode that faint thread of comfort. Mus was burning for revenge. Twice he’d fumbled an attempt on her life. What was he thinking now? That he had finally succeeded? Fear churned her guts to water.

Soon enough, he’d find out he’d picked the wrong target. And then he’d come back for another try – and this time he would take the greatest care not to fail. Briefly, passionately, Janna wished that Wat had killed Mus when he’d had the chance. She vowed to finish him off if given the opportunity. Meanwhile, she cautioned herself not to go anywhere on her own, not even out to the water meadows or to her father’s estate.

She wasted no time in drawing Wat and Ossie to one side as soon as she re-entered the tavern. “Say nothing of what’s happened to Sybil to anyone,” she ordered. “We don’t want customers to think this tavern is hexed.”

The two nodded in agreement. Janna felt ashamed that her instruction was more for her own protection than Sybil’s safety, although her reasoning was sound enough. She knew, from past experience, how quickly people would take fright if there was any question of the devil’s hand in anything. “Back to work,” she said briskly, and moved off to put her words into action. “I’ll also warn Elfric to guard his tongue. Meanwhile, we’ll be busy enough without Mistress Sybil here to help us.”

With no taverner to keep an eagle eye on her, Janna felt free to sit briefly with Ulf when the relic seller swung into the tavern just after dinnertime.

“You’re earlier than usual,” Janna greeted him, thinking he looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he sank down onto a stool and settled Brutus beside him. “Do you have news?” She could do with something to cheer her spirits.

“Better than that!” Ulf beamed at her. Slowly, he unhitched his pack from his shoulder, opened it and delved inside.

Janna watched him on tenterhooks, hating how he teased her when he knew she was on fire with curiosity. “What have you got in there?” she demanded.

With maddening slowness, he withdrew something from his pack. He held it up in front of her, but she couldn’t see what it was because the object was hidden inside his closed fist. She thought she was going to burst with impatience.

“Show me!” She jabbed her knuckles into his arm, only half in jest.

One by one, his fingers uncurled to reveal a silver brooch studded with multicolored gemstones. Janna recognized it immediately. She didn’t need to look because she already knew what was there, but couldn’t resist snatching it up and turning it over to read the inscription on the back.
Amor vincit omnia
. Love conquers all.

“Where did you find this?” she breathed. She turned it over once more and stroked it gently, just to reassure herself that her father’s gift to her mother had really come back to her.

“One of the merchants in the high street had it out on display and I recognized it.” Ulf’s high good humor momentarily deserted him. “I don’t know if he took it from you in the first place, but I turned over the rest of his goods in case he also had your father’s ring and letter. But there was nowt else. I questioned him, but he told me only that he’d bought it from a chapman at a good price. He said the chapman told him he was selling his wares off cheap because he needed a cash sum in a hurry to pay off a debt. It may be true, but it’s more likely the chapman was keen to offload stolen goods. I questioned the merchant about the chapman and his wares, and described your father’s ring with the royal crest. He said he knew nowt about it, but I’m not sure I believe him. ’Tis certain he did well out of the deal, however it came about. And at least I’ve found this for you, lass.”

“And I do thank you, Ulf!” Janna threw her arms around the relic seller, and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “But…” Her delight rapidly faded. She wished that she’d kept the coins Sybil had given her, instead of now having just the few farthings she had saved from her wage. She slipped her fingers into the small pocket in her apron and brought them out. “I only have these to pay you for the cost of buying the brooch back for me. But I’ll save my wages to repay you, I promise.”

“Put them away,” Ulf said, while a mischievous grin tweaked his mouth.

“I can’t let you pay good money on my behalf,” Janna protested, still holding out the small cut coins.

“I didn’t.” Ulf’s grin widened.

“So, how did you – ”

“I showed him my collection of relics,” Ulf interrupted. “I swapped the brooch for the finger bone of Saint Giles himself!”

“But…” Janna didn’t know what to say. She was well aware that Ulf purchased some of his relics in good faith, and probably paid good coin for them. She hated the idea of being so much in his debt for something so valuable.

“Don’t worry your head about paying me back, Janna. I found a dead squirrel in the woods some while ago, and I kept some of its bones for emergencies.” Ulf twinkled at her as he continued. “I also suggested to the merchant that he pray to St Giles not to lead him into temptation in the future. I think he’s taken my warning seriously.”

Janna shook her head in reproof, but with a broad smile on her face. “I don’t want to know any more about it,” she told him, “but I am truly grateful to you, Ulf.” She slipped both the brooch and the coins into her pocket.

“You must keep it safer than that.” Ulf fished into his pack once more and brought out a small leather purse, somewhat battered looking but still quite sound. “Tie this under your tunic,” he advised, as he held it out to Janna. “Keep your treasures safe.”

Janna hesitated.

“This is a gift,” Ulf told her sternly. “Just thank me and do as I say.”

“Thank you, Ulf.” Janna pocketed the purse until such time as she had the privacy to stash away her reclaimed treasure.

“I still wouldn’t risk putting the brooch in your pocket,” Ulf advised. “Any sneak thief can pick a pocket in a crowded tavern, Janna. Pin it to your tunic for the while. It’ll be safer out in the open.”

Understanding the truth of Ulf’s words, Janna did as she was bid. She knew it would look strange having such a fine object pinned to a drab tunic, but she took pride in her possession and touched it lovingly, feeling comforted and closer to her mother than she had since her purse had been stolen.