Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (2 page)

Ulf was already scanning the crowded street with narrowed eyes, looking for anything untoward, anyone skulking about and trying to hide, or hastening away lest guilt be detected. Janna remembered how casually she had opened her purse to find a coin for the orphans. Had their guardian been watching, deciding even then to help himself to more? Or had someone else been tempted by the bulging purse, thinking there were riches for the picking inside? If so, they would be sadly disappointed, for in truth Janna had already spent much of what she’d been given, both by a grateful Emma for saving her lover’s life, and by Robert, Earl of Gloucestre, as a reward for her part in unmasking the bishop’s treachery. The treasures left in her purse were, for the most part, of value only to her.

And now they were gone! A shroud of misery enveloped Janna. Too stunned even to cry, she wrapped her arms around her body and hugged herself for comfort, to keep herself from flying apart. She had nothing left; nothing to live on or to live for. Nothing to give meaning to her life. The thief had taken less than he thought, but far more than he knew.

Ulf touched her arm. “What can I do to help?”

Dumbly, Janna shook her head.

His mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’ll keep my eyes open and spread the word,” he promised. “Sooner or later that whoreson will be tempted to sell your father’s ring, or the brooch.” He smacked his hands together, a sound so loud that Janna jumped. “Then we’ll have him!”

Janna sighed. It was a slim chance, but a chance nevertheless. But there were far more pressing problems to deal with now. Somehow she must find a way through, find the strength to carry on.

“Don’t mind how you look, lass,” Ulf said bracingly, understanding something of her dilemma. “Let’s be getting on to your father’s manor and pray that he’s arrived at last.” He eyed Janna thoughtfully. “Even if he hasn’t, you must ask that steward to prepare a room for you, for I doubt the good sisters of St Mary’s will house and feed you if you can’t pay your way.”

“No!” Janna shuddered at the thought of Warin. “I’m not staying with that dreadful old man if my father’s not there. I won’t!” Perhaps she could persuade the sisters at St Mary’s to let her stay in return for her help in the infirmary. She shook her head, knowing it was unlikely. While she’d lived at Wiltune Abbey she had come under the guidance of the infirmarian there, putting into practice the ancient healing skills she had learned from her mother, as well as the knowledge of medicine that Sister Anne had taught her. These skills she had offered to the infirmarian at St Mary’s Abbey when she’d first arrived, but her help had been rejected. The infirmarian and her assistant were protective of their demesne and guarded it jealously from outsiders. There was no room for her in the abbey’s infirmary, just as there’d be no room in the guest house either if she had not the coin to pay for it. She closed her eyes, fighting tears.

“Don’t worry, lass. We can make a plan, but it might not come to that if your father’s here.” In spite of his reassuring words, Ulf’s expression was troubled as they turned into Alwarene Street.

“Perhaps we should call in to St Peter’s and ask for help?” Janna suggested, as they passed a small church.

“You could pray to St Anthony or St Jude.”

Janna lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“Patron saint of lost things. Or lost causes. Take your pick.”

“Lost things, yes, but not lost causes, thank you!” Janna considered for a moment. “I’d rather pray for a pox to take the villain who stole my purse!”

“In that case, I don’t know who you should ask.” Ulf’s troubled frown smoothed into a grin as he cupped her elbow with his hand and hurried her on. “The church says nowt about vengeance – not for the likes of us, any road.”

But vengeance was what Janna wanted. Her blood surged hot at the thought of her stolen possessions and, as she reflected on why she needed her father’s help, her rage intensified. Her mother had been poisoned, and by a man who was so far above them in status that Janna had been unable to name him. Instead, she had seen her mother buried in unhallowed ground, denigrated and scorned by the villagers and their priest, while the murderer walked free. But she would bring him to justice. She would! She would shame him before everyone. Somehow she must convince her father that she was his unknown daughter, and persuade him to act on her behalf.

They were nearing the imposing door of her father’s house. Janna’s hands trembled as she tried to smooth her hair and dust herself down, while Ulf tugged the bell pull.

“Yes?” The same portly personage with the fringe of gray hair opened the door to them. “Oh, it’s you again,” he said, and gave an incredulous sniff as he caught a whiff of Janna’s gown. “Sire John has not yet arrived from Normandy,” he continued, repeating what he’d told them in the past. He was already closing the door when Janna cleared her throat.

“We wish to see Master Warin,” she said, her voice trembling.

The doorkeeper looked them up and down.

“Now!” Ulf insisted. Beside him, Brutus growled.

Reluctantly, the doorkeeper stepped aside, and once more escorted them through the hall to a room at the back, the scriptorium where the steward carried out his work on her father’s behalf. Janna wondered how long they’d be kept waiting this time. Warin seemed to have any number of hiding places, including the orchard where they’d once found him half asleep. He’d been thoroughly disgruntled at being disturbed, even after being told that his lord’s daughter wished to make her father’s acquaintance. Janna wondered how he managed to conduct any business at all when his manner was so surly and disobliging, and when he seemed to spend so little time on his legitimate duties.

She began to prowl around the scriptorium, searching for anything that looked like a letter, just in case one had come from her father, John. A thought struck her. She’d been given his name: Johanna. Would that be proof enough?

Janna shook her head, knowing it was unlikely. She continued to search through the pages of parchment piled upon the table, picking through the numerous accounts and receipts among them. She scanned the pages, taking note of the huge quantities of wool and other goods listed there. They must come from some great estate out in the country somewhere, for this manor here in Winchestre was not nearly large enough to be other than a residence and collection point. It seemed that the steward conducted a thriving business on her father’s behalf – when he could be bothered.

“What do you think you are doing?” Warin hobbled forward, disapproval carved in every line on his face as he snatched the sheets of parchment from Janna’s hands. “Your father’s affairs are not your concern. Only I am privy to this information.” He glared at her, his expression turning even more sour as his gaze swept down her gown and he smelled its pungent aroma.

“My father is still not here, then?” Janna kept her voice steady with an effort, unwilling to show the steward how needy and despairing she felt.

“No.” Warin shot a nervous glance at Brutus. “I told you before to keep your dog on a lead,” he told Ulf, in a show of bravado.

Ulf ignored him. “We’re tired of waiting,” he said sternly. “In fact, we’re wondering if Mistress Johanna’s message was ever sent to Normandy at all.”

“Of course it was!” The steward puffed out his skinny chest, indignant at having his word questioned. “Indeed it was. I sent one of my men straightaway to Southampton with it.”

“Which ship did he travel on?”

“The…” Warin gulped. “The…er…the
Marie Louise
.”

“Has the messenger returned?”

“Yes. Yes, he has. Just a few days ago.”

“But your master didn’t come with him?”

“No.” Warin eyed Brutus, and looked quickly away. “The message did go, I swear it. Roger took it, and he handed it over on his arrival at your father’s demesne. He told me so, and I have no reason to doubt his word. It is not my fault if your father does not wish to answer your summons.” A spiteful smile curved his mouth. “Perhaps he does not believe your claim?”

“Send for the messenger,” Ulf said quickly, noting Janna’s stricken expression. “We would like a few words with him, if you please.”

Warin heaved a martyred sigh and hobbled to the door. He was gone some time, but finally reappeared with a young man in tow. He was hardly older than Janna, being some nineteen or twenty summers all told. His bright brown eyes brimmed with a friendly curiosity as he inspected her. He took a couple of disbelieving sniffs.

“This is Roger,” Warin said curtly.

“You took my message to Normandy, Roger?” Janna asked.

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

“You took it to my father’s manor?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And you saw my father?” Janna couldn’t hide her eagerness – or her disappointment when Roger shook his head.

“No, my lady.”

“But you were told to take the message to my father!” Janna looked angrily from Roger to Warin. “Didn’t you tell him that?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I did,” the steward said.

The youth’s bright demeanor had vanished, replaced now with a wary sullenness as he realized he was in trouble. “I asked to speak to Sire John, but the dame, his wife, said that he was absent on business. So I gave the message to her instead.”

“Blanche?” Janna was horrified. “You gave the message to Dame Blanche?”

The youth nodded.

“And what did she say?”

“I understood none of it, for the dame spoke in the language of the Normans. She talked to her steward, and he told me to wait. So I did, in case there was a message to bring back to you. But after a time, the steward told me there was no reply and I could leave.”

No reply? Had the message ever reached her father? Or did “no reply” mean he might come to England and see for himself the young woman who claimed to be his daughter? This thought cheered Janna slightly, as did the one that followed: Her father might well have to settle affairs on his estate in Normandy before he could make the crossing to England. But what was she to do in the meantime, while she waited for him to come?

“Thank you, Roger.” Janna wished she had a coin to reward the young man for his trouble. Even more, she wished that the message had fallen into her father’s hands instead of going to Dame Blanche. Had she read Janna’s message? Would she have passed it on to her husband if she understood Janna’s claim?

The youth bobbed his head again and scuttled quickly away, his beaming smile betraying his relief that he wasn’t in trouble after all. Janna shot a glance at Warin. She could not, would not, cast herself on the steward’s mercy.

“We’ll return in a few days,” she said curtly, and gestured to Ulf that it was time to leave.

“I shall look forward to your visit,” Warin replied softly. Janna sensed the malicious satisfaction that lurked beneath his words.

Ulf whistled to Brutus, and together they left the scriptorium and passed through the door into the street outside.

“Toad!”

Ulf gave Janna a sympathetic grin. “If you won’t seek shelter here, where will you go instead?”

Janna had no answer. The future seemed unbelievably bleak. She had no choice but to wait for her father, and hope that he would come to England. But for now, her most important task must be to work out how she might survive until her father’s arrival.

“What will you do, where will you go, until your father arrives?” Ulf asked again. They had gone back to the Bell and Bush to discuss Janna’s future, and had managed to find a couple of stools in a corner where they could sit and talk in comfort. Ulf had ordered a pitcher of ale, and now he poured some into their mugs.

Janna took a disconsolate sip. “I don’t know,” she confessed. She should make the most of the ale, and the most of Ulf’s company, for after this she would be on her own and forced to beg for bread and shelter. Anxiety churned her stomach; she felt ill with it. Seeking distraction, she looked about.

The Bell and Bush was far more modest in size than the taverns at the West Gate, which were strategically placed for visitors to Winchestre, but Sybil Taverner kept a respectable house that was well regarded for the quality of the food, wine and ale served there. Being close to the East Gate, and to the fairground atop the hill of St Giles, the tavern was particularly busy at this time of year. Packmen, merchants and traders alike had crowded in with eager expressions on their faces, for the taverner had rung the bell that signified there was a new brew on tap and gave the establishment the first part of its name. The second part of the name came from the sign that helped all travelers identify a place that served ale: a green bush affixed to a pole outside the door.

Janna had been in Winchestre long enough to know that the tavern was greatly resented by other alewives, who believed Sybil Taverner was taking away their customers. The most prosperous alehouses, owned by those who complained loudest, were Heaven, Hell and Paradise. These were situated on the high street close to the cathedral and were especially handy for customers on the way to and from their devotions or their shopping. But Janna preferred to meet Ulf at the Bell and Bush, for it was slightly more salubrious than the alehouses up the high street and the ale was of better quality. Or so Ulf said.

Trying to take her mind off her troubles by identifying its flavoring, Janna took a sip of ale. She swilled the liquid around her mouth, identifying the various herbs the taverner had put in the gruit, for it was different from the brew she and her mother used to make. Rosemary, alecost and sweet gale. She could recognize those, all right, for sometimes she’d used them herself, perhaps with elderflowers or wormwood. She wondered why the taverner didn’t add wild hops to the mix. True, they gave a slightly bitter flavor, but the ale was more thirst-quenching in hot weather. More importantly, the hops helped to preserve the brew and keep it fit for drinking.

Janna took another sip. This was a pleasant combination, but when brewing their own ale, Janna, on her mother’s instruction, had always added a particular herb to the barley mash, one with a distinctive flavor and a special purpose.

“The ancients believed that sage was a sacred and holy herb, while our own people knew it to be a cure for all complaints. Better yet, it’s thought to bring long life and prosperity to all,” Eadgyth had told her. Janna had kept silent, not wanting to question why they were still so poor when they had such a quantity of sage growing in their small garden.

It hadn’t helped her mother live a long life either, Janna thought now, and felt the familiar heaviness of unshed tears behind her eyes. Hastily, she forced her thoughts onward. What else had gone into the ale they’d brewed? Always an extra dash of honey to help with fermentation and counter the bitterness of the hops, for Eadgyth liked the ale she drank to have a touch of sweetness to it. Janna took another sip, rolling the liquid over her tongue to taste it. Since leaving their home she’d never again come across the distinctive brew she and her mother used to make. As with everything her mother had taught her, their ale was made from Eadgyth’s own recipe, to suit her taste, or else to suit the need to which it would be put, for it would taste quite different if used for medicinal purposes. Extra herbs would be added: bishopwort and wild mint for fever; horehound for a lung complaint; or
herba benedicta
to ward off evil and disease and to act as a tonic for the body.

Memories of Eadgyth flooded Janna’s mind, along with the knowledge that every link she’d had with the past was now gone. She could not hold back her distress, and hastily swiped her sleeve across her brimming eyes. She and her mother had parted after a quarrel, and Janna had never had the chance to make peace. The guilt of her furious outburst haunted her still. What would her mother say if she could see her now? Would she approve of the path Janna had chosen, her quest to find her father?

Probably not, for Eadgyth had believed her lover unfaithful. Being unable to read his letter, she had died not knowing the truth: that John had loved her with all his heart, but had been delayed because he had gone to Normandy to seek permission from his father to break his betrothal in order to marry her. Believing him faithless, and with a child growing inside her, Eadgyth had run away. She had sought shelter, and been refused, and thereafter had kept Janna close to her, teaching her all she knew of the art of healing, but never telling her the truth about herself or her lover, Janna’s father. She would not have approved of what Janna was doing because she wouldn’t have understood it.

“Janna? Try not to fret, lass. Let us rather talk about how you’re going to manage until your father arrives.” Ulf’s anxious voice brought the difficulties of her new situation rushing back. Her spirits dropped even lower, crushed under the burden of memory. She’d lost everything.

Janna straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. Yes, she’d lost everything – except her courage. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails cutting into the soft flesh of her palms. The pain helped her to come back to herself, and shift her focus to the tavern and her present predicament. She took another deep breath and quietly exhaled, trying to calm her fear. It was easier to dream of the past than confront the future, but confront it she must.

“Any ideas?” Ulf prompted.

“No. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I wish I could offer you shelter but that wouldn’t be seemly. Maybe I could find you a room close by, so I can watch out for your safety?”

“I have no coin to pay for a room,” Janna said tiredly. “And I will not live on your charity either,” she added.

“But you can’t live too close to me,” Ulf rumbled on, clearly not paying attention. “’Tis the poorest, meanest,
smelliest
part of town!”

Janna patted his hand. “I’ll have to look for work somewhere, find something I can do that will also provide shelter.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps I could offer myself as a scullion in a kitchen, or as a lady’s maid?”

“Nay, lass!” Ulf’s horrified exclamation drew several curious glances their way. “You’re the granddaughter of a king!”

“Without the means to prove it,” Janna said dryly. “Besides, I know what it is to be poor and needy, and to work hard just to survive. When my mother was alive, we lived in a small cot at the edge of a forest. We had a few hens and two goats, and a little plot of ground to grow our vegetables and the herbs for my mother’s potions. But there were many times we went hungry.”

“Herbs and potions? There are several apothecaries in town who might be glad of an able assistant. But whether they’d employ a young woman…” Ulf’s enthusiasm, which had so quickly caught fire, now seemed in danger of snuffing out. Then his expression brightened again. “What about Robert of Gloucestre, now he’s back at the castle? You’re known to him. You should ask him for help.” He took a long swallow of ale, and wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand. “After all, he’s your…What? Uncle?”

“And the Empress Matilda’s my aunt!” Janna said flippantly, recognizing suddenly that this was true. The thought rendered her speechless for a moment. “But how can I go to them, dressed in this filthy gown, and with nothing to prove I am who I say I am?” 

“You can clean yourself up a bit. Any road, no matter how you look – or smell – they owe you for what you did, delivering that letter of warning about the bishop!”

“Shh!” Alarmed, Janna looked around at the crowd gathered in the tavern. Only Ossie, the simple giant whose role was keeper of the peace, caught her eye. He was vigilant as usual, but there seemed no need for it, since conversation was muted. News and opinions were being exchanged in low undertones, for everyone was worried about the presence of the empress’s army, and the apparent lack of rapprochement between her and the bishop. There were rumbles from the merchants, who were torn between wanting to stay for the great fair and the money they stood to make, set against their concern that trouble might erupt and then they’d be caught up in it and their goods put at risk. There was also disquiet among the townsfolk, who knew they stood to lose everything if a peace could not be patched up.

The mention of the empress’s name attracted Janna’s attention, and she leaned closer to listen to the muttered conversation taking place at a table nearby.

“…and when the Empress Matilda summoned him, Bishop Henry told the messenger that he’d get himself ready. But it seems that he’s fled from the city instead. And the earl is at the castle, waiting – although I know not how long his patience will last.” The speaker was a tall, well-set man with a shock of brown hair and a florid complexion. Janna thought he must be a merchant, for he was better dressed than his companions and seemed to be paying for the ale they drank.

“But the bishop’s brother, the king, is still imprisoned, and the bishop has now sworn allegiance to the empress. Why, then, has he fled?” asked a young lad.

The merchant shrugged. “The bishop was ever a devious man. Could be he’s with the garrison at his palace at Wolvesey, preparing for war in case it comes to that.”

“I heard he was holed up in the keep of the old palace, awaiting orders from the pope,” said one of the merchant’s companions.

“He may be waiting for the queen’s troops to arrive. I heard she’s recruited as many as a thousand strong under the command of that Fleming, William of Ypres!” said someone else.

“Murdering bastard!” The merchant gave a chesty cough, cleared his throat and spat into the rushes. “I’m told they’re already on the march. The empress needs to get the bishop on side before they arrive, or this could get right out of hand.” He looked around the crowded table. “Winchestre may have spoken for Matilda, but Stephen’s queen won’t let it rest, not while her husband is kept in prison. And neither will the Londoners. They can’t abide the empress, with her high-handed ways. They want King Stephen back on the throne.”

“But if they go to battle now, what of the fair?”

“Never mind the fair. What about us?”

The merchant’s mouth tightened. “Best to pray for peace, for we’ll all be ruined if there’s trouble now. Whatever happens between the king and the empress, we’re the ones who’ll pay the price.” He glanced around the crowded tavern. Janna immediately bent her head and pretended she was taking no notice of what was being said. The man seemed to know what he was talking about, and she was keen to hear more.

“Look what’s happened up north!” he continued. “Barons changing sides according to who can promise them the most. They’re so desperate for land and wealth they care not that towns and villages are being burned and crops and animals destroyed as a result of their greed. There’s nothing but ruin and devastation, and the people are starving. And it’ll happen here too, unless someone puts an end to this madness!” The merchant took a long swallow of ale. “Pray that the Fleming doesn’t come, nor his troops with him,” he continued angrily. “They’ll burn your homes and rape and kill your wives and daughters. If they think you have some worth, they’ll take you hostage – for a fee. Otherwise they’ll kill you too.” He surveyed his companions with a somber expression. “The question is, should we take our chances here, or flee Winchestre now, before it’s too late?”

“You worry too much, Master Alan!” A young woman paused beside them to top up their mugs of ale. She had a pert and pretty face framed by a cascade of golden locks, which her veil did little to conceal or contain. Janna had noticed her on other visits to the tavern; her task was to serve ale to the patrons, although she seemed to spend most of her time flirting with them. “With all them soldiers around, I ain’t going nowhere!” She wound a sinuous arm around the merchant’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “But I’d save myself for you, darlin’, if you but said the word.”

His black mood seemingly forgotten, Alan laughed and pulled her down onto his knee. “And what word would that be?”

“Ah, you know what I mean!” And she dipped a playful hand down to stroke his crotch.

With a broad grin, Alan tipped up her face and gave her a smacking kiss. The serving girl giggled and nuzzled his ear.

“Ebba! I’m paying you to serve the customers, not entertain them!” The taverner’s sharp voice sent the young woman springing to her feet once more.

“Jealous, Sybil?” Alan took hold of the girl’s hand, preventing her from moving away. The taverner scowled at him. Janna watched, curious to see the outcome of this contest of wills.

“I’ve told you before, Alan. If you want to see Ebba, you can do it in your own time – not mine!” Sybil’s face had flushed red with temper.

Alan stood up and faced her. Then he cleared his throat and spat onto the rushes once more, the gob of spit narrowly missing the hem of the taverner’s gown. “I bring you good custom, Sybil,” he said curtly. “But I can find ale as good, if not better, at Heaven up the street. Or Hell. Or even Paradise. Do you want me to leave, and take my friends with me?”

The two glared at each other. Ossie stepped forward, ready to use his muscle in Sybil’s cause, but she acted first. She grabbed the serving girl’s arm and dragged her away from Alan. He shook his fist after them, seeming undecided whether or not to carry out his threat. Ossie stepped closer. One of the merchant’s companions tugged on Alan’s tunic, forcing him onto his stool once more.

Janna wondered how he came to be so well informed. Another of Bishop Henry’s spies? Or was he in the empress’s camp? Noticing that Ulf had opened his mouth to speak, she put her finger to his lips to silence him. She was keen to hear what else the merchant had to say.