Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (4 page)

Janna nodded. That would be her and the potboy’s task, she felt sure. Dirty, smelly, messy. And hard. Her spirits sank. Having observed Wat in action, she felt sure he’d be less than helpful come the morning. “What herbs will you have me strew on the new rushes, mistress?” she asked.

“Herbs?” Sybil peered more closely at her in the dim light from the banked-down fire as if suspecting some sort of trickery.

“I learned something of herbs and healing from my mother,” Janna said, deciding it best not to mention how much more she’d learned from Sister Anne at the abbey at Wiltune, for it would sound like boasting and perhaps blight her prospects. “We always spread tansy or fleabane among the rushes in our own cot – to keep down the fleas and other biting creatures.”

“Yes?” Sybil nodded impatiently.

“But we also used to strew meadowsweet or violets, or even wild rose petals, to sweeten the air, for those other herbs have a strong scent. It’s quite unpleasant.”

The taverner thought for a moment. Then she shrugged. “I only have the herbs we need for brewing and cooking in my kitchen garden.”

“I can pick tansy and fleabane out in the water meadows, along with flowers with just as sweet a perfume as those cultivated in a garden. If you give me leave, I will pick some and prepare them for you.”

Mistress Sybil kept silent. Janna wondered if she was thinking it was a ploy to get out of cleaning the tavern in the morning. “I can go at a time when it’s not so busy,” she pleaded, thinking how pleasant it would be to roam outside the walled town, in the fresh air. After an afternoon and evening spent in the stuffy, smoky atmosphere of the tavern, her soul ached for it. “There won’t be time to pluck the herbs and flowers before Wat and I get rid of the old rushes and spread the new, but I can go any time after that, whenever you can spare me.”

She cast a quick glance at the potboy, to make sure he knew she was including him in this chore, and that the taverner had heard her. Wat scowled at her, and continued shaking down his pallet, spreading it out and making himself comfortable for the night. Janna was pleased to see that he’d taken the Ingle-nook on the other side of the fireplace; she would not have to lie in close proximity to him.

The taverner looked at Janna’s gown once more. “Take that off and sponge it down; it might clean up all right. But I can see that it was once a costly garment. It’s not suitable for serving customers, for they’ll spill ale on you, and worse, if they’ve taken too much to drink and haven’t time to reach the yard. I have an old tunic of russet you can wear while you’re here, and I’ll keep your gown safe for you once you’ve tidied it up. I’ll bring the tunic for you now, and a more useful veil to keep your hair out of the customers’ drink and food.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out of the kitchen.

“Thank you, mistress,” Janna called after her. She felt warmed by the taverner’s offer. She hadn’t received permission to go out looking for herbs, but it seemed she was still to be rewarded for showing initiative and a willingness to work. While she waited for Sybil’s return, she shook down Ebba’s pallet and spread it out. It was warm beside the banked-down fire; too warm, but she knew she’d be glad of the warmth as winter closed in.

If she was still here by then. A black despair engulfed her as she recalled the events of the day. She’d set out so full of optimism, hoping that her father would be here in Winchestre and that he would receive his daughter with loving arms. Instead? Janna shook her head. Everything had gone wrong. Everything.

Janna woke, stiff and cramped, and with the smell of stale food and smoke in her nose. She caught sight of her rough homespun tunic and frowned, thinking for a moment she was back in the cot at the edge of the forest. She looked about the room for her mother. And then realization hit her, and she squeezed her eyes shut and groaned as memories of the previous day flooded her mind. Her spirits plummeted; she wanted to curl up into a little ball on her pallet and make the world go away. With a huge effort, she roused herself instead. There was the taste of ash and grit in her mouth, and she licked her lips and swallowed a few times to get rid of it. Her empty stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten properly for quite some time. She would have to talk to the taverner about meals; surely she would be fed while she worked here?

She looked about at the signs of the cook’s trade. The hock of ham, flitch of bacon, and strings of sausages hanging from the rafters set her mouth watering. Piled close to the bread oven were baskets of onions, parsnips and cabbages, and sacks of grain. Above them, bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks fixed to the wall. She stood up and inspected them carefully, in case there was something she could use to sweeten the new rushes once they were down. There was garlic, rosemary, mint, thyme and sage, all of them aromatic, but Janna would rather pick fresh plants if she could find what she wanted in the water meadows. A small cabinet caught her eye. Curious, she turned the key and found inside a row of small, stoppered pots and a box of salt.

“You’re not allowed to touch those!” Wat shouted.

Janna ignored him. Clearly this was Sybil’s precious store of spices. Presumably the cupboard was usually locked, but perhaps Sybil had been so upset by Ebba’s behavior she’d forgotten to take out the key. She hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. She began to pull out the stoppers and smell the contents. Her keen nose identified caraway, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, grains of paradise, coriander and anise.

“You’ll be out on yer arse if Sybil catches you.” Wat’s eyes gleamed with malicious glee.

Janna gave him a withering glare and locked the cupboard. She left the key in place. Saliva flooded her mouth as she noted a large crock of honey. She licked her lips, tasting its sweetness in her imagination. Several large pots had been unhooked from the long chains over the fire and left to one side. She lifted a lid and stared dubiously at a mix of tripe and onions congealed in a bed of white sauce at the bottom of the pot. She shuddered. Tripe was one of the cheapest cuts and she had often eaten it, but the tasteless dish was by no means her favorite. The next pot revealed a rich stew of marrowbones. Her stomach gave a loud gurgle and she looked about for a ladle.

“That’s not for us.” Wat picked up a loaf of old bread. He sawed off a generous slice, and then poured himself a mug of ale from a cask nearby. “You can take some too,” he said, and sat down on his pallet to break his fast.

Wasting no time, Janna picked up the knife and hacked off a chunk of bread for herself. Bread and ale; it was her usual morning meal, but she couldn’t help hoping that there might be something extra, some cheese or meat to put on the bread, when it came to their dinnertime.

Ossie ambled in, still yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes. As he began to help himself to bread and ale, the cook also arrived. “You,” he said, when he noticed Janna. “You can get chopping up onions and parsnips for the pot.”

Janna eyed him thoughtfully. “Mistress Sybil told Wat and me to sweep up and burn the rushes this morning,” she said through a mouthful of bread. She swallowed some ale to wash it down, and took another bite. She didn’t know what her duties would entail, but was sure that the taverner’s instructions were more important than the cook’s. She was happy to help him, if there was time to do so, but she wouldn’t neglect her duties to do it. A thought made her pause. “Where is your kitchen garden?” she asked, still chewing. “What herbs do you grow?”

Elfric stared at her for a moment, and then grunted, “See for yourself. It’s back there.” He jerked his thumb behind him.

“Thank you.” Janna walked out quickly, before he could think of any more tasks to give her. In the cool freshness of the day, she looked for any signs of a garden. The door of one of the smaller buildings was open now. Inside, she could see the taverner up on a ladder bending over a mash tun, busily stirring its contents. Steam rose in a cloud; Sybil’s face was damp with it, and with the sweat of her exertions. Janna sniffed, recognizing the malted barley smell of a new brew. She kept on, hurrying past the latrine, which was easily identified because of the strong odors wafting from it, and the random puddles nearby, which told of the tavern’s patrons who were either caught short or couldn’t be bothered to use the premises provided. She wrinkled her nose and headed on toward a fenced-off area within the yard, guessing it must lead to the kitchen garden, for there were no obvious signs of any greenery among the buildings.

A makeshift gate led into a small garden plot. To her disappointment, it was largely taken up with rows of vegetables: peas, beans, leeks, onions and cabbages. Only a few herbs grew in a corner: the rosemary, alecost and sweet gale she’d identified in the ale, but also garlic and white mustard, plus the mint, thyme and sage she’d found drying in the kitchen. She picked several sprigs of the last three for want of anything better to add fragrance to the rushes. They would do for the time being.

Dreading what lay ahead of her, she walked back to the brew house to ask the taverner where she might find a broom or a rake. Sybil was now busy adding the gruit to the strained wort in a separate container, and Janna breathed in the fragrance of the herbs

Absorbed in her task, Sybil barked instructions and sent Janna on her way. “Get Wat to help you, and keep an eye on him,” she advised. “He’s a lazy runt of a lad, as bad as his sister.”

Easier said than done, Janna thought resentfully later, as she raked up the filthy, reeking rushes from the tavern floor, and shouted for Wat to bring back the barrow so she could pile on another load. He was getting slower and slower, and she wondered how he was managing to waste so much time out in the yard.

“I’ll take a turn with the barrow, and you can do some raking for a change,” she told him when he finally put in an appearance. He shrugged, looking surly. Janna gladly surrendered the rake to him and picked up the handles of the heavy barrow. Once outside in the fresh, sunlit air, she felt a little more kindly toward Wat. It was indeed a temptation to linger. Resolutely she wheeled the barrow over to the dirty rushes already smoldering on the fire and added its contents to the pile. She pulled a face as a nest of small black beetles scuttled to safety. Her skin was already itchy from the fleas and lice she’d disturbed, and she bent to scratch her ankles where the worst of the bites were centered.

The change was long overdue, she thought, as the bright sunshine revealed trapped bones and bits of meat and other decaying substances among the rushes. She knew them to be a haven for any creature in search of a meal, including rats and mice, for there’d been the swift scurrying of a small furry body when she’d started to disturb the floor covering.

Recollecting her irritation with Wat, she hastily wheeled the barrow back for a fresh load, to find the young lad aimlessly prodding about with the rake.

“Not like that!” she said sharply, feeling irritated all over again. “Gather it up into a pile so you can fork it onto the barrow.”

“You do it, then.”

Heaving a resentful sigh, Janna took the rake from him and bent to her task once more. Wat stood stolidly beside her, making no effort to help as she began to fork the fouled rushes onto the barrow.

“Enjoying the entertainment?” she asked.

Wat glowered at her.

“Make sure you don’t strain anything!” she said sarcastically, conscious of her aching arms and a sharp pain in her back from all the bending and stretching she was doing.

“Am I like to hurt meself?” He sounded genuinely concerned. Janna gave an annoyed snort and continued to fill the barrow. “Lazy runt of a lad” about summed it up. She comforted herself with the thought of a walk in the water meadows later, if only she could persuade Sybil to let her go. If she and Wat could finish this task quickly, there might be time to go before a rush of customers came in for their dinner.

“Hurry up,” she told Wat, once the barrow was full. “Come back here as soon as you’ve emptied it.”

He scowled at her, but didn’t reply. Janna watched him stump off with the barrow, then bent wearily to her task once more.

After Ossie had laid the fresh rushes, Janna sprinkled over them the aromatic herbs she’d picked in the kitchen garden. They would dry and add fragrance to the green, sweet rushes, and she would strew other flowers and herbs too, if given permission to gather them. As soon as she’d finished her task, she hurried to find the taverner to ask leave to go. “I’ll pick tansy and fleabane to keep away the lice and beetles,” she promised. “I found whole nests of them in the straw as I raked it up.”

Sybil tilted her head and looked her over as she considered her request. “You can’t go now. It’s almost dinnertime and the tavern will soon be busy. But you may leave as soon as the rush is over. Ask Elfric to give you a hempen bag to carry what you pick. I want you back as soon as you hear the bell for Vespers. Customers will start coming in again, and I’ll need your help to serve them. And Janna, before you come into the tavern, ask Elfric to give you something to eat. I don’t want you picking food from the customers’ trenchers again. At least, not while they can still see you!”

Janna blushed scarlet. She’d thought no-one was looking, but it seemed Sybil didn’t miss much. That fact alone was worth remembering. Her observation was reinforced when the taverner rounded on Wat. “I haven’t seen you putting yourself out to do very much as yet,” she said, and set him to removing all traces of the burnt rushes from the yard.

As Sybil had predicted, Janna was kept busy over the next few hours, but as soon as she was allowed, she collected a bag and a sharp knife from Elfric and hurried from the tavern, feeling her spirits lift as she went out through the East Gate and turned right toward the high turrets of the bishop’s Wolvesey Palace and the water meadows beyond. On her left was the hill of St Giles. The air rang with the sounds of hammering and sawing, but Janna could see little beyond the palisade that had been constructed to enclose the site and prevent anyone sneaking in without paying a toll. She found it hard to imagine the scene within, although Ulf had told her that merchants and craftsmen who carried out the same trades always set up together at the fair to sell their wares. “
It’s possible to walk along a row and find all the wool merchants in a line, or shield or candle makers, or gold- and silversmiths
,” he’d said. “
Even the foreign merchants keep together in their own rows to sell expensive goods such as wines, spices, silks, glass, fine pottery and ivory. But it’s not only fancy stuff for sale up there
,” he’d added. “
There’s corn and hay, firewood and charcoal, and also beasts, fish and birds, including some you’ve never seen the likes of before. Weird and wonderful they are, just you wait and see!
”

Janna gave a little skip of excitement as she thought of the treat to come.

Ahead of her was another green hill named for St Catherine, and she could see also the stone spires of the Hospital of St Cross. She had walked this way several times with Ulf, who’d told her that the hospital had been founded some years before by Henry, Bishop of Winchestre, “to house thirteen indigent men and feed another hundred,” he’d said, adding that he’d gone to the hospital several times in the past to ask for the dole when he’d been starving and had no coin to pay for a meal.

“Dole?” Janna had queried.

“Ale and bread, and a dish of some sort.”

Perhaps she should have begged for the bishop’s dole rather than take the job at the tavern! But Ulf had said it was to feed hungry men; he hadn’t mentioned women at all. Yet she could get just as hungry as any man, though she would rather have employment than have to beg for her bread.

She passed several weeping willows growing beside the River Itchen, and quickened her pace, for they brought a heavy, aching grief and reminded her of what she had lost. The same stately swans she’d seen before still paddled against the rushing water that swept down to the mill, although their cygnets were now almost fully grown. Janna envied the swans their serenity as they ducked their heads into green weedy growth looking for food. Winchestre might be on the brink of war, yet they cared nothing for that, nor did they care that she had lost her purse and all her treasures, and might well have lost her father too.

Janna swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She shook off her morbid thoughts and tried instead to recapture the pleasure of her walk in the water meadows. They were looking their best in the bright sunshine. Narrow runnels of water threaded through the grass, glinting in the sunlight. Yellow, pink, scarlet and blue flowers studded the lush field and reeds growing beside the rushing river, while ducks and moorhens splashed and squawked at her as she passed by. Janna paused frequently to sniff the fragrant air, and to pick what she wanted. Out of habit, she also picked whatever healing herbs came her way, for there was no telling when they might come in useful. If the plant was small enough, she plucked it out by the roots, for she had a mind to take over a corner of the kitchen garden. There would be room enough for some new plants, and she could certainly persuade Sybil of their usefulness.

It occurred to Janna that Sybil might be willing to try a new recipe for the ale she served, to give her customers the choice of something different. Wild hops, thyme, meadowsweet and sage were added to the bag, along with wormwood, betony and woundwort. On spying a small copse of trees she walked over to investigate, hoping to find among them just what she wanted. Pulling out the sharp knife, she cut herself a stout stirring stick from a young ash tree. She searched hopefully for the long brown wings of the fruits, but it was still too early. She made a mental note to keep looking out for ash keys, for they too had their uses in a brew.