Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (9 page)

Sybil shrugged. “Just to serve ale, for I have no cook. I suspect Elfric will stay to protect his wife and child through this unrest. But the brew house and the kitchen are untouched, and there’s wine and ale for any who seek it. Men are known to want to drown their sorrows in troubled times. Especially soldiers.”

Sybil’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “This is my chance to entice patrons away from my rivals at the West Gate, and also from the alehouses nearby. I aim to make my tavern the most popular in Winchestre! And you and Wat and Ossie will have to help me. But…” She paused, and her brow furrowed into a frown. “I can’t risk looters coming in and causing havoc here. What’s the chance of that, do you think?”

“I saw no sign of anything like that on my way back here. Most people seem to be taking refuge in the churches or the cathedral. But they may venture out if it stays quiet.” Janna thought about the grain they’d saved, and all the food. “I don’t know if any cookshops will open today, but we can probably find something for our customers to eat if they’re hungry as well as thirsty.”

“And I suppose I can call on some of my regular patrons to help keep law and order in here if Ossie can’t cope.” The taverner was sounding more enthusiastic by the moment. “Wat!” she bawled, giving Janna no chance to reply. “Get your lazy bones up here. You too, Ossie. There’s work to do.”

Janna groaned inwardly. After her hard and wakeful night, all she wanted was to curl up on her pallet and go to sleep. But it seemed that Sybil had other plans and this day would be as long and hard as the night she’d just spent. Cursing silently, Janna plodded wearily to the cellar. Sybil, she noted with amusement, had managed to save the green bush from the pole outside, and this was Janna’s first task: to fix it to the pole once more so that everyone would know the Bell and Bush was open for business. She ventured a little further to glance up and down the high street. She couldn’t see if any of the alehouses were open, but there were a few people wandering about. Hopefully, they were thirsty.

“Janna! Give me a hand setting out stools and tables!” Sybil’s irate shout sent her scurrying inside once more. At the forefront of her mind was the thought of those she knew and loved – and those whom she hated and feared. There was no way of knowing where any of them were or if harm had befallen them. But if they were safe, there was a strong possibility they might choose to visit the Bell and Bush, especially if this was the only tavern open. And if they did so, what could she do about it other than stay alert and on guard against possible danger?

The next few days passed by in a haze of exhaustion for Janna. She went to help tend the wounded at the cathedral when she could get away, for skirmishes continued intermittently and there were always new patients to take the place of those who died. But Sybil kept her busy for much of the time. As well as serving ale and wine to those customers who braved the streets to visit the tavern, Janna also baked griddle cakes to top with a slice of ham or bacon, the easiest fare to serve until Elfric came out of hiding and returned. All the while she kept an anxious lookout for her friends, ever hopeful that they had survived and had not been wounded. And she was always conscious that, at any moment, her arch-enemy, Robert of Babestoche, and his murderous henchman, Mus, might also walk in. The knowledge kept her tense and watchful.

There was no joy in the gatherings at the tavern. Those travelers who had come for the annual fair had now fled the town, for it was clear there would be no fair this year. Those who were left, townsfolk and merchants alike, walked around in a daze of misery, trying to come to terms with the fact that the goods and produce they’d accumulated for sale had either been destroyed in the fires or were too damaged to sell. Their livelihood had gone, and sometimes their homes and all their supplies as well. Some who could still afford it rented pallets from Sybil and took shelter above the tavern. When they came down for ale and something to eat, they mostly sat in sullen silence and misery. If they spoke, it was to complain of the continuing unrest and the scarcity of everything from food to those goods essential to daily living. It was reported that the dole was still available from the hospital at St Cross for those in need, and that some food was also being handed out at the castle. But supplies were dwindling and nothing was coming in to replace them.

Often there were strangers present in the tavern. While Janna thought some might be merchants or chapmen trapped by circumstances, she suspected that most of them were soldiers. Although they took care not to identify themselves as such, or indicate whose side they were on, still they were the target of evil looks and muttered curses – and sometimes even raised fists. On those occasions, Ossie stood by to eject the troublemakers, offering free ale to those who helped him keep the peace. Everyone wished heartily that the empress and the bishop and all their troops would leave Winchestre and take their argument elsewhere.

But the siege continued, made more urgent by the news that Stephen’s queen had mustered an army in support of the bishop. Under the command of William of Ypres, the soldiers had now encircled the town to prevent any aid or supplies from getting through to the empress and her army, or the townsfolk. The castle had suffered some damage, but the old palace in the center was so badly destroyed that the bishop had removed his troops to his palace at Wolvesey, in the south-east quarter of the town. The townsfolk took some small comfort from the fact that, although hostilities between the two sides continued, no encounter proved as ferocious and devastating as that first terrible firestorm.

An alarming story began to make the rounds. Janna listened as it was repeated in the tavern one afternoon by a traveler who claimed to have seen, with his own eyes, what had actually happened.

“They’re running out of water and food in the castle, that’s what the soldiers told me,” the traveler said breathlessly. “I met a large party of the empress’s supporters on the old Roman road, sent by the Earl of Gloucester to Wherwell to establish a safe base in the west from which to bring in supplies. I caught up with ’em and talked to ’em. And I thank the good Lord that I did not try to keep up with ’em because, when they got to Wherwell, they found the queen’s troops waiting for ’em.” The traveler passed a shaking hand through his hair, still sweating at the memory of his close escape.

“I arrived later, but hid myself when I saw the terrible slaughter going on. There was no mercy shown by the Flemish mercenaries or that devil’s spawn, William of Ypres, not even when the empress’s party sought sanctuary in the abbey. The queen’s troops set fire to the abbey, and then massacred the empress’s soldiers as soon as they surrendered. I know not what happened to the good sisters of Wherwell Abbey, for the abbey was burned to the ground and the town with it. Everywhere has been sacked. Rather than risk my life going through their lines, I decided to come back to Winchestre and try to leave by another route.”

“That won’t be easy,” a customer chimed in. “The queen’s troops already control all the roads to Winchestre from London and the east, and now the west and north are barred if what you’re saying is true. And the Londoners themselves are also on the march, I hear. We’re surrounded by the enemy.”

The traveler nodded wearily. “I overheard one of the queen’s soldiers say they plan to starve the empress and her followers into submission, and now I know how they mean to do it. But we’re trapped here too – unless we can find a way to slip their noose!” He gave a loud sniff to signify his disgust with the situation.

There was a collective drawing in of breath as his audience absorbed what they’d been told. They were forced now to face the unthinkable: that the empress might lose Winchestre, and might even be taken captive herself. And if that happened, they would be left at the mercy of the queen’s mercenaries and the Londoners. A shudder ran through the room. Everyone knew now what that meant.

To add to the prevailing gloom, reports had been circulating of an outbreak of disease in the town. Some said it was the sweating sickness, and others the Great Death, all of which caused panic among the customers of the Bell and Bush. Janna had wondered if it might be enough to persuade Sybil to close the tavern, but the taverner was reveling in being one of the few establishments still open for business, and was keen to make as much profit out of the troubles as possible. “For the tavern might burn down tomorrow,” she told Janna, “and then where would I be?”

And where would I be, Janna wondered in turn. But she didn’t voice her concerns. After hearing the traveler’s tale, she was beginning to question if it might not be safer to try to find a way out of Winchestre, and flee the troubles, at least for the time being. But if the rumors were true, there was nowhere to go other than into the arms of Stephen’s queen and her troops.

She heard the question endlessly debated in the tavern. Those who had relatives with whom they could shelter had already fled; others who now tried to leave returned with terrifying confirmation that the roads leading out of Winchestre were blocked, and no quarter would be given to the empress’s supporters if caught.

Meanwhile, the siege of Winchestre continued. In a concerted effort to knock out the empress’s troops when they tried coming through the North Gate, the bishop rained fireballs over the northern part of the town, burning Hyde Abbey to the ground in his zeal. More refugees flocked to the churches, but most came to the cathedral for shelter, for many of the churches had fallen in the path of the bishop’s firebrands. The number of dead and wounded grew apace. Janna went to the cathedral when she could, every time dreading who she might find there. As the days went by, and there was no sign of Hugh, Godric or Hamo, she began to hope that perhaps they had fled before the siege began. She couldn’t bear to think of them in danger.

But there was little opportunity to brood, for most of her time and energy went into her work at the tavern. Every time the alarm went out, Sybil set them all to carrying everything movable from the tavern down to the cellar for safekeeping. On one occasion, their luck ran out. The kitchen caught alight, and the blaze threatened to spread to the brew house and to the tavern itself. At once Sybil promised free ale to any who stayed to take part in a bucket brigade, and a number of willing helpers lined up to carry water from the canal that ran nearby. They didn’t manage to save the kitchen, but they did prevent the fire from spreading. And as a result of the celebrations that night, the tavern ran out of ale.

Because the brew house had escaped the blaze, thereafter it also served as a kitchen, with Sybil and Elfric getting in each other’s way as they went about their various tasks, becoming more and more short-tempered with each other in the process. This day Elfric had gone out to scrounge whatever he could find in the way of food, using coins from Sybil’s horde to sweeten the trade, for there was a great shortage of just about everything, including barley malt for brewing. Meanwhile, there was a new wort ready and waiting to be flavored.

Knowing how short-handed Sybil was, and thinking to make the most of the situation, Janna found some of the herbs she’d collected and set aside when first she’d thought of experimenting with the brew. She made a selection and put them in a bag before offering to help the taverner. She wasn’t ready to commit to her idea just yet, but this was the first step along her path.

The taverner accepted her offer with relief, giving the liquid a final stir before wiping her sweating face on the corner of her apron. “This one’s been strained and I’ve added the gruit. You need to keep it boiling for a little while longer.” She handed the mash stick to Janna and pointed a finger at a second large container. “This one’s ready to be strained into barrels for serving.”

Once the taverner had left the brew house, Janna quickly threw a handful of wild hops into the steaming wort. She looked at the size of the container and then added several more handfuls, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. She’d never prepared ale in such quantities before. She felt a little shaky as she realized she’d set her path and was committed to it. She took an exploratory sniff. As she’d suspected, the taverner had stuck to her same tried-and-true recipe: rosemary, alecost and sweet gale. It was a good base for what she had in mind. Janna smiled as she selected several other herbs to throw into the mix, then looked about for the crock of honey among the supplies that had been rescued. The pot stood in pride of place, and she scooped up a large dollop and added it to the hot liquid. It would make the ale more potent, while the taste would off-set the bitterness of the hops.

Next, she turned her attention to the ale that Sybil had said was ready for straining and serving. Janna knew that what she put in now might make no difference at all, but it was worth a try. She carefully added a mix of herbs and ash keys, and gave the liquid a vigorous stir. It was too late to add hops, but the ash keys would help to preserve the ale, while the sage would give the brew the distinctive taste that Janna remembered from her childhood.

After leaving the liquid some minutes to settle, she tasted it again. More sage, she thought, and added an extra portion, followed by a generous spoonful of honey. She laid the mash stick aside and found the stick she’d cut from the ash tree while out in the water meadows, which she’d hidden in the brew house hoping for just this sort of opportunity.

Eadgyth had always insisted that their brew be stirred with wood from an ash tree. “
The ancients called ash the tree of knowledge and wisdom
,” she’d said. “
The bark of the ash flavors the ale in a special way. But ash trees also have great healing powers – magical powers, Janna. When we drink ale stirred with a wand of ash, not only are we refreshing our spirits and our souls, we are also giving ourselves protection, health and prosperity
.”

Eadgyth’s words rang clear in Janna’s mind as she stirred, tasted, added a little more sage, and tasted once more. Thinking about it now, she could understand the value that her mother had placed on all these properties, although given the hard life they’d had, it seemed they’d needed more than sage and an ash stick to help them.

Finally satisfied with her new brew, she left it to settle a while longer. Let Sybil say what she would, the patrons of the tavern would have a stronger, sweeter brew to taste this night, a taste that would remind Janna of her home and her childhood.

She was still in the brew house and had just finished straining the ale into barrels, when Ulf came to find her. “The taverner told me you were out here,” he said. Janna looked at his grave face, and instantly feared the worst.

“My – my father has come? He’s been hurt in the fighting?” she stammered.

“No.”

“He’s dead?” Janna felt suddenly giddy. She stretched out blindly and Ulf caught her hand.

“No, Janna! Nowt so bad as that. But bad enough. The bishop’s fireballs have razed much of the northern side of the town. The street of the Jews has been all but destroyed, along with many properties in adjoining streets.” There was great compassion in Ulf’s eyes as he continued. “Your father’s property is one of them. It’s gone, Janna. It’s burned to the ground. There’s nowt left.”

Janna felt faint. She clutched Ulf, needing his support.

“The steward has fled, and everyone else living there with him,” Ulf continued. “I asked around, but no-one has seen them since Winchestre began to burn.”

“Are they – could they have died in the fire?”

“I don’t think so. I looked around the ruins in case there was anything to salvage, anything to tell the whereabouts of your father in Normandy. But there was nowt like that at all. No bodies neither. I also asked at the chapel of St Michael nearby. It’s a miracle it still stands. Some of the townsfolk have taken refuge there – but not Warin, or the gatekeeper. Nor even Roger.”

“So they ran at the first sign of trouble,” Janna said bitterly.

“It looks that way. One of the merchants said he didn’t think anyone was in residence even afore the troubles started.”

Janna was silenced, both by the cowardice of her father’s steward and also by the inescapable fact that her final – her only – link to her father had gone. Yes, he was somewhere in Normandy. But where? And how was she ever going to find him now?

“I’m right sorry, lass.”

Ulf’s voice broke through Janna’s misery. She found she was still clutching him, and reluctantly let him go. This was her problem, not Ulf’s.

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts and see a way through this new calamity. “Whatever shall I do now?”