Pilgrim of Death: The Janna Chronicles 4

by Felicity Pulman

  The door opened and a short, fat man peered out. Was this her father? Surely she should feel something, some stirring of recognition, some calling of the blood? But Janna felt nothing other than fear.

  “Yes?” His glance raked first Ulf and then Janna. It was clear from his expression that he was not impressed by what he saw. His mouth turned into a tight bud of disapproval when he looked down at Brutus, who now sported a ruff of bloodied feathers around his muzzle.

  “We seek Sire John, if you please,” Janna announced, having learned her lesson. The man bobbed his head, showing a round bald spot at his crown fringed by a rim of greying hair.

  “What is your business here?”

  “I have his ring.” Janna showed it to him.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he visibly gulped. “I’ll fetch the steward straightaway,” he said, as he opened the door wider. He beckoned them to follow him through a large hall to a room at the back of the imposing townhouse.

  “Please wait here in the scriptorium. Make yourselves comfortable, I pray you,” he said, gesturing toward several stools. Without waiting for their reply, he vanished once more. Janna had noticed a flight of stairs which led to rooms above the scriptorium. From the time she’d spent at Hugh’s manor, she suspected they might be her father’s solar and living chambers. Soon now, he would come to her.

  She walked over and peered up, wondering why the steward had to be fetched when it was her father she wanted to see. Was he up there now, in his private chambers? Would he, by some chance, sense who was waiting downstairs for him, waiting to come into his life? Would he see something of Eadgyth in her daughter? Was he, even now, on his way down the stairs to maybe greet her with a kiss and a warm embrace? Janna was tense with anticipation and fear.

  But no-one came, and time wore on. Seeking distraction, she moved over to a table and picked up some pages of parchment. They were scribed with notes and numbers which seemed to be names of properties and descriptions of goods to be sold or traded. Janna looked at the writing, wondering if this was her father’s script and these were his accounts. “Do you think that man’s forgotten us?”

  “The steward’s obviously in no hurry to see us.” Ulf looked at Janna. “It might be as well,” he suggested, “if while we wait, you tell me everything you know about your father just in case this steward proves obstructive and needs persuading. I know you went to the abbey at Ambresberie to question the nuns. What did you find out? Why did your mother tell you so little about him? And why are you so anxious to find him now?”

  The last was a question that Janna wouldn’t answer. The true cause of her mother’s death and her reason for finding her father were best kept secret. But she told him everything else, including her mother’s belief that her father had abandoned them.

  “Come with me.” The fat servant’s reappearance took Janna by surprise, so lost was she in recounting the past. He bustled them out of the house, panting after his exertions. “The steward’s in the orchard,” he said, by way of explanation. “I didn’t know where to find him.”

  Janna chafed with impatience. She didn’t want to waste time talking to the steward if her father was upstairs in his solar. But it seemed they had no choice but to follow their guide. She looked about her, drinking in every detail as they passed a storeroom crammed with bales of wool and a long workroom thrumming with industry.

  A sunny garden now spread in front of them, with a well at its center. Janna gazed wide-eyed at rows of vegetables, flowers and herbs, growing tall and lush in the summer sunshine. There was ample here to feed her father – and his family, if he had one – plus a whole retinue of servants. Janna looked behind her in a vain effort to see through the windows of the floor above the scriptorium. Was that a shadow moving there? Was her father, even now, looking down upon them and wondering who they were?

  The doorkeeper had veered off to one side of the garden, which was screened by trees. Janna turned to follow him into the orchard. It was densely planted with trees of varying size and shape. Janna recognized apple and pear trees; the fruits were still green and hard, but they would swell and ripen in autumn. She became aware that her jaw was clenched tight. Her heart leaped about, crazy as a grasshopper in a field of wheat. She took a long, slow breath and made a conscious effort to relax.

  Their guide hurried up to a man who was sitting at ease beneath an apple tree. “Here they are,” he said, and bustled off again without further explanation.

  “My name is Warin, steward to Sire John.” He didn’t trouble to rise and greet them. He was bent and wizened, and had a wary expression on his wrinkled old face. Janna was at once sure that, no matter what she said, or what proofs she might offer, he would neither believe nor help her. She looked at Ulf, expecting him to say something. But Ulf shook his head slightly, making it clear that it was up to her to convince the steward to take them to her father.

  “Yes? What do you want?” he asked, sounding annoyed at having his afternoon disturbed in this way. Janna wondered if he’d been asleep under the apple tree when roused by the doorkeeper.

  “My name is Johanna.” Janna took a deep breath to summon her courage and give her the strength to continue. “I am the daughter of Sister Emanuelle, whom your lord knew a long time ago.”

  The steward blinked in surprise. He clambered to his feet, the better to survey her. Clearly, he doubted her word. A sudden bark drew his attention, and his brows knotted together in a thunderous frown. “Kindly control your hound!” he ordered.

  Janna followed his gaze and saw, to her horror, that Brutus had launched himself into a fine patch of lavender and was busy squashing the bushes flat in pursuit of some small creature. Ulf whistled, but Brutus ignored him.

  “Unless you put that dog on a lead, you’ll have to leave!” The steward sounded delighted to have an excuse to get rid of them. But Ulf merely grinned at him, rooted around in his pack for a moment, and hauled out a length of twine. He walked over and grabbed Brutus, who hung his head, knowing what was to come. The steward scowled at the pair. He seemed determined to ignore Janna. But she hadn’t come so far to be thwarted now by his insolence.

  “I am here to see my father,” she said, demanding his attention. “I am here to see Sire John.”

  Warin blinked again. He turned to look at her, a closer inspection. A slow smile tugged the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stayed hooded and cold. “Sire John does not live here,” he said. “He is in Normandy, with his wife and his family.”

  Time stood still. Reality seemed suspended while Janna struggled to absorb what the steward had said. Normandy. Wife. Family. Her numbed brain struggled to comprehend the calamitous news. She couldn’t believe she’d come all this way for nothing. And yet it was what she’d feared all along. Her father was wed. He had a wife and a family. Even Ralph had warned her that her father might be in Normandy. Was that why he wouldn’t tell her at once what he suspected? Had he wanted to check on her father’s whereabouts first, and prepare them both for a more gentle introduction?

  The fleeting warmth brought by the hope of Ralph’s regard quickly gave way to icy numbness once more. “Does…does my father ever visit his property here?” she asked.

  “No.” The steward smiled spitefully.

  “Then it’s time he did,” Ulf said, coming to Janna’s rescue. “You knew Mistress Johanna’s mother, did you not?”

  Janna noticed his new formality with her name. She hoped it would be sufficient to impress the steward. She was grateful that Ulf had interceded on her behalf. Nothing like a persistent relic seller and a large dog to get to the bottom of things, she thought, as a faint spark of hope rekindled.

  The steward didn’t answer. Ulf took a purposeful step forward. Beside him, Brutus growled. Warin quickly skipped back, keeping a nervous eye on Brutus as he did so.

  “Were you in your lord’s employ when he brought Sister Emanuelle away from Ambresberie to live here?” Ulf tried again.

  The steward stared at his feet and
said nothing.

  “Show him the ring, mistress,” Ulf encouraged Janna.

  In her confusion, she held out the swan’s feather to Warin, then quickly snatched it away and proffered her other hand. The steward’s gaze fixed on the ring. He raised his eyes to Janna, and she read there a grudging respect.

  “So you must send for your master as a matter of urgency,” Ulf said, taking another threatening step toward Warin. “I am sure you send messages on a regular basis, accounting for your management of his estates, and so on?” Warin gave a reluctant nod. “Then you must send him a message now. Tell your master that he has a daughter, Johanna, and that she awaits him here in Winchestre.”

  The steward looked from Ulf to Janna. She thought he was about to refuse, and spoke up quickly. “Let me have writing materials,” she ordered, sending a silent message of thanks to Sister Ursel, who had given her the means to make contact with her father. “I shall write him a letter myself, and in it give proof enough to convince him that I am no impostor.”

  The steward hesitated. Janna knew that he would defy her if he could. She wondered if she was wasting her time, and if her message would even be sent.

  “It is in your interest to send the message to Sire John immediately,” Ulf said, with a gentle tug on Brutus’s lead so that the hound lifted its head and bared its teeth at Warin. “How long will we have to wait, think you, before he comes over to England?”

  “I cannot say!” Warin nervously licked his lips. “He may have to attend to more urgent business which may delay his journey, or even prevent it.”

  Ulf gave another gentle tug. Brutus gave a deep growl. Warin took several hasty steps backward. “Nothing can be so urgent as a meeting with his daughter,” Ulf said slowly, making sure that his message was clear to the steward. “How long, think you?”

  “Two or three weeks, maybe less?” Warin thought a moment. “It depends on how soon he can find passage on a ship, and also if the tides and winds are favorable.”

  “Then we shall return next week. And the week after that. And every day thereafter, until such time as your lord arrives. And we shall hold you accountable if he does not come. Please be quite clear about this.”

  Both Warin and Janna looked at Ulf with new respect. Janna wished she could utter commands so convincingly, then remembered how she had demanded that the steward provide her with writing materials. She’d made a start at least!

  Warin gave a resigned shrug. “This way, if you please,” he said. With his displeasure apparent in every disapproving line on his wrinkled old face, he stumped out of the orchard and through the garden to the scriptorium from which they’d come. Once inside, he gestured at a small table set beside a window so that it could catch the light. With an expression that showed he begrudged every courtesy he was forced to show Janna, he fetched a sheet of parchment for her use, and some sharpened goose quills. An inkhorn stood close by.

  Janna looked at the closely written accounts she’d perused earlier, and swallowed nervously. She knew that her script could never match the steward’s skillful lettering, knew that she would be judged and found wanting. Nevertheless, this was her first chance to communicate directly with her father, and she was determined to make the most of it. She sat down and picked up a quill. She hadn’t had nearly so long as the steward to practice her writing, so she should keep her letter short. She didn’t want to shame herself more than necessary in the eyes of her father.

  And now the first challenge awaited her: How to address him? She recalled the letter written by the bishop to his brother, the king. What was good for the king would surely do for her father. She dipped the quill into the inkhorn.

  “To my honored lord and father, greetings,” she wrote. It was a good start, she thought, marred only by a blotch where she’d paused too long and the ink had run. “I am your daughter, Johanna, named after you by my mother, Eadgyth, who was once infirmarian at the abbey at Ambresberie. You will have known her as Sister Emanuelle. I have a letter written by you to my mother.” Should she tell him that her mother had never read the letter, that she didn’t know how to read?

  No. Explanations could wait until later. Janna dipped the quill into the inkhorn once more.

  “I also have a ring with your crest, and a brooch with ‘Amor vincit omnia’ inscribed thereon,” she continued. Would this be proof enough to convince her father that she really was his daughter?

  “To my great grief, my mother has died. But I am now in Winchestre and I hope that we may meet here very soon.” Janna paused, and chewed thoughtfully on the end of the quill before recollecting what it was. She hastily spat out the splintered fragments. Should she say anything else? No, that was enough for now. How, then, should she sign herself?

  “Your loving daughter, Johanna,” she wrote. Her father might think her presumptuous, but it was no more than the truth.

  “Send this to your master without delay,” she commanded Warin, taking her cue from Ulf.

  The steward bobbed his head, and held out his hand for the letter. “I shall send it this noon,” he said. “Pray, let me show you out, mistress.” He shot a nervous glance at Brutus as he ushered them through the hall. Janna looked at the huge dog, which trotted close to the steward’s side, almost shepherding him to the door. She smothered a grin. If anything could persuade Warin to do as he promised, it would be the close attention of Brutus. The thought was almost enough to make up for the disappointment of not finding her father at home.

  “And so we wait,” Ulf said, when they were out on the street once more.

  “We need to find shelter while we do so,” said Janna, her mind coming down to more practical matters.

  “I can take shelter wheresoever I might find it, but what will you do, mistress?”

  “Janna, Ulf. My name is Janna. That’s who I am!” She was uncomfortable, had thought Ulf was putting on airs for the steward’s sake. She hadn’t realized he would continue to humble himself afterward.

  “Janna,” Ulf repeated solemnly. He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the gate. “Why don’t you stay there? It’s your father’s home. There’s no reason why you can’t – ”

  “There’s every reason why I can’t,” Janna contradicted firmly. “They don’t believe in me; they’ve shown me no courtesy at all. No, I’d rather ask the sisters at the Nunnaminster to take me in. It’s a convent, I believe. I walked past it on the High Street.”

  “Good idea!” Ulf nodded in approval. “Why don’t we go there now? I’ll escort you – that’s if you wish me to accompany you?”

  “Of course I do!” Janna was sorry the relic seller seemed to think she wanted nothing more to do with him. “I will still see you after today, won’t I?” she asked anxiously. “Because I’d really like you to come with me when I visit that steward again. I’m so afraid my father won’t come in person, that he won’t want to abandon his own family. But if he sends a message instead, I doubt Warin will tell me anything – unless Brutus is there to persuade him!”

  Ulf grinned, back to his former cheerful self. “If you wish it, then of course I’ll stay in contact with you. Try to keep me away! I’ve never brushed so close against royalty before!”

  “Royalty?” Janna gave a self-deprecating laugh. And yet it was true, she realized, stunned by the prospects suddenly opening before her. She had come so far since the dark time of her mother’s death, further than she had ever dreamed possible. But there was still a long way to go before she could return home to seek justice against the lord who had brought about her mother’s death. First, she had to find her father and persuade him of the rightness of her cause. But that wasn’t the end. When she went home she would also have to face Hugh and Godric, and their wives and families, if by then they were wed. She shook her head, struggling to throw off the burden of memories and regret.

  She must not think of them now. Nor should she dwell on the many mistakes and misjudgments she’d made in the past, for there was no turning back time to put them right
. Instead, she must learn from what had happened. Learn caution, learn to guard her heart and her quick tongue. More importantly, she must learn who it was safe to trust, and who not. Her mother had been wrong to trust no-one. Ulf had shown her that. And not only Ulf. Others, too, had given her their help and their friendship when she’d most needed them. Since starting her journey she had learned much, including the wisdom to judge that there was still much for her to learn. And now she must look toward the future, and guard herself against errors of judgment and action, lest she jeopardize the success of her cause.

  She looked down at the feather still clutched tight in her hand. “It’ll bring you luck, if you believe in it,” Ulf had told her.

  She would believe. And the feather would surely bring her luck, and her father with it.

  Glossary

  Aelfshot: A belief that illness or a sudden pain (such as rheumatism, arthritis or a “stitch” in the side) was caused by elves who shot humans or livestock with darts.

  Alehouse: Ale was a common drink in the middle ages. Housewives brewed their own for domestic use, while alewives brewed the ale served in alehouses and taverns. A bush tied to a pole was the recognized symbol of an alehouse, at a time when most of the population could not read.

  Amor vincit omnia: Love conquers all.

  Baron: A noble of high rank, a tenant-in-chief who holds his lands from the king.

  Breeches: Trousers held up by a cord running through the hem at the waist.

  Carol: A song or music played for dancing.

  Chansons de geste: Songs of heroic deeds.

  Cresset: A primitive light made from a wick floating in a bowl of oil or animal fat.