Stolen Child: The Janna Chronicles 2

by Felicity Pulman

  Bright sunshine had burned away the early morning mist. Janna emerged from the dimness of the stables and stood blinking in the sunlight. Shearing was still underway and she knew she should go down to the fold to help, but for a moment she lingered, enjoying a moment’s rest in the warmth of the sun.

  A flock of geese disturbed her reverie. Honking and hissing, they swarmed around her. Janna drew back, alarmed by the close proximity of the big birds with their sharp, serrated beaks. The harassed goosegirl flapped her arms and shouted at them, doing her best to round them up and drive them on through the manor gate and down into the stubbled water meadows to feast on frogs and grasshoppers. Janna kept quite still until they had moved on, then followed them through the gate.

  Her path to the sheepfold took her past the young goatherd. She was surprised he was still in charge of the little flock but then noticed how subdued he looked. Even if Hugh hadn’t taken a switch to the boy, his father probably had. In fact, the boy might have had a beating from both of them. Janna felt a little sorry for the lad. It was clear that he’d learned a hard lesson. She gave him a smile as she walked past, and earned a scowl in return.

  Dogs yipped and barked as they circled the sheep penned into the fold. All was chaos and confusion. Frightened lambs and sheep baaed in protest as they were caught and thrown to the ground, while the shearers cursed as they fought to hold them still long enough so that they could be shorn. It was important not to nick the animal’s skin as they clipped the wool with heavy, one-handed shears, for the skin could be turned into vellum for writing on and was therefore valuable. Excited children laughed and ran about and got in everyone’s way, harried by the irate shepherd who was trying to bring some order to the proceedings. Janna looked around, without much hope, for Edwin, but there was no sign of him.

  Undecided what she should do, and whether she had the strength to wrestle even one sheep to the ground, she looked to the shepherd for guidance. He surveyed her with a critical expression, obviously sharing her doubts. “’Tis said you have the healing touch, John. Some of my flock have fly sores. They’re over there.” He jerked a thumb at a small enclosure which had been hastily erected out of hurdles roped together. It was packed with shorn and shivering sheep. “Get one of the children to help you.” He beckoned Urk to come forward. The boy smiled happily at Janna, pleased to be singled out for such an important task.

  “Take each sheep out of the pen and bathe the sores with that mixture.” The shepherd waved a hand toward a large wooden trough propped beside the fold. It was full of a yellow liquid. Janna sniffed the air, picking up what she’d missed before among the stink of animal dung and dust: the distinctive stench of ragwort.

  She nodded and let herself into the small fold, followed by Urk. Shorn sheep pressed around her, baaing lustily and pushing at her from all sides. Urk grabbed hold of a ewe and marched it out and over to the trough. He looked at Janna, awaiting instructions.

  “Well done, Gabriel.” She hastily followed him out of the fold. “I’ll bathe its sores if you’ll hold it fast for me.” The boy nodded. After a moment’s thought Janna picked up the handful of wool that stood next to the trough and dipped it in, wrinkling her nose at the smell released by the liquid as it swirled about. There were a few nicks and smears of blood on the animal’s skin. Janna bathed them first to get rid of the flies that were already harassing it. Wincing at the sight of the ulcerated flesh on its nether regions, Janna gave the sores a thorough wash. The stinking ragwort would cleanse them and kill any maggots, but she thought she detected also the aromatic tang of tansy, which would repel the flies that had caused the problem in the first place.

  After Janna finished her ministrations, getting thoroughly splashed by the struggling sheep in the process, Urk released his charge and went to drag another from the fold. “Thank you, Gabriel. You’re being a great help,” Janna told him, and he beamed with pride.

  One by one, the sheep were washed and released, under the watchful eye of the shepherd who moved about, supervising his flock. Janna was hot, tired and stinking by the time Urk brought the last sheep to her. Taking fright from the stinging liquid on its sores, the animal bucked unexpectedly. Urk’s grip slipped. He made a frantic grab but the animal broke free. With the alluring prospect of rich grazing in the water meadows ahead, the ewe bumped past Janna as it set off at speed, followed by Urk in hot pursuit.

  Knocked off balance, Janna fell against the edge of the wooden trough. It tipped, splashing its contents over her smock and breeches. Janna surveyed the damage in dismay. Her clothes were soaked through, and she stank worse than ever. She saw that Urk had managed to capture the absconding animal and was bringing it back for her final ministrations. There was a small portion of liquid remaining at the bottom of the trough, and Janna hastily applied it.

  Her task was over. She looked longingly toward the cool, flowing river. “By your leave, I’m going to rinse off this stinking mixture,” she told the shepherd. Not giving him a chance to argue, she hurried down to the water. She untied her girdle and laid it and her purse on the river bank. She took a quick look around to see if anyone was paying attention then lowered herself into the river. The shock of the icy water on her hot skin took her breath away for several long moments. Recollecting her purpose, she began an opportunistic floundering, determined to make the most of this chance to give herself and her clothes a thorough wash. She also took a long drink of water, relishing its coldness as it slipped down her dry throat. Finally, she regained her footing and emerged from the river. She made her way toward the place she’d dropped her belongings, wringing the water from her smock as she walked. Reveling in her clean skin and clean clothes, Janna picked up her girdle and purse and tied them safely around her waist.

  As she returned to the sheepfold, she passed several villeins carrying a pile of washed fleeces back to the manor. She knew that women were already engaged in combing out the tangles, using the dried heads of teasels that were prickly as hedgehogs. The best fleeces would be sold at the annual fair at Wiltune. Janna had been to the fair once, and still remembered the excitement of it all. It was the high mark of the year, both because it was a holy time to commemorate the death of St Edith, but also because merchants and travelers came from miles around to sell their wares.

  “Where is your brother, John?”

  Janna jumped. She hadn’t noticed Serlo’s approach. His gaze rested quizzically on her chest. She quickly crossed her arms lest he notice the shape of her breasts moulded beneath the clinging wet fabric.

  “He must be working elsewhere about the manor, Master Serlo. Perhaps the lord Hugh has given him a task?”

  Serlo frowned. “He should be here, helping with the shearing,” he said.

  “And so I shall tell him, just as soon as I see him.” Janna gave an exaggerated shiver. “I fell into the river and I’m cold. May I have your leave to run in the fields until I am dry?”

  With a reluctant nod, Serlo waved her away. Feeling relief, Janna retraced her steps to the sheepfold to retrieve her sack of food, and set off up into the fields. She kept up a fast pace until she was hidden from his sight by a field of growing wheat. She slowed to a walk and looked about for somewhere to eat her dinner, while she considered what to do next.

  Edwin had seemed so keen to stay at the manor. What had happened to change his mind? If he’d run away, why hadn’t he asked her to go with him? He knew she wanted to leave, and that it was only his wish to stay that was keeping her here. Yet he’d gone without even saying goodbye.

  Janna concluded that, if Edwin really had gone, she might as well leave too. There was certainly no future for her here, in spite of Hugh’s kind offer. She sat down in the shade of a patch of brambles, and opened up the sack of food. She munched on some bread and sheep’s cheese while she considered past events—and whether the “accidents” would continue now that Edwin was gone. His absence seemed to point to his guilt, yet nothing about it made sense, not even his disappearance now. But if not
Edwin, then who?

  Her years under her mother’s tutelage had taught Janna to look carefully, to listen and to learn. As she ate her dinner, she thought through the incidents she’d witnessed. Was there anything to link them together, other than the posies of rue?

  No, there was not, she concluded. So perhaps she should approach the problem from another angle. Why rue? What was the reasoning behind it? Janna cast her mind back to everything her mother had told her about the herb. “It’s known as ‘herb of grace’ to Christians, for they believe rue is a symbol of the true repentance that leads to God’s grace,” Eadgyth had said. But it was clear to Janna that the culprit repented nothing, for the incidents kept on happening. Not repentance, then. What else had she been told?

  “The Romans thought they’d gain a second sight and see visions if they took the herb, but others have used it to curse their enemies.” Eadgyth’s eyes had twinkled as she’d continued. “You can also wear rue for luck, for protection, or as a cure against disease. In fact, daughter, it seems the ancients couldn’t quite make up their minds whether the herb should be used for good or ill. For myself, I believe the herb has many good uses, and these I will show you.” And so she had, Janna thought, remembering the many medicaments to which rue could be added.

  Repentance? Or a curse? Janna sighed. She was no nearer to working out the truth of the matter, but it seemed certain that the culprit wouldn’t stop now; something else was going to happen, perhaps something worse than all that had gone before. She felt a shiver of premonition. Something niggled at the back of her mind; something she’d seen, something important that perhaps might tell her who could be responsible. She closed her eyes, the better to recall what she’d seen or heard, but the memory remained elusive.

  She was thoughtful as she walked down to the fold, where the last of the sheep were now being sheared. If Edwin had really gone, she should leave too. But not right now; she couldn’t risk Serlo seeing her go. Besides, if she left so openly, it would confirm the reeve’s belief that she and Edwin were behind the so-called accidents. They would be pursued by Serlo, and also by the forester. Janna had no doubt the reeve would carry out his threat to raise the hue and cry. Nor would he willingly let her go if she asked to leave, not when she was one of his suspects, and not when it was his intention to get more work out of both of them in return for his silence.

  Uneasy and afraid, she wondered if she should make a run for it anyway. Whatever her decision, Janna knew she must wait until nightfall. If there was no sign of Edwin by then, mayhap she could sneak out while everyone was snoring? But in which direction should she go? She resolved that her first task must be to find out the way to Winchestre. But as she questioned first the shepherd and then some of the villeins, she found herself more confused than ever by the responses.

  “Winchestre lies that way.” One shearer stopped clipping to point downstream.

  “No, you’ll find the road over there,” said another, and jabbed a finger in the opposite direction.

  “It’s behind us,” said a villein, who was busy making his mark on his own sheep. He took time to poke his thumb back at the fields.

  She would have to go over the fields and see what lay beyond them, Janna decided, as she picked up a bundle of fleeces and carried them down to the river for a wash. Even if the road took her in the wrong direction, it would lead her away from the manor, and also from Dame Alice and Robert of Babestoche. It would lead her to safety. She could always ask about Winchestre along the way, and change direction at a crossroads, if need be.

  All these thoughts left Janna’s head as, with the day drawing to its weary end, she heard a bell begin to toll. She recognized the sound. It came from the church at nearby Wicheford and, on Sundays, it summoned the faithful to mass, including those villeins from their own manor who felt obliged to make the journey across the downs. But today was not Sunday, and the bell rang on and on, clanging its urgent appeal long past its usual recording of time or occasion. The villeins hurriedly gathered up the last of the fleeces and hastened to the manor to find out the cause of the summons, Janna among them.

  “Hamo.” She heard the boy’s name mentioned several times as they came closer to the confusion and bustle in the yard. It was said with annoyance, impatience, and also with anxiety. Janna’s steps quickened. Surely he couldn’t have gone missing again after such a narrow escape last time? But it seemed that he had. A cry of alarm had gone out and everyone was being pressed into the search for him. The yard was full of servants and laborers, all milling around and discussing what to do. At their center, looking distraught, and trying to organize the comings and goings, was Hugh. Janna noticed several unfamiliar faces amid the throng, strangers from neighboring Wicheford. United in adversity and drawn by a sense of community, they too had come to join in the search for the missing boy.

  Hugh raised his voice. “Hamo was last seen playing with his ball here by the undercroft,” he shouted above the hubbub. “I want the women and children to search the gardens and all the buildings of the manor. The rest of you will comb the fields and search along the river, up and down. Pay careful attention to the mill, and also the marsh. I, myself, will take a small party into the forest. Although the fence month has passed, the does will still be guarding their young. Should any of them stray into the fields do not, on any account, do anything to startle or harm them, or the forester will call you to an accounting before the king.” With chopping motions of his hands, he began to divide the villeins into groups, ready to send them off in different directions.

  Janna hurried up to him. “Where is the dog, my lord?” she cried. “You should also look for Bones.”

  Hugh glanced down at her. “I haven’t seen it, have you?”

  Janna shook her head. Hugh raised his voice once more to shout: “Look out also for a stray dog.” His face was tight with worry as he continued to issue instructions to the villeins.

  “I hope you find him soon, my lord.”

  Hugh nodded. Janna stood back and waited to be told where to go. A sudden thought came into her mind, and she sidled forward once more. A quick glance confirmed her fears and struck dread through her heart. A small posy of rue lay on the doorstep of the undercroft.

  Janna bent down and picked up the posy. Her first thought was to show it to Hugh, and tell him what she thought it meant. Her second thought urged caution. The posy, in itself, proved nothing, for all the other posies were either gone or had been destroyed, some by Janna herself. She had nothing, now, to prove that these were acts of deliberate malice, and that Hamo had not wandered off by chance. This time he must have been taken, and by someone who wished him harm.

  Janna felt sick. She longed to spill out her worries to Hugh but a question, and its answer, stopped her even as she opened her mouth. Who stood to gain by Hamo’s disappearance—perhaps even his death? The answer had been spelled out to her, only too clearly, on her first meeting with Hamo. “All my mother’s property and wealth will be mine when she dies,” he had told her. “I am the first-born son, you see.”

  Hamo, as the first and only surviving child born to Hugh’s aunt, Dame Alice, would inherit everything on her death. In the interim, Hugh kept this manor for his aunt, but he would be expected to vacate it once Hamo came of age and married. Unless, of course, the child died before then!

  Janna swallowed hard. She cast a glance at Hugh, hating what she was thinking yet understanding that she could not deny the truth of his situation. Only Hamo stood between him and a vast inheritance from Dame Alice. All the evidence pointed to him. These incidents had only started on his return to the manor. He, more than anyone, was free to come and go as he wished; no-one would dare to challenge him. Had he set up a pattern of accidents to convince his aunt that Hamo’s disappearance—even his death—while regrettable, was just another accident?

  Rue for regret. And repentance. Yes, Hugh might well regret the circumstances that forced him to act in this way. And he might well feel repentance for his action
s. But that was still no excuse for murder.

  Janna continued to watch Hugh direct proceedings, while berating herself for letting her thoughts run away with her. Hugh murdering Hamo? The thought was laughable, quite out of the question. She herself had seen his fondness for his cousin when they’d played ball together. And Hamo wouldn’t have fretted after Hugh left Babestoche if his cousin hadn’t shown him genuine kindness. Nor did it seem likely that Hugh would have tampered with his own destrier’s shoe in order to lame the horse, for it was his most valuable possession. Besides, his anger then had been apparent, while his concern now seemed real enough.

  There must be some other explanation. But if not Hugh, then who? Edwin? Janna shook her head. His absence might indicate guilt to some, but he’d gone missing before Hamo’s disappearance. Unless that was to cover his actions and avert suspicion? Janna remembered that this wasn’t the first time Edwin had gone missing. He’d been absent on the night of medale, when the haystack had caught fire and the villagers had come together to put it out. Had he gone off to set fire to the haystack, and come back later pretending innocence? Was that what he intended to do now? But why? Try as she would, Janna could come up with no convincing reason for it.

  She was assuming that Hamo had vanished for a reason, perhaps forever, but what if she was wrong, what if there was some other purpose behind what was going on? She sighed with exasperation. Her imagination was taking her into dark places where she really didn’t want to go.

  She wished Edwin would come back and clear his name. Yet he was capable of wrongdoing, she conceded, remembering that he’d been proved a thief—although he hadn’t harmed her when he’d had the chance. Her hand went to her purse. She heard the coins clink at her touch, and felt the shape of the small statue she had found, the mother clasping her child. Her fear eased slightly, and she smiled at the notion that the statue had brought comfort.

  Mother and child. She felt a sudden pang of deep distress as she recalled Dame Alice. The lady was utterly cast down by the death of her newborn babe. She would surely take leave of her senses altogether if her only surviving child also died.