“And I am here to speak to Eleanor’s father about the property his daughter will bring to her marriage, for it will come under Lord Hugh’s care and my management when it is done,” Godric explained, finally losing patience with Hugh’s prevarication.
Hugh’s lips tightened. “And Cecily is here, not to look after Hamo, but because she would not be parted from you,” he retaliated.
Godric cast him a resentful glance, but kept silent.
So that was the truth of their relationship. Janna tasted the bitter ashes of defeat. It was as she’d thought: Godric and Cecily had made a match, perhaps even at Hugh’s instigation. For Godric had said nothing of love, she realized now, even though she’d imagined it in his delight and in the way he’d held her in such a close embrace. Whatever their kiss might have meant to him, there was no future for her and Godric, for his future was already decided elsewhere.
Janna had thought, when she heard Ulf’s news about her father’s manor house, that things could not get worse, that she had finally reached the end. Now she realized that despair was infinite and deep. She had the sensation of being caught in a vortex, spiraling ever downward, no longer in control of her destiny. She tried to marshal her thoughts, knowing she could not turn her back on everything she’d achieved thus far. She must keep the solemn vow she’d made to her mother to avenge her murder, and that meant she must keep on until she found her father – even if she died in the attempt. She drew in a deep breath and made a desperate effort to steady herself.
Until now, she’d suspected she might never see Godric – or Hugh – again. Fate had brought them to her, and even if Godric and Cecily had made a match, Hugh had not – at least, not yet. In saving him from an unwanted marriage, could she at the same time save herself? Was that the best, even the only way forward?
All she had in her favor was the possibility of one day finding her father, of finding her true place in the world. But could she jeopardize Hugh’s future on something so chancy? Perhaps she could, if he was willing to take the risk with her. She could only ask questions, and find out.
“Is it your wish to wed Mistress Eleanor, my lord?” she asked.
Hugh looked miserable. “It is my aunt’s hope that we will. Eleanor was betrothed to the son of a baron as a child. But – but he died in battle, before they could be wed.”
“And now she’s looking for a new husband?”
“Her father is on her behalf.” Hugh hesitated for a moment. “He would look further for someone higher than me, for she will bring a large dowry to the marriage, and will inherit everything on her father’s death.” Perhaps misreading Janna’s compassion as judgment, he rushed to defend himself. “I have never made any secret of the fact that I have nothing in my own right, and that I must marry well! And it seems that Eleanor looks upon me with love, even if not with her father’s favor. In fact, without her family’s friendship with my aunt, I doubt things would have progressed even as far as they have. But her father knows me from my time in his household, and so does Eleanor, and she is forever at her father now to make this match.” He kicked viciously at a wooden stool standing close, the movement expressing his frustration with the situation as he said bitterly, “I haven’t spoken to her yet, but it seems that I must. But I tell you, Johanna, I would far rather follow my heart in this.”
At last he looked her full in the face, his meaning written plain upon his features. Janna stared back at him, wondering what to do for the best. Should she tell him about her expectations in the hope of a marriage proposal? But, if her high hopes came to naught, the marriage would be blighted and their relationship soured beyond repair. She didn’t want that for him. And she certainly didn’t want that for herself.
“Then may I wish you good fortune with your wooing, my lord,” she said instead. It took all her determination not to look at Godric, lest she betray her utter devastation that he was lost to her. “I must go about my duties,” she muttered, and whisked away.
But she could not stop her thoughts from churning as she continued to serve ale and food to the customers. She’d believed, after Ralph, that she would never love or trust anyone again. Indeed, her heart shriveled small at the memory of how badly hurt she had been. This meeting with Godric had shaken her more than she’d thought was possible. Now that she’d come to a true understanding of her love for him it was all too late. His loyalty lay with his overlord – and with Cecily. And he knew it. That must be why he’d turned away from her after the passionate kiss they’d shared. Perhaps he and Cecily were already wed, and that was why Cecily would not be parted from him. Whatever Godric’s circumstances, it seemed Janna could stake no claim on his heart or his life. So she must look to her own future, whatever that might be.
She dragged her mind from Godric back to Hugh and his intended bride, Eleanor. She wished them both well, but couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if she’d spoken of her own promising fortune. She remembered Hugh’s many acts of kindness, the admiration in his eyes when she’d nursed him back to health at the abbey, and the attraction growing between them. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. It seemed certain, from the look he had just given her, that he would be willing to join his future with hers – if only she could bring something to the marriage.
She couldn’t bring love, but she might be able to bring him a connection to the crown. In return, she might find comfort for her own aching heart. She was sure Hugh would make a loving companion and in return she thought she could make him happy, happier than he might be if he married Eleanor. But with Eleanor, he was assured of a promising future. With Janna, he had no guarantee of anything at all. It seemed that Hugh had his eye on a wealthy wife, but now that they’d met up again, perhaps he might find the courage to choose a different path? If so, Janna was determined that it was his choice to make, and only then would she decide if she could go through with it. And that decision would have to wait until after she had found her father and fulfilled the oath she had sworn to her mother. That must come before everything.
“And it’ll serve you right if you die a destitute and lonely old maid,” she told herself, feeling hot tears of self-pity sting her eyes. As she went to the brew house to refill the pitchers with ale, she tried to cheer herself with the thought that she was not alone. Her father might come to Winchestre and, while Ulf was here, she had at least one friend on her side. Two, if she counted Godric. Three, if she counted Hugh. Godric might be with Cecily, and Hugh have expectations of Eleanor, but there was no reason why she couldn’t count them as her friends.
She looked down at her russet tunic and apron, now blurred through her tears but no less real. They were the flag for how far she had fallen. Friends? She shook her head at the folly of her thoughts. Godric and Hugh were far above her now. They would not introduce a lowborn skivvy into their circle of society. She was a fool even to think of it.
*
“…the new brew.” The words penetrated Janna’s misery. Suddenly recollecting her earlier experiments with the ale, she stopped filling up the customers’ mugs and paused to listen.
“New brew?” Sybil sounded puzzled. “It’s the same as usual.”
“No, it’s not,” the speaker said. He took another swallow and smacked his lips. “I don’t know what you’ve put into it this time, mistress, but it’s good.”
“Yair, it’s different.” The man’s companion drained his mug and set it down with a bang on the table. “I’ll have another.”
There was a general murmuring as several customers quaffed the contents of their own mugs and passed their opinions on the brew. Noticing Janna standing nearby clutching a jug, they beckoned her across to them.
“Do you know anything about this?” Sybil shot Janna a sharp look as she approached the table.
“No. Well, yes, I – ” Janna hastened to fill the proffered mugs.
“Brew house. Now.” Sybil jerked her head toward the door and walked away.
“Be kind to her, mistress!” one of the
men called out. “She makes a better brew than you do!”
From Sybil’s grim expression Janna knew she was in trouble, so she was pleased that the taverner had at least heard the compliments before she walked out.
“I don’t like to be made a fool of by anyone, least of all you!” Sybil rebuked Janna as she entered the brew house.
“It was not my intention to make a fool of you, mistress,” Janna pleaded. “It’s just that – that I used to make ale under my mother’s instruction and – and suddenly I felt heartsick that she was dead and that…and that…” She tried to blink back the tears she’d been holding in check ever since she’d faced the destruction of her prospects and the truth about her own hungry, lonely heart.
Sybil frowned. “You went behind my back, without asking permission. You might have ruined the brew!” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Or has someone put you up to this? Are you trying to sabotage my business?”
“Of course not!” Janna wondered why Sybil was so mistrustful, and what more she could do to allay the taverner’s suspicions. “You heard what the customers said. They like the new ale!”
“It’s as well for you that they do,” Sybil snapped. “What did you put in it?”
Janna hesitated. She wanted to keep the recipe a secret, in the hope that her knowledge would secure her employment. On the other hand, Sybil was steaming like a pot on the boil, furious that Janna had shown her up in front of her own customers.
“Some new herbs and a dollop of honey,” she admitted grudgingly. “And I stirred the brew with a stick of ash.”
“Ash?”
“My mother always told me that the ash was a tree of knowledge and wisdom, and if we stirred our brew with it, it would bring us health, protection and prosperity. And the bark adds flavor to the ale.” Janna wondered if that admission would be enough to satisfy Sybil. But it wasn’t. Without commenting further, the taverner drew a full mug of ale from the barrel and took a cautious sip.
In spite of her anger, her grim expression softened a little as she rolled the liquid around her tongue before swallowing it. “Sage?” she guessed, and Janna nodded. She wondered if the taverner could also taste the ash keys. But Sybil didn’t mention them, saying only, “The brew tastes a little sweeter than usual, but it’s quite refreshing.” She took another sip. “Why sage? And honey?”
“For the taste.” And to make the brew more potent and last longer. But this, Janna kept to herself. “I hoped that a different brew, or even a choice of brews, might keep our customers loyal once the other alehouses open,” she said. She swallowed hard, summoning up the courage to continue, “I’ve also added some extra herbs to the gruit in the new brew.”
“You’ve what?” Sybil’s face flushed dark with rage. For a moment Janna feared the taverner was going to hit her.
“Just for a change,” she said hurriedly. “It’ll taste even better than this new brew, I swear it.”
Sybil gave an angry sigh and pursed her lips. “We’ll be running out of supplies soon enough, even sooner if you’ve spoiled the new brew. I might have to close the tavern, and then where will you be?”
Janna’s small show of confidence instantly evaporated in the face of this new threat. “How long can we hold out, do you think?” she asked quickly.
Sybil shrugged. “I won’t be able to keep you on if I close.”
So this was Sybil’s way of paying her back for not asking permission to change the brew. Indeed, it was probably no more than she should have expected under the circumstances. Janna tilted her chin, determined not to let Sybil see how her words had stung.
“I can always take my recipe elsewhere,” she said quietly.
Sybil glared at her. Janna held her gaze. It was the taverner who looked away first. “Get on and serve the customers,” she said, and turned her back to snatch up a pitcher and open the bung on the new barrel of ale.
Janna took the filled pitcher from her and hurried off, conscious that in the battle of wills with her employer she had won the first round. But her brief feeling of elation died abruptly once she re-entered the tavern. Automatically she looked about for Godric and Hugh, and saw that they were leaving. But they were not alone – two men had joined them. Hugh had an arm around each stranger and appeared to be urging them out the door. Janna studied his new companions, curious to identify them if she could.
It was a great mistake, for even as she thought they seemed familiar, one of them turned to look over his shoulder and she recognized the red face and piggy eyes of Hugh’s uncle by marriage, Robert of Babestoche. Just as she’d seen him, so had he seen her. With a gasp of alarm, she ducked her head to avoid his scrutiny. But she was too late. She saw him stop and wheel around; saw Hugh’s hand tighten on Robert’s shoulder as he tried to turn him away; saw Godric step into his path to prevent him coming after her. Robert stayed still. But his companion did not. With only a fleeting glance, Janna recognized the man who’d once tried to silence her for ever – Mus. She didn’t wait to see anything further. She turned and fled into the yard, through the gate and down the lane. She didn’t pause to see if she was being followed, but made for the only place she knew where she might find shelter. She ran as if the devil himself was after her, for indeed, that was how she thought of Mus. With one fearful glance over her shoulder, she shot down the lane leading to the cathedral.
She heard shouts and pounding footsteps, coming closer, sounding louder. She didn’t dare look again. She ran on, feeling pain cut like a knife into her side. She gulped in ragged gasps of air, but felt as if she was suffocating. And still she ran, until at last the great doors of the cathedral loomed before her. Without pausing, she burst through them and collapsed onto the floor.
She crouched low and closed her eyes as she felt herself spinning down into darkness. Panic gripped her, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or cry for help. All she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat and the ragged whooping of her breath as she tried to drag air into her tortured lungs. Bright lights flashed behind her eyelids; sound ebbed and crashed in waves, and she knew that she was about to faint. Hours – or perhaps only moments – later, she felt something cold and wet on her neck, and a voice came to her through the darkness. “Keep your head down, Johanna.” She recognized the speaker: Sister Benedicta. She relaxed then, and let herself float off into the void. She was safe.
Chapter 7
Once the waves of dizziness had passed, Janna felt ashamed of her weakness and was embarrassed that she’d drawn attention to herself in this way. She tried to stand up and was pushed down again by Sister Benedicta.
“I’m feeling all right now,” she reassured the nun, and proved it by rising to her feet, although she took care to anchor herself against a stone pillar. “I thank you for your care but truly, the faintness has passed.” She glanced fearfully around the cathedral, but there was no sign of Mus. The space was less crowded with townsfolk seeking shelter now that the danger had eased, but there were still many wounded soldiers needing treatment, and also some civilians, women and children among them. Janna felt a surge of anger that the innocent should also be caught in this fight for the crown.
“Now that I am here, let me help you,” she offered. She knew Sybil would not take kindly to her running away, and that staying here in the cathedral would only compound her transgression, but not for anything would she risk another encounter with Mus. Sister Benedicta looked as if she was about to protest, but Janna didn’t give her the chance. Instead, she walked over to the children and crouched down to see if she could cheer them with a story.
Once everyone was bedded down for the night, Janna also tried to sleep. But her rest was troubled by nightmares: Mus crept up on her with a wire snare in his hands while she stood frozen with fear, unable to get away. Robert stood by and smiled, and Godric turned his back and walked off. She opened her eyes, feeling a great wave of relief to find herself surrounded by the safe stone walls of the cathedral. She forced herself to stay awake until the ful
l horror of her nightmare had subsided, only to fall asleep again and dream of Godric once more. This time he was with Cecily. They were walking hand in hand through the water meadows, picking flowers and herbs just as Janna herself had done. She asked Godric to give her some sprigs of sage, but he gave them to Cecily instead. They walked away, their figures dwindling until they disappeared altogether.
Janna woke with tears on her cheeks and black misery in her heart. It was safer, after that, to stay awake. And so she spent the rest of the night flitting among the patients, bringing a mug of ale to a thirsty soldier, a draft of horehound to quieten the hacking cough of a small child, holding patients’ hands and soothing them with reassuring words. She massaged bruises with a salve of woundwort and goose grease, and renewed a bloody and suppurating bandage, cleansing the wound before binding it with new cloth and tying it with care, taking pride in her handiwork and pleasure in being able to use her healing skills once more.
But the new day brought a new terror. Janna had spent part of the morning helping the nuns tend the wounded until she deemed the tavern would be crowded enough for her to return to her work in safety. Just as she was about to leave, the great doors were flung open, revealing a solid phalanx of men, some in armor and with swords drawn.
“No!” Sister Benedicta hurried to the entrance to ward them off. Janna marveled at her courage: one small, stout sister facing a group of men intent on forcing an entry. They had checked and were eyeing her dubiously, seemingly pondering the wisdom of cutting her down if it meant putting their immortal souls at risk. But the infirmarian was not alone for long – almost immediately her sisters streamed to the entrance to join her. A bell clanged, warning of the trouble, and within moments the sisters were joined by the priest, his acolytes and, shortly afterward, the prior and all the monks from the priory attached to the cathedral. They made a formidable wall as they assembled in front of the soldiers.
Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 Page 11