Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5

by Felicity Pulman

  “What is your purpose in coming here?” the priest challenged.

  A man wearing some semblance of armor stepped forward. Janna pressed closer in an effort to identify him. Was this Earl Robert at the head of the empress’s troops, seeking sanctuary? But she didn’t recognize the man, or his insignia, nor was there any sign of the empress. She surveyed the soldier and the grim-faced militia behind him. She remembered Hugh’s whispered advice that she should flee while there was still time. If not the empress’s army, was this instead the infamous William of Ypres, feared and detested by all who had the misfortune to cross his path? A frisson of terror ran through her. What had happened to bring these men to the very door of the cathedral?

  “The empress has fled, and her army with her.” The man smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He reminded Janna of a snake eyeing its prey. The resemblance intensified as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. Clearly, he was relishing the situation.

  A whisper of distress echoed around the cathedral as the occupants began to realize the consequences of the man’s words.

  “They have escaped your clutches, then.” There was satisfaction in the priest’s voice.

  “The empress managed to evade the queen’s troops, but her half-brother, Robert of Gloucestre, has been taken, along with most of his men.”

  Godric and Hugh! Stricken, Janna put her hand to her breast. Neither had the money to pay a ransom. Had they managed to escape, or were they even now – ? Janna couldn’t bear to complete her thought.

  “The empress’s army fled like rabbits before a fox, abandoning those mounts they did not need and dropping their possessions as they went: weapons, armor, shields, cloaks and precious vessels, so anxious were they to save their own skins. But we captured them anyway!” The man chuckled at the memory, a mocking laugh that boded ill for the unhappy captives. “After such a rout, they will not lightly take up arms again. The empress’s war is finished, and the citizens of Winchestre with it! And a pox on all of you for supporting her cause at the expense of the king!”

  He stepped forward, but the men and women of the church closed ranks behind the priest and held fast.

  “Get out of our way!”

  Janna knew then that they had come to loot the church: to take the gold and silver, the precious cross and chalices, the relics and fittings. What they did not destroy they would sell to the highest bidder. And, to keep their actions hidden, they would probably slaughter all witnesses. Her heart juddered with fear; she began to mutter a prayer to save her soul.

  A sudden realization penetrated her terror. The leader of this rabble spoke in the Saxon tongue. Not Flemish, nor even Norman French. This couldn’t be William of Ypres and his mercenaries then, so who were these people? Londoners? Would they be likely to show more mercy than the Flemish? She remembered hearing how the citizens of London had risen against the empress, forcing her to flee to Oxeneford. They had shown no mercy then. Her hands were clammy with sweat as she waited for the rabble to invade the cathedral.

  “You will not enter! You will not sack and pillage God’s house, or you will have to answer to the Bishop of Winchestre for your actions,” the priest said coldly.

  The soldier checked, perhaps deciding he needed to rethink his strategy.

  “And on your death you will have to answer to a higher power even than our bishop,” the priest continued, making the most of the advantage he had won. “God is watching, as are his saints and all the angels. Beware, lest you imperil your immortal soul.”

  Still the soldier stood his ground, but behind him Janna could see his men shuffling and fidgeting, and whispering to each other. The solid block of his support began to unravel as, one by one, they peeled off and hastened away, keen perhaps to find easier pickings elsewhere. The soldier and the priest faced each other down while behind them, in the cathedral, those taking refuge held their breath in terror.

  At last the soldier turned away. “Keep your flock inside, priest, if you value their lives,” he said curtly, and strode off.

  “And so it has begun.” The priest closed the great doors behind him, and turned to face them all. He looked exhausted, and ill with worry. “The Londoners have come to ransack Winchestre, and it’s only a matter of time before the Flemings join them,” he said. “You must pray for your families and friends, and all who are not in here with us.”

  He did not have to say any more, for Janna could imagine exactly what was going to happen outside the cathedral, might even be happening already. The empress and her army had scattered, run for their lives. This, then, was the meaning of Hugh’s warning. She could only hope that he’d heeded his own advice and that he and Godric had found somewhere safe to shelter. She knew that the king’s supporters, under the leadership of the cruelest villain of them all, William of Ypres, would not hesitate to burn, to rape, to kill and pillage, to lay waste to Winchestre and all who lived within its walls. She found herself praying in earnest now, not only for herself but for Godric and Hugh, and also for Hamo. Hugh had said that Sire Geoffrey’s manor was some way out of Winchestre; Janna hoped it was far enough to keep the boy safe. And Ulf. Where was he? Any looters would be glad to seize his bag of relics, but would they leave Ulf alive during the taking of it? Janna shook her head, knowing the answer.

  She found herself praying also for Sybil, and for Wat and Ossie and Elfric. Would they have had time to take shelter in the cellar? Would the soldiers even think to look for a hidden storehouse? Or would they be content to lay waste only to what was on display, not knowing there was more to find?

  Janna’s hands clenched; she was shaking with rage even as she continued to pray. Hugh’s warning meant that this retreat had been planned in advance. She could not forgive the empress’s troops for running away and leaving the citizens to face alone the depredations of the Londoners, along with William of Ypres and his troops.

  She was distracted from her prayers by a growing tumult outside: screams and shouts, the thudding of horses’ hooves and their frightened whinnying. The priest stayed by the door, ready to open it to anyone seeking sanctuary. But few came; Janna imagined that the townsfolk were probably being cut down before ever they could reach safety. She sank to her knees and blocked her ears, willing her imagination to stop casting pictures of what was happening outside the cathedral. But the sounds penetrated, terrifying in their implication. Smoke drifted through the windows and some, the young and the elderly in particular, began to cough as it swirled and thickened around them. Janna rose wearily and went to help those who most needed relief.

  The bells had ceased to ring. The thick smoke made it impossible to see how the day was passing, or tell when night fell. From his post by the door, the priest said prayers and told stories of the miracles of Jesus in a vain attempt to lift their spirits. As his voice failed, the prior from St Swithuns adjacent to the cathedral took his place, and continued to do what he could to take their minds off what was happening outside.

  *

  Janna had no way of knowing how long they were incarcerated in the cathedral. Minutes passed as slowly as days. She spent the time in a state of terrified anticipation, which she tried to blunt by filling her hours with caring for the wounded and entertaining the children. What little food was left was kept under the watchful eye of Sister Benedicta. She began to dole it out only to the children and later, only to those children who were older and strong enough to survive. Sickened, Janna tried to turn deaf ears to the pleas of the mothers with toddlers, those too old to be suckled but too young to thrive alone, should there be no release soon from their prison. And her rage grew at the senseless waste of war. She had supported the empress’s cause from the start, but felt her sympathy waning fast as she contemplated the consequences of the lady’s ambition. And the king’s. And she wondered what would happen next, with the king and the empress’s half-brother both held captive by their enemies. Would they call a truce? Would one side yield to the other? Or would the fighting continue until either the k
ing or the empress was dead?

  Gradually the tumult outside subsided, but it was a long time before the priest deemed it safe to open the great doors. The captives streamed out and stood blinking in the pale sunshine, appalled at what lay before them: bodies of the dead and dying, and the smoking ruins of the town. It was a scene of utter devastation and destruction.

  Yet not everyone had died in the onslaught, nor had everything been destroyed. As the group slowly began to disperse, so other survivors began to trickle out from their various hiding places, reassured by the priest’s presence that it was safe to show themselves at last. Families were reunited with joyful cries, but there were also loud lamentations as the dead were identified and mourned.

  Janna began her search, praying that Hugh and Godric, and also Ulf, had got away in time. She felt sick with fear as she traversed the lane and came into the high street, keeping always in the shadows and starting at any unexpected sound. She looked along the street, noticing that all the shops had been destroyed. A sudden yowling sent her heart ricocheting into her throat, and she froze in terror until she noticed the source of the unearthly yell. The cat had lost one eye and its tabby fur was badly burned along one flank. Janna held out her hand to it, and called softly, but it flattened its ears at her and hissed, then sprang away and ran for its life. Janna crept on, expecting the worst, yet still with the hope that the tavern and its occupants might have escaped unscathed.

  The wall surrounding the bishop’s palace was partly demolished; the palace itself was a smoking ruin, as were the shops and pentices that had hung from the wall like ticks on a dog. A dead beast lay in the market square. Janna wondered if its carcass would be salvaged for food to feed the starving survivors, and saw several townsfolk with knives out and baskets at the ready, bearing down on it. She shuddered and moved onward, but recognized no-one among the ruins. Hopeful that those she loved might have escaped the murderous onslaught, she retraced her steps toward the East Gate and the tavern. This part of town seemed to have escaped the worst of the firebrands, although smashed doors spoke eloquently of the depredations of the marauders. Janna wondered nervously if any of them were still roaming about now, hungry for pickings.

  She was too afraid to go directly to the tavern, and so cut down through the laneways and into the yard instead. The gate had been wrested from its mooring post and lay buckled and useless to one side. To Janna’s relief, the tavern itself seemed intact, although the brew house bore the charcoal scars of a passing fire. She pushed open the door and ventured inside. Barrels of ale stood against the wall, but when she bent down to unstopper the bung, suddenly desperate to slake her thirst, she realized the barrel had been drained dry. As had the other two, she noted, when she saw the discarded bungs lying on the ground. The mash tun and containers had also been emptied. Some of the brewing utensils were gone, perhaps looted or taken to the cellar for safekeeping. Everything else had been trampled underfoot and was damaged beyond repair. It was utter, senseless vandalism, and Janna shook her head over the waste of it.

  “What are you doing in here? Get out!” The voice was shrill, but Janna knew it all the same. She whirled around, and saw the terror leach from Sybil’s face as she recognized her. “And just what do you think you’re doing in here?” the taverner demanded, as she sheathed the sharp knife she’d wielded in readiness to protect herself and her property.

  “I came to see if you were all right, mistress, if you had survived the terror.” Janna was surprised at the surge of relief she felt on seeing Sybil. Sudden tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them back, feeling foolish. But the taverner had noticed, and her expression softened.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “Wat, Ossie and I took refuge in the cellar, but Elfric left to protect his family and we haven’t seen him since. Those whoresons ransacked my tavern – and the brew house too, as you see. But thanks be to God, they got too drunk to find the hatch leading to the cellar, and that saved our lives.” Sybil shuddered at the memory.

  “I was very angry with you for changing the recipe of my ale,” she continued. “And I was furious when you ran out without my permission. I was resolved not to take you back, not under any circumstances. Later, I feared for your safety, for I know what happens to women when soldiers get hold of them! But it seems that in spite of everything you have survived, and I own that I am pleased to see you. I know, now, that in the midst of all this carnage there’s no room for petty grievances.” She paused for a moment, considering. “I cannot pay you for your services, Janna, at least not for the moment. Most of my stores have gone, and it may be some while before I can open my doors to customers again. But you may take shelter here, and share what little food we have, if you’ll help me put the place to rights. Do you agree?”

  “Oh, I do! Thank you, mistress.” Janna restrained herself from throwing her arms around Sybil in gratitude. “I will do all I can to help you,” she promised, as she followed her into the tavern. It was a chaotic jumble of smashed stools, benches and tables inside. Looking around at the damage, Janna realized that much had gone missing; Sybil would have to start her business all over again. She glanced at the taverner, thinking to commiserate with her loss, and saw her nod with satisfaction.

  “They destroyed what they couldn’t take,” she confirmed, adding with a twinkle, “but they missed out on just about everything of value.” And she beckoned Janna to follow her to the hatch in the darkened corner, so that Janna could see for herself what had been saved, and what needed to be done to set the place to rights again.

  Chapter 8

  The glorious colors of autumn gave way to the cold winds of winter as the people of Winchestre salvaged what little they could in order to put food in their mouths and rebuild shelter for their families. The townsfolk’s earlier enthusiastic support for the empress’s cause had waned, although they still spoke of the king, his mercenaries and the London militia with disgust and virulent curses – but quietly, for the bishop openly supported his brother now and no-one wanted to risk being branded a traitor. But the townsfolk could neither forget nor forgive what had happened in the aftermath of the siege. All of them had either suffered personally or knew someone whose house or shop had been looted and destroyed. Family members had been tortured or put to death. Those who had managed to survive lived on the borderline of starvation, for crops had been destroyed and animals butchered to feed the marauding armies. They scavenged fields, rivers, hedgerows and woodland for anything edible, be it weeds, birds, squirrels, coneys or even fish, if they were lucky enough to catch one. But many, in the extremes of hunger, resorted to eating vermin, including rats and mice. There was no money to spend in any of the alehouses or taverns, although Sybil did her best to ensure that there was always ale on tap and at least one dish available for those few travelers who came their way.

  Not even the parish churches had been safe from the ravages of the London militia and the Flemish mercenaries. Some reported twenty, others said that as many as forty churches had been either burned to the ground or looted and destroyed. It seemed a miracle that the priest had managed to keep the cathedral and all its occupants safe.

  As Janna had suspected, the situation between king and empress was still not resolved, and the ebb and flow of their fortunes was discussed nightly among their few patrons. In a shocked whisper, one traveler reported the news that, in her panic to get away from Winchestre, the empress had galloped twenty miles to Litlegarsele in the company of Brian fitz Count and Reginald of Cornwall.

  “But she didn’t feel safe even there, so she insisted on riding another eighteen miles to the castle at Devizes.” The packman paused, with a glint in his eye, to take a refreshing gulp of ale. “For the sake of speed, and safety, she rode astride her mount like a man,” he confided. “That’s what one of the servants at Devizes told me, and he had it as an eyewitness report from the empress’s own party. But it seems even Devizes wasn’t considered safe enough, and so the empress decided to press on to Gloucestre. But by t
hen she was so saddle sore and exhausted they had to strap her onto a litter between two horses. That was how she entered Gloucestre, and by then she was more dead than alive, so the servant said!” The packman looked about, well pleased with the effect of his news on the assembled customers, especially when one of them offered to buy him another ale.

  “And now? What will the empress do now?” the customer asked, beckoning Janna over to give their mugs a refill.

  The speaker shrugged. “Earl Robert has been captured. What can she do but give up?”

  “What of her uncle, the King of Scotland? I heard he’d been taken too.”

  The speaker chuckled. “He was taken, all right, not once but three times – and he managed to buy his way out of captivity each time. The earl was not so lucky. He’s too valuable to trade.”

  The earl’s fortunes were the subject of great debate and discussion. He was given much credit for fighting a rearguard action at the ford at Stoche and delaying pursuit so that the empress might escape, although in so doing he had been captured, along with several other knights, and was being held prisoner at Roucestre in Kent. Janna wondered if Hugh was among those captured with the earl, and listened avidly whenever the talk turned to that fateful night, hoping for news of him and, by association, also of Godric. She longed to know that they were safe.

  New rumors began to circulate. First it was suggested that there be a prisoner exchange, the earl for the king. But the earl would not agree to it, on the grounds that an earl’s life was not worth that of a king. If the king was to be let free, he said, then it should be in return for the freedom of his followers as well as himself. But that was unacceptable, and so a new tactic was tried. This time, on behalf of the king, Bishop Henry offered the earl lordship of the whole land and promised that he’d be second to the king if only he would abandon the empress. But the earl refused all bribes and blandishments and stayed steadfastly loyal to his half-sister.