Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5

by Felicity Pulman

  “Enjoy your meal.” Sybil frowned at Janna. “Haven’t you anything better to do than stand around tattling with the customers?”

  Janna surveyed the empty tavern and raised her eyebrows. Sybil heaved an angry sigh and walked off.

  “The merchant?” Janna prompted.

  Ulf’s response was to spoon up another portion of stew and chew contentedly. Janna knew he enjoyed teasing her, and had to restrain herself from grabbing hold and shaking him into speech. She tapped her foot impatiently.

  “He was in Paradise.”

  “Not in Hell, with Ebba?”

  “Nay.” Ulf shook his head. “But, like Ebba, he seems keen to spread rumors and lies. I heard him telling one customer that the ale in Paradise is the best he’s ever tasted. Which isn’t true, as it happens. It tastes like rat shit. Well.” He stopped to consider his words. “It’s maybe not quite that bad, but it’s nothing to brag about either.”

  “So why would he talk it up – unless it’s to talk down the Bell and Bush?”

  Ulf nodded. “My thoughts exactly,” he said.

  “Sounds like Ebba’s got him wound around her little finger if they’re saying the same things.”

  “If he’s wound around her little finger, why isn’t he drinking in Hell with her?”

  “And who’s been buying her new clothes and encouraging her to fancy herself, if not the merchant?”

  “But he looks like he’s fallen on hard times,” Ulf said thoughtfully. “He’s not nearly as full of himself as he used to be.”

  They looked at each other, mulling over the questions. “Can you keep on drinking there, try to win their confidence, see what else you can find out?” Janna asked, when no answers seemed to be forthcoming.

  “If I do, you’ll lose your best customer. Your only customer,” Ulf added, as he glanced around the empty tavern.

  “All in a good cause.” Janna just hoped that, in the circumstances, she might keep her job long enough to solve the mystery and clear her good name. That alone was worth fighting for. Her hands clenched in rage as she thought of the lies being told about her. “You could start by finding out who’s protecting that little viper now,” she suggested.

  “Ebba?”

  “The same.” Janna pulled a disgusted face. “If the merchant’s had the good sense to throw her out, perhaps her new protector might appreciate a few words in his ear about what really happened around here!”

  “I’ll talk up your ale – and your reputation,” Ulf promised, with a grin. He drained his mug, then ate the last of the stew, smacking his lips in appreciation. “And I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised.

  Janna was so preoccupied with what Ulf had told her, she forgot the threat to her own safety and so neglected to take her usual precautions. After the relic seller left, with Brutus bounding beside him, Sybil barred the front door, blew out the candles, and let Janna out into the yard. Janna heard the bolt of the back door scrape behind her as she set out for the kitchen, and realized too late that she should have asked Ossie to walk with her, as he usually did. She looked about the dark yard. Her imagination sprang to life, and with it the knowledge of her own danger. Every shadow posed a threat; every sly movement became an assassin. But in spite of her vigilance, the attack, when it came, took her entirely by surprise.

  She felt her arms being seized and held from behind. A large hand clamped over her mouth. Without thinking, she bit hard, nipping the soft flesh of the man’s fingers so that he yelled out in sudden pain. Janna stamped down, aiming for the man’s instep, and was rewarded by a vicious curse. A faint light came from the kitchen as the door opened.

  “Janna? Is that you? Are you all right?” Wat stood in the doorway, peering out into the night.

  Janna wrenched her head sideways in a supreme effort to dislodge the man’s hand. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew the identity of her attacker, for she recognized the sour-sweat smell of him from before. Mus. Fear almost paralyzed her, but she fought to stay strong as she gulped a quick breath. “Haaa – !” She managed no more than a short squawk before his hand clamped tight over her mouth once more.

  Wat disappeared from the doorway. Janna blinked in disbelief. Surely the wretched boy must have realized something was wrong; surely he could have come to her aid. She kicked and struggled in Mus’s arms, wild with terror. But he was stronger by far, his purpose fueled by resentment and a desire for revenge. His grip tightened, cruel and bruising.

  “Shut your mouth!” he snarled, and dragged her toward the gate. It should have been locked for the night, but instead it stood half open. Janna’s stomach lurched in dread; she knew that once Mus got her outside into the dark, lonely lane, she would die. Her struggles increased. Mus held her fast, his arm crushing her chest so tight she could hardly breathe. Remembering how she’d got the better of him before, she forced herself to stop fighting him and sagged against his hold, slack and unresisting.

  He gave a grunting laugh. “I won’t fall for that trick again,” he said. His pace increased as he made the most of her lack of resistance. Janna began to fight once more, desperate to gain time, just a few precious seconds before death claimed her forever.

  She heard Mus give a grunt of surprise. His grip suddenly eased and she sucked a grateful breath into her aching lungs. Hardly daring to believe her luck, she broke free and started to run, expecting every moment that he would come after her. But he didn’t. Instead, she heard a loud groan, followed by the thump of something hitting the ground. A wild whooping cry split the silent night.

  In spite of her terror, Janna risked a glance over her shoulder, just in time to see Ossie burst out of the tavern door brandishing a piece of wood. He came galloping toward her, then came to an abrupt stop. Still unable to believe that she was safe, Janna’s gaze moved on to the source of the triumphant shouting.

  Wat was thrusting his fist in the air in a delighted salute to his own bravery. In his other hand he clutched a thin iron bar, which he waved at her.

  “I got him!” he crowed. Janna smiled as his voice cracked into a high falsetto on the last word. “You’re safe now,” he shouted, consciously aiming for a deeper tone as he carelessly stepped over a dark lump on the ground. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere in a hurry.”

  “Well done, Wat!” Hardly able to believe her narrow escape, Janna looked at the crumpled figure. Just to make sure, she walked over and prodded him with her boot, in case he was pretending to have lost his senses. But he stayed where he’d fallen, silent and still.

  “We can’t just leave him here,” she said uncertainly.

  “Why not? Who cares if he’s dead! He was after you, Janna. He would’ve killed you if I hadn’a got to him first.” Wat airily hefted his weapon onto one shoulder. Janna peered at it in the dark and identified the iron poker that Elfric used to prod his fire into life. She winced as she imagined the damage it must have done to Mus’s skull. She looked to Ossie for guidance, but the big man shrugged and kept silent.

  “Let’s just leave him here,” Wat advised. “We’ll ask Sybil what to do with him come mornin’.”

  “Good idea,” Ossie mumbled, clearly not willing to take responsibility for anything.

  Janna was about to argue, but then decided to keep her thoughts to herself. She didn’t like to leave an injured man lying on the ground, but she certainly didn’t want to bring him inside to tend his wounds. Nor did she want Ossie to summon help either, not if it meant lots of questions she didn’t want to answer. “Why didn’t you lock the yard gate, Ossie?” she asked instead.

  “I did.” The big man looked confused. “I did!” he said again, and swung around to prove his point. His eyes widened as he saw the half-open gate. At once he stalked over to examine it more carefully. “See! That bastard cut his way in!”

  It was true; even in the dim light, Janna could see the damage to the gate. “Can you fix it, Ossie?” she asked. Even if Mus was out of his senses, they were still vulnerable to other troublemakers while th
e gate stayed open.

  “It’ll have to wait until the morrow. You make sure you bolt that kitchen door behind you tonight,” he advised, and waited for them both to enter the kitchen before walking back to the tavern.

  Janna didn’t need to be told. As soon as she and Wat were inside, she barred the door behind them. After what had just happened, she regretted her uncharitable thoughts about the young potboy.

  “I owe you my life,” she said, “and I thank you.” As reaction set in, her legs felt too weak to take her weight and she sank heavily onto a stool near the hearth. She was shivering with cold and fright. Now that she could see him properly in the glow from the damped-down fire, Wat looked very young and rather awkward.

  “I saw you strugglin’ with that man,” he said. “I reckoned I needed a weapon so I ran to find one. Lucky he had his back to me. If he’d seen me comin’, it could’ve been both of us a-layin’ out there.”

  Janna didn’t doubt his words. “It was very brave of you,” she said quietly.

  Wat grinned, regaining some of his cockiness at her praise. “Who is he, then? Why’s he after you?”

  It was a long story, and behind it was more than Janna was prepared to tell anyone. “He hates me, that’s why.” It was a compromise, but no less than the truth. Still, she could read the curiosity in Wat’s gaze as he pulled out the straw-stuffed sleeping pallets and handed one over.

  “Just call on me for help if ever you need it,” he said grandly, and settled himself down for the night.

  Wat slept the night in sweet contentment, perhaps dreaming of his bravery, but Janna had nightmares whenever she managed to slide into sleep. She awoke with a feeling of dread, wondering what the new day would bring. As soon as a rosy pink glow shone through the high windows, she jumped up from her pallet. She picked up the poker, just in case, and went outside, not knowing what to expect or how she should handle whatever might arise. But the yard was empty.

  Janna blinked, and looked again. In part she was relieved that they didn’t have a dead body to explain. But her greatest emotion was fear. Mus had gone. And when he returned, his anger would be greater than ever, and his desire for revenge even more urgent.

  She went back to the kitchen, to find Wat stirring on his pallet. As he heard Janna come in, he sat bolt upright. “What have you done with him?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Nothing. He’s gone.” Janna poured herself a cup of ale and sipped it thoughtfully.

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” Wat clenched his fist in the air, doing his best to bunch up the muscles of his arm inside his tunic sleeve.

  Janna tried to look impressed by the sight. “I don’t know, but I do thank you for being so brave last night.” She looked up as Ossie shambled into the kitchen.

  “’E’s gone.”

  “But he may try again!” Wat breathed. Janna’s two rescuers looked at each other and then at her. Janna wondered what she should tell them.

  “I hope he won’t return,” she said, wishing she could believe it. “But can you both keep a look out for him, and let me know if you see anything suspicious?”

  “You was expectin’ him, wasn’t you? That’s why you always asked us to keep you company in the yard.”

  Janna nodded in answer to Wat’s question. “And I hope you’ll continue to keep me company, just in case?”

  “Course!” he said stoutly. Ossie smiled in agreement. Janna felt slightly reassured. With Ossie’s huge bulk on the one hand, and Wat’s passionate need to prove himself on the other, she should be safe enough from Mus, or anyone else who sought to silence her on behalf of his liege lord. “No need to tell Sybil about any of this,” she added, thinking that the taverner had enough on her mind to deal with.

  Ossie sketched a cross over his mouth as a promise of his silence, while Wat again raised a clenched fist in the air. “Thank you,” Janna said gratefully, and poured them both an ale.

  *

  The tavern was as quiet as ever that night. To Janna’s relief, there was no sign of Mus, but Ulf came in early, smuggling Brutus in beside him while Sybil’s back was turned. But all he had to report was that there was nothing further to report. Yet it seemed that his words had reached receptive ears, for along with Ulf, and in dribs and drabs, several other customers began to trickle in. Some were strangers to Janna and might well have strayed in from the street, but others had been loyal customers in the past and now looked a little shamefaced at their betrayal. But Sybil gave them all a fulsome welcome to show that she bore no grudges, and a free ale to make up for the ale they’d found too foul to drink and that had made them sick. Those few who also ordered food looked on with pleased amazement as heaped trenchers were placed in front of them.

  Observing the customers’ contentment, Janna thought it a shrewd move on the taverner’s part. She knew her brew was sweet, one of her best; they couldn’t help but enjoy it. Particularly if, as Ulf whispered to her in passing, they’d just come from Paradise!

  A man in his middle age swept into the tavern, followed by a boy and an older man. Conversation came to a standstill as all eyes swiveled to observe the well-dressed newcomer. He carried himself with a lordly air, surveying the room in silence before selecting a table and drawing up a stool. Janna noted that his companion waited for his lord to be seated before sitting down himself. The man beckoned Sybil to him. Intrigued, Janna stopped what she was doing to watch.

  “I’ll have a pitcher of your best ale, mistress,” he ordered. Sybil hastened away to fetch the ale herself, while Janna edged closer, unashamedly eavesdropping as the man began to question his underling. From what she could overhear of their conversation, it seemed that the underling was reporting on a property he was rebuilding. It also seemed that his lord was not at all satisfied with the progress he was making, for his tone was sharp and the underling kept shifting uncomfortably on his stool. The boy looked merely bored with the whole affair and stared boldly around the room. Janna was careful not to meet his glance, lest he accuse her of spying on them. Yet she was conscious of a nervous flutter of anticipation, for the man looked somehow familiar, while talk of rebuilding lent credence to a small and desperate hope that she was not mistaken.

  Sybil placed the pitcher of ale and mugs in front of the lord with an ingratiating smile. After hesitating a moment to see if he would serve himself, she carefully poured ale into the mugs and stepped back, waiting for him to taste it.

  He took a cautious sip, smacked his lips, and raised the mug for a long draft. “Your tavern was recommended to me,” he told Sybil, as he put the mug down and waited for a refill. “I can see my informant was right about the quality of the ale you serve here.” Janna stifled a smile. It seemed that Ulf had excelled himself when it came to spreading the word. Her ears pricked up as the man continued talking.

  “I don’t normally drink ale unless there’s nothing else available.” He grimaced, perhaps in memory of inferior ale tasted elsewhere. He lifted the replenished mug to his mouth for another hearty swallow. “But this,” he said, as he lowered the mug once more, “this is how it ought to taste. This is how I remember it. Where did you learn to make ale like this, mistress?”

  Janna stood stock-still, waiting for Sybil to reply, and perhaps to beckon her forward so she could take full credit for the brew. As she mulled over the significance of what she’d just heard, the flutter of hope, delicate as butterfly wings, grew into a whirlwind so strong she had to clutch onto the nearest table for support. She peered more closely at the lord.

  His dark hair was lightly sprinkled with gray. He wore it long, and brushed into a fringe over his forehead in Norman fashion. As well, he sported both a beard and a mustache. He wore a long, pale blue tunic, elaborately embroidered at the neck and sleeves. Obviously a man of quality and style. Janna knew she had never seen him before, yet she was almost sure she knew who he was. She wished he would look at her, just for a few moments. What would she see if she looked into his eyes? But he was watching Sybil, leaning for
ward in anticipation of her answer.

  The taverner clasped her hands and gave a saucy giggle. “’Tis an old family recipe, sire,” she said, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. Reading his thoughts through his reaction to Sybil’s news, Janna understood that the taverner might as well have saved herself the trouble of flirting with him. He blinked a couple of times, then slumped back onto his stool. He nudged the boy next to him. “Drink up, son,” he said, and drained the rest of his ale in one mighty swallow.

  Janna snatched up a full jug of ale. She was about to offer him a refill, but one of their regular customers grabbed hold of her. He thumped down his empty mug and waited until she’d filled it to the brim before launching into a long and complicated story about his missing wife. “Always devoted to me and the children,” he rumbled, holding fast onto her sleeve lest she try to escape. “I can’t understand it. I just can’t.” And he went on then to tell Janna that his wife had last been seen visiting the blacksmith’s forge, “the one by the West Gate,” he said. He shook his head, downed the contents of his mug in one gulp, and held out the empty mug once more. “I can’t think why she’d go there when we don’t even own a horse!” he grumbled. “It’s not as though she needs a knife sharpened, or anything like that. I take care of that side of things. I keep everything in good repair. She’s never wanted for nothing, my wife. I’ve always taken good care of her too.”

  Janna fretted impatiently, but he’d been a good customer in the past, albeit given to long monologues about everything from the weather, to his grievances over the troubles between the king and the empress, to the latest achievements of his young children. She knew she couldn’t shake him off now that they were so desperate for customers, not without risking a rebuke from Sybil, so she listened with half an ear while she watched the man and his son, and tried to learn what she could from her observation.