She walked on, conscious of the small purse now hidden under her gown. She was greatly tempted to spend the wages Sybil had given her for her work in the tavern. But she desired everything she’d seen so far; how could she ever choose between what she might need and what she most coveted? One thought cheered her: by nightfall, God willing, her purse would be a great deal fatter than it was now.
She pulled a face as she noticed the pillory at the center of the fairground, unoccupied this early in the fair. Silently, Janna made a vow that she would never be one of the wretches displayed there, caught stealing or cheating. She couldn’t stand the shame of it; it was an unhappy fate for the rogues, trapped as they were in the stocks and unable to defend themselves against the rotten produce and handfuls of mud hurled at them by irate customers, and also by children who were ever ready for fun and mischief. She cast a glance sideways, noticing how the bishop’s guards prowled among the crowds looking out for wrongdoers. One of them looked straight at her, and Janna felt a guilty blush heat her cheeks, as she thought of her box of potions and creams. She must keep away from them just in case they picked her up for some misdemeanor – like selling wares for which she hadn’t paid a toll.
She became aware of a stir among the crowd and a hushing of voices, although a few disgruntled murmurs were also to be heard. The bishop was making a progress through the fair, along with his entourage. Janna had seen the bishop from afar when he’d opened the fair, and she recognized him now. He was splendid in his miter and embroidered robes that shone brilliantly in the sunlight. As she swept a curtsy at his passing, she stole a quick look up at him, interested to see at close quarters this supposedly godly man who yet meddled freely in the worldly affairs of his brother the king; who had taken arms against the empress and burned his own town in his determination to drive her out; who had built the magnificent Wolvesey Palace for himself, but also the Hospital of St Cross to alleviate some of the poverty of his people.
The bishop was known for the wealth of the properties he owned throughout England and for the titles he bore, for he was Abbot of Glastingberie as well as the Bishop of Winchestre. He was also landlord of all the brothels on his estate of Southwark in London, so it was said. Yet it seemed his ambition ran greater than wealth and the title of bishop, for it was rumored that part of the falling-out he’d had with his brother the king, and his supposed alliance with the empress had come about because the king had nominated someone else as Archbishop of Canterberie, when that was the position the bishop most coveted.
Janna’s impression was of a small man, too insignificant to carry such vast responsibility, for he was slightly built and somewhat paunchy. But perhaps that was an effect created by the magnificent heavy robes he wore. His face was of pale complexion; his eyes a faded gray, with heavy pouches beneath them that spoke of too little sleep and too much anxiety. Perhaps the anger of the townsfolk was partly to blame for keeping him awake at night. He must be aware that he was largely held responsible for the devastation that had befallen Winchestre, just as he would know that the townsfolk resented the fact that all rents and tolls for the fair would be paid to him, who didn’t need them, rather than coming to the townsfolk for the rebuilding and repair of their property. Janna had heard that a delegation of merchants and craftsmen, some of them representing their guilds, had been to see the bishop on this very subject, and had been sent away empty-handed.
The bishop passed by, holding up his robes to avoid the worst of the animal excrement and other refuse littering the ground. Janna gazed with curiosity at those who followed him. One man she recognized only too well, and for one heart-stopping moment he paused to stare at her. Her hand lifted in an involuntary salute, but when she saw who accompanied her father she raised her hand further in pretense that she was merely shielding her eyes from the sunlight. Would her father offer public recognition, accompanied as he was by his wife and children, and in such exalted company? Seconds stretched to infinity, but there was no sign from him and the entourage moved slowly on. Janna knew she shouldn’t be disappointed, yet she felt angry and hurt as she gazed after John fitz Henry. Now safe from scrutiny, she examined the small party that accompanied him. Giles she’d already met, but not the tall woman stalking beside him with her face fixed firmly forward, seemingly determined not to acknowledge those who bobbed their heads in respect at the bishop’s passing. Her stepmother. Janna felt a flash of instant dislike, but told herself it was unfair to judge Blanche on such brief evidence. Yet Blanche’s hands were like claws, gripping firmly the arms of the two young girls who accompanied her. For safety? Protection? Or control?
Janna gazed after her two half-sisters, but by now the whole party had moved on and all she could see was their backs, half hidden by the crowd. She waited several moments more until she judged it was safe before she resumed her own progress in the opposite direction. She found that she was coming close to the market area where beasts and birds were being traded. There seemed much interest in the horse yard as the animals were put through their paces, assessed for their strength if they were needed for agricultural purposes, for their fine breeding if prized for speed or prowess in battle, or for their looks and docility if intended for a lady. Cows, sheep and pigs moaned piteously from their respective pens, while hens, ducks and geese cackled and clucked and surveyed the fairgoers with bright and innocent eyes.
Janna sniffed, and sniffed again, conscious of a stench far greater than the dung of the animals. Closer inspection revealed she was close to the midden where butchers, fishmongers and the like spilled their waste. A woven wattle screen attracted her attention. Curious to know what it concealed, she stepped toward it, only realizing its purpose as a man emerged from behind the screen, still adjusting his clothing. She put her hand over her nose to block out the smell of the latrine and hurried away to some more enticing displays, all the while keeping a close eye on the passersby, conscious that even among a crowd she might be vulnerable to attack. But there was no sign of Mus. While that gave her relief, her ease of mind was tempered by the possibility that she might also bump into her father and his family, or Hugh and his betrothed. Although curious to see Eleanor, she dreaded an encounter. In her own mind, she had planned how to meet Hugh again, on her own terms and in a place of her choosing. But if they were here at the fair, and came to her stall to drink ale, she would have to greet them. She would have no choice in the matter.
Time was passing; she must get back to Sybil and start work, as she’d promised she would. She hurried along, deciding to take a shortcut down a lane to bypass some of the stalls, but became thoroughly confused in the process and had to retrace her steps several times before she finally found Sybil. At once, she launched into a breathless apology, but Sybil shushed her. “I’ve been enjoying myself,” she admitted. “I’d also like to look around the fair before I go back to the tavern.” She cast a critical eye at the crowds milling about, and sniffed. “There probably won’t be any customers down in the town anyway!”
She gestured at the wooden sign so carefully lettered by Janna and hammered into place by Ossie, along with a fresh green bush attached to one side. “The sign’s attracting customers,” she said, “and we can ring the bell too.” She picked up a tiny hand bell and shook it briskly, so that several people turned to inspect more closely the barrels stashed to one side, and the mugs displayed invitingly on the bench top. One fairgoer retraced his steps, and Janna poured him a cup of ale, relishing the first business to come her way.
But her conscience was biting. As Sybil continued to delay her departure, Janna began to wonder if her secret had been uncovered and if the taverner was waiting for an explanation. Under Sybil’s watchful eye, she retrieved the wooden box she’d hidden and put it on the counter, thinking she had better confess. Sybil moved closer at once.
“Ossie thought this belonged to you,” she said. “I wondered if you were going to tell me about it.”
Janna reminded herself that the taverner missed nothing. “The
se are some creams and lotions I’ve made up,” she said. “I wondered if I might sell them to the customers who come to buy our ale, and so earn some coins for myself?”
“What sorts of creams and lotions?”
“To smooth and perfume skin, to cleanse the body and lighten the hair – that sort of thing.”
Sybil snorted. “You won’t find much of a market here. I’ll warrant that most of our customers will be men.”
“And I also have medicaments to heal wounds and ulcers, soothe rashes, alleviate toothache, calm anxiety and aid sleep. There’s also a noxious potion to sprinkle on clothes or on floor rushes to keep away moths and fleas and other biting insects.”
“Where did you learn to make such things?”
“My mother was a wortwyf, a herb-wife and healer. And I also learned much from Sister Anne at Wiltune Abbey.”
Sybil looked impressed. Taking her silence as permission, Janna hastily unpacked her box and began to display small pots and phials of liquid. But Sybil hadn’t finished with her yet.
“You’re not to take trade away from the tavern,” she warned. “I expect you to take care of the customers’ thirst before you start peddling your own wares.”
“Oh, I will. Of course I will,” Janna promised, hiding a smile of triumph that her plan could be put into practice with Sybil’s blessing.
“And you can give me a pot of your cream as a trial, just so that I’ll know you’re not selling rubbish to customers who’ll come here in good faith.”
Now Janna couldn’t prevent the grin from spreading across her face. “You may have this, and most welcome,” she said sweetly, proffering a small pot of her most precious cream. It was scented with roses, and although she didn’t think she should mention it to Sybil, her mother had always told customers that it was guaranteed to drive any man wild with desire!
Sybil opened the pot, took a sniff, then dabbed a small blob onto her hand and rubbed it into her skin. She held her hand up to her nose and sniffed again, then pocketed the cream. “Next time I’ll pay you for a pot,” she promised, and with a smile, she left Janna alone to take care of business.
*
Time went quickly, for Janna was kept busy as the day heated up and people became conscious of their dry and scratchy throats. She was sorry she didn’t have food to serve to them, and made a mental note to suggest to Sybil that Elfric bake some pies to bring up to the booth. A mug of ale and a slice of pie would double the stall’s attraction when fairgoers expressed hunger as well as thirst. To her joy, her medicaments proved popular. The fact that customers stood around while they drank their ale meant that Janna had a captive audience for her creams and potions, and her voice was soon hoarse from describing their benefits.
Once she looked up and thought she recognized Mus. Her heart dived into her boots; she steeled herself for the coming encounter. But when she looked again, the figure had vanished. Janna was left wondering if it was only her own fearful imagination that had conjured up the assassin. Nevertheless, it was a reminder to be careful. She was vulnerable, she knew, for the stall was open on all sides. While she faced customers at the front, ready to serve them, anyone could sneak up on her from behind and take her unawares. Mus had tried it before, and there was no reason to believe he’d not try it again. But surely not in front of crowds at a fair? Janna took some reassurance from the thought.
In the event, when an unwelcome customer did come her way there was nothing Janna could do to avoid him.
“Father!” The word was out before she could bite down to prevent it.
He looked at her and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry to find you here, still plying your trade,” he said, looking thoroughly displeased with her and with the world. “My wife was determined to attend the fair, to see and sample its delights, and so I am here to escort her. But I want your promise that if she – if we – come here to your stall, you will not say a word to alert her as to your true identity.”
“If you don’t want me to say anything to her, don’t bring her to my stall!” Janna cried, feeling outraged and deeply hurt at the same time.
“I won’t if I can help it,” he said, firing up with an anger to match. “But if she insists on stopping here, then you know what you must do.”
Too angry to speak, Janna turned from him to pour a mug of ale for a merchant and his wife.
“And what is this?” the woman said, holding up a small phial for Janna’s inspection.
“’Tis a rinse for your hair, mistress,” said Janna. She shot a quick glance at her father. “My mother taught me how to make it up. There’s lemon and other herbs in it to cleanse your hair, to give it brightness and freshness.”
“I’ll take one.” The merchant’s wife looked mighty pleased with her purchase as she nudged her husband to open his purse. “And what’s this?” She picked up a small pot.
Janna glanced at the rash on the merchant’s cheek, small spots which he’d scratched so that they were red and angry, and full of pus. “’Tis a medicament to cleanse, soothe, and medicate afflictions of the skin,” she said softly, transferring her attention to the merchant’s wife.
“I’ll take it,” said the good wife, and gave her husband another sharp nudge.
“Do you serve ale too, or is it only here for show?” he asked sourly, obviously resenting his wife’s extravagance.
Janna grinned at him. “We serve the best ale in town,” she said proudly. Feeling generous after her successful transaction, she poured a mug for her father as well, but when she reached out to put it in front of him, she realized that he had gone.
Her next customer was more than welcome. “Ulf!” she cried. “Hello, Brutus.” The huge dog wagged his feathery tail in greeting and licked his lips. Taking the hint, Janna poured some ale into a dish and set it in front of the dog, then pushed the unwanted mug of ale in front of the relic seller. “How’s business?” she queried.
He shook his head in mild reproof. “I don’t do business,” he reminded her. “I only accept donations.”
“Are many coming your way?”
Ulf grinned at her. “Quite a few.” His smile faded as he continued. “Was that your father I saw with you?”
Janna nodded unhappily. “He’s warned me to say nothing of my true identity if his wife comes to my booth. I hate him, Ulf. I wish I’d never met him!”
Ulf pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he thought about it. “Well, I can see that he’s hurt your feelings, lass, but I can’t say I blame him,” he said eventually. And then, as Janna opened her mouth to protest, he continued, “Look at it from his point of view. He’s already had to confess his disgrace to his wife, and – ”
“Disgrace? He married my mother! He honored her, he did the right thing.”
“That’s probably not how his lady wife sees it. From her point of view, he broke their betrothal to marry a nobody, and now he’s going to claim a nobody as his legal heir. Not only that, but she’s just found out that her marriage was bigamous and her children are bastards. How would you feel about it, in her situation?” Not giving Janna time to respond, he continued, “If you were your father, wouldn’t you want your daughter to make the best possible impression on a hostile wife?”
Janna was silent as she sifted Ulf’s words and reluctantly acknowledged their truth. It was easy to see things from her own perspective, but she had to admit that what Ulf said also made sense. Perhaps she should do as her father asked, should the situation arise. Perhaps she should tread more cautiously around him in future, at least until she could carry out her plan to reintroduce herself to him and his family at a time of her choosing. She closed her eyes, fighting the anger her father’s words had aroused in her. But there was something else at stake here, she reminded herself. Something much more important than her own wounded pride. If she wanted to avenge her mother’s death and bring the culprit to justice, she would need her father’s help. Better, then, to go along with what he had asked, to play the dutiful daughter in the hope and
expectation that, when things were better between them, he would agree to what she asked of him.
But it was not time for that, not yet. The troubles at the alehouse were over, she felt sure of it, but she wouldn’t make a move until Hugh’s marriage after the fair. That would be the time to introduce herself to her father, and to his wife and family, and also to Hugh and Eleanor. That would be the time to meet them all on her own terms, and if things went as she hoped, she would get her own way with everything.
“You’re right,” she said, the admission as bitter as wormwood in her mouth. “But what will I do if they expect me to serve them?”
“Serve them as you would any other customer, with civility – unless your father indicates otherwise.”
Janna bent down and gave Brutus’s head a rub. “You have a very wise master,” she told him.
“And a right thirsty one. I’ll have another ale.” Ulf produced a token. “And this time, I’ll pay for it,” he said firmly.
“Johanna!” Hugh’s voice was as unwelcome as a crack of thunder on a sunny day. Reluctantly, Janna turned to face him.
“My lord,” she said softly, and glanced at the woman standing beside Hugh. Her first impression was of a plump little figure wearing a silky soft dress of green. A thin gauzy veil covered her hair, which was dark and worn loose about her shoulders. The veil was secured by a jeweled band, which spoke of her father’s wealth and her own social standing. Janna felt immediately awkward, and when she noticed Eleanor’s white hands and soft skin, she quickly thrust her own chapped red hands behind her back. All the while she was conscious of Eleanor’s close scrutiny, and knew that her action had been seen and understood.
Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 Page 24