Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  As we have always been. Janna felt a sharp stab of disappointment as her brief dream of independence was snatched away. “I had thought, with you in Wiltune, that you might trust me at last to take care of the villagers on my own,” she ventured.

  “You are young, untrained. They would have no respect for you.”

  “Of course they won’t respect me if I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’ll never find out if you won’t let me try!”

  “I’ve already taught you everything I know,” Eadgyth protested.

  “About plants and their properties, and how to utilize them—yes. Now let me use that knowledge to help people. You may be the greatest healer around here, but I could be too if you’d only give me a chance.”

  “I swear that tongue of yours has been sharpened by the devil!” Eadgyth gave her daughter a good, hard shake. “Soon enough you will marry, have children, be happy. That’s the future I wish for you.”

  “And what about my wishes? I don’t want to marry, at least not yet.”

  “Why not? You are certainly old enough to wed. Far better a life with a good husband like Godric than the hard life we live here.”

  “I want something more than to become some man’s drudge and a nursemaid to his children.”

  “There’s much more to wedlock than that!” Eadgyth retorted. “As well as bedgames, a good husband would give you security. Safely wed, you’d be both respectable and respected.”

  “And how would you know, Mother?” Janna seized the opportunity Eadgyth had given her. “Were you ever safely wed? What was between you and my father? Why will you never speak of him? Are you ashamed of him, or is it your past that shames you?”

  “It is because of him that I would see you wed.”

  Janna read the pain in her mother’s eyes, but the devil snapped at her heels. She had to go on, to push for answers to the questions that would not go away. “Tell me about him, please,” she begged.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. Her father had died just before her birth, or so her mother had told her. Janna had often wondered if Eadgyth was telling the truth, or trying to cover the fact that she’d never been wed—that Janna’s birth, in fact, had been an accident. This thought nagged Janna like a sore tooth, but after she’d seen how talking about her father so distressed Eadgyth, she’d stopped asking after him. She knew anyway that Eadgyth never answered her questions.

  Nor did she now. She turned to her task, dismissing Janna with a brief, “See to the herbs, Janna.”

  Frustrated and resentful, Janna stamped outside. Their garden was a small, awkwardly shaped piece of land that had come with the cottage because it didn’t fit into the long strips of fields worked by the villeins. The hives that provided honey for her mother’s salves and potions were tucked into one corner. Janna was protective of her bees and took good care of them, for their honey was like liquid gold when silver was always in short supply. The bees lived in straw skeps, woven and crafted by Janna herself, and usually she stopped and talked to them, following a long tradition of telling them about the doings of the household. Today she did not take her usual comfort from the soothing buzz that marked their industry. Instead, she slapped angrily at a lone bee that circled close to her nose, and seethed with the injustice of being treated like a child when she considered herself no longer to be one.

  She stomped on past the dew pond that provided them with water, past rows of turnips, cabbages, leeks and broad beans that put food on their table, past bushes of alecost, which they used to flavor ale, and past flax plants, which were boiled into decoctions to ease various ailments, or were stripped and woven into cloth.

  Janna looked to the wattle fence that penned their two goats, Nellie and Gruff, along with Fussy, Greedy, Rusty and Laet, their hens. The goats bleated anxiously, reminding her that they still needed to be fed. She stooped over the clusters of herbs that formed the basis of her mother’s healing mixtures, forgetting her sulks for the moment as she concentrated on her task. She could not afford to make any mistakes if she wanted her mother to treat her like an adult, someone more fitting than Fulk to be her partner.

  First, Janna stripped off several leafy sprigs of tansy and put them in her scrip. It was a useful plant: the flowers made a fine golden dye, while the bitter, aromatic leaves served as a repellent for lice and fleas. Janna turned next to the fleshy leaves of houseleek and the other herbs her mother had requested, but once they were gathered her mind returned to her grievances. Why would her mother not speak of her father? Was it sorrow that kept her tight-lipped, or was it the shame of bearing a daughter out of wedlock? Janna knew her mother’s lips would stay stubbornly closed unless she could come up with some new strategy to persuade her to unlock the secrets of her heart. Could she perhaps threaten to go elsewhere for information? Who might know the truth?

  Her mind ranged over possibilities. They were few indeed. Her mother had no close friends, no-one in whom she might confide if she would not confide in her daughter. For the first time it occurred to Janna how lonely her mother must be. Where was her own family? She didn’t think Eadgyth had always lived here, on the edge of the forest, yet this place was all Janna could remember, so her mother must surely have come here before giving birth. That being so, people might have seen or heard something, might remember something of that time. If so, why had they never spoken? Had her mother sworn everyone to secrecy? Who was she trying to protect? Her daughter—or herself? Janna knew that Eadgyth was proud, and that she kept her secrets well. Yet if Janna was old enough to marry, she was surely old enough to be told the truth!

  Janna rushed indoors, determined to try out this new argument.

  She found Eadgyth, cheeks flushed from the rising steam, stirring a decoction over the fire. Absorbed in her task, she was humming quietly to herself. The tune was familiar and sounded rather solemn and sad. She’d once asked Eadgyth to teach her the song, but her mother had silenced her with a sharp look and an angry refusal. Janna had never asked again, thinking there must be something shameful in the song, for Eadgyth had looked so guilty when caught. Yet she’d heard her mother sing the same tune several times since; it seemed that she sang only when she was preoccupied with something else.

  “Tell me about my father.” Janna dumped the herbs in front of her mother. “You say I’m old enough to marry, so that makes me old enough to know the truth about my birth.”

  Startled, Eadgyth stopped humming and glared at her daughter. “I haven’t got time for another argument. The lady will be coming shortly. You must go now.”

  “I still have to feed the hens and goats.”

  “I’ll do it.” Eadgyth jerked her thumb in the direction of the door. “I want your promise that you’ll not linger to watch, but that you will go directly about the business I have given you, and speak to no-one of my business back here.” She eyed her defiant daughter, and sighed. “As well as visiting the miller, you have my permission to walk on to Wiltune. You have experience enough to trade on your own, for today is market day. Take the beeswax candles and some of our special scented creams and rinses to sell there. They’ll fetch a few pennies, so you may buy a hot pie for your dinner. I don’t want you to leave Wiltune until you hear the abbey bells ring the hour of None.”

  Janna’s face brightened. Going to the market was a rare treat, even if she knew her mother’s offer stemmed from a need to keep her away for most of the day.

  “I don’t want to argue with you. I just want you to tell me my father’s name,” she said, refusing to be diverted from her purpose. She avoided her mother’s eye, instead collecting up the goods she would sell and setting them carefully in a woven basket. She hoped that the beeswax stoppers were thick and tight enough to prevent the precious liquids from leaking out but, to make sure, she wedged fat scented candles around them to keep them in place. All the while, she waited for her mother to speak, but Eadgyth remained silent. Janna hefted the strap over her shoulder. The basket was heavy but she would carry it with
out protest, so long as her mother gave her something in return. Determined not to leave without an answer, she confronted Eadgyth.

  “There may not be time to talk now, but I insist that you tell me my father’s name at least.”

  “Janna!” Her mother threw down the spoon and, hands on hips, turned to glare at her.

  “Who was he? Where did you meet him?”

  “That’s enough, Johanna!” Her mother only called Janna by her full name when she was in serious trouble. Otherwise Janna was known by her baby name, which was what she’d called herself when she was just learning how to talk. Being called Johanna made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was someone different, someone who didn’t belong in the only world she knew. Now Janna felt torn between her usual obedience to her mother’s wishes and a wild impatience to know more. She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it as she struggled to find a compelling argument to change her mother’s mind.

  Dismissing her daughter, Eadgyth turned back to the fire and picked up the spoon to give her decoction another stir. Janna pulled a face at her mother’s back, then instantly regretted her action. She wasn’t a child any more. How could she convince her mother of that if she still behaved like one? She scooped up the crock of honey and jar of healing salve her mother had placed on the table, then paused at the doorway, determined to speak her mind.

  “I am sorry if the memory distresses you, Mother, but if you won’t tell me about my father then you force me to ask others for information.”

  Eadgyth’s hand stilled. Her whole body went rigid with shock. “Questions, questions!” she snapped. “Why do you always plague me with questions?”

  “Because you taught me to question everything! Why, then, should I not question the mystery of my father?” Janna met her mother’s hard stare, determined that this time she would not back down. For a long moment they defied each other. Finally, Eadgyth nodded slightly. “If you must hear of it, then ’tis better I tell you in my own words. Those who do not know the truth of the matter might not be so kind.” She paused, weighing her words carefully. “You believe your father to be dead, but in truth and for all I know, he may still be alive.”

  “My father lives?” Janna’s eyes widened in amazement. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  “I wanted to protect you.” Eadgyth touched Janna’s cheek in a rare gesture of affection. “I have many regrets in my life, but the one thing I shall never regret is giving birth to you. I’ll do anything to save you from making the same mistakes that I made.”

  For a moment Janna was silenced by her mother’s unexpected tenderness. Yet her will to learn the truth was strong; she was impatient with her mother’s desire to protect her.

  “All my life I have kept silent, thinking my father was dead and that it grieved you to speak of him. For all these years, you have let me believe a lie!”

  “It does grieve me to speak of him. I loved your father. I still do. That’s why I—”

  A timid knock interrupted Eadgyth. Startled, she glanced from Janna to the door. “Wait here,” she said, and went quickly outside, slamming the door shut behind her. Janna heard the soft murmur of voices. She moved to the door, listening hard. The door was suddenly flung open, catching her by surprise.

  “Go now.” Eadgyth was in too much of a hurry to reprimand her daughter for eavesdropping. “We will speak later.” She pushed Janna outside, then followed her out and went toward the back of the cottage. “Go!” she shouted, as she noticed that Janna had stopped to watch.

  Having secured her mother’s promise, Janna did as she was told, but she couldn’t resist a last look behind. Too late, she realized, as she heard the door slam. Her mother and the visitor were now both safely inside and out of sight. She turned then and walked on toward the small village of Berford. The day was cloudy; there was a hint of rain, but Janna’s spirits rose as she sniffed the fresh air, smiled at peacefully grazing sheep and listened to the melodious whistle of a lone blackbird.

  Her path followed the contours of the gently sloping downs, taking her toward the Nadder River and Berford. A straggle of thatched cottages came into view, set along a track of beaten earth close to the river. Like Janna’s own home, the cottages were made from panels of woven wattle fastened between wooden posts and pasted over with a mixture of clay, dung and straw daub to keep out wind and rain. While still having only one room, these cottages were larger than the small cot Janna shared with her mother. Most of them boasted henhouses, vegetable gardens, goats and sometimes even a cow or pig. Beyond the settlement and above the water meadows were the open fields where villeins grew crops in their allotted strips, both for themselves and for the abbey.

  The track was littered with human and vegetable waste. Pigs, goats, hens and ducks walked free, noisily scuffling among the rotting vegetation. Pools of scummy water added their stench to the ripe air. Janna picked her way past the worst of it, following the path that would bring her to the water mill and, by way of several small hamlets, to Wiltune itself. Near Bredecumbe she forded the river, splashing through clear pebbled shallows to the water meadows on the other side. She walked on to where the chalk stream divided and pooled into a small lake, turning the swiftly flowing tributary into the rushing torrent that powered the mill when the waters were released. Two low stone arches spanned the frothing water; above them was a thatched wattle-and-daub building where the grinding of the grain actually took place. Janna could hear now the thunder of the great wheel churning below.

  She stopped, charmed by the sight of a mother duck paddling upstream with a string of babies behind her. Janna’s pleasure in the sight quickly changed to alarm as she noticed that one of the ducklings had lagged behind and become caught in the undertow. In spite of its frantic efforts to swim away, it was being dragged closer and closer to the powerful wheel. She looked about for a net or a bucket, anything to save it, but even those few seconds had taken all the time that was left. As she turned back to the river, the duckling disappeared from view.

  Janna swallowed hard, and hoisted up the honeypot so that it fitted more snugly under her arm. This was nature’s way; it was stupid to get upset about it, she told herself as she walked up to the open door and peered in. The miller’s wife, hand to her back and heavy with child, stood beside the chattering pit wheel, watching as brown, gritty flour poured down through the chute into the meal bin. Above her head, Janna could hear the heavy tread of the miller as he hoisted another sack of grain to feed into the hopper. The millstones ground the wheat with a dull roar. Janna sneezed as a spray of flour dust tickled her nose. The sound alerted the miller’s wife to the fact that she had company.

  She swung around. As she recognized her visitor, an expression of alarm flitted across her face. She took a quick step backward, and crossed herself.

  Surprised, Janna held out the jar of salve, fixing a smile on her face as she did so. “I have here some ointment for you, Mistress Hilde. For the sores on your skin. My mother said I was to bring it to you.”

  The woman made no move to take the jar. Instead she scratched her arm while she took the time to look Janna over. Janna felt sorry for her. It was common knowledge that the miller strayed from home, and that he spread his favors among several women.

  “Her jealousy is eating away at her skin as well as her heart,” Eadgyth had said once. “I can soothe her sores, but she will never be free of them unless her husband stops straying or she ceases to care about it.”

  “But surely he will stay at home now that his wife is with child?”

  Eadgyth had given her daughter a cynical smile. “It’s at this time, when wives are large with child and become unwilling partners in bedgames, that most men are tempted to look elsewhere. Unfortunately for Hilde, her husband has already had a lot of practice in the art of straying. Nothing is likely to change him now.”

  Her mother must have thought her comments naive, Janna realized, yet she truly believed that a marriage should be for love, and forever. She would never set
tle for a husband who strayed, whose tomcatting left her vulnerable and despairing, and an object of pity and scorn to others. Janna felt a great sympathy for this hurting, discontented woman.

  “Please, take the salve,” she said, thrusting it into Hilde’s hand. She kept her eyes fixed on Hilde’s face so that she wouldn’t have to look at the weeping sores on the woman’s arm. Her mother had told her that there were sores on Hilde’s legs as well—another reason for the miller to stray.

  Hilde’s fingers closed around the rough, home-made pot.

  “I have also this crock of honey.” Janna placed it on the table. “My mother wishes to exchange it for a bag of flour as usual, if you please.”

  The miller’s wife gave a grudging nod. Janna wondered if she might ask a final favor.

  “I am bound for the market at Wiltune, mistress,” she said. “May I fetch the flour later?”

  Undecided, the miller’s wife looked up, as though seeking advice from her husband. Janna heard a loud rattling noise as the miller fed grain into the chute; the millstones began to grind once more. Coarse flour poured down into the meal bin. For the moment, the miller was safely occupied. Hilde’s tight expression eased somewhat.

  “You may come for it on your way home.” She gave Janna a push toward the door.

  With a light heart, looking forward to her treat, Janna turned and left. It was going to be a wonderful day, she just knew it. Whether it rained or no, the birds sang and whistled about their business, the river chattered merrily beside her, and the frights of the night seemed long ago and far away.