The alewife appeared from the brewhouse behind. She paused at the door to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. She bustled over then and looked Janna up and down, mouth pursed in disapproval.
“I bid you good day, mistress,” Janna said, continuing in a rush before she lost her nerve, “bring me a jug of your good ale, if you please.”
The alewife didn’t budge. Quickly, Janna produced a token and slapped it down on the rough wooden tabletop.
The woman waited until Janna produced another token. Then she nodded, slipped the tokens into a purse at her waist and disappeared through the crowd. Janna wondered if she’d ever see her again. She stretched out her legs and leaned back against the rough plastered wall of the alehouse, glad to rest as she waited to see what would happen next. Realizing that they would get no fun out of her, the other patrons of the alehouse stopped their stares and resumed talking among themselves and flirting with the harlots.
Janna relaxed further when a wooden bowl was shoved in front of her. The alewife filled it from a leather bottle, the liquid sloshing over the brim. Janna muttered her thanks and bent over to slurp up a mouthful so that she could then lift the bowl without wasting any more ale. The alewife kept on circulating around the tables, refilling and clearing as she went. Janna wasn’t sure if the woman had taken against her because she despised her, thinking her another whore come to do business in the alehouse, but if so, Janna didn’t care. She was determined to enjoy her drink. She lifted the bowl and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls.
She smacked her lips, savoring the cool liquid as it slipped down her dry throat. She swallowed again, and then again more slowly, holding the ale briefly in her mouth as she thought about its taste. Janna helped her mother brew their own ale from the barley and herbs growing in their garden and, like most villagers, they broke their fast each morning with ale and a hunk of bread. She sipped again. The difference was subtle, but it was there: this ale was flavored with some different herb. It was not nearly as sweet as their own ale, for Eadgyth tended to have a liberal hand with the honey, but was there something else added that gave this ale its different flavor?
Janna sipped and sipped again, trying to decide what it was that left the faintly unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth. Could it be that the water used by the alewife was not quite so fresh as the water Eadgyth always insisted that they collect from the most swiftly flowing stretch of the river for their own brew? In the past Janna had grumbled about having to carry the water some distance in heavy buckets, but she thought now that the effort was worthwhile if it made such a difference.
Having analyzed the ale to her satisfaction, Janna sat back to survey the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she found that a couple of the drinkers were known to her. She wondered if Fulk the apothecary was among the crowd, but after a careful scrutiny she concluded that his new patient must be keeping him occupied up at the manor. She just hoped he was not undoing all the good her mother had done.
In need of diversion, she began to listen to the conversations going on around her. To her surprise, almost the first thing she heard was a reference to herself.
“…the wortwyf’s daughter. I’m told she’s grown into a real beauty.” The man gave a grunting laugh, unaware the subject of his conversation was listening in. “I’d be more than happy to take her on, if it wasn’t for—” He stopped abruptly as his companion gave him a hard nudge and jerked a thumb at Janna. Undeterred, the man turned to wink at her before taking a thirsty swig of ale.
Janna looked away, not sure whether to be amused or upset. She knew that Torold the blacksmith was recently widowed, and had a number of motherless children. No wonder he was in the market for a wife. She wondered what stopped him from approaching Eadgyth to speak of the matter. “If it wasn’t for…” What? The priest’s denouncement of her mother? Eadgyth’s reputation for shape-shifting and communing with the dead? Or was it because of Alfred, the devil cat who lived in their home?
“…on his way to Babestoche Manor.” Another voice came to Janna’s ears. “Did you see him, Eadric? Anyone would think he was King Stephen himself, mounted on that big black horse of his.”
Janna shifted her stool closer to the speaker, eager for news of the handsome stranger.
“Does he come to rally support for the king?” Eadric was a dark, ill-featured man who seemed to be taking no pleasure from either his companion or the drink in front of him. “Does trouble come our way?”
“I think he comes only to visit his aunt, Dame Alice. He is quite often at the manor.”
“I hope you speak the truth of it, for if he has come to raise an army for the king, there will be trouble.” Eadric gave a loud belch, then patted his stomach. “His liege lord, the abbess, must surely side with the empress, not the king. After all, the Empress Matilda’s mother spent part of her childhood here at the abbey.”
“But the abbess risks everything if she supports the empress. If Stephen can arrest Bishop Roger, throw him into prison and seize his palace at Sarisberie, he most surely can arrest our abbess if she supports the wrong side. Mark my words, the abbess will put the abbey’s interests first and go with the king. But you are right: if my lord Hugh comes to raise an army, there will be trouble.”
“Why?” Eadric plonked an elbow on the table and leaned forward. “What do you know of Dame Alice’s nephew then? Where does his allegiance lie?”
“I had it from that traveler, him with the fancy leather goods for sale, that he has witnessed the lord Hugh in the company of Earl Robert of Gloucester.”
“Then that makes him the king’s man.”
“No, it does not.”
“But Earl Robert has pledged his allegiance to the king.”
“That was after the king seized the throne, but the earl has since changed his mind. After all, he’s half-brother to the empress. ’Tis said he’s now Matilda’s strongest supporter and the leader of her army.”
“So, if our fine lord is here on Matilda’s behalf, he’ll likely be clapped in irons and handed over to the king.” Eadric smirked. It was the first time Janna had seen him smile.
“Aye, that’s what I told the traveler. But his uncle, Robert of Babestoche, is the king’s man.”
“Is he, though? Are you sure of that?” The two men buried their faces in their beakers of ale and drank deep as they considered the question. Eadric’s friend was the first to put down his pot and voice his concern. “’Tis a fact that Robert of Babestoche hasn’t traveled even as far as Sarisberie to pay homage to the king, so who knows where his loyalty lies? Or ours, for that matter?” He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check whether any had heard his words, for they could be construed as treason. Janna quickly averted her gaze and instead studied her hands as if red, chapped skin and ragged nails were the most important things in her life.
Eadric drained his beaker and set it down with a determined thud. “I don’t care who supports what, so long as the fighting don’t come any closer,” he said. “I’ve heard tell there’s terrible hard times for those who are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whole villages burned, crops and beasts destroyed, people murdered in their beds or left to rot in dungeons. Tortured, even.” He shuddered. “May the king, his ambitious cousin and those murdering barons keep as far from us as the moon itself, that’s what I say. The devil can take them all!” He pushed his stool back and stood up, then lumbered slowly out of the room, followed by his companion.
So the stranger’s name was Hugh and he was Dame Alice’s nephew. Janna sat back, finding more questions to replace those that the drinkers had already answered. When had Hugh been seen with Robert, Earl of Gloucester—before or after Matilda’s half-brother had changed sides? Were they in agreement or at odds over the king? And what was his true purpose in coming to the manor? A small shiver of fear ran down her back at the thought that he might be running into a trap. Hastily, she consoled herself with the notion that Robert of Babestoche must have his mind on more urgen
t matters than affairs of state, like the birth of his new son and the health of his wife.
The crowd in the alehouse was thinning now as, refreshment taken, people went outside once more to bargain, buy or sell. Janna heard the bells ring out, and counted them: one, two, three. It was time for her to change her market tokens into good silver, and go.
On the way home, preoccupied as she was with questions about Hugh, and the more pressing matter of her father’s identity, Janna almost walked past the mill, but, recalling her errand of the morning, she turned aside and went to the door to collect the bag of flour promised her by the miller’s wife. Hilde was not there, but the miller was, and he smiled a welcome as he noticed his visitor. Stockily built, he had the fair hair and beard typical of Saxon men. Some women might find him irresistible, Janna thought, as she noted his cocky demeanor, but for herself she’d rather keep company with Godric—or even Hugh! The thought of the handsome stranger brought a rosy blush to her cheek. Hastily, Janna tried to compose herself. “I…I have come for the bag of flour promised me by Mistress Hilde,” she said.
The miller stood by the door, unmoving. His smile grew broader.
“I left the usual crock of honey and some ointment for Mistress Hilde in return for the flour.” Janna waited, wondering why he did not answer.
He made no move to fetch the flour, but instead let his gaze roam over Janna’s body. “I believe I hold the toil of my labor more dearly than my wife does,” he said at last, and stepped closer. “However, I am sure we can come to an arrangement agreeable to both of us.” Before Janna had time to move, his hand was at her breast. He stroked her shrinking flesh through the fabric of her kirtle.
“No!” Janna backed away, crossing her arms over her chest to protect herself.
The miller laughed softly. “You are still a maid, are you not? It is time for you to grow up, Johanna; more than time. I am willing to teach you what it means to be a woman.”
“Save your instruction for your wife!” Janna said tartly, and backed off further. “Just give me the flour and I’ll trouble you no more.”
“I told you—I want something more than honey in return for my labor. Something much, much sweeter.”
“You’ll have my silence—and your wife’s good humor—in return for not tormenting me further.”
The miller glowered at her. Feeling more confident, she stared back defiantly. With a scowl, he turned and walked away. Janna lingered by the door, savoring her victory. As the miller returned with the sack, she held out her hands to receive it. The weight of it dragged down her arms, leaving her defenseless as the miller suddenly pulled her close and kissed her hard on the lips.
With a cry of outrage, Janna jerked up her knee. The miller’s face darkened with anger as he doubled over in pain. Janna swung around, ready to run. She found Hilde waddling toward her, grim-faced, holding her hands over her belly as if to protect her unborn child.
Janna tried to find the words to explain the scene that Hilde must surely have witnessed, but she had no chance to say anything for the woman shouldered her aside with an oath and stormed into the mill, hurling a torrent of abuse at her husband as she did so.
Janna was sorry that Hilde now had further proof of her husband’s nature, yet she was also relieved that the woman had arrived in time to prevent the miller from chasing after her to vent his anger, and also his lust. She was a maid, yes, and determined to remain so until someone far more worthy than the miller captured her heart and, along with it, her body.
With a wry grimace, she hoisted the heavy bag of flour onto her shoulder and set off once more along the path for home.
Chapter 5
Once home, Janna kept busy with chores while she waited for her mother. She dug up some precious carrots and turnips for their dinner and fed the tops to the grateful goats, along with a handful of dock, dandelion and other weeds hastily gathered from the forest’s edge. Seeing the tansy and lavender she’d picked that morning still lying on the table, she strewed the aromatic herbs over the floor rushes. Their fragrance scented the smoky room, adding to the rich smell of the vegetable stew she’d set to bubble in a pot over the fire. Janna had already used some of the new flour to make two flat breadcakes on the griddle, and now she ladled some of the vegetables onto one of them, too hungry to wait any longer for Eadgyth. Alfred mewed, and batted her with his paw. She put some of her dinner down onto the rushes for him, and he ate it hungrily.
Why was her mother so late returning? Janna yawned, and wondered if she should go to her bed. Yet she knew she’d be too restless to sleep. Curiosity would keep her awake until she finally found out the truth about her father.
She sat down in her mother’s chair beside the fire. Alfred jumped up and turned in a circle. He dug his claws into her kirtle and kneaded her lap, purring loudly as he made himself comfortable.
Janna stared into the flickering flames and pondered her mother’s surprising admission. She felt deeply angry that Eadgyth had bought her silence with a lie designed to shut her mouth. Her father might still be alive! Who was he? A common laborer who had moved on, perhaps impelled on his journey by news of her mother’s pregnancy? Or did he still live in Berford or Babestoche, or even Wiltune, with a wife and children of his own? Janna sifted through all the men she knew, peasant, merchant and laborer, rejecting each one almost as soon as his face came into her mind. She would surely have sensed a bond when they met, or intercepted a special look between her mother and father when they thought no-one was watching. Besides, if he was a local man, Eadgyth would know for sure whether or not he lived.
He must be someone from her mother’s past, from a life lived somewhere else. Either that, or her father had moved on rather than deal with the fact of her birth. Would she want to acknowledge someone like that, someone so cowardly that he would leave a maiden—either wed or unwed—to face her ordeal alone?
No, she would not! Neither would her mother—and yet Eadgyth had confessed that she loved him still. What could have gone so wrong between them that he’d abandoned them?
Janna’s thoughts were interrupted by the faint drumming of hooves. As she listened, the sounds became louder. A horse from the manor house, bringing her mother home? She tipped Alfred off her lap, then unhooked the pot of vegetables and laid it aside in readiness.
The cat’s back arched and its black fur stood on end as it faced the door. “Scaredy-cat!” Janna scoffed. The sound of hoof beats died. A loud knock thundered against the door. Not her mother then. Janna knew a moment’s alarm. Surely not Fulk! Could it be Godric? No, he wouldn’t come on horseback. Just like her, like most of the villeins, he wouldn’t know how to ride a horse. She hurried to the door and opened it.
A man stood outside, solidly built and clad in the garb of a servant. Janna’s first instinct was to close the door on him, but he jammed a foot against it. “I am sent to fetch you, mistress,” he said. “You must come at once.” Janna’s heart plummeted as she noticed the compassion in his eyes.
“What has happened?” Instinctively, she took a step backward, as if to distance herself from what was to come.
“Your mother is taken so ill she is like to die. Dame Alice hopes that you might yet be able to save her.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and hastened toward his mount.
“But…how? What is amiss with my mother?” Dazed and confused, Janna stared after him.
“I know not.” He did not check his stride, nor did he turn to look at her. Thrown off-balance, too upset even to close the door behind her, Janna scurried after him. Before she had time to protest, the man put his hands around her waist and swung her high onto the horse’s back, then vaulted up in front of her. “Hold on.” He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and the beast took off across the downs in the direction of Babestoche.
Janna had never been on horseback before. Excitement and terror overrode her modesty. She’d landed astride the horse but she had no time to cover her legs with her kirtle, no time for anything but
to throw her arms around the stranger, lean close and hold on for her life.
Her mother so ill she was like to die? Eadgyth had seemed perfectly well when Janna had said goodbye to her. She couldn’t believe it, yet the proof was in this race across the downs. Silently, Janna berated herself for not taking the time to select some healing herbs, but how could she know what to bring when she didn’t even know what was amiss? Would she have the skill, the ability to save her mother? Janna closed her eyes as she recalled their argument. Yes, she had a knowledge of herbs and how to make up medicaments, but unless her mother was still lucid enough to speak, she would not be able to tell what was wrong, nor would she know how to treat the malady. Yet who else was there to help, if she could not? Perhaps she should have questioned the servant more closely, rather than allowing herself to be swept up by the urgency of his message. The knot of anxiety tightened in Janna’s stomach. “Hurry, hurry,” she whispered in time to the horse’s galloping hooves. “Hurry, hurry!”
They pelted on through the night until they came at last to the gatehouse of Babestoche Manor. The gate was already open and the horse galloped through, not breaking its stride. Janna caught a brief glimpse of the gatekeeper standing by as they rushed past.
The manor house loomed large before them. Made of stone, it was the biggest house Janna had ever seen. She had only a confused impression of bulky darkness below and a faint gleam of candlelight shining through window slits high above, before the servant reined in and dismounted. Without ceremony, he reached up to Janna and swung her down. Trembling, she stared about her.
Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 Page 6