Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  “Come.” He set off at a fast pace across the courtyard, and Janna hastened after him. He bypassed the door that seemed to lead into the manor house, and instead raced up a stone staircase outside the building. Janna followed close on his heels, her heart thumping with fear.

  The servant stopped abruptly, and hammered on a door. It was flung open and there, standing dark against the light of the torches behind him, stood the handsome stranger from the marketplace. Surprise flared in his eyes as he recognized Janna, but his face quickly creased into lines of concern. “You must be Johanna,” he said gravely, dismissing the servant with a flick of his fingers. “I am Hugh fitz Ranulph. Please come with me.”

  Janna hardly had time to make her obeisance before he turned and strode quickly through a long hall with a high, beamed ceiling. A fire blazed in a huge fireplace, shedding a soft, dancing light on stone walls and the decorative tapestries that partially covered them. Flaming torches, slotted into sconces, added a glow to the rich colors of the hunting scenes woven across the walls, but Janna was too preoccupied to do more than glance at them. She followed her guide through the hall and into a smaller room screened off by a leather curtain at the far end.

  “Please wait here,” Hugh said. He pushed aside the heavy curtain and disappeared from view. “Alice?” he called. Janna heard a murmured reply then Hugh’s head poked out. “Come,” he said, and vanished again. Janna hastened to obey.

  A woman lay upon the large bed that dominated the bedchamber, her figure partially obscured by a number of people gathered around her.

  “Mother!” Janna sprang forward without thinking, only to freeze in embarrassment as she realized the reclining figure was a stranger to her.

  “Here is Johanna, my lady, as you requested.” Hugh’s deep voice made the introduction. The figure on the bed raised a feeble arm. Just as Janna was debating whether or not she was supposed to kiss the lady’s hand, Dame Alice made a dismissive gesture.

  “Your mother is through there.” She indicated a small alcove off the bedchamber. “Pray do what you may for her, and quickly, for I have great need of her services.”

  Dread settled on Janna’s heart. She rushed into the alcove, taking in the situation with one agonized glance. With a half-stifled sob, she fell to her knees. She didn’t need to be told that Eadgyth was dead. She’d read it instantly in the blueness of her mother’s lips and the absence of light in her eyes. Fighting grief, she placed her hand on her mother’s chest, willing the heart to pulse beneath her fingers. She forced herself to concentrate so that she could mark off time to the rhythm of her mother’s heartbeat—but there was no movement, no indication of life. Janna bent her head close to Eadgyth’s mouth, listening for a breath, for anything that might give her hope. The silence, the waiting, seemed to stretch into eternity.

  “Mother!” Desperate now, Janna grasped her mother’s arm and shook her hard. There was no response. Janna noted that her arm was limp, her body still quite warm, not yet stiffening into death. She had arrived too late, but only just. Bitterly, Janna reproached herself for not insisting that she accompany her mother on the long journey to the manor house. If she had seen with her own eyes what had gone amiss, perhaps she might have been able to prevent her death.

  Dry-eyed, numb with grief, Janna raised her head and looked about her. The smell of vomit assailed her nostrils. Now she noticed traces of foul matter down the front of her mother’s kirtle. Beside the straw pallet lay a basin of stained water and a cloth. Someone, then, had cared enough to wash her mother’s face, and try to help. Janna glanced around, catching the gaze of a young woman standing beside Dame Alice’s bed. The girl’s face was deathly pale. She looked strained and ill at ease. She knows, Janna thought. She knows my mother is dead. The girl colored a delicate pink under Janna’s gaze. She turned away and murmured something to the man at her side. Janna bobbed a hasty curtsy as he cast an appraising glance over her. “Pray see to the wortwyf, Master Fulk,” he said curtly.

  “Of course, my lord Robert. Right away.” Fulk had been bending over Dame Alice, encouraging her to sup a little broth, but now he straightened obediently and came into the alcove. He peered over Janna’s shoulder to look at Eadgyth. “The wortwyf is dead,” he confirmed, and turned to Janna. “I am sorry for your loss.” His face was tight and cold, yet there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. With a cursory nod, he swaggered back to Dame Alice’s bedside and picked up the bowl of broth.

  Cold fury seized Janna. Only last night her mother had saved Fulk’s skin, and his reputation. Now, when she was most in need, his concern was all for his wealthy patron. “You claim to have such great knowledge of the art of healing, Master Fulk,” she snapped, springing to her feet to face him. “Surely you could have done something to help my mother, to save her life!” Her voice choked on the last word.

  Fulk made no reply. He turned his back on Janna and lifted a spoon of broth to Dame Alice’s mouth. She pinched her lips together and turned her head away. Fulk hesitated, then put the bowl down and, instead, picked up the lady’s hand and felt the pulse at her wrist.

  “You might pretend you don’t care about my mother, but last night you were so desperate for help you offered to make her a partner in your shop!” Janna hissed.

  “The girl is hysterical. Ignore her.” He gave Dame Alice’s hand a reassuring pat.

  “Tell me what happened to my mother! How did she die?”

  “I expect she took one of her own foul potions.” Fulk carefully rested his patient’s hand on the fine linen bed sheet. “It is lucky for you, my lady, that I came in time,” he told Dame Alice. “You, too, might have suffered the same fate but for my intervention.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Dame Alice raised herself up against the bolster and beckoned Janna forward. “I am sorry that you did not get here in time to save your mother,” she said. Her voice was high; she sounded somewhat peevish as she continued, “Eadgyth spoke highly of you. I had hoped you might be able to help her.”

  Janna was less than flattered by the implied compliment. She was beginning to understand that Dame Alice had an entirely selfish reason for summoning her so urgently. “Fulk was here!” she retorted. “Why didn’t you ask him to save my mother?”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head, girl,” Robert warned. “I bade Master Fulk leave his practice in Wiltune to tend my wife; I didn’t ask for your mother.” He clicked his fingers, beckoning one of Dame Alice’s attendants to his side. It was the young woman Janna had noticed earlier. She stepped forward and stood with bowed head before him. “Ask the steward to arrange for a litter to carry the wortwyf down to the church at Berford.”

  The girl bobbed her head and hastened from the bedchamber.

  Robert walked back to his wife’s bedside and bent to kiss her cheek. “Try not to upset yourself, Alice,” he murmured. “For the sake of our child, you must stay calm and recover your health.”

  Unsure what she was supposed to do, Janna sent a glance of appeal at Hugh.

  He moved to her side and took her arm. “Johanna has had a bad shock. Small wonder that she’s upset. Why don’t I take her to the kitchen for a hot posset?”

  “But I need to—” Janna cast a glance at her mother’s still form lying on the pallet in the alcove. Before she went anywhere, she wanted to say goodbye and ask her mother for forgiveness. Even more important, she wanted to be sure that her mother’s body would be treated with the respect she deserved.

  “Come.” Hugh’s firm grip shifted Janna from the room, propelling her through the solar and out into the hall. Feeling his grip slacken slightly, Janna jerked free and faced him.

  “If Master Fulk was anywhere near as good as he pretends to be, he could have–”

  “You’ll achieve naught by accusing the apothecary of neglect,” he cut across her protest. “Your mother died a hard death. I doubt anyone could have saved her.”

  “But that—that quack didn’t even try, did he?” Janna steeled herself, knowing she could
not rest until she heard the worst.

  Hugh shrugged apologetically. “I know not what happened before I arrived, but I heard that your mother poured scorn on Fulk and his treatments on her return after noon. It seems he insisted that Dame Alice drink an infusion of his own making, but your mother threw it out. They had a fierce argument about it. Of course, as soon as Fulk heard that your mother was taken ill he lost no time in returning to the bedchamber and putting it about that your mother had brought this illness on herself and that she was not to be trusted. He has his good name to salvage, Johanna, you must understand that.”

  Yet Dame Alice had quickly put Fulk in his place when he’d tried to suggest that Eadgyth’s potion might have killed her. Janna took some comfort from that, but knew that she must also use her own persuasion to counteract Fulk’s accusations.

  “My mother was always careful with her mixtures, sire,” she said. “I have never known her make a mistake, not ever. Besides, if the mistake lay in my mother’s potion, it would be Dame Alice lying dead now, not—” Janna swallowed hard, unable to finish her sentence.

  “What you say makes sense. It may be that you speak the truth of the matter.”

  “Then what happened to my mother? She was perfectly well when I last saw her. There must be a reason for…for…”

  “I’m sorry, Johanna, I really don’t know. All I can tell you is what I saw toward the end, after Jeanne, one of my aunt’s tiring women, came in search of Fulk and Robert. I was with Robert at the time and I accompanied him to Alice’s bedchamber, for I am her kinsman and so have great concern for her wellbeing. It is fortunate I was present, for Robert fell into such distress that I thought he might lose his senses altogether. His face blanched of all color; he trembled as if with the ague and I feared he might collapse. We thought his wife was beyond all care, you see. It took some moments before we realized that, in fact, it was your mother who was taken ill. Dame Alice insisted that a groom be sent to fetch you. Robert stayed to reassure and comfort her, while Cecily looked after your mother. She gave her water and washed her clean, but alas, nothing seemed to help.”

  “And Master Fulk? What did he do?”

  “He sent Jeanne to the kitchen for one of his possets. Really, he did his best to help your mother.”

  Janna made a rude noise at the back of her throat, knowing that Fulk’s best wasn’t worth a dirty straw. She looked up at Hugh and struggled to put her suspicions into words. “Did my mother say anything of what ailed her before she died?” she asked, hoping for some sort of clue. She didn’t believe for one moment that Eadgyth had been affected by one of her own mixtures, yet something unexpected had caused her mother to die so quickly and in such distress.

  “Let us ask Cecily. She may have spoken to your mother while she tended her,” Hugh said, as the young tiring woman entered the hall in company with the steward she had been sent to fetch. He beckoned her forward; she stopped dead momentarily before approaching them slowly. Janna plaited her fingers together and squeezed them hard as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. She could not give in to grief, not yet. She needed all her wits to find out the truth of her mother’s death, and all her courage to get through it.

  “My lord?” Cecily bobbed a knee in front of Hugh and waited, her eyes cast down in humble submission. Full of gratitude and forgetting her place, Janna took the young woman’s hands in her own.

  “Thank you, mistress,” she said. “Thank you for taking the time to ease my mother’s passing.”

  Cecily nodded, not speaking. Janna noted that she was much younger than the other attendants. In fact, Cecily looked no more than a year or so older than Janna herself. She had delicate features, set in a heart-shaped face, which was framed by a cloud of dark hair. For all that she must be highborn to be a tiring woman to Dame Alice, she seemed as miserable as a wet cat. Janna wondered what was troubling her.

  “Can you tell us, did the healer say anything before she died, Cecily?” Hugh asked the question before Janna could, and she was glad of it, for surely the girl would respect him and so would answer truthfully. Janna felt a rush of warmth toward him as she realized he had called her mother a healer, acknowledging her true worth.

  Cecily stole a quick glance at Janna, then looked down. “Mistress Eadgyth complained of feeling cold,” she whispered. “She said her lips felt numb. She could barely speak or swallow. It was hard to hear her, and to understand her words, but she said your name, Johanna. She called also for a monk, I suppose to give her absolution before she died.”

  A monk? Janna frowned, utterly rejecting the notion. If her mother had known she was dying, if she’d wanted absolution, she would have called for the priest. Even that seemed unlikely, given her mother’s reaction to the priest when, at the first—at the only service they had attended after the new church opened at Berford, she had turned her back on him and walked out, dragging Janna behind her.

  “Thank you, Cecily.”

  The tiring woman bobbed a curtsy and hastened back to the bedchamber. Hugh shot a glance of concern at Janna.

  “Come.” He put his hand under her arm and propelled her down the stairs and out into the night. The dark shapes of other buildings spread out before them under the star-filled sky. Janna hardly had time to wonder as to their purpose before Hugh hurried her on and into a small stone building set close to one side of the timbered palisade that enclosed the manor.

  Two great fires heated the room to an almost unbearable temperature. The cook’s sleeves were pushed up to her elbows; her face was red, dripping with perspiration. She was rolling pastry, pressing it down with hard, determined thumps of the rolling pin. Rich scents flavored the air: fresh bread, and the smell of stew from a cooking pot hanging over one of the fires. A joint of beef was being turned on a spit by a scullion who crouched beside the second fire, sweating heavily as he labored. In spite of her distress, Janna’s mouth began to water.

  The cook paused, as did two maids and a young boy who was busy washing vegetables. They all stood to attention as Hugh came forward, gently pushing Janna ahead of him.

  “This is Johanna, daughter of Mistress Eadgyth, the wortwyf and healer,” he introduced her. “Treat her kindly, for she’s had a great shock. Her mother has died most suddenly and unexpectedly. Give her a hot drink and find her a pallet and somewhere to sleep tonight.” To Janna he said, “You shouldn’t be alone. Stay here and I’ll escort you home in the morning. You’ll also need to make burial arrangements with the priest in Berford, but I can help you with that.”

  Janna didn’t know why he was being so kind, but was grateful for his understanding and care. “Thank you, sire,” she whispered, and bobbed a curtsy. He nodded to her and left the kitchen.

  At once everyone relaxed. But they did not resume work. Instead they crowded around, staring at Janna as if she’d come down to them from the moon and riding on a broomstick.

  “Don’t think you can come in here and start telling me what to do like your mother did.” The cook was the first to speak. She smeared huge floured hands down her stained apron in a vain effort to clean them, then stuck them on her hips. “Giving me all manner of strange berries and roots and ordering me around in my own kitchen. ‘Boil this, soak that,’ as if she was Lady Muck of the Manor herself.”

  “In truth, I do believe the wortwyf’s mixtures helped Dame Alice,” one of the kitchen maids ventured timidly.

  The cook flashed a glare in her direction. “Not according to Master Fulk! Now there’s a gentleman. We were in absolute agreement over what was needed to help my lady. In fact, he paid me many compliments on my preparations.” She shot a triumphant glance at Janna. “Master Fulk threw out your mother’s vile potions and ’tis just as well he did, seeing as the woman has now died by her own hand.” She shook a fat finger under Janna’s nose. “You’ll not brew any concoctions in my kitchen while you’re here,” she warned. “I’ll be watching you.”

  Janna drew in a breath, almost too indignant to speak. “I�
�ll not stay here to be watched,” she retaliated. “My mother was quite well when she left home this morning. Who is to say it’s not something from your kitchen that has poisoned her!”

  The words were out before she’d thought them through. Poison! Yet Janna knew instinctively that she’d spoken the truth. Her mother must have been poisoned; there was no other explanation for her sudden and untimely death.

  The cook’s face flushed dark red. She drew herself up, large bosom heaving so hard it seemed she might burst through the fabric of her kirtle. “How dare you!” she spluttered. “I keep a fine kitchen and a fine table. My lady has told me so herself.” She picked up a twiggy besom and gave Janna a hard poke in the chest. “Get out of my kitchen! I’ll not stand here to be insulted by an ill-bred brat like you!”

  Janna retreated. The cook kept coming, jabbing the besom at her until she turned and fled out into the quiet night. Once outside, her steps slowed. She breathed deeply, trying to settle her agitated spirits. Where was the gate? She looked at the bulky shapes of the buildings around her, trying to make sense of them, to remember the way in. From the smell, Janna judged that some of the buildings must be used to house pigs and other animals. She spied the gatehouse, and hurried toward it. To her relief, the gate was still open, while the gatekeeper was nowhere in sight. She scurried outside. Not for anything would she stay at the manor through the night. She was exhausted, shattered by grief, as she started the long walk home, her path lit by the rising moon. Questions tormented her. Who and what had killed her mother? How had she come to die such a hard death? Janna drew a shuddering breath. Now was not the time to give in to sorrow. She must be strong. She must concentrate, ask questions, find answers. She would not rest until she had found out the truth.

  Eadgyth would never poison herself, not even by accident. Someone must have given her poison; someone must be responsible for what had happened. Someone who held a grudge—like the apothecary, whose position at the manor had been threatened by her mother’s greater knowledge and expert treatment of her patient. Or Aldith, who must know that women—even Dame Alice herself—would rather seek help from clever, knowledgable Eadgyth than an ignorant village midwife.