Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  A glimpse of something hanging from a tree in the distance caught her eye. The dark shape shifted and changed as she watched. For a moment she stared at it, not fully comprehending what she was seeing. As her brain finally made sense of the image, she let out a long, ragged cry and began to run.

  Alfred was tied to the tree, the cord looped around the tree trunk several times so that he was stretched out as if crucified. His limbs were stiff, and his fur was stained with blood. A swarm of flies buzzed around him, grouping and regrouping as they searched for wounds to feed on. Frantic, Janna brushed them away.

  She saw that Alfred’s throat had been cut. He must have died sometime during the night. She began to shiver. Her teeth chattered as she forced herself to touch her pet. The cat’s fur was matted and sticky. The flies she’d disturbed buzzed around her in a thick black cloud and then settled once more on Alfred’s body. Looking down, Janna saw that she’d stepped into a puddle of blood that lay directly beneath the dead animal. Her thoughts splintered into fragments of grief as she tried to come to terms with Alfred’s fate.

  It seemed clear that he had been killed right here, next to the tree, and then strung up straight away. She looked at the smudged footprints around the dark red puddle congealing underneath the cat’s body. Her own, or did some of them belong to whoever was responsible for Alfred’s death?

  Janna examined them carefully; the prints of her own small boots were superimposed on prints made by other, larger boots. Whose? It was impossible to tell. Staining a patch of leaves nearby was another splatter of dark red blood. Head bent, Janna traversed the ground in a widening semicircle around the cat, searching for signs of disturbance. The path to their cottage bore the faint marks of boots: hers and her mother’s, and probably their visitors too: the groom from Babestoche Manor, Fulk and Godric.

  She looked back to where she’d found the cat, some twenty paces away. Had the killer first cut Alfred’s throat, and then looked for a tree from which to hang the dead body so that it would be the first thing Janna saw when she walked out of the cottage? Suddenly anxious, Janna swung around to scan the forest in case the killer was still lurking somewhere nearby. She could hear only the churring of turtle doves as they puffed and preened in the warmth of the sun.

  Dry-mouthed, trying not to panic, Janna hurried back to Alfred and began to wrestle with the tight knot around his neck. As she tugged and pulled at it, tears ran down her face. She was crying for the kitten with the will to live, who had struggled so hard to survive. The cat would have had no chance against a man with a knife in his hand, and hatred in his heart. Who could have done such a thing? Who could have anything to gain from Alfred’s death?

  Godric! The thought was sudden and shocking, and Janna immediately tried to push it out of her mind. It would not go away. Yet she couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Could he really be so cruel? Surely it wasn’t possible! Yet the evidence hung before her, grisly and gory and only too real. Who else could have done such a thing, if not Godric? He had visited her in the night, had held her tight and offered help and comfort. And instead of being grateful, she’d flung his kindness back in his face and made it quite clear that she wouldn’t consider him for a husband.

  Had he taken out his anger on Alfred? Janna remembered how he’d nudged the animal aside with his boot, and how he’d slit the boar’s throat without even blinking. Perhaps, like the villagers, he believed Alfred was the devil and that it would be wise to kill him. Tears almost blinded Janna as she tugged and pulled at the knots binding her cat, but a new thought filled her with a scalding anger. With such an act, did Godric think to frighten her out of the cottage and into his arms? She would rather scratch out his eyes! How could he have done such a thing to a defenseless animal? She would never forgive him—never!

  Unable to vent her anger on Godric, she fought with the knot instead, until finally she managed to untie Alfred and bring him down from the tree. She laid the body carefully on the ground and went off to fetch a spade to dig a grave.

  When she returned, a sudden thought made her pause: Should she save the body as evidence, in case she could call down justice on Godric’s head? She leaned on the spade while she reasoned it out. To whom could she report this crime? Godric’s liege lord would not punish him for the killing, not if it came down to Godric’s word against her own. The villagers certainly wouldn’t support her; she was an outcast, and they thought the cat was the devil. No doubt they would agree with Godric that it was better dead than alive. No, it seemed to Janna that if she wanted justice, both for the death of her mother and for Alfred, she would have to find it in her own way.

  Starting with Alfred. She didn’t need his body to challenge Godric. He would know what she was talking about—and she would make him suffer in every way she could. She began to dig, attacking the earth with angry jabs as she thought of how she might make Godric pay for what he had done.

  She had cried all the tears she could cry. Now she felt achingly empty and sad. And angry. Her anger added iron to her backbone and gave her the strength to do what had to be done. She rubbed her cheek against Alfred’s soft fur, then tenderly laid him down into the hole she had dug. The cat stared up at her, his wide eyes clouded now by death. Janna leaned down and gently closed them. She stroked Alfred’s black fur one last time, then covered him over with damp, dark earth. As a last gesture, she gathered up some late bluebells and red poppies to brighten the grave. So, too, would she find something to place on the grave of her mother.

  Her mother! Janna straightened hastily and scanned the sky, noticing the sun’s position. By now her mother’s body would be lying in the church, probably unguarded and certainly unmourned. Janna knew it was up to her to see that her mother was washed, anointed and prepared for burial with the proper rites. Although she shrank from the task, it was her duty. But first and foremost, she wanted to keep vigil beside her mother’s body, to ask for her forgiveness, and to pray for God’s grace to go with her mother on this, her final journey. She ran inside to wash her dirty hands then snatched up a basket into which she placed leaves of soapwort and a jar of oil scented with roses, and hurried outside again.

  Her mother’s livelihood had come from the herbs and flowers that she cherished, so it was only fitting she have some on her grave for her last journey. Janna made a careful selection: poppies and creamy purple pansies for consolation and loving thoughts; they would also provide a splash of bright color to mark her mother’s final resting place. And last, a healthy sprig of rosemary to mark forever what was in her heart. Regretting that she hadn’t left earlier, Janna set off at a run through the fields toward the village.

  Although the sun was shining just as it had the day before, this time she could take no comfort from its warmth. Everything seemed black, full of shadows; her heart was full of anger and despair. She hurried on, not pausing to draw breath or ease the pain in her side, until she came at last to the small stone church in the center of Berford. She raced inside, pausing only to cross herself before looking about.

  There was no sign of her mother’s body. As Janna bent over, trying to catch her breath and ease the stabbing pain in her side, the light from the open door was blocked by the batwing form of the priest. He advanced on her.

  “Johanna,” he said. His narrow face was closed and hostile. Janna instinctively recoiled. “Your mother’s body lies outside, beyond the pale. You must go outside the churchyard walls if you wish to say your last farewells to her.”

  “Beyond the pale?” Janna could hardly speak for horror.

  “I cannot bury your mother in consecrated ground. You remember, I am sure, what happened the last time you and your mother came to church.”

  Yes, Janna remembered only too well. The trouble with the priest had started as soon as he was appointed to the new church at Berford. She and her mother had attended his first service. Before the church was built, a preaching cross had served as a place of worship as well as being a focus for the exchange of news
and gossip. An old priest had come regularly from Wiltune to hold a mass in the open air. Gentle and mild, he had welcomed them all and had happily absolved them from sin and given them his blessing every month. But at the new priest’s first service, he had gazed around his small congregation, taking their measure. It seemed he had taken the trouble to find out about his parishioners, for his gaze lingered longest on Eadgyth.

  His knowledge of the nature of his flock became certain when he began to address them from the pulpit. It was a long rant against the dangers of breaking God’s commandments, and it seemed to be aimed directly at Eadgyth. Janna’s mother had kneeled on the hard stone flagging, listening as the priest warned his flock about those who lived outside God’s laws, which he then itemized. Small choking sounds told Janna how her mother regarded the priest’s rules, especially when it came to the servitude of women and their absolute subjugation to their husbands’ will. But it was on his injunction that the villagers must bend always to the will of God and not question it that Eadgyth had come to the end of her patience.

  “Surely God gave us a brain in the expectation we would use it,” she hissed under her breath to Janna. “After all, He gave us the capacity to choose right or wrong, and to acquire and use knowledge for the benefit of mankind. If God wanted us to wait around for him to fix everything, we’d have been called ‘beetles’, not ‘humans.’”

  “Shh.” Janna agreed with Eadgyth, but she wished her mother would just let it go for now.

  Eadgyth frowned at her. “Don’t tell me you agree with what he’s saying? I brought you up to have a mind of your own, Janna. I taught you to question everything.”

  “Shh!” Others now turned on Eadgyth, annoyed that her sibilant whispers were interrupting their devotions. Janna felt embarrassed. The trouble with her mother was that she never let anything lie until she’d argued her own point of view, but now was not the time or place for it.

  “…and if God should cast affliction on us, we must be like Job and bear our troubles with patience and courage, and with prayer.” It seemed almost as if the priest had heard Eadgyth’s protests, for he fixed her with a gimlet stare as he continued: “There are some who would set themselves above God, who believe they have the power of life and death over others. There are some who will even do the devil’s work, breaking God’s laws to carry out their foul deeds. To you, I say, beware, for God is watching and great will be your fall. On the Day of Judgment, when sinners are called to—”

  “I’ve had enough of this.” Eadgyth grabbed Janna’s arm. “Come!” To Janna’s intense embarrassment, her mother pulled her to her feet and marched her down the aisle and out of the church. A tense silence had marked their passage, but Janna heard the priest’s voice raised in exhortation once they exited.

  “You don’t need to go to church when God’s great cathedral is all around you, Janna,” her mother had said once they reached their cottage. She’d pointed then at the bright flowers in their garden, the dancing butterflies and furry bumblebees, and the green forest beyond. “I follow God’s law in my own way. I certainly do not need the priest to tell me how to behave, and what I may or may not believe.”

  Hearing her mother’s voice in her mind brought tears to Janna’s eyes. Determined not to give in to grief in front of the priest, she blinked them back.

  “Your mother didn’t believe in Christ and she didn’t come to church. And I know there were times when she broke God’s law,” he said now, as he grasped Janna’s arm and led her outside. She suspected that he was referring to the abortifacients Eadgyth sometimes administered to the desperate women who came to her. She kept silent, knowing that in truth there was no defense against most of his accusations.

  “She was a sinner, a heretic, and I will not allow her to lie in my church, nor will I bury her in consecrated ground.” The priest turned from Janna, indicating that their conversation was over.

  “That’s not true! She believed in God.” Outraged, Janna stood her ground, silently damning him to the hell he was wishing upon her mother.

  “She condemned herself out of her own mouth. Indeed, they were almost the last words she spoke to me.”

  “When did you see her? When did you speak to her?”

  “When I asked to hear her confession before she was admitted into Dame Alice’s bedchamber.”

  “You were up at the manor yesterday?”

  “Indeed I was. I’d been told of my lady’s troubles, and I was ready to administer the last rites should I have cause to do so. It was only fitting that your mother should be in a state of grace before being allowed into the presence of Dame Alice.”

  “If my mother said her confession to you, why do you deny her burial now?”

  “She did not make her confession. Instead, she told me to get out of her way for she had more important matters to attend.”

  “Like saving Dame Alice’s life!” Janna was having difficulty reining in her temper. Only the importance of changing the priest’s mind stopped her from shouting at him.

  “Nothing is more important than communion with God.”

  “I am sure my mother would have made her confession if time had allowed it.” Janna wasn’t sure of any such thing, but she had to fight on her mother’s behalf. Not to be buried in consecrated ground would leave her mother condemned by everyone. And if people condemned her mother, they would surely condemn Janna herself.

  “She would not!” the priest contradicted sharply. “She told me to take my blessings and prayers elsewhere, for Dame Alice had no need of them.”

  “By that, surely she meant that she believed she could make the lady well again.” Janna hated pleading with the priest, but she had no choice.

  To her surprise, he smiled at her, baring the brown stumps of his teeth. “I bid you good morrow, sire,” he said.

  Realizing the smile was not for her, Janna swung around to find Hugh advancing toward them, leading his destrier. His voice was full of concern as he asked, “Why did you run from the manor? I meant to escort you here today, but they told me you left last night and they haven’t seen you since.”

  I’ll wager they didn’t tell you why I left. Janna wasn’t prepared to enlighten him either. She bobbed a curtsy to him, and said, “I thank you for your care of me last night, sire, but my place was at home, not up at the manor.”

  Hugh studied her for a moment, then turned to the priest. “I have been especially charged by Dame Alice to see about the burial arrangements for Mistress Eadgyth. Where have you laid her body?”

  The priest looked down at his toes. “I was just informing Johanna that her mother lies outside the churchyard, beyond the pale. She will be buried forthwith.”

  “What?” Hugh sounded incredulous. “Mistress Eadgyth’s death was an accident! The healer did not knowingly take her own life.”

  Hugh’s words confirmed that he, too, believed that her mother had been poisoned—and by one of her own concoctions. Before Janna had time to protest, the priest began to defend his decision.

  “If the lady died by her own hand it is suicide, and suicide is a sin against God. Even if her death was an accident, as you claim, she died unshriven. She did not come to church. In fact, almost her last words to me were that she had no time for God.”

  “She said no such thing!” Janna wouldn’t be silenced a moment longer. “She was in a hurry to see Dame Alice, you told me so yourself.”

  “She was in a hurry to go about her devilish practices,” the priest said darkly. “I have spoken time and again from the pulpit, warning my flock of the dangers of submitting to ancient beliefs about aelfshot, and the conviction that diseases may be cured by magic and leechcraft. My flock now repent the error of their ways. They know that they must bend to God’s will and seek Christ’s blessing on the ills that befall them. Only your mother continued to defy me, brewing her potions and communing with that black cat to summon the dead.”

  “She sought merely to heal, to bring comfort and relief!” Janna could hardly
speak for rage.

  “She took the power of life and death upon her shoulders.” The priest glowered at Janna, silencing her.

  Hugh’s expression was grave as he turned to the priest. “Let me remind you of Dame Alice’s wishes in this matter, and add my own plea for Mistress Eadgyth. No matter what you may believe, the herbwife was a good woman and as such I ask you to give her the benefit of your Christian charity, to relent and accord her a decent, Christian burial.”

  “Never.” The priest drew himself up to his full height, which took him as far as Hugh’s shoulder. “A Christian burial for that woman would contradict everything against which I have warned my flock. Besides which, it would be an abomination in the sight of God.” His glance at Janna was both spiteful and triumphant. “You must hurry if you want to see your mother, for her burial will take place shortly.”

  ‘No! I have not had time to prepare her.”

  ‘You have come too late.”

  Janna seethed with the injustice of the priest’s judgment. She turned to Hugh, hoping for his help, but the quick shake of his head made her realize that further argument was futile. With a muttered exclamation, she pushed past the two men and ran through the churchyard. The warmth of the sun fell on her face like a blessing, but Janna was unaware of it, could hardly see for the tears streaming down her cheeks as she hurried past the graves with their rough stone markers, and out through an archway in the stone wall. A shrouded bundle lay in the wasteland beyond. It was a weedy, unkempt piece of ground which housed the unmarked graves of felons and those poor itinerants who had died without kin to identify them, and was littered with rubbish strewn by idle and uncaring passersby.

  The grave had already been dug, a gaping hole that looked like a greedy mouth waiting to be fed. Eadgyth lay beside it, wrapped in a roughly woven cloth. Janna fell to her knees and gently removed part of the wrapping so that she might see her mother one last time. It seemed important to say goodbye and ask for forgiveness.