“You are a silly, impudent girl. I understand that your mother’s death has upset you, but you do your case no good by making these rash accusations.” Aldith leaned closer, so close that their noses almost touched. “You would do well to follow my lord’s advice. Go home, Janna. Do not meddle in what you don’t understand.” Cradling the jar with its liquid contents closer to her breast, she stepped away from Janna and went toward the bedchamber, casting a triumphant glance behind her.
“How much of your cordial did my mother drink?” Janna called after her.
“We shared a whole jug!” Aldith disappeared from Janna’s view.
A whole jug? It was true Aldith was proud of her mint cordial, and rightly so. Janna had once tasted some herself, when the midwife had paid her mother in kind for a soothing cream. It was to Aldith’s credit that she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d met Eadgyth on her way to the manor house, nor that she’d given her the cordial to drink. Even if Aldith was lying about sharing the cordial with her mother, Eadgyth knew its taste. If she’d had any suspicions about it, she would have spat it out and poured the rest of it away. And she would have broadcast her suspicions up at the manor house as soon as she started to feel ill.
Janna’s thoughts led her to conclude that it was kind of the midwife to share her cordial, especially if she was carrying it to sell. And if she was carrying it to sell, she would never have added poison to it. She couldn’t know that she would meet her rival, and that they would share a drink. It was far too great a risk to carry poisoned cordial when anyone might have stopped her along the road to buy some.
She had unjustly accused the midwife of poisoning her mother—and in Robert’s hearing too! She felt a pang of remorse, as well as annoyance that she’d let her suspicions run away with her. Aldith had shown kindness, both to Eadgyth and to Janna. Now, because of her stupidity, she had one friend less, when friends were what she most needed. First Godric, and now Aldith. Soon she would have no friends left at all.
Janna cheered up slightly as she remembered the gallant Hugh. And Dame Alice. She had asked Janna to save her baby—but Robert had told her to be gone. It took only an instant for Janna to make the decision. Impatient that she’d already wasted time, she ran down the stairs and set off toward the kitchen in the hope of finding the garden nearby.
Her spirits revived somewhat as the sunlight warmed her. The sight of a well made her lick her dry lips; talk of Aldith’s cordial had made her thirsty. She pushed the thought aside. A drink would have to wait until her mission was complete. She hurried on past several low buildings whose functions she could only guess at, fascinated by this glimpse of a life so different from her own.
She’d guessed that the herbs and vegetables would be grown close to the kitchen for easy picking, and so it proved. The garden was situated in a sunny and protected spot between the kitchen and the timber palisade surrounding the manor house and grounds and apple, pear and plum trees formed a screen to provide shelter from the worst of the elements. The plants were set out in neat rows for easy identification and picking; many of them were familiar. She took a quick glance around, envying the abundance and variety of vegetables occupying the large space available for their growing. It must be wonderful not to want for anything, she thought, as she eyed the long rows of cabbages, lettuces, leeks, turnips, broad beans, peas and onions. She turned her attention then to the herbs, noting with some pride that there were fewer to choose from than in their own garden, nor did they look as healthy. Her garden now, she corrected herself. There was great sadness in the thought.
She spied the thin, fleshy spikes of ground pine, and broke some off. The fragrant steam from boiling its shoots should aid the baby’s breathing. She looked about to see what else she could find to help him thrive.
With a heavy heart, Janna recalled her mother’s words some years before when, after several miscarriages, one of the village women had finally succeeded in giving birth to a living child only to have it die within a few short hours.
“I know not how to explain it,” her mother had said. “The fact that the mother has had such difficulty carrying other babies to term tells me that there is some deep, underlying problem that we do not understand and therefore cannot treat. Mother Nature’s way is usually to expel the child before it has a chance to form properly, but in this case it seems that the baby’s will to fight kept it alive, at least for a time.” Eadgyth’s voice had been troubled as she’d concluded, “But ’tis better, I am sure, to lose a baby early, before it resembles a living child, than to give birth and watch your son or daughter die in your arms.”
Did this child have the will to keep him alive through these early and dangerous days? A brief vision of Alfred flashed in front of Janna. The kitten had almost drowned, but his will had kept him alive until his throat had been cut. At least this baby had nothing to fear from a vengeful and rejected suitor. Janna wondered if that was really how Godric thought of himself. Here, in the peace of the garden, it seemed absurd to think he would go to such lengths just because she’d told him she wasn’t yet ready to marry.
She remembered there was a lavender bush somewhere in the garden, for her mother had already plundered it. As she plucked the fragrant flowers, her troubled thoughts moved on. Godric’s action went against everything she’d observed of him and that had been reported to her by her mother. Kind, decent, courageous: those were the words she would have used to describe him. True, he had seemed to dislike Alfred. Possibly he even feared the cat if he believed, like the villagers, that Alfred was the devil. But would he go so far as to kill it, and in such a brutal manner? Janna shook her head. Godric had seemed genuinely shocked and surprised by her accusation. Yet if he was innocent of the charge, who then was responsible?
Mindful of the need for haste, Janna scanned the garden for any other herbs that might prove useful. She spied the hoof-shaped leaves of coltsfoot. As she hurried to pick them she continued to puzzle over Alfred’s death.
Godric had heard a noise that night, she remembered. He’d gone outside and looked around. Could someone else have come out to her cottage and seen Godric embrace and comfort her? Could that someone have waited until he was gone, and then killed her cat? But who would want to do such a thing?
Slowly, Janna answered her own question. Someone who hated her, who thought of her as a rival perhaps, and who may have mistaken Godric for someone else. Hilde’s distorted face and her angry accusations came into Janna’s mind, along with the memory of how Hilde had brandished a knife while uttering a final threat: “Tempt him again and it’ll be your turn to feel how sharp this is.” In that moment Janna knew she’d accused an innocent man of a terrible crime.
For a moment she stood still, stricken to the heart. Godric! She had been so wrong about him, so wrong. How could she ever look him in the eye again? How could he ever forgive her?
There was no time to think of him now. Saving the baby’s life was far more important, but Janna resolved that, somehow, she would find a way to apologize to him, and try to make amends. She took one last glance about the garden to see if there was horehound, or anything else that might help, and frowned as she noticed some bright blue caps of monkshood. They were growing close to a clump of parsley, a dangerous proximity when their leaves were so similar. Was it there by accident or design? Had someone at the manor discovered that monkshood eased aching joints and the pain of rheumatics when rubbed in with oil, or were the plants prized for a more deadly purpose altogether? Could it even have been a portion of one of these plants that Eadgyth had ingested?
She gave them a hurried inspection. Rough scars told her that leaves and stems had been harvested, and quite recently. A cold frisson of warning shivered through her. She resolved to keep asking questions, but for now her most urgent task was to relieve the child’s breathing. In spite of Robert’s banishment, she must return to the bedchamber. Janna looked down at the fresh herbs she carried. She had a good reason to be there, as well as Dame Alice’s
instructions not to leave. Surely no-one could refuse her entry if there was some small chance that she might be able to save the baby’s life?
*
The first person Janna noticed as she entered the hall was Cecily. The lady was pleading with Robert, who seemed unmoved by her distress. A scowl marred his handsome face as he said something in return. Janna supposed Cecily was in trouble for leaving the house without permission, abandoning her mistress not once but twice and at a time when she was most needed. He broke off abruptly when he noticed Janna, and gestured for Cecily to leave him. Wiping away tears, she hurried into the bedchamber. Janna was left alone to confront the lord.
Robert scowled at her. “I told you to go.”
Janna looked up at him, trying to conceal her dislike. Handsome he might be, but it seemed that the power of his position as lord of the manor had created a bully.
“I have picked some sprigs of ground pine, sire.” She bobbed a respectful curtsy, then indicated the handfuls of herbs she carried. “If you will order these leaves to be boiled, the fragrance of the steam will help your new son breathe more freely.”
“We want no more of your poisons around here.”
Janna choked back her anger with difficulty. “This is not a poison, sire. It’s common ground pine, picked from the manor’s own herb garden. And these are the leaves of coltsfoot. They should be thrown on hot coals; the fumes will help to clear the congestion in the baby’s chest and also aid his breathing. These herbs are not for the baby to swallow. They are utterly harmless.” She recalled the monkshood growing so close to the parsley, as well as a number of other plants which, if used injudiciously, could cause pain or even death. But Robert was unlikely to have any knowledge of the contents of the kitchen garden, harmful or otherwise, and it was certainly not her place to enlighten him.
“Do not argue with me. I want you to go. Now!” Robert stepped closer to Janna, menacing and forceful. “No matter what my wife might say, I do not trust you with the care of my newborn son.” He raised a hand to push her toward the flight of steps outside. From the expression on his face, Janna wondered if he would push her right down them if she didn’t obey him.
A loud cry stayed his hand. At once Robert wheeled and rushed to the bedchamber. After a moment’s hesitation, Janna followed him, still clutching the aromatic herbs.
“My baby!” Dame Alice wept as she held out the limp figure for Janna’s inspection. “Help him! Save him, please!”
Janna took one appalled look at the child and knew that help was no longer possible. He was dead.
Robert had also summed up the situation. Now he clicked a finger at Cecily, and jerked his head toward the door. “Fetch the priest.”
She rushed out, leaving a deathly quiet in the bedchamber. Janna stepped forward to take the baby but Dame Alice snatched him back. Cradling him to her chest, she faced Janna.
“I asked you for help, and you failed me.”
Janna knew that the accusation was spoken in pain, from the desolation of losing a child. Nevertheless, the words cut deep. “I-I am sorry, so sorry, my lady,” she stammered. “Truly, there was little I could do for him.”
“You’ve done enough!” Robert’s voice was edged with sorrow and anger. “I’ve already told you once to get out. I’ll have you thrown out if you don’t leave immediately.”
“No. Wait.” Dame Alice sounded sick to her soul. “She is not to blame. It is God’s punishment for my sins that my babies are taken from me.”
Janna kept silent, grateful for the reprieve. Yet she couldn’t help wondering why Dame Alice thought God would want to punish her so. Her mother had told Janna that the love of God was everywhere, yet the priest would have everyone believe He was cruel and unforgiving; that the smallest misdemeanor would call down His wrath and that He had no room in His heart for love.
“The wortwyf’s daughter speaks true,” Aldith affirmed unexpectedly. Janna hadn’t noticed her standing at the back of the bedchamber. “I have seen other babies born and die in like manner, as well as your own, my lady. In spite of all my physic, there was nothing I or anyone else could do to save them.” She held out her arms. “Let me take the child,” she said, brisk and matter-of-fact after years of experience. “Let me prepare your son for burial.”
“No!” Dame Alice’s heartbroken cry filled the room.
“’Tis better so. There’s naught you can do for him now.” Aldith bent and quickly scooped up the baby.
Janna sucked in a breath. If she was going to do it at all, she should get it over straight away. “Mistress Aldith, a while ago I accused you unjustly, and in front of my lord Robert. It was very wrong of me, and I do most humbly beg your pardon.”
Aldith gave a grudging nod. As she bore her small burden away, Robert sent Janna a hostile glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“You accused an innocent woman when it was your mother’s own foul concoctions that caused her death, as well as the death of my child,” he said angrily. “I told you to be gone, and you will do as you are told!”
“But I…” Janna searched for the words to defend both herself and her mother. She cast a glance of appeal at Dame Alice, willing the lady to speak up for her. But the dame lay still and tears trickled from her closed eyelids. In her grief, she had no thought for anything other than the loss of her child.
Janna recognized that this was neither the time nor place—she’d probably be wasting her breath if she tried to refute Robert’s accusations—so she bobbed a curtsy and left the bedchamber. Let him think she was obeying his command. In fact, Janna had every intention of doing so—but not just yet. For the moment, she intended to stay on at the manor and question all those who might have knowledge of the truth behind her mother’s death. She no longer suspected Aldith, but that still left Fulk, the priest and also Cecily.
She started off down the hall in search of them, but had taken only a few paces when she saw the priest swooping toward her. He made the sign of the cross when he saw her, but said nothing, nor did he check his passage as he rushed on and into the bedchamber. Cecily followed him. Hugh, who had also come in answer to the summons, stopped in front of Janna.
“I understand there is no need for haste, for the baby has died.”
Janna nodded, hardly able to speak. To her surprise, Hugh took hold of her hand and led her to a long bench running the length of one wall.
“Sit down,” he said softly. “Rest a while. You have endured a great deal these past few days.”
Janna felt tears prick her eyes at the kindness in his tone. She sank onto the bench, conscious all at once of her aching limbs and the pain across her forehead that spoke of too much emotion and anxiety. She had wanted so much to save the baby, had tried her best, but her best just wasn’t good enough.
She closed her eyes, trying to prevent her tears from spilling. She did not want to cry in front of Hugh. The bench creaked as he sat down beside her; she felt his light touch on her face as he pushed back the hair from her forehead. “The baby was ailing. You mustn’t blame yourself for his death.” He began to run his fingers through her hair, soothing her. Grateful, she leaned against him and started to relax. If only I could stay like this forever, she thought, lost in the darkness behind her closed eyelids and held in thrall by the light touch of his fingers. If only I belonged here; if only I was the lady of the manor and Hugh was my dearly loved lord.
Lulled by his gentle touch, Janna lapsed into a dream of her life with Hugh: they might take ship and sail away together, sail to the far off lands where the merchant bought his exotic spices. What sights they would see! What adventures they would have! And at night, in the marriage bed—a great wave of longing and desire washed over her; she felt as if she was drowning. It took all her will and all her courage to open her eyes and pull away from him.
Hugh looked down at her, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes, I thank you, sire.” Deeply ashamed of her absurd fantasy, J
anna managed to dredge up a shaky smile.
“You look a little happier,” he said, observing her flushed cheeks and the brightness of her eyes.
“You’re an excellent physician, Hugh!” Not for anything would Janna confess to him the real reason behind her apparent recovery. Suddenly recalling the difference in their position, she added a hasty, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
He smiled back at her, seeming to forgive her cheeky remark as he paid her a compliment of his own. “I am sure your knowledge of the healing powers of herbs far outweighs any small skill I may have.” He surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “And yet you know little of the world outside, I think.”
“You speak the truth, sire. My mother and I live—lived a quiet life together.” Honesty prompted Janna to add, “But I’ve had a suitor.”
His eyebrows lifted in an amused quirk. “And?”
“I turned him down.” It wasn’t quite true, but it would serve to let Hugh know that she wasn’t quite the innocent he took her for.
“I shall take that as a warning, shall I?”
Janna couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. She kept silent, wishing she’d had more practice at this sort of thing.
“A child of the forest, naive and ignorant of the ways of the world, yet able to speak the language of the nobility. In truth you intrigue me, Johanna.”
“I can also write letters! I can sign my own name.” She resented his assessment and was anxious to impress him.
“Can you indeed?”
“I may have lived a quiet life, but it doesn’t mean I’m incapable of learning about the world should the opportunity come my way,” she said angrily, scratching her memory for something to prove her words. “For instance, I know that our country is at war, and that you support the claim of the Empress Matilda to the throne.”
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