Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  Not daring to turn her back on them, she felt behind her for the door latch. She watched them steadily all the while, for although they’d quietened, she knew that if she presented her back to them they would attack her like the cowardly animals they were. She must get away from them while she could and hope that, if she was not there to provoke them, their tempers would cool and their senses return along with the light of morning.

  Janna snicked the latch, pushed the door open behind her and, in a quick movement, stepped back and slammed the door shut once more. For safety, she dragged her mother’s heavy chair against it. For added protection she donned her girdle and slipped the knife inside her purse. If they came for her, she would be ready. She collapsed onto a stool, breathless and trembling with fear as she waited to find out what the villagers would do next.

  A low muttering came from outside, buzzing like a swarm of bees. A voice was raised, and quickly hushed. The words had been indistinguishable. Janna wondered if Hilde was being taken to task for her actions. A man laughed then, the sound drifting off into silence.

  It was quiet outside now, too quiet. Surely she should hear their footsteps, the sounds of crunching leaves and snapping twigs, if they were returning to Berford? The silence made Janna uneasy.

  Smoke. Smoke and the thin crackling snap of burning tinder. She stood up to inspect the fire in the center of the room. A thin plume coiled upwards from a log which, even as she watched, crumbled and fell away into ash.

  Janna settled back down on the stool and tried to calm her frightened spirit, but a new worry came into her mind. How would she manage if she could not trade her skill and knowledge of herbs in return for the goods she needed in order to survive? She would have to set aside more of the small piece of land in order to grow extra wheat. She would also have to grind it herself in the future. It was another task added to a burden already too heavy to bear. She drew a deep breath, weary beyond endurance.

  Smoke. Janna looked at the dying fire. The crackling of burning wood was louder now, the smell stronger. Tendrils of smoke seeped through small cracks in the mud and straw daub that sealed the wooden frame of the cottage. Aghast, Janna noticed flickers of light as flames began to lick and burn through timber. The cottage was on fire, and she was trapped inside.

  “God rot your souls until Doomsday!” she shouted, hoping the villagers were still outside to hear the curse. She hated them with all her heart. What had she ever done, how had she harmed them to make them turn against her like this? But now was not the time for curses and questioning. The cottage was on fire, the flames all around her. She must act, and quickly, or she would be burned alive.

  She pounced on the heavy chair and dragged it away from the door. The door was alight now, and the surrounding walls with it—she was surrounded by a ring of fire. Terrified, she made haste to save what she could, quickly casting about for Eadgyth’s precious weighing scales, but the room was filling with smoke, making it hard to see. It stung her eyes and tore at her throat and she began to cough. The sound was growing louder, roaring in her ears as the fire took hold. Hungry tongues of flame closed in on her, licking up the wooden cottage and its contents.

  Janna put her hand over her nose and mouth in a vain effort to filter the choking smoke that billowed around the room. No time to save anything, she must flee for her life. But where was the door? She peered about, trying to fathom its direction from the furniture, but her eyes were watering and the smoke was too thick now to make out anything at all.

  In panic, she stretched out a hand and blindly stepped forward. Her boot jarred against a heavy object. She touched it, felt its shape. The chair! She’d moved it to the right of the door, but the door itself was burning. In sudden hope, she turned to the window, but it was too small; she would never fit through.

  Janna knew that if she didn’t get out right now, she would die. She cast about in search of the pot of vegetable soup. Her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled, missed, then at last managed to pull the pot off the hook. She dashed the contents over herself.

  The smoke was suffocating, she could hardly breathe. The rushes had caught alight now; fiery rivulets snaked across the ground toward her. She had to go. She sucked in a breath and held it fast. Using the cooking pot as a battering ram, she ran at the door, smashed it wide open and raced through. The scorching breath of the flames stung her as she passed, but she was out and running for her life.

  The air was cool and fresh. She was safe. She doubled over, coughing and choking, whooping for breath as she tried to suck in enough air to feed her starved lungs. She smelled the stink of scorched hair and her scalp smarted and stung. Her hair was on fire! Shivering with shock and fright, she undid her girdle and purse, then ripped off her wet kirtle and wrapped it tight around her head in a desperate effort to smother her smoldering hair.

  She looked through the trees at the incandescent pyre that was once her home. She began to retch. She heaved up all she’d just eaten in painful, agonized gasps, vomiting until her stomach was empty. Finally, when the spasms had passed, she straightened and looked about her. Desperate and distraught, she watched the fire destroy what was left of her life, everything she knew and everything she had shared with her mother.

  Was she still in danger? She stood still, listening for sounds of the villagers. Had they stayed to admire their handiwork or had they fled to the safety of their own homes like the cowards they were? It was difficult to hear anything above the roar and crackle of the flames, but Janna detected no movement close by. She strained her eyes to see if anyone lurked in the outer darkness, but all seemed still and quiet.

  The animals! Caring nothing for her own safety, Janna snatched up her girdle and the purse with its few precious coins from the marketplace, and ran around the side of the burning cottage to the pen that housed the goats and hens. She could hear an anxious bleating as she came closer, and felt an overwhelming relief that the goats were still alive. “Get out, get out!” she urged, as she unsnicked the catch that kept the gate closed.

  They huddled together, too fearful to move. “Shoo!” Janna ran at them, forcing them to move apart. The hens cackled and milled about, in danger of being trampled to death by the frightened goats. “Shoo!” Janna’s voice shrilled high with terror. She flailed her arms to scare them into action, and at last the goats ran through the opening and out into the garden, followed by the hens. “Shoo!” she shouted again, urging them to the forest and freedom.

  As soon as she was sure they were on the move, she raced ahead and dived into the sheltering trees. The villagers wanted her dead. If any of them were still about they would know that she had survived, and would need to silence her lest she tell anyone of their deeds this day. She wriggled into a bushy thicket and rolled flat onto the ground, trying to become invisible in the darkness. After a few moments, during which she gathered up her last remnants of courage, she raised her head and peered cautiously about.

  The cottage still burned fiercely, the fire casting its light in a wide arc. Janna watched the scene intently, alert for any movement or sound that would betray the presence of the villagers. How delighted they must be by the success of their mission to drive her away. Her eyes smarted from the heat and smoke, and her skin stung where the fire had scorched her. She blinked hard and stifled a sob as she continued to watch. But she heard no voices; she saw no signs of life. No-one had been brave enough to stay and witness the destruction of her home and her life.

  Sparks broke free of the blaze and floated through the air. Fire fairies, Janna thought fancifully, until she noticed that a stray spark had alighted on a clump of leaves close to where she was lying. The leaves were smoldering, could easily flare out of control. Janna jumped up and stamped on them, extinguishing the danger. But the smoking vegetation had awakened her to the hazard she faced. It would be stupid, she thought, to save herself from a burning cottage only to die in a forest fire instead.

  She could not seek the safety of the fields in case some of the v
illagers were still on their way home, so she forced her trembling legs to run deeper into the forest, ducking branches and bushes, tripping over flints and into unexpected hollows, pushing her way past brambles that caught her clothing and scratched her skin, until she reached a wide clearing. Believing herself safe at last, she collapsed onto a patch of grass.

  The burning cottage had set the sky alight, the fiery glow shining above the trees. There was no escaping the horror of her loss. Numbly, Janna kept watching as the leaping flames gradually sank lower. It came to her that she was still clad only in her short tunic. She unfastened the damp and singed kirtle, shook it out and put it on, her fingers catching in holes where the fire had burnt it right through. Even though it was in rags, it would give some protection to her bare arms and legs and safeguard her modesty.

  She had cried all the tears she could cry. Now she felt achingly empty and sad as she assessed her situation. She had no way of earning her keep in the future. She was an orphan. There were no family or friends to help her; indeed, the villagers hated her enough to destroy the only thing she had left: her home, with all of its memories. Janna clenched her hands as a new emotion swept through her, filling her with a white heat so strong it drove out all fear and loneliness. It was rage; an anger that blazed as hot and as blinding as the sun.

  Impulse bade her run to the village and demand justice. She might still have some support there; not everyone had come out to the forest this night. Caution told her that it may only have been fear that kept the other villagers away. If forced to choose, they might not have the courage to go against others whose hatred of her was so great they didn’t care that she might die when they set fire to her cottage. After some consideration, she came to the conclusion that it would be better, for the moment, if everyone thought she was dead. Let the villagers think they had succeeded in their purpose. At least it would stop them coming after her before she had a chance to flee.

  But until she could find some way of bringing the villagers to justice, and her mother’s killer along with them, she had to find shelter. Where could she go? South to the sea? No, she wanted to put the protection of the forest between her and the villagers. She could not go east to Wiltune, for she was known there. Nor should she go west; from what Godric had told her, she’d never find the ancient way through the forest that would lead her to safety. North, then? There was a track right through the forest to Wicheford, so she’d heard, but she’d never gone so far before. She would be walking into the unknown.

  Janna found the thought reassuring. If she knew no-one it would mean that no-one would know her. She would be able to beg for bread and shelter in safety. She knew she should leave tonight so as to put as much distance as possible between her and the villagers. But she was tired, so tired! Everything hurt, body and soul, while her spirit felt utterly crushed. She was surrounded by the dense, secret fastness of the forest. Surely it was dark enough for shelter, for safety? Tonight she would hide here, she decided. Tomorrow would be time enough to start her new life.

  Wearily, Janna sank down onto a soft bed of grass and leaves beneath the comforting branches of a spreading beech. I can’t stay here; I need to climb up and away from danger. It was her last thought before her eyes closed in utter exhaustion and she fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 12

  Janna sat up with a jerk, awoken by the melodious warbling of blackbirds and puzzled by the leafy roof above her head. Her heart did a somersault as she recalled why she was sleeping out under the trees. A shudder shook her to her core. She was cold and she was wet. She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands in despair. She had to think, to make a plan for the future even though there seemed to be no future at all for her. It was true she couldn’t stay here, but even if she found her way to Wicheford, what would she do there, how would she survive?

  Something felt different. She explored her scorched and tender scalp with careful fingers and felt stubble, all that was left of her burnt hair. Yet not all of her hair was gone, she discovered—she still had a few long locks where sparks hadn’t fallen. She shed her wet kirtle to examine her arms and legs. Bright pink streaked her skin where fire and brambles had branded her. She reached for her kirtle. The front was burnt so badly it was beginning to disintegrate. As she dressed, she comforted herself with the thought that at least there was no-one around to see her body through the ruined fabric. Her first task, then, must be to find something else to wear. She could not make her journey dressed like this.

  She stood up, and slowly found her way back to the edge of the forest. Lowering clouds shrouded the dawning of a new day. There was still a hint of rain in the air, a fine sifting that added to Janna’s misery. She knew she should flee the forest before anyone was out and about to notice her, and understand that she had survived the fire. Yet all her instincts bade her go back to the cottage one last time. Like a wounded animal, she needed to return to her lair. It made sense to see if there was anything left among the detritus that she could salvage, perhaps some medicaments to trade along her journey, wherever that might take her. She might even find something to replace her tattered kirtle. At the very least, she should wash away the ravages of the fire from her skin.

  The misting rain kept Janna shivering in the cool early morning as she hurried to the blackened ruin, all that was left of her home. Yet the rain was providential, for it had dampened the fire and prevented it from spreading through the forest itself. If only it had rained sooner, some part of the cottage and her life within might have been saved. As it was, the stench of the charred remains hung in the air.

  Keeping a sharp lookout for unwelcome visitors, Janna went first to the herb garden in the hope that some of her precious plants might have survived the inferno. A small heap of burnt bones and charred feathers lay among the ashy remains of a lifetime’s work. Laet, Janna thought sadly. In the race for food, and everything else, the little hen had always come last. She looked away from the devastating scene.

  “Nellie! Gruff!” she called. There were no answering bleats, but Janna took comfort from the fact that there was no sign of burnt goats in her garden either. Hopefully they were happily foraging in the forest. Soon enough someone would find them, and the hens too, and give them a home.

  The hives had burnt through, leaking precious honey onto the ground. “I’m so sorry,” Janna told the bees, although she knew that none could be alive to hear her. They would not have survived the heat and smoke. Feeling empty and despairing, she walked on through the herb garden. The fire had taken everything, leaving only mounds of ash and black stalks to bear witness to a lifetime of toil. There was nothing to salvage, no warm milk or eggs to fill her empty aching belly, no sweet herbs or honey to ease the hurt, no balm to replace a shattered life.

  Desolate with grief, Janna wandered slowly through the damp, charred mess back to the remains of the cottage to inspect its contents. Their precious chest, which had contained a change of clothing and some warmer wear for winter, had burnt right through. Their meagre bits of furniture—the table, stools, her mother’s carefully crafted chair and cushions—were all reduced to ash. So were the bunches of dried herbs, the sachets of powders and pills. Clay saucers and jars had crashed to the ground when the shelf had burned through. While most were smashed, a few pots had survived the fall and their contents remained intact. Yet all the medicaments in the world could not cure the pain in her heart, Janna thought, as she inspected these few pitiful remnants. She kept searching through the debris and found the hard flint and small piece of steel. Amid the devastation of the fire, the means to start it had been saved. With a wry smile, she secreted them in her purse. Should she need to keep warm, should she be lucky enough to find something to cook, being able to light a fire would come in handy.

  She crouched among the ruins. Carefully, she began to sift through soggy, blackened fragments, the remnants of her life. Mostly they fell apart as she handled them. Some were recognizable: shards of jugs that had shattered in the
heat; a tin basin, warped and buckled and now unusable. A faint gleam caught Janna’s eye. Eadgyth’s scales! Eagerly, she uncovered them. They were blackened by the fire and twisted beyond repair. Heartsore, she left them lying and turned her attention to the iron cooking pot. It lay close to where the door had been. Janna peered inside the pot and was delighted to find scraps of charred vegetables stuck to the bottom. She ate them. They tasted foul, but she was hungry and had no notion of where she might find her next meal.

  A rough patch of earth caught her attention. It looked as though someone had dug a hole and then covered it over. Puzzled, Janna stared down at it, mentally picturing the cottage and its contents. The straw pallet she shared with her mother had completely burnt away, but this was where it had once rested. Could her mother, the keeper of secrets, have hidden something of her past there? Janna’s breath came faster at the thought.

  She pulled the knife out of her purse and began to dig. The earth was already softened from the rain, and loosened easily. Encouraged, Janna’s pace quickened. The earth sprayed about her as she dug deeper. The blade hit something hard, jarring her hand. Cautious now, she felt around the object and then carefully lifted it. A small tin box with a clasp. It was not locked.

  Janna’s hands shook as she lifted the lid. The first thing she saw was a silver ring brooch studded with multicolored gemstones. She gasped with pleasure and surprise. Why hadn’t her mother ever shown this to her? She turned it over, and frowned at the inscription engraved on the back. It meant nothing to her. Carefully, she set the brooch aside.

  Underneath it was a piece of parchment. She picked it up and unfolded it. It was covered with writing. Janna stared at the symbols on the page, wishing she could read. Where had her mother come by these things, and why had she hidden them? It was all very strange.