About Pilgrim of Death: The Janna Chronicles 4
Love, revenge, secrets – and murder – in a medieval kingdom at war.
Spies, treachery, a dangerously attractive pilgrim and a murder at Stonehenge test Janna’s courage and ingenuity to the limit as she continues the search for her father in the company of pilgrims and jongleurs. She learns the meaning of betrayal, treachery and heartbreak, while her quest brings her ever closer to the royal court and the dangers of the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda.
Contents
About Pilgrim of Death: The Janna Chronicles 4
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Glossary
Author’s Note
About Devil’s Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5
About Felicity Pulman
Also by Felicity Pulman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The herbal remedies and practices detailed herein are based on ancient folklore and should not under any circumstances be considered as an actual remedy for any ailment or condition.
Chapter 1
As the small band of pilgrims passed through Wiltune, Janna saw a crowd gathered into a shouting, gesticulating knot outside a cottage ahead. At their center was a cowering wretch who groaned and howled in pain. Those standing close enough kicked out at him or stretched to pull out tufts of his hair. Dogs barked in excitement and pushed past legs to get closer, slavering over the scent of fresh blood.
Ever soft-hearted for someone in trouble, Janna quickened her steps to come to the man’s aid, but was stopped by a firm hand on her arm. “Leave him be, lass,” a gravelly voice advised. “There’s nowt you can do for him now.”
“Who is he? What’s he done to deserve such treatment?” Janna strained against the pilgrim’s grasp. She was angry that he seemed so lacking in compassion, but was even more furious that he had taken it upon himself to tell her what to do.
“’Tis the moneyer.” The pilgrim gave a grimace of distaste. “I heard talk among the guests at the abbey about him. He’s been issuing base coins, adding lead to silver to make up the weight. But he’s been found out and has paid the penalty for his crime.” The pilgrim looked from Janna to the fracas. “Punished, aye, but it seems his fellow countrymen will also vent their grievances, for he must have short-changed all of ’em in his time. Leave him be, lass. There’s nowt you can do to help him.”
Janna nodded in understanding, although she felt helpless in the face of the moneyer’s pain. She knew that the penalty for moneyers who shaved coins or made them short-weight was dreadful indeed; knew also that with her knowledge of herbs and healing she might well have been able to ease his hurt. The problem was, she had neither the herbs nor the means to make up any potions or healing salves. She tried to reassure her uneasy conscience with the thought that there were others from whom the moneyer could seek help, like Sister Anne at Wiltune Abbey. The infirmarian was near at hand, and had medicaments already prepared for use.
Janna stopped struggling against the pilgrim’s restraint. At once he removed his hand from her arm, and gave her a friendly smile. Like the other pilgrims she was now in company with, he was wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a tin scallop shell pinned to its brim, a sign of their pilgrimage across the ocean to the shrine of St James. He was a goblin of a man, grey-haired and hunch-shouldered under the weight of the pack he carried. She wondered why he struggled with such a burden when most of the pilgrims carried only a light pack and a walking staff.
He in turn was studying her closely. “Allow me to introduce myself properly, mistress. My name is Ulf,” he said, and bobbed his head in greeting.
“And my name’s Johanna, but I’m usually called Janna.” Made somewhat uncomfortable by his intent gaze, Janna turned away. She was not used to being called “mistress,” but she realized Ulf had been fooled by the costly gown she wore. It seemed the new apparel given to her by the nuns when she left the abbey had conferred on her a higher status that was unexpected but not necessarily unwelcome.
Ulf hesitated for a moment, as if hoping to engage her in further conversation. But Janna hung back, reluctant to pursue their acquaintance until she’d had time to decide whether or not to reveal her true identity and, with it, her own low place in society. Reason argued against it: she was now a threat to several people who had already taken steps to try to bring about her death. If traveling under the guise of a wealthy young woman could keep her safe, it was certainly worth consideration.
She lagged behind Ulf, hoping he would walk on without her. After a disappointed glance, he strode ahead, giving a series of ear-piercing whistles as he went. A huge, pale hound emerged from among the tight knot of angry townsfolk and loped obediently to its master’s side. It had a smooth, short-haired coat, small pricked ears and a long tail. Noting its ferocious expression, Janna resolved to keep well away from it in the future. But Ulf seemed unafraid as he walked on, the dog pacing beside him.
Janna lingered as they moved beyond the confines of Wiltune and out across the downs, looking back for one last glimpse of the town and the abbey that had sheltered her and been her home for the past year. It was almost noon, and the sisters would be sitting down for dinner in the refectory, signing to each other to pass the fish, the salt, the butter, or whatever else was needed. Janna wondered if she’d ever see any of them again. There was great sadness in the thought.
She could no longer hear the bells, even though she strained to catch one last sound. Their constant jangle had dominated her life: the great bell that summoned everyone to prayers during the day and through the night, and the smaller bell that had regulated their lives: waking, eating and sleeping. Janna had thought she’d never get used to their sound, but in time the bells had ceased to disturb her other than as a reminder of where to go and what to do next. In their absence, the silence seemed oppressive.
She quickened her pace to catch up with the pilgrims. They were seven in number, and they all traveled on foot. Just as well, Janna thought, for she would not have been able to keep up with them had they been mounted. But their leader, a bluff and kindly man called Bernard, had welcomed her into the group, along with a girl some years younger, and had warned them that they traveled slowly to accommodate his elderly mother.
Janna hoped they would not take too long about their journey. She was on fire with impatience to reach Ambresberie, for there she would leave the pilgrims and go to the abbey to enquire after Sister Emanuelle, who was once the infirmarian there. Sister Emanuelle, whom Janna had known for most of her life only as her mother Eadgyth, the wortwyf who had used her knowledge to heal and care for all who came her way, and who had died because of it.
Turning her back on the life she had once known, Janna whispered a quiet goodbye to those she’d come to know and love during her stay at Wiltune Abbey, and also those outside it, like Godric, and the lord Hugh. She looked down at the fine blue dress she was wearing, and stroked the silky wool with careful fingers before raising her hand to her hair and the gauzy veil that covered it. It amused her to think that, if she met Hugh now, he would think she was a lady and worthy of his respect. She’d read the admiration in his eyes while, dressed as a lay sister, she had tended his injuries at the abbey. She was sure that, if he believed she came from a
wealthy family and had a dowry to match, he would have courted her, for his fortune depended on a prestigious marriage. There was no future for him with the daughter of a lowly wortwyf.
The scarring memory of the last time she’d seen Godric flashed into Janna’s mind. He’d been in the marketplace with Cecily, playing with Hamo. Their laughter had brightened the afternoon, but had struck a deep chill in her heart. She reminded herself once more that Godric was her friend, no more than that. If he’d found happiness with Cecily then she could only wish them a long and happy life together; it was the future that mattered to Janna now, not the past.
“I heard tell you come from Wiltune Abbey, mistress?” A voice at Janna’s side dragged her back to the present. She turned to the girl who now kept pace with her.
“Yes, I’ve been at Wiltune for the past year,” Janna confirmed, speaking in the language of the English, for that was how she’d been addressed. She struggled to remember the girl’s name from Bernard’s introduction. Winifred?
“What’s it like, life in the abbey?” She stared at Janna with an intent expression.
“Difficult.” Janna considered for a moment, wondering if she’d been unfair. “But not if you have a vocation,” she amended.
“I have a vocation.” There was no doubt in the girl’s voice.
“Then you’re going the wrong way for Wiltune.”
“I’m not bound for Wiltune. My destiny lies elsewhere.” Winifred was silent a moment. “Do you travel all the way to Oxeneford with us, mistress?” She cast a disparaging glance at Janna’s blue gown and soft leather slippers.
“No, I go only to Ambresberie.”
“To the abbey?”
“Yes. But not to stay.”
The girl shot a swift look over her shoulder at the path behind them. She turned back to Janna. “I wish to know all there is about the life of a religious. Will you tell me how it is to live a life devoted to God?”
Intrigued, Janna cocked her head to study her companion more carefully. She was dressed in what Janna felt sure was her best gown, bound at the waist with a shabby cord from which dangled a worn purse made from coarse leather. Her gown was such as a villein might wear, long sleeved and hanging loose; although clean, it was patched and definitely homespun. How could such a girl afford the dowry to give her entry into an abbey? It seemed rude to ask.
“Do you go to an abbey in Oxeneford? Why not stay closer to your home?” she asked.
“There is nothing and no-one to keep me here,” Winifred said, and glanced once more over her shoulder.
Janna wondered why she seemed so tense – and also why she’d avoided answering the question. “Which abbey do you go to? Do you have a place saved for you?” she tried again.
“No, I don’t.” Winifred’s lips curved into a sly smile. “But the abbey will welcome me once they see what I have.”
“And what is that?” But the girl’s lips tightened on her secret, and again she checked the track behind them. Janna wondered if, in spite of her brave words, she was having second thoughts about her chosen path. Or had she run away from home to follow her vocation? Did she now fear pursuit? Having been forced to flee from her own home, Janna felt a spark of fellow feeling for the girl.
“Have you visited Oxeneford in the past? Is that why you wish to go there now?”
“No, I have never traveled beyond my home before. But once I’m accepted into the convent, I intend to stay. Unlike you, mistress. How is it that you have left such an important abbey as Wiltune to take to the road?”
Janna shrugged. She, too, wanted to keep her secrets close to her chest. “I found I had no vocation,” she said, sticking to a small truth.
“Then why do you go to Ambresberie?”
Janna debated how best to satisfy the girl’s curiosity. “I go to enquire after my mother,” she said at last.
“Your mother is at Ambresberie?”
“No.” Janna hesitated. “My mother is dead.” A sudden rush of misery brought hot, pricking tears. She blinked them away.”There is no need to call me ‘mistress,’” she said, anxious to change the subject. “My name is Janna, short for Johanna. And you are Winifred?”
“Yes, but not for too much longer. I shall ask to be called Sister Edith once I’m at the abbey.” A sudden gleam of humor lit the girl’s intense expression and softened the firm line of her jaw. “I’m so glad to find someone young in this company. They’re all so old! And we walk so slowly.”
The Sin of Pride? Or was that the Sin of Judgment? Janna couldn’t be sure, and wished that Agnes was present to tell her. Agnes was always signaling sins, imaginary or otherwise. She would miss Agnes and her sense of fun. But there was no point in showing disapproval. The nuns would soon discipline Winifred for her lack of charity! She contented herself with saying instead: “You’d walk slowly too, if you’d traveled across land and sea to the shrine of St James at Compostela, and now had to go all the way home again.”
“Is that where they’ve been? All the way to Compostela! Oh, how I would love to make that pilgrimage.” Winifred’s face was luminous with wonder.
“Did I hear someone mention the shrine of our most beloved saint?” Ulf bobbed up once more. He grinned at Janna. She saw that he was still accompanied by the huge hound, and took several steps away from it, just in case. The animal had something clamped in its mouth. Janna hoped that whatever it guarded so carefully might discourage it from wanting to take a bite out of either her or Winifred.
“Have you visited the saint’s shrine? Were you there too?” Winifred peeked out from her refuge behind Janna, glancing nervously at the dog as she did so.
“Indeed I was. We all made the pilgrimage, except for you two young women, of course.” The pilgrim sketched a quick bow in Winifred’s direction. “My name is Ulf,” he introduced himself, and patted his pack. “When next we stop, I shall show you some of the wonders I was fortunate enough to procure while we were there, some of ’em even from our beloved saint himself.”
He’d turned to address his last remark to Janna, who was a little confused by his determination to interest her in his wares until she realized that he must think, because of the fine clothes she wore, that he could tempt her into buying something. She tried hard not to smile, lest she encourage him. She had once been duped by a relic seller, but had learned her lesson from it and would not be tricked again. Winifred, however, didn’t hesitate.
“Oh, I’d be most honored if you would show me your sacred relics,” she breathed eagerly.
Ulf ignored her. “I have a lock of hair from the head of our blessed saint, who was a most beloved disciple of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he told Janna. “I even have a scrap of fabric from our Lady’s own gown.”
Janna nodded, unimpressed.
“Of course, the saint’s hand now rests at Wiltune Abbey.” Ulf jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the town they’d just left. “Having been to Compostela to view the shrine of St James, we decided we couldn’t return home without visiting his hand as well. ’Tis fortunate we heard of the empress’s generous gift to the abbey or we’d have gone on to Radinges in the hope of seeing it there.”
“The saint’s relic is not a gift, it’s a loan, and only until the abbey church at Radinges is completed,” Janna corrected Ulf. “With all the unrest in the country, the empress feared for its safety – that’s why she brought the hand to Wiltune.”
“And I was awestruck at the sight of it,” said Ulf, patting his pack again. “But I warrant I have other relics that will astound and amaze you.”
“Yet you’re prepared to part with them – at a price?”
Ulf had the grace to look slightly abashed. “An offering! They’re not for sale,” he protested, adding, “and I will suffer sorely to see ’em go.”
“I have no coin to make an offering, but I would love to see them,” Winifred said eagerly. “Where did you come by such wonders?”
“Oh, here and there, from pilgrims and from…er…merchants.” Ul
f reddened as he noticed the twinkle in Janna’s eye. “They’re all absolutely genuine!” he blustered.
“We’ll look at them later, when we stop for a rest.” Janna meant to keep her promise. Even though she didn’t believe a word of it, Ulf seemed a likable rogue and she was interested to see what outlandish objects he might produce.
She surveyed the group that walked ahead, strangers now but in time she would come to know them. As well as those to whom she’d already spoken, there were Morcar and his wife, Golde. Janna wasn’t sure if that was her real name or just a description of her reddish-gold hair. She was somewhat younger than her portly husband, closer in age to Janna and Winifred than the rest of the group, although she’d adopted the staid, rather matronly air of the comfortably married. There was also Adam, who seemed to wear a permanent scowl, especially when he brushed up against Bernard. They were talking together now, and although Bernard had his hand on the pilgrim’s shoulder, everything about Adam shouted that this show of friendship was unwelcome. Janna wondered what had happened between them to cause such hostility. His pilgrimage seemed to have done little to improve Adam’s disposition, but perhaps it was more that he preferred his own company and the long journey in close proximity with others had proved too abrasive and wearying.
Janna studied them all carefully. They were a disparate group. Bernard and Morcar were in their middle-age, while Adam looked somewhat older, as did Ulf. Juliana, Bernard’s mother, was by far the oldest and the slowest, but all matched their pace to hers, never walking too far ahead. The fact that they could afford to go on a pilgrimage and that they spoke the language of the Normans suggested they came from a far higher level of society than Winifred, although they, too, were dressed in plain, serviceable garments suitable for a hard life on the road. Where had they slept along the way? What had they eaten? More importantly: where would Janna sleep and what would she eat along this journey?
She touched the purse concealed beneath her gown; it contained information salvaged from the burnt wreckage of her home, along with Emma’s generous reward for the part Janna had played in saving her betrothed from the gallows. She now had coins enough to pay her way and was grateful for it. The pilgrims had stayed at the guest hall at Wiltune Abbey and she knew they would have made a donation for the privilege. Even though they might try to beg shelter and food along their journey, chances were they would have to pay for it, as would she. Janna hoped they might stop soon; the thought of the nuns at their dinner had set her stomach rumbling with hunger.
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