Stolen Child: The Janna Chronicles 2

by Felicity Pulman

  With the last of the light gone, the night became cold. A soft rain began to fall. Janna pulled the hood of her gorget over her head, and huddled deeper into the prickly shelter in a vain effort to stay dry. The rain kept on, soaking through the gorget as well as her smock and breeches. It was too gentle to cleanse the filthy garments or drown the creatures that tormented her, but it was persistent enough to chill her to the bone. Janna shivered, and debated climbing down from her tree. If she walked about, her blood would flow freely once more and she might get warm.

  But if she wandered about in the dark, she left herself open to attack. Almost certainly, she would also get lost. So Janna stayed where she was and continued to shiver as she listened to the sounds of the forest at night: the haunting call of an owl overhead; the scuffle of a scavenging badger below and, in the distance, the anguished howl of a wolf. Secretive rustles betrayed the hunters; squeaks of distress marked their prey.

  The night wore on, black and dismal, all trace of moon and stars hidden behind cloud. In spite of her best efforts, Janna’s eyes closed. She slept, jerked awake, and slept again. When she next awoke, the sky was beginning to lighten and the birds of the forest were celebrating the birth of a new day with chirps and cheeps, trills of interrogation, whistles and snatches of songs. Janna rested quietly for a moment, listening to their conversations, but her body was numb with cold and she was desperate to get down from her tree.

  Her limbs were cramped and stiff and, as she clambered downward, she slipped off a rain-slicked branch and crashed through prickly foliage to land with a thump on the ground. She groaned with the pain of it. A brief vision of her home flashed into her mind: the fire warming and lighting the small cottage, the fragrance of dried herbs, hot griddle cakes and rich vegetable pottage, her mother’s busy efficiency, and Alfred’s welcoming purr…

  Tears came into Janna’s eyes as she felt once more the wrenching grief of her mother’s death, an aching sense of loss. There was also the added frustration of knowing that her mother had been on the brink of divulging the secret of her father’s identity, a secret Janna was sure was contained in the letter her mother had kept hidden from her. But to find it out she must first learn to read, for that was something Eadgyth hadn’t taught her. Janna thought about the parchment in her purse with its indecipherable marks. Only the name at the end meant anything to her. John. It was her father’s name, she was sure of it. She burned with curiosity to know what he had written to her mother. Eadgyth had loved him, she knew that now, yet his words had caused her mother to pack up and run, and keep his identity forever a secret.

  Janna came back to the present, becoming aware of her surroundings once more. She choked back a sob. She was lonely and frightened, but somehow she must find the strength to carry on. So she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with a grubby hand, eased herself into a sitting position, and carefully massaged the base of her sore spine. She stretched out her legs, rotating first one foot and then another. Satisfied that nothing was broken after her fall, she stood up and walked over to the stake she had left as a marker. She pulled it from the ground, removed her bundled kirtle and threw it into a clump of bushes. The stake she kept, for it gave her an extra weapon to protect herself, should she need it.

  Remembering her sense that she was being watched, she glanced around, searching for signs. A sudden crackle of twigs set her heart leaping into her throat. She backed behind a tree, then caught sight of a grazing deer. Fascinated, she stood quietly, watching it. Its belly was swollen, reminding Janna that the fence month might already have begun, the time when the forest was forbidden to everyone so that the does might drop their fawns and nurture them in safety. It was an extra reason to get out of the forest as soon as she could. The doe stepped on delicate feet toward Janna, head bent as it nibbled grass, lulled into a sense of safety. Janna extended a cautious hand toward it. “Tck, tck, tck,” she called softly. Startled, it jerked up its head and surveyed her with liquid brown eyes. After a moment, it bent its head once more, and resumed feeding. She smiled at it, feeling a sense of peace as she contemplated the creature’s innocence and trust.

  She tiptoed past, fighting her reluctance to leave the safety of this open space for the forest that lay ahead of her. She must get through the forest today. Not for anything would she spend another night like the one she’d just passed. She walked on and under the sheltering trees, and stopped, unsure now if she was on a path at all, for the way ahead seemed unmarked and undisturbed. She looked up, hoping to determine her direction by the position of the sun, but the forest had closed over her head and the sky was barely visible. Hastily she retraced her steps, and was relieved when she reached the clearing once more. She tilted back her head to find the sun, but dark clouds banked thick across the sky; there was no trace of golden radiance. Even as Janna glanced about, rain began to fall once more, soaking through her already wet clothes. “Hell’s breath,” she muttered miserably, knowing she would give almost anything to anyone if it bought her food and shelter. She longed to be free of the forest. Its silence oppressed her to the point where she could hardly find the strength or courage to keep on going.

  But to stand still was to give in to despair. She prowled around the open space, hoping to bring life to her chilled feet and limbs while she tried to find the path that would take her through to the other side of the forest. To fail, she knew, would result in her death.

  Fear almost paralyzed Janna. It took all her strength not to scream for help in the hope that someone, be it forester or outlaw, would come to her aid. She curled her hands into fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. The pain helped to calm her. Breathe, she thought, remembering Eadgyth’s instructions to panicky patients. She took a slow, deep breath, feeling time pass as the cold air sucked through her nostrils and down into her chest. Slowly, she expelled her breath through her mouth, blowing it out in a thin stream, like smoke in the chill morning air. After several more breaths, and feeling slightly calmer, she began a careful inspection of the edge of the clearing once more.

  A new thought alarmed her now. How would she be able to tell the difference between the track she’d already taken, and the track that would lead her to where she wanted to go? But here was a sign! Trodden leaves marked a faint trail. Abandoning caution, Janna hurried along it, confident this must be a new trail for she could recognize nothing from the night before. Her foot slipped from under her and, unable to break her fall, she slid down into icy cold water. It sucked up around her, filling her boots and making her gasp for breath.

  Speechless with shock, Janna flailed about until she found her footing. She realized that the water came only to her thighs. She looked about her at the great, leaf-filled depression in which she stood; it seemed to be a large and ancient dewpond. She tried to step out, but slimy mud, formed from the detritus of the centuries, held her boots fast. Janna stood on one foot and leaned on her staff to help her balance while she wriggled her other foot until she’d managed to work her boot free. She took off the boot and threw it to safety, then cautiously lowered her bare foot to the bottom of the pond. She shuddered as it sank deep through the icy slime. Maintaining a precarious balance, she worked her other foot free, tugging hard until the sucking mud released it. A second boot joined its companion on the leafy bank.

  With a sudden gasp of fear, Janna snatched up her purse and opened it, belatedly understanding the danger if the precious parchment had got wet. The outside of the purse was damp, but its contents were dry. Janna released her breath in a quiet prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. She flung the staff onto dry ground, and untied her girdle. Purse and girdle followed the staff and boots to safety. Time now to attend to her greatest need: water! She scooped twigs and leaves out of her way, bent her head and began to drink, relishing the icy wetness sliding down her parched throat. She drank until she could drink no more, but now another idea had come into her mind. She was already wet and uncomfortable. She had nothing to lose save the family of biting cre
atures that inhabited the garments she wore. With a quick glance around her to make sure she really was alone, she waded into the middle of the pond and gingerly lowered her body into the water. Anchoring herself in the freezing mud, she stripped off the stolen gorget and smock, untied her breeches, and gave herself and her garments a good scrub before dressing once more. The gorget came last, but the hood clung cold and wet around her head and water dripped into her eyes. She took it off and cast it out onto the grass.

  Remembering her itchy, burnt scalp, she ducked down into the freezing water once more and massaged her fingers through the remnants of her hair. At last, satisfied that every little creature must be drowned, she waded to the bank. A memory teased her: Godric’s story of the ancient road built through the forest by the Romans. Could this dewpond have been fashioned to provide water for the soldiers and merchants who had once traversed this land?

  Something sharp pierced Janna’s foot and she cried out, forgetting the need for silence. She raised her foot out of the water, and frowned as she inspected it. The tender skin of her instep was cut and bleeding. What could have been so sharp that it had pierced her skin like that? Not a flint, surely, but a sword perhaps, or a dagger? Janna knew that such things were sometimes found in water. She’d heard that it was an ancient custom for warriors to throw their weapons into rivers and pools in order to propitiate the gods and seek good fortune. Coming across a pool in a huge forest such as this must in itself have seemed like good fortune to the old ones. They might well have shown their gratitude with costly gifts.

  Her own knife was quite small, no match for a wild animal or an outlaw. The staff she’d found was better than nothing, but with a real weapon in her hand she would feel much, much safer. She took a deep breath and ducked down, carefully feeling through the icy mud for something sharp. Janna’s lungs were bursting. She shot upwards and gasped for air, greedily sucking it in. Her teeth chattered with cold; she was tempted to get out of the pool but instead forced herself to take another deep breath and duck again into the darkness. She groped about in the slimy mud.

  Nothing. She surfaced once more, her whole body shaking in protest. One last time, she promised herself, and filled her lungs with air. This time her search was rewarded. Janna felt the blade bite her hand. She snatched it away, then cautiously stretched out her fingers, feeling inch by careful inch until at last she touched the blade again. Her chest was on fire. She was desperate to take a breath but she stayed down, carefully patting along the flat of the blade until she came to the solid shape of its hilt. She closed both hands around it and tugged, feeling the sword slide free. She shot up, breaking the surface with a triumphant whoosh of escaping air.

  She breathed deeply, savoring the air’s freshness, and looked down at the muddy object in her hands. It was longer than a dagger, but shorter than the swords worn by noblemen such as Hugh. Part of the hilt was broken off, but there was enough left for her small hand to grasp the weapon. She swished the sword around in the water, carefully breaking off lumps of caked mud and grit and rinsing it clean. The blade was rusty, its sheen dulled from its long immersion in the water. But it was sharp enough to inflict a grievous wound, Janna noted, as she gingerly put her foot to the ground and limped out of the dew pond.

  Wiping her injured foot clean, she eased it into her boot. She put on her other boot, picked up the gorget and looked about for her purse and girdle. There was no sign of them. Janna frowned and looked more carefully, unable to understand the significance of their disappearance. Where could they be?

  Panic constricted her chest. She began to search frantically, thinking she must have misread the direction in which she’d thrown them. Perhaps they’d slid beneath a bush or were buried among long grass and bracken? She scoured the clearing, poking into banks of tall nettles and patches of flowering weeds as she gradually widened the area of her search. In her heart, she knew that she’d not mistaken the direction and that they were gone. Someone had been watching her all along, waiting for just this opportunity to steal from her the only clues she had that might lead her to her father.

  Chapter 2

  Janna bowed her head as a wave of grief and loss swept over her. She had so little, yet even this had been taken from her. A few silver pennies—yes, they might be of use to a desperate vagabond, as might the ring and brooch if he could trade them. But, for Janna, the only item of value in her purse was the letter she’d found from her unknown father. She was quite sure it would prove the key to everything, if only she could read it.

  Would an outlaw be able to read? Janna doubted it. He’d keep what he could trade, but might he perhaps throw away the piece of parchment, thinking it worthless?

  A faint glimmer of hope lifted her spirits. If she could manage to follow the thief’s passage through the forest, might she find the parchment discarded along the track? It was a hope worth pursuing. She looked about her once more, this time seeking any sign of a shelter close to the pond. The thief must have hidden somewhere while he watched her and waited to pounce. He might well have left signs of his presence—and the direction of his departure.

  A dense thicket of hazel stood close by. Gripping the sword tightly, she marched toward it. She examined the surroundings, looking for signs: a thread snagged on a withy perhaps, or bruised and broken herbage. Her search was rewarded by the sight of a footprint indented in a patch of soft earth. Another print ahead led away from the thicket. Janna followed, on the alert for any further clues to point her way.

  Several times she thought she’d come to a dead end, but she trusted her instincts and kept on going, following the most obvious route through the trees. Although she kept a constant watch for it, there was no sign of her father’s letter. But scuffed moss, a broken twig, some flattened grass or herbs, a sliver of snagged bark all helped to point the way. She placed her feet lightly, carefully, while she repeated in her mind like a prayer: Please let him throw away the parchment. Please let me find my father’s letter.

  She came to a dense patch of the forest, hazel and holly hedged by a wall of prickly brambles. There seemed no way through. Baffled, Janna stopped and looked around her before bending over for a more careful inspection. Every instinct told her she was close to her quarry, but the brambles barred her way. Or did they? Here they were bent one way, there another, cunningly plaited to disguise a thin and twisting passage through. Quiet as a hunting owl, Janna eased herself to the left then to the right, pushing deeper into the prickly heart of the brambles, until a small clearing opened before her. She stepped forward, then hastily slid behind the trunk of a large beech for concealment.

  She could see the thief clearly—he was sitting with his back to her. Janna saw a faint glimmer as he held the gold ring up for inspection. Her other possessions lay on the ground beside him. Clearly, he was gloating over his good fortune. A wave of fierce rage coursed through her, hot as the blazing sun. Without thought, she launched herself at him, arm raised and sword at the ready to strike him flat with the blade and, if necessary, run him through. How dare he take her treasures, how dare he!

  Swift and silent as she was, the young man heard her and sprang to his feet. His upraised arm deflected the sword’s blow. The blade missed the side of his head and hit him flat against the wrist instead. He grunted with pain but was still able to grab her wrist and wrench the sword from her grasp, flinging it safely out of range. Enraged, Janna swung back her foot and kicked out, aiming for his groin, hoping to cripple him with pain. But she was too slow and he read her mind. Just as her foot came forward he released her, giving her a shove so that she lost her balance and fell. But before he had time to flee, she launched herself at his ankles and tugged, pulling him down on top of her. She rolled free and raked his face with her nails.

  “Devil’s spawn!” She began to pummel him with her fists. “Dog’s droppings! Pond slime!”

  She kept up the attack, feeling proud of the fact that she was getting the better of the rogue, until she realized he was making no ef
fort to defend himself. Instead, he’d curled into a ball to present the smallest target to her flailing arms and fists.

  “You can stop hitting me, mistress. I won’t harm you,” he muttered.

  As she understood the import of his words, shock stopped Janna mid-blow. Wide-eyed, she jumped to her feet and snatched up the sword, ready now to grab her treasures and run.

  “H-how did you know I wasn’t a boy?” she stammered.

  His face reddened slightly. He grinned at her, but did not answer. Janna felt her own face redden as she worked out how he’d managed to fathom her secret. “You watched me bathe, you…you bastard, damn you to hell!” She closed her eyes as she remembered how she’d stripped off and washed both herself and her clothes. Mortified, she lashed out once more. He took a hasty step out of her reach.

  “I turned my back to you as soon as I realized what you were. Who you are!” he protested.

  “Liar!”

  “By a snake’s tits, I swear it!”

  An oath not to be trusted then, Janna surmised. Certainly he’d seen enough to know the truth about her. But at least she’d crouched down in the water to wash, and had both undressed and dressed in the pond. How long had he been watching her, waiting to pounce? She eyed the youth warily. He hadn’t harmed her—not yet. But that didn’t mean he might not try in the future.

  “Why are you wearing men’s clothes anyway?” he asked, his grin returning. “Certes, they don’t become you, nor do they fit you very well!”

  “They do well enough.” To prove her words, Janna tugged on the cord holding her breeches in place to tighten it, then hitched the breeches higher so she no longer trampled the fabric underfoot. “And don’t think to change the subject either!” she said, recalling the reason she had followed him. She bent to snatch up the ring that the young man had dropped in the surprise of her attack, and hastily shoved it into the purse that lay on the ground nearby, hearing the comforting crump of parchment as she did so. The brooch and silver coins had also been dumped on the grass and they swiftly followed the ring to safety. Janna straightened and glared at the thief, ready to protect what was rightfully hers.