The mention of the empress’s name attracted Janna’s attention, and she leaned closer to listen to the muttered conversation taking place at a table nearby.
“…and when the Empress Matilda summoned him, Bishop Henry told the messenger that he’d get himself ready. But it seems that he’s fled from the city instead. And the earl is at the castle, waiting – although I know not how long his patience will last.” The speaker was a tall, well-set man with a shock of brown hair and a florid complexion. Janna thought he must be a merchant, for he was better dressed than his companions and seemed to be paying for the ale they drank.
“But the bishop’s brother, the king, is still imprisoned, and the bishop has now sworn allegiance to the empress. Why, then, has he fled?” asked a young lad.
The merchant shrugged. “The bishop was ever a devious man. Could be he’s with the garrison at his palace at Wolvesey, preparing for war in case it comes to that.”
“I heard he was holed up in the keep of the old palace, awaiting orders from the pope,” said one of the merchant’s companions.
“He may be waiting for the queen’s troops to arrive. I heard she’s recruited as many as a thousand strong under the command of that Fleming, William of Ypres!” said someone else.
“Murdering bastard!” The merchant gave a chesty cough, cleared his throat and spat into the rushes. “I’m told they’re already on the march. The empress needs to get the bishop on side before they arrive, or this could get right out of hand.” He looked around the crowded table. “Winchestre may have spoken for Matilda, but Stephen’s queen won’t let it rest, not while her husband is kept in prison. And neither will the Londoners. They can’t abide the empress, with her high-handed ways. They want King Stephen back on the throne.”
“But if they go to battle now, what of the fair?”
“Never mind the fair. What about us?”
The merchant’s mouth tightened. “Best to pray for peace, for we’ll all be ruined if there’s trouble now. Whatever happens between the king and the empress, we’re the ones who’ll pay the price.” He glanced around the crowded tavern. Janna immediately bent her head and pretended she was taking no notice of what was being said. The man seemed to know what he was talking about, and she was keen to hear more.
“Look what’s happened up north!” he continued. “Barons changing sides according to who can promise them the most. They’re so desperate for land and wealth they care not that towns and villages are being burned and crops and animals destroyed as a result of their greed. There’s nothing but ruin and devastation, and the people are starving. And it’ll happen here too, unless someone puts an end to this madness!” The merchant took a long swallow of ale. “Pray that the Fleming doesn’t come, nor his troops with him,” he continued angrily. “They’ll burn your homes and rape and kill your wives and daughters. If they think you have some worth, they’ll take you hostage – for a fee. Otherwise they’ll kill you too.” He surveyed his companions with a somber expression. “The question is, should we take our chances here, or flee Winchestre now, before it’s too late?”
“You worry too much, Master Alan!” A young woman paused beside them to top up their mugs of ale. She had a pert and pretty face framed by a cascade of golden locks, which her veil did little to conceal or contain. Janna had noticed her on other visits to the tavern; her task was to serve ale to the patrons, although she seemed to spend most of her time flirting with them. “With all them soldiers around, I ain’t going nowhere!” She wound a sinuous arm around the merchant’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “But I’d save myself for you, darlin’, if you but said the word.”
His black mood seemingly forgotten, Alan laughed and pulled her down onto his knee. “And what word would that be?”
“Ah, you know what I mean!” And she dipped a playful hand down to stroke his crotch.
With a broad grin, Alan tipped up her face and gave her a smacking kiss. The serving girl giggled and nuzzled his ear.
“Ebba! I’m paying you to serve the customers, not entertain them!” The taverner’s sharp voice sent the young woman springing to her feet once more.
“Jealous, Sybil?” Alan took hold of the girl’s hand, preventing her from moving away. The taverner scowled at him. Janna watched, curious to see the outcome of this contest of wills.
“I’ve told you before, Alan. If you want to see Ebba, you can do it in your own time – not mine!” Sybil’s face had flushed red with temper.
Alan stood up and faced her. Then he cleared his throat and spat onto the rushes once more, the gob of spit narrowly missing the hem of the taverner’s gown. “I bring you good custom, Sybil,” he said curtly. “But I can find ale as good, if not better, at Heaven up the street. Or Hell. Or even Paradise. Do you want me to leave, and take my friends with me?”
The two glared at each other. Ossie stepped forward, ready to use his muscle in Sybil’s cause, but she acted first. She grabbed the serving girl’s arm and dragged her away from Alan. He shook his fist after them, seeming undecided whether or not to carry out his threat. Ossie stepped closer. One of the merchant’s companions tugged on Alan’s tunic, forcing him onto his stool once more.
Janna wondered how he came to be so well informed. Another of Bishop Henry’s spies? Or was he in the empress’s camp? Noticing that Ulf had opened his mouth to speak, she put her finger to his lips to silence him. She was keen to hear what else the merchant had to say.
Having herself brought word of the bishop’s treachery to the Earl of Gloucestre, Janna had not been surprised when he had returned – with his half-sister, the empress, and a large body of troops – to face the bishop and demand allegiance. The wonder was why they hadn’t immediately declared war on the bishop, but perhaps the earl was having one last try at diplomacy. But if the rumors were to be believed, the bishop and Stephen’s queen were now calling in all their supporters to oppose the empress. A confrontation seemed inevitable. The only question was how long the standoff would last, and who would be the victor once battle was joined.
“I thought the bishop had turned his back on his brother. I thought he was on side with the empress now,” the young lad tried again.
Janna leaned closer to hear the merchant’s reply. “The bishop is also the Pope’s legate here in England. And Stephen is the pope’s anointed sovereign, not Matilda. Small wonder if the bishop is waiting for advice from the pope, and delaying his attendance on the empress until it comes.”
A sudden exclamation, followed by an angry shout, spun her around. The noise had attracted everyone’s attention, and the hum of conversation died. Ebba had dropped a laden trencher. Mashed pastry and gobbets of meat in brown gravy spread out over the floor rushes.
“You clumsy girl!” Sybil shouted.
“It’s not my fault.” The drudge eyed the taverner sullenly. “I tripped over the rushes.” She kicked at the loose rushes covering the floor to illustrate her point. And also perhaps to cover over the worst of the mess she had made.
“Clean it up at once!”
The taverner turned to walk away. The girl scowled after her, and stuck out her tongue. A ripple of laughter circled the room. Encouraged, the girl put her thumbs to her ears and waggled her fingers. The laughter grew louder, and Sybil swung around to see its cause, in time to catch Ebba still mocking her.
Her lips tightened and she strode back to the girl. “Get out,” she said curtly. “The good Lord knows I’ve warned you often enough about your behavior here. I’ve given you more than a few chances to mend your ways.”
Ebba retracted her tongue, and slowly put her hands to her sides. A mocking smile curved her mouth as she sashayed over to the merchant. “I don’t need to work in this poxy hovel.” She flung the words over her shoulder. “I have better things to do with my time.” She leaned over, giving Alan a good eyeful of the curve of her breasts. “You’ll look after me, won’t you, darlin’?” she breathed.
The room was silent, waiting for the merchant’s
response. He smiled slightly, and pulled the young woman onto his lap once more. Sybil put her hands on her hips and glared at them both. Alan picked up his mug of ale and held it to the girl’s lips. She drank greedily, then set it down with a sigh and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She grinned at Sybil, then leaned over to rub her soft cheek against Alan’s whiskers.
Sybil watched, saying nothing. Then, with an impatient exclamation, she turned on her heel and walked through the back of the tavern and out the door.
Silence followed her exit. Janna eyed Ebba, wondering if she regretted what she’d done. It seemed a chancy business, throwing away employment to live as a merchant’s leman, especially when the arrangement had been thrust upon him and was not of his own making. For herself, Janna preferred to be independent, no matter what tasks fell her way. And, as the thought came into her mind, so did the solution to her problem.
“Wait here for me,” she said, pressing Ulf’s arm lightly as she rose from her stool. Before he had a chance to ask where she was going, she set off, following in Sybil’s footsteps. Here, it seemed, was the answer to her dilemma. True, she had no experience to speak of, but if what Sybil had said was true, neither had the hapless Ebba when she’d been taken on as a serving maid. And Janna knew she had several advantages over Ebba; these she would stress once she’d tracked down the taverner. With luck, Sybil would look kindly on her and offer her a position here. Janna looked around the crowded tavern, smelling the enticing scent of hot pies and fresh-baked bread. Here she would find shelter and food. Two of her problems, and those the most pressing, would thus be solved.
There were several buildings in the fenced yard, including a latrine. Janna could smell it from where she stood. There was a tethering post to one side for the patrons’ mounts. They stood in a line, snorting and stamping restlessly, and adding their steaming piles to the generally noxious odor. A faint glow shone through the windows of the largest building. Janna thought it might be the kitchen and started toward it, picking up the seductive aroma of a rich stew as she came closer.
She found Sybil within, a wet rag in her hands, chivvying the potboy for not scouring a pan to her satisfaction. The cook stood by, watching them as he slowly stirred the pot of stew that dangled from a hook above the fire in the great hearth. Janna’s nose twitched in appreciation; saliva seeped into her mouth. She remembered then that she’d had no dinner and realized, suddenly, that she was ravenous. But now was not the time to think about her stomach; now was the time to save it.
“If you give me that cloth, mistress, I will clean up the mess on the rushes,” she said quietly.
The taverner swung around to face Janna. Her eyebrows lifted as she noticed the luxurious cloth of Janna’s blue gown, and lifted further as she caught the stink of it. Her eyes moved up to Janna’s face and she studied her, looking thoughtful.
“Now why would you do that?” she said at last.
“I need work in order to live, mistress, and it seems that you need a new serving maid.”
Sybil’s eyes narrowed as she gave Janna a more careful inspection. “The work here is hard, and the hours are long. You are too highborn for my tavern. Better suited as a customer than a worker, in fact.”
“I cannot be a customer, for I have no coins left to pay for either food or ale.” Janna held up the cut cord of her girdle for the taverner’s inspection. “A thief has taken all I own, and I have nowhere to go and no-one to support me.” The truth of her words suddenly hit her with the force of a body blow. “Please, mistress. I will work hard for you, I promise you that.” In spite of her good intentions, her voice quavered on the last words.
“Have you ever worked for your living before?” Sybil’s gaze dropped to Janna’s fine woollen gown, inspecting more carefully now the signs of wear and the splashes of filth where she had fallen into the mud and muck on the street.
“I have worked hard all my life.” Janna hesitated, wondering what to say to convince her that she was in earnest, and how much of her past she should reveal. “My mother and I lived in a cot at the edge of the forest of Gravelinges for many years,” she ventured. “It was a hard life, and we often went hungry, for we had little land to support ourselves. But my mother was a wortwyf, a healer, and traded her services for the goods we needed. That was how we managed to survive. I helped her brew her potions – and I also brewed our ale,” she added quickly, hoping it might help convince Sybil to hire her.
“Why did you leave your mother, and your home?” It was clear from Sybil’s expression that she suspected Janna might be another Ebba. It was also clear that, in the taverner’s eyes, it meant she was more trouble than she was worth.
“My mother died.” Better not mention she was only looking for employment until such time as her father returned to Winchestre. It would count against her, and besides, she had no idea how long it might take her father to come – if, in fact, he’d ever received her letter at all. And if he believed what she’d told him.
“The cot we lived in was burned to the ground,” she went on, hoping to soften the taverner’s stern expression into sympathy for her plight without revealing the fact that it had been the villagers who’d turned on her and set the cot alight. “I couldn’t stay there, and have been on the road since, traveling about in search of…of employment. Please, mistress, I need to work and I’m willing to do anything you ask. Please give me a chance?”
Sybil eyed her, still suspicious. But the tavern was full and Janna knew she needed help. She thrust the damp cloth into Janna’s hands.
“Clean up the mess, then, and take orders for food and drink from the customers. Be sure you remember what is said to you, for it is a waste and costs me good silver to provide them with what they haven’t ordered, don’t want, and won’t have.”
Janna wondered if that was something else about Ebba that had annoyed the taverner. “I’ll do my best, mistress,” she promised, and hurried out before Sybil could change her mind. Her future was safe, at least for tonight.
She pushed past a couple of drunken patrons who had come out to use the latrine at the end of the yard, and re-entered the tavern. Inside, patrons were bawling for service while Ebba giggled and preened at Alan’s table. She went at once to Ulf and whispered her news to him. He jerked upright, aghast as he came to understand what she was telling him.
“But you can’t! You’re a – mpphh!” he spluttered, as Janna clamped her hand over his mouth to stop his words.
“Yes, I can. And I will.” Wasting no more time, Janna strode over to the mess. She carefully scraped the worst of it onto a wooden trencher, using the last clean portion of the wet rag in a vain attempt to wipe the gravy off the rushes spread over the floor. They should be changed on the morrow, she thought. In fact, judging from the scraps of food and stains of splashed ale, they were well overdue for a change. She straightened and looked around.
Her actions had told the patrons of her function, and now she was deluged with demands for ale, wine and food. She had no way of remembering everything; instead, she focused only on the most demanding patrons, carefully repeating what they wanted. Then she turned to the others who clamored for her attention. “I’ll return to take your orders in a moment,” she promised, and rushed outside to the kitchen before she could forget what she’d been told.
She rattled off a list of dishes to the cook, while Sybil nodded and looked pleased. She thrust two large jugs of ale into Janna’s hands then, and bade her return and refill the mugs of the customers.
“What about those who want wine?” Janna had little knowledge of wine, for she and her mother had neither the means to make it nor the spare coin to buy it.
“I’ll see to them myself.”
“How will I know who has paid and who hasn’t?”
Sybil frowned at Janna’s naivety. “They pay before you give them a refill. Here, you can wear this.” She rummaged through a pile of linen until she found a clean apron. She thrust it at Janna. “Put the money in the pocket.”
She showed Janna the patch sewed on the side, with its drawstring tie. “I shall be keeping an eye on you, so don’t think to cheat me, miss,” she warned, and picked up a couple of trenchers to take through to the tavern. Janna wondered if that had been yet another of Ebba’s sins. It would be easy enough to sneak a coin or two, and probably very tempting to do so. But she wouldn’t fall into that trap. She needed the work and would do nothing to jeopardize it.
Thereafter, Janna was kept busy refilling mugs, taking orders, and serving food. It was hard work, and she was tired – and hungry. She managed to snatch a gravy-soaked crust from one of the trenchers and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing it with relish. The fare at the abbey had been plain and wholesome, but plentiful. Now she was reduced to stealing leftovers! She smiled wryly to herself, and continued to keep an eye out for any extra tidbits.
Her feet ached by the time Ossie pushed out the last customers and Sybil declared the tavern closed. Ulf had departed long since, after a brief word assuring Janna that he would continue to visit her father’s manor in case there was news. “Keep your heart up. It can’t be long now until he comes,” he said, hoping to lift Janna’s spirits, and going on to assure her that he would ask around about her stolen possessions, and also drop into the tavern regularly in case Janna had news for him.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep?” Sybil asked.
Janna thought longingly of her comfortable pallet at the convent, and resolutely shook her head. “No, mistress.”
The taverner eyed her thoughtfully. “I have my own room above the tavern, and some extra space, which I sometimes let out to customers,” she said.
Janna wondered if she was being offered free accommodation. “I have no coins to pay for a bed.”
Sybil nodded briskly. “In that case, Ebba slept in the kitchen beside the fire. With Wat, the potboy.”
“May I take her place?” Janna had come across the potboy through the evening, and had taken a dislike to him. His job, when not turning the spit, was to wash the cooking pots, and to clear and wash the dirty mugs and dishes. All these tasks he did with a sullen air, and not carefully enough unless Sybil was standing over him. Janna had seen several trenchers and mugs still spotted and stained after his ministrations. The boy was young enough not to pose any physical threat to her, but he was surly and rude, and she didn’t relish sharing a sleeping space with him. Still, it seemed she had no choice. Another thought sent a shiver of alarm through her body.
Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 Page 3
