Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5

by Felicity Pulman

  “Thank you, Ulf,” she said, more warmly. “I will write again if he doesn’t come soon. But I hope you may be right – he may be timing his visit to coincide with the fair. If he doesn’t come for that, then yes, let’s make another plan.”

  Ulf drained his mug. “I’ll come again soon,” he said, and stood up to leave.

  Janna continued to busy herself with the customers. She was coming to know the regulars now: those who spelled trouble, and those who smiled and paid her compliments when she waited on them. The merchant no longer came to the tavern, but she recognized some of his hangers-on. Janna usually served them, for she sensed that the taverner wanted nothing to do with them either. She wondered why the relationship between the pair had ended. While not wanting to be accused of prying into matters that were no concern of hers, she gave in to temptation and asked Elfric what he knew.

  The cook grinned as he spooned savory stew into bowls. “They used to be lovers,” he said cheerfully. “But I suspect he was after a share in the tavern as well as the share of her bed. At any rate, Sybil broke off their relationship. She likes her independence, that one. She won’t have any man telling her what to do and taking over her property and profits.”

  “The merchant doesn’t seem to lack money,” Janna ventured. “Why would he want a share of the tavern as well?”

  “He might look like he’s wealthy, but as to how he earns a living?” Elfric tapped the side of his nose. “A bit fast and loose with the law, if you ask me. But he has friends in high places and a reputation to maintain. None of those things comes free.” Elfric reflected for a moment. “But perhaps it’s just that he resented Sybil’s free spirit and thought to curb it by taking a share of her business.”

  Janna was silent as she digested his words. Money – or power? Maybe both. Or was Elfric too cynical, and was it something else that had caused the rift?

  “Whatever the reason, she put an end to their liaison,” Elfric continued.

  “He’ll not gain much from Ebba.”

  “That’s not why he’s taken her in.” There was a twinkle in Elfric’s eyes as he waved her on her way. Janna carried out the bowls of stew, feeling foolish. Of course a man like Alan was attracted to Ebba’s obvious charms. But it wouldn’t last. How could it?

  *

  The sound of shouting was the first indication that something was amiss. The tavern fell silent as customers pricked their ears to listen to the tumult outside. It seemed to Janna that all within suspected its cause but had suspended belief, just for a few moments, in the desperate hope that they were wrong and that all might yet be well. She looked for Sybil, and noticed the taverner was pale with fear and had backed against the wall for support. Everyone froze, listening fiercely, and then, without further ado, the customers surged to their feet and rushed into the high street to find out what was going on. Janna followed them.

  There seemed to be some sort of riot taking place in the center of the town, for the street was full of people scurrying to and fro, while a sonorous clanging sounded above the shouts and curses, each booming thud spurring the onlookers to even more frenzied activity. Curious as to the cause, Janna hurried up the high street toward the old palace at its center.

  At the heart of the tumbling knot of people was a troop of soldiers bearing swords and shields, grim determination on their faces. Sunlight glinted on their conical helmets and the metal rings of their hauberks. Those in front had a battering ram and were pounding against the heavy iron gates barring the palace. It seemed that the empress had indeed run out of patience with the bishop’s prevarication. But Janna suspected that the bishop and his troops were well supplied with arms and armaments, as well as provisions, for the carts traveling to the palace gates had grown in number and brazenness over the past few days. Rumor had it that the bishop had fortified the great tower within when taking over the old palace some years ago, and it was apparent now that it had become his headquarters for the coming siege.

  A blaze of light flashed across the sky, and Janna tilted her head to watch its path, only understanding what it was when it fell short of the royal castle. She looked for the source of the fireball and realized it had been hurled from siege engines mounted within the bishop’s stronghold. The day of reckoning had finally come.

  That had not been the first fireball, she realized, as she sniffed the smoky air. And then another fiery missile arced through the sky, followed by another, and yet another. All were aimed at the castle but most fell short, setting alight shops and houses. The acrid stench of burning grew stronger.

  “That devil’s firing on his own town!” The speaker next to Janna had a bundle on his back and a baby in his arms. His wife beside him clutched a little girl’s hand. White-faced and numb with despair, they were a still, small center among the terrified crowd heaving around them, who now were giving full voice to their rage.

  Janna noticed a flag bearer. She recognized his pennant: red, with three clarions in orange, their shape similar to the small portable organ played by troubadours. She’d seen the insignia before, when she’d gone to the royal palace to demand a meeting with the earl. These must be Robert’s men, come to besiege the palace and put an end to the storm of deadly fireballs. She pressed closer, looking for Hugh, but their helmets and the collars of their hauberks obscured their faces and she was unable to recognize anyone. However, she understood their purpose well enough. The soldiers were ready to charge in just as soon as the gates were breached. Curious, she moved even closer, believing herself still far enough away to escape to safety should the need arise.

  Surrounding the armored knights were their vassals, all carrying an assortment of weapons. Most of them were without the protection of full armor. Some wore a hauberk, or a helmet, but some wore only padded gambesons reaching to their knees. Fearful for Hugh’s and Godric’s safety, Janna squinted her eyes for a better view of the earl’s troops. A great roar went up as the iron gate buckled. The clanging of the battering ram ended with a loud bang as the gate fell. At once the earl’s men surged through, only to be met by fierce opposition from the bishop’s troops, determined to protect the palace and its siege engines at all costs. Locked in close combat, the two opposing sides shoved and pushed and finally erupted back into the street. Suddenly, Janna found herself caught up in the melee and unable to escape.

  Blocking her path to safety were the shopkeepers whose homes and property were under threat. Shutters were being hastily closed and doors locked. Hapless citizens, carts and arms piled high with all they could salvage, were trying to forge a path to safety, earning savage blows, curses and kicks as they got in the way of the soldiers. The cries of the dying and injured and the deadly crackle of greedy flames added to the general cacophony. Flying embers created new hazards. A man screamed and flung himself sideways as molten lead from a blazing rooftop dripped onto his head. Where the fires had caught, they blazed so brightly that Janna knew those owners and shopkeepers would have been unable to save anything, perhaps not even their lives.

  The crowd pushed and shoved its way through the town, trying to reach whatever parish church was closest. Some of the townsfolk were smudged with soot after braving the firestorm to salvage what they might. Others had taken fright and fled without thought, carrying only those too small or infirm to look after themselves. But many of the wooden churches had begun to burn, forcing the desperate citizens back out into the street to try for the safety of the cathedral itself. Alarmed screams added to the din, for the earl’s men were still intent on battering their way through into the palace to put an end to the stream of burning fireballs, and seemed determined to run over anything or anyone in their way.

  Aware of how close she was to the fighting, Janna tried in vain to escape. Her heart pounded in terror as she found herself carried inexorably closer to the entrance of the palace.

  “Hoy! Out of my way!” The sudden shout sent her reeling backward. She burrowed into the throng in an effort to reach safety, but still she was pushed o
n, for the crowd was now too panic-stricken to know where safety lay or how to find it.

  A new danger became apparent as a small contingent of the bishop’s troops, mounted on fine destriers, erupted from the old palace. At the sound of the clarion call, the earl’s men hastily regrouped. In close formation, and with swords and battleaxes held high, they prepared to face this new threat. The destriers aimed straight for the crowd. The citizens scattered in panic. There was a clash of weapons, savage yells and grunts of pain. Men were unhorsed and wounded. They screamed in agony as they fell. Riderless warhorses ran wild, aiming lethal kicks at any who crossed their path. And all the while, new fires ignited and Winchestre burned.

  With desperation in her heart and a prayer on her lips, Janna dodged to one side and looked about her, peering through the haze of smoke in an effort to find a way past, somewhere safe to hide, for men were fighting in close combat all around her, and woe betide anyone who got caught in their midst.

  Suddenly, and right in front of Janna’s horrified gaze, one of the bishop’s men was unhorsed and a foot soldier closed on him with a vicious curse. At once the soldier sprang to his feet and, with drawn swords, the two men stalked each other, cutting and thrusting, each trying to take the advantage. Shaking with fear, Janna tried to shrink out of their way. The bishop’s man lunged, his sword slicing into his opponent’s padded gambeson. Janna felt her own flesh tense in sympathy as she imagined the steel blade penetrating through soft skin, muscle and entrails. The soldier howled in agony and blood flowed freely from the wound. With a choking whimper, he fell and lay writhing on the ground.

  Janna had to force her shaking legs to move. She tried to reach him, hoping she might be able to staunch the bleeding, or help him in some way. But before she could take even a couple of steps, the bishop’s man ended his victim’s life with a chopping blow across the throat, almost taking the man’s head from his body. Blood spurted. The soldier’s body convulsed before collapsing into the stillness of death. With one enemy dispatched, the bishop’s man swung around to face another behind him. Kill, or be killed. A moment’s inattention made all the difference between life and death. Janna found herself saying a fervent prayer that Hugh and Godric would stay safe, and that Hamo and Ulf had not been caught up in this madness at all.

  She tried to break free but was hemmed in by the crowd, and jostled and kicked without mercy. Soldiers swarmed everywhere, cursing the frightened citizens who got in their way, for their blood was up and they were fighting for their lives. The noise was terrifying – battle cries and the screams of the dying, both human and animal. Grunts and curses, the clash and clang of weapons. A haze of smoke made it hard to breathe, and Janna cupped her hand over her nose.

  “Out of my way, God damn you!” The shout brought her wheeling around in time to see a destrier and its rider charging toward her. Fright kept her stationary for long moments. She saw the fierce expression of horse and soldier alike, the deadly hooves flying through the air, coming closer, closer. The horse reared –

  Panic-stricken, she leaped aside and felt a hoof strike her shoulder like an iron club, then they were past and she was on the ground, desperately trying to roll out of the way of crushing hooves and spurred boots. She fetched up against a pentice, one of the many stalls that hung off the palace walls. She dived inside, seeking shelter. The shopkeeper and his wife were hastily shoving their goods into sacks, while outside a small donkey shifted restlessly under the burden of the laden baskets tied to its back, its ears pricked to the sounds and smells of the street.

  “Out!” The trader jerked a thumb at Janna, his meaning plain. His wife looked apologetic, but did not contradict her husband, reaching around him to gather a fistful of leather gloves to thrust into the bag she held open.

  Shakily, Janna rose to her feet. She wrapped an arm across her chest and felt her shoulder, gently probing for signs of a break. She could feel no grating bone as she gingerly rolled her shoulder around, and was thankful. She knew she would bear the bruise for a long time to come.

  “Your pardon,” she whispered, and slipped out again, with a hand on her elbow to help support her arm and keep it close to her chest.

  The crush of soldiers was centered around the palace gates, but beyond, toward the East Gate, Janna thought the crowds seemed thinner. Desperate to reach the sanctuary of the tavern, she sidled some way along the palace walls, and as soon as a gap opened she forced her way to the opposite side of the street and up a narrow laneway. Once safely there, she sank down to recover her breath and check her injured shoulder more carefully.

  Her probing fingers felt nothing out of the ordinary, and she breathed a quick sigh of gratitude. Just a bruise, then, and she knew what to do to soothe it, even had the herbs at hand to make up the necessary salve. Keeping to the back lanes, away from the madness in the high street, Janna found her way through the maze to the safety of the tavern. The gate leading into the yard at the back was barred tight against marauders. She stood for a moment, considering her options. Then, with a quick look around to make sure no-one was paying attention, she hitched up her tunic, knotted it out of the way, and climbed up and over the gate.

  It seemed strange to be doing something she hadn’t done since childhood, since going out into the forest in company with her mother, and shinning up trees to pick tender leaves, new flowering buds, or fruits, or whatever else Eadgyth needed for a concoction. But the skill was familiar, and Janna didn’t hesitate as she found foot and toe holds, wincing at the pain of her bruised shoulder as she climbed.

  The yard was empty of horses and patrons, but there was still some movement between tavern, kitchen, and brew house. The bustling figures stood still as they saw the intruder come over the gate. Sybil stepped forward, with Ossie behind her, as Janna dropped to the ground and hastily unknotted her tunic.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Sybil demanded, as soon as she recognized Janna. “Where have you been?” A hard hand closed around her arm and she was dragged into the tavern. Once inside, Sybil let Janna go and glared at her. Her white face and grim expression told Janna how frightened she was, but her words proved that, first and foremost, she was a businesswoman. “I am pleased to see you safe, but I need your help to get everything down into the cellar. Quickly! We have no time to lose.” She flapped a hand in the direction of the yard.

  The tavern was empty of customers, and Sybil had pressed Wat and Ossie into service. Wat led the way, hefting a heavy sack of grain. This he pushed through a small hatch at the rear of the tavern, which Janna knew led to a ladder down into a cellar where Sybil stored the imported barrels of wine. The hatch was usually well hidden behind a screen, but the screen had been pushed aside, and she watched the potboy climb down, his head getting lower and lower until it disappeared altogether, while Ossie awaited his turn.

  “Hurry up!” Sybil gave her a push, and Janna raced to do as she was told. Once outside, and knowing that she was safe for the moment, she looked around and began to understand Sybil’s fear. The smoky haze in the air was growing thicker as more and more properties were ignited by the flying fireballs. They were coming from both directions, for the empress’s troops were now hurling missiles at the old palace in the center of the town in retaliation for the bishop trying to burn down their own stronghold. The Bell and Bush, being close to the East Gate, was beyond their target, but the fireballs were flying so wildly that Janna knew they certainly couldn’t count on surviving the bombardment unscathed. A dark spire silhouetted against a reddish glow across the street told her that at least one firebrand had left its mark on St Mary’s Nunnaminster. She quickly crossed herself, praying that the nuns would find a safe shelter.

  “Janna!”

  Coming to herself with a start as she heard Sybil’s shout, Janna ran into the kitchen, seized the biggest basket she could find, and began to fill it with pots and pans, using her left hand for the task. She picked up the basket, wincing as its weight dragged on her sore shoulder. After a momen
t’s thought, she set the basket down and found the hempen bag she took on her occasional rambles into the meadows and where she kept those herbs she hadn’t already used or planted. She added the dry bunches of herbs hanging from the walls. Last, she tried the cabinet housing the precious pots of imported herbs and spices, but it was locked.

  She slung the bag across her shoulders, picked up the heavy basket, and staggered out and into the tavern. Every step was a torment; it felt as if hot needles were piercing her bruises. Sybil entered just ahead of her, carrying a large pot from the brew house stuffed full with her brewing herbs and implements. Janna recognized a wooden mash stick and strainer poking out the top. She smiled to herself. In spite of fearing the worst, the taverner was making sure that, once this was over, she would be able to resume her trade.

  “Don’t forget to bring the spice cabinet,” she reminded Sybil, as she passed the goods into the cellar, and the taverner nodded. Janna’s eyes widened as she peered down and noticed the numerous barrels of wine stored there, and the heaped sacks of grain and barley malt already shifted by Ossie and Wat. She straightened and gently rubbed her shoulder, wincing at the pain.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Sybil asked.

  “I hurt my shoulder.” Janna didn’t want to explain the terror of what had just happened, but Sybil was too preoccupied to show sympathy. She’d begun to unpack what had been brought in, and was busy stacking the goods out of the way. “Get down here and give me a hand with this,” she snapped. “And you two – ” she waved a hand at Ossie and Wat, “ – fill the barrels and roll them over from the brew house. Once you’ve done that, bring the spice cabinet and everything else you can carry from the kitchen. Things will be safe enough down here – and so will we, God willing.”

  “Where’s Elfric?” Janna hoped no harm had come to the affable cook.

  “Gone to his family, to keep them safe if he can. May God spare us all this day.” Sybil crossed herself, and Janna hastily copied her action. She still wasn’t sure whether or not she liked Sybil, but she certainly respected her. Although it was in her own interest to keep the tavern open for business, Janna wished she could leave, so that she could keep a look out for Hugh and Godric, and also for Ulf, for she feared greatly for their safety. Besides, she felt guilty hiding in the cellar when, with her knowledge of herbs and healing, she could seek shelter in the cathedral with other townsfolk and help with the wounded and the dying. She tried to ease her conscience with the thought that nuns fleeing from the burning Nunnaminster, including the infirmarian and her assistant, would surely have taken refuge at the cathedral. But doubts nagged her: even if the sisters had managed to escape the burning building, would they have been able to reach the safety of the cathedral? Her sense of duty pricked at her until she could stand it no longer.