Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5

by Felicity Pulman

  “I want you to watch something,” she said, and drew Janna over to a man who looked decidedly uncomfortable yet bore no obvious sign of any wound.

  “Fell off his horse,” Sister Benedicta explained.

  The soldier reared up in indignation. “I took a buffeting and was unhorsed,” he said, furious that his misfortune should be so misconstrued. Sister Benedicta ignored his protest. She produced a round ball covered in wool and lodged it under the man’s armpit. Then she took hold of his shoulder, which seemed to hang loose and disjointed.

  “Hold him tight and watch carefully,” she instructed. Without allowing the knight time to react, she gave his shoulder a quick wrench, using all her strength to force it back into place. He gave a howl of pain, quickly muffled as embarrassment set in.

  “You’ll see a lot of dislocated shoulders,” the infirmarian told Janna, ignoring the soldier’s discomfort. “Also broken limbs.” She turned to the knight. “That’s the penalty for falling off a horse.”

  “I didn’t fall – ”

  But Sister Benedicta had already moved on. Janna gave the man a sympathetic grin and followed after her, interested to find out what else the infirmarian might be able to teach her.

  “And here’s a broken leg,” Sister Benedicta said, ignoring the man’s groans as she peeled away his leather greave to examine the source of his pain. “Do you have any experience with this?”

  “I helped Sister Anne set a broken arm at Wiltune.” Janna’s lips twitched as she recalled the young girl who had daringly climbed a tree, only to fall out of it the moment she was discovered and ordered to come down.

  “Same thing.” Sister Benedicta, it seemed, wasn’t one to waste words. She bustled over to their small supply of medicaments and bandages, and Janna noticed a bundle of stout sticks of varying lengths. “You can help me by holding one of these and keeping his leg straight,” she instructed, as she selected two of the longer sticks and a handful of bandages before going back to the wounded soldier.

  His face was gray; sweat stood out on his forehead in great globules. With infinite care, the infirmarian straightened his leg to lie beside one of the sticks. “Hold them steady together,” she said, and began to bind the stick to the soldier’s leg with the bandages. The soldier uttered little mewing sounds of distress as Sister Benedicta worked. Janna sought to distract him by asking his name and questioning him about his home. But he was in too much pain to answer, so she sought to find some other topic that might hold his interest and remembered what else Ulf had told her about the patron saint of Winchestre.

  “Being a stranger to these parts, you won’t know about St Swithun,” she said brightly. “He’s our patron saint, and his bones are right here in the cathedral. You can pray to St Swithun while you’re here, for he’s known to answer prayers and even work miracles. You can also visit his shrine if you like, when you are able to walk once more.”

  Finding no response to this invitation, Janna hurried on. “The bishop’s first miracle happened on the day he met an old woman in great distress. She’d dropped a basketful of eggs and every one of them was smashed. No-one’s sure if the bishop actually bumped into her, causing her to drop the eggs, or if the eggs were maliciously smashed by the workmen he’d set to building a new bridge to the east of the town. But by the saint’s blessing, the eggs were miraculously restored whole to the old woman!”

  Still no response. The soldier’s face was screwed up tight with pain; his breathing came in little hiccupping sobs. It was hard to keep cheerful in the face of his evident distress, but Janna did her best. “There’s a rhyme about the bishop that’s said in these parts,” she told him.

  St Swithun’s day, if thou dost rain

  For forty days it must remain.

  St Swithun’s day, if thou be fair

  For forty days ’twill rain na mair.

  No reaction. Janna wasn’t sure if the soldier was even listening to her. “Do you know why they say that?” she asked, continuing before the soldier could answer: “It seems that the saint told everyone that he wanted a poor and humble burial outdoors, so that passersby might tread on his grave and the sweet rain of heaven would fall on his final resting place. That’s what he said, and that’s what they did. But when the minster was built, it was decided to move his body inside the cathedral and bury it along with the old English kings and other dignitaries. But there was such a thunderstorm on the day he was reburied, and the rain fell in such torrents, that people believe it was his curse on those who had ignored his instructions and disturbed his rest.”

  “Johanna!” There was a stern note of warning in Sister Benedicta’s voice.

  “But he’s still here, and very popular with the sick and with pilgrims,” Janna concluded in a hurry. “There have been many more miracles since he was placed here in the new cathedral. Perhaps you could pray to him too?”

  The soldier stirred, and looked at Janna with a painful smile that was more of a grimace. Janna smiled in return and patted his hand. “With God’s grace, your leg will come out good as new if only you have patience,” she told him.

  “Don’t walk on that leg for two full moons,” Sister Benedicta added more practically. She handed to him the other stick she had selected. “Use this to support your weight.” And she left even as the soldier tried to thank her.

  If that was hard, the next lesson was even more difficult as Sister Benedicta paused beside a soldier who sat half-propped against a stone pillar, an arrow embedded in his back. She tut-tutted to herself, then turned to Janna. “I fear it will do more harm than good, but we can’t leave him like this,” she said, and crouched down beside the wounded man. Janna held her breath as the nun gently tried to withdraw the barbed arrow, stopping almost immediately as the man screamed in pain.

  “There’s nothing else for it.” Sister Benedicta’s voice was grim with foreboding. She held the flask of poppy syrup to his lips, encouraging him to take a large swallow, and then another. It was this liberal use of the precious syrup that told Janna just how bad the man’s injury was and how much worse its treatment would be. The infirmarian seized a knife and cut off the arrow’s flight, before slicing away the man’s gambeson and shirt to expose the full extent of the wound. She took a deep breath, grasped hold of the shaft and, using both hands and with all the force she could muster, shoved it right through the soldier’s body. His cry was cut off as he slumped into unconsciousness. With a quick, businesslike gesture, the nun cut off the sharp arrowhead and pulled the long shaft back and out. She bowed her head then and quickly crossed herself. “Dei gratia,” she whispered, while Janna swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “Well done,” the nun said briskly as she rose to her feet. “I was afraid you might also take leave of your senses when faced with that.” She gestured to the still figure now slumped on the floor. “Patch him up as best you may. I’ve watched how you’ve been treating the injured and I know you can do it as well as any one of us here.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Janna bowed her head, feeling her face flush at the unexpected compliment.

  “I suspect there’s too much damage done for him to survive. It’s in God’s hands now, but do what you can for him.” Sister Benedicta bustled off, leaving Janna struggling to find a reply.

  She squatted down beside the unconscious figure. At least she couldn’t hurt him any more than he’d already been hurt, she thought, as she began to bathe and dress his terrible wound.

  *

  The night wore on, exhausting and seemingly endless, punctuated by the groans, prayers, and screams of the wounded and the dying. The air was heavy with the stench of vomit and blood, urine and the voided bowels of the dead, mixed with the odor of sweating, unwashed bodies and the ordure of animals. But bedlam gradually turned to order as merchants, townsfolk, lords and villeins were sorted into those in need of treatment as opposed to those merely seeking sanctuary. United by war and leveled by the circumstances in which they found themselves, some engaged in
a joking camaraderie while others managed to fall asleep.

  Janna gave what comfort she could, but medicaments were scarce and some wounds so terrible as to be beyond the help even of prayers. She and the nuns labored without pause to make the soldiers and those civilians caught in the melee as comfortable as possible, but several died, including the soldier with the arrow wound. He hadn’t regained his senses, and Janna was grateful for that, for the wound had been as severe as the infirmarian had predicted. Nevertheless, she regretted that she hadn’t had the skill to save him after all, and couldn’t help wondering if someone else might have had more success.

  The first light of early dawn was slanting through the high windows as Janna at last bade farewell to Sister Benedicta.

  “You’ve done well tonight and I am grateful for your help,” the infirmarian said, cocking her head sideways as she noticed Janna’s downcast face. “We can’t save them all,” she said gently. “Their lives – and their deaths – are in God’s hands.”

  And in ours, Janna thought.

  “Why did you leave us so abruptly?” Sister Benedicta asked, prepared to show friendship and kindness now that Janna had proved her worth.

  “My purse was stolen. I lost the means to pay for my bed and board at the abbey.”

  “And we can’t offer you shelter at all now, though your skill is most welcome here if you can stay a while longer with us,” the nun said tiredly.

  Janna hesitated. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve found employment at a tavern nearby, and I’ll lose my position if I don’t go back there.”

  Sister Benedicta looked scandalized.

  “It’s honest work! And I need employment.” Janna was sorry to refuse the nun’s request. In spite of feeling upset over the soldier’s death, she took pride in her knowledge and ability to heal and bring comfort to those in need. But she knew the nuns would not be able to stay at the cathedral once the siege was over. They would have to find other convents in which to serve, and although they might even suggest she go with them, she couldn’t do that. She had to remain in Winchestre to wait for her father, and for that, she needed to keep working at the tavern.

  The nun gave a rueful smile. “God bless you for coming to our aid. You have my prayers for your soul,” she said, clearly unhappy with Janna’s choice.

  Janna was about to defend herself further, but realized it was probably a waste of breath. “I’ll come back and help you when I can,” she promised instead.

  The nun nodded in gratitude, and sketched the sign of the cross over her head. “Go with God,” she said, and turned back to start the weary round once more.

  Janna looked for Ulf. She found him, bag open and in earnest conversation with a prosperous merchant and his family. She had no doubt they were in the throes of buying protection from him, so she waved farewell once she’d caught Ulf’s eye, and stepped out into the gray dawn.

  The air hung heavy, thick with choking smoke from the fires around the town. Janna tried to smother a fit of coughing, not wanting to make any sound in case someone was lurking about. Casting fearful glances over her shoulder and jumping at shadows, she scuttled swiftly down the high street and turned toward the tavern. She found the door still barred against her; she gave a gentle knock, hoping someone would hear.

  There was no response. Janna wondered if they were all still down in the cellar. It seemed she had no choice but to go around into the lane and climb over the gate into the yard once more. Her shoulder gave a painful throb at the very thought of it. She knocked again, louder this time, hoping that she would be heard by those inside, but not by any marauders with looting on their mind. She glanced around nervously while she waited, but all was quiet. Finally, she slipped off her boot and gave the door several almighty thumps and called Sybil’s name.

  It seemed like an age before she heard a cautious response: “Who is it?” Janna recognized Sybil’s voice.

  “Me. Janna,” she replied, and listened to a metallic grating as the bolt slid back. As soon as the door was opened, she slipped inside and looked about. Now that there was some light to see by, she noticed that the tavern had been stripped of almost everything it was possible to remove. “Have the looters been in here?” she asked anxiously.

  Sybil jerked her head in the direction of the cellar. “There’s nothing left worth stealing,” she said, with a grim smile. “What news from outside?”

  “Devastation. Much of the town has been burned. The old palace has been badly damaged, but the castle still stands.” Janna wondered whether to pass on the rest of the information she’d gleaned from listening to conversations between the soldiers in the cathedral, and decided it was in Sybil’s interests to know the worst. “They say the empress is safe within the castle, but that her uncle, King David of Scotland, and the Earl of Gloucestre command her troops from inside the town’s walls, and that fighting will continue until one or other side gains victory.”

  Sybil gave a loud snort of disgust. “God save us from ambitious men,” she spat. “They’ll be the ruin of us all.” Janna wondered if she included her ex-lover among them, but didn’t like to ask. Nor did she have the chance, for Sybil continued, “It seems quiet enough outside. Does the fighting continue even now?”

  “No.” Janna shook her head. “All’s peaceful for the moment.”

  “Then you’re back just in time to help me set things to rights before we open up for customers.”

  “You’re opening the tavern today, mistress?” Remembering their terror, and their labors to get everything out of harm’s way, Janna was incredulous that Sybil expected them to go through it all again.

  Sybil shrugged. “Just to serve ale, for I have no cook. I suspect Elfric will stay to protect his wife and child through this unrest. But the brew house and the kitchen are untouched, and there’s wine and ale for any who seek it. Men are known to want to drown their sorrows in troubled times. Especially soldiers.”

  Sybil’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “This is my chance to entice patrons away from my rivals at the West Gate, and also from the alehouses nearby. I aim to make my tavern the most popular in Winchestre! And you and Wat and Ossie will have to help me. But…” She paused, and her brow furrowed into a frown. “I can’t risk looters coming in and causing havoc here. What’s the chance of that, do you think?”

  “I saw no sign of anything like that on my way back here. Most people seem to be taking refuge in the churches or the cathedral. But they may venture out if it stays quiet.” Janna thought about the grain they’d saved, and all the food. “I don’t know if any cookshops will open today, but we can probably find something for our customers to eat if they’re hungry as well as thirsty.”

  “And I suppose I can call on some of my regular patrons to help keep law and order in here if Ossie can’t cope.” The taverner was sounding more enthusiastic by the moment. “Wat!” she bawled, giving Janna no chance to reply. “Get your lazy bones up here. You too, Ossie. There’s work to do.”

  Janna groaned inwardly. After her hard and wakeful night, all she wanted was to curl up on her pallet and go to sleep. But it seemed that Sybil had other plans and this day would be as long and hard as the night she’d just spent. Cursing silently, Janna plodded wearily to the cellar. Sybil, she noted with amusement, had managed to save the green bush from the pole outside, and this was Janna’s first task: to fix it to the pole once more so that everyone would know the Bell and Bush was open for business. She ventured a little further to glance up and down the high street. She couldn’t see if any of the alehouses were open, but there were a few people wandering about. Hopefully, they were thirsty.

  “Janna! Give me a hand setting out stools and tables!” Sybil’s irate shout sent her scurrying inside once more. At the forefront of her mind was the thought of those she knew and loved – and those whom she hated and feared. There was no way of knowing where any of them were or if harm had befallen them. But if they were safe, there was a strong possibility they might choose to visit the Be
ll and Bush, especially if this was the only tavern open. And if they did so, what could she do about it other than stay alert and on guard against possible danger?

  Chapter 6

  The next few days passed by in a haze of exhaustion for Janna. She went to help tend the wounded at the cathedral when she could get away, for skirmishes continued intermittently and there were always new patients to take the place of those who died. But Sybil kept her busy for much of the time. As well as serving ale and wine to those customers who braved the streets to visit the tavern, Janna also baked griddle cakes to top with a slice of ham or bacon, the easiest fare to serve until Elfric came out of hiding and returned. All the while she kept an anxious lookout for her friends, ever hopeful that they had survived and had not been wounded. And she was always conscious that, at any moment, her arch-enemy, Robert of Babestoche, and his murderous henchman, Mus, might also walk in. The knowledge kept her tense and watchful.

  There was no joy in the gatherings at the tavern. Those travelers who had come for the annual fair had now fled the town, for it was clear there would be no fair this year. Those who were left, townsfolk and merchants alike, walked around in a daze of misery, trying to come to terms with the fact that the goods and produce they’d accumulated for sale had either been destroyed in the fires or were too damaged to sell. Their livelihood had gone, and sometimes their homes and all their supplies as well. Some who could still afford it rented pallets from Sybil and took shelter above the tavern. When they came down for ale and something to eat, they mostly sat in sullen silence and misery. If they spoke, it was to complain of the continuing unrest and the scarcity of everything from food to those goods essential to daily living. It was reported that the dole was still available from the hospital at St Cross for those in need, and that some food was also being handed out at the castle. But supplies were dwindling and nothing was coming in to replace them.