Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5

by Felicity Pulman

  Often there were strangers present in the tavern. While Janna thought some might be merchants or chapmen trapped by circumstances, she suspected that most of them were soldiers. Although they took care not to identify themselves as such, or indicate whose side they were on, still they were the target of evil looks and muttered curses – and sometimes even raised fists. On those occasions, Ossie stood by to eject the troublemakers, offering free ale to those who helped him keep the peace. Everyone wished heartily that the empress and the bishop and all their troops would leave Winchestre and take their argument elsewhere.

  But the siege continued, made more urgent by the news that Stephen’s queen had mustered an army in support of the bishop. Under the command of William of Ypres, the soldiers had now encircled the town to prevent any aid or supplies from getting through to the empress and her army, or the townsfolk. The castle had suffered some damage, but the old palace in the center was so badly destroyed that the bishop had removed his troops to his palace at Wolvesey, in the south-east quarter of the town. The townsfolk took some small comfort from the fact that, although hostilities between the two sides continued, no encounter proved as ferocious and devastating as that first terrible firestorm.

  An alarming story began to make the rounds. Janna listened as it was repeated in the tavern one afternoon by a traveler who claimed to have seen, with his own eyes, what had actually happened.

  “They’re running out of water and food in the castle, that’s what the soldiers told me,” the traveler said breathlessly. “I met a large party of the empress’s supporters on the old Roman road, sent by the Earl of Gloucester to Wherwell to establish a safe base in the west from which to bring in supplies. I caught up with ’em and talked to ’em. And I thank the good Lord that I did not try to keep up with ’em because, when they got to Wherwell, they found the queen’s troops waiting for ’em.” The traveler passed a shaking hand through his hair, still sweating at the memory of his close escape.

  “I arrived later, but hid myself when I saw the terrible slaughter going on. There was no mercy shown by the Flemish mercenaries or that devil’s spawn, William of Ypres, not even when the empress’s party sought sanctuary in the abbey. The queen’s troops set fire to the abbey, and then massacred the empress’s soldiers as soon as they surrendered. I know not what happened to the good sisters of Wherwell Abbey, for the abbey was burned to the ground and the town with it. Everywhere has been sacked. Rather than risk my life going through their lines, I decided to come back to Winchestre and try to leave by another route.”

  “That won’t be easy,” a customer chimed in. “The queen’s troops already control all the roads to Winchestre from London and the east, and now the west and north are barred if what you’re saying is true. And the Londoners themselves are also on the march, I hear. We’re surrounded by the enemy.”

  The traveler nodded wearily. “I overheard one of the queen’s soldiers say they plan to starve the empress and her followers into submission, and now I know how they mean to do it. But we’re trapped here too – unless we can find a way to slip their noose!” He gave a loud sniff to signify his disgust with the situation.

  There was a collective drawing in of breath as his audience absorbed what they’d been told. They were forced now to face the unthinkable: that the empress might lose Winchestre, and might even be taken captive herself. And if that happened, they would be left at the mercy of the queen’s mercenaries and the Londoners. A shudder ran through the room. Everyone knew now what that meant.

  To add to the prevailing gloom, reports had been circulating of an outbreak of disease in the town. Some said it was the sweating sickness, and others the Great Death, all of which caused panic among the customers of the Bell and Bush. Janna had wondered if it might be enough to persuade Sybil to close the tavern, but the taverner was reveling in being one of the few establishments still open for business, and was keen to make as much profit out of the troubles as possible. “For the tavern might burn down tomorrow,” she told Janna, “and then where would I be?”

  And where would I be, Janna wondered in turn. But she didn’t voice her concerns. After hearing the traveler’s tale, she was beginning to question if it might not be safer to try to find a way out of Winchestre, and flee the troubles, at least for the time being. But if the rumors were true, there was nowhere to go other than into the arms of Stephen’s queen and her troops.

  She heard the question endlessly debated in the tavern. Those who had relatives with whom they could shelter had already fled; others who now tried to leave returned with terrifying confirmation that the roads leading out of Winchestre were blocked, and no quarter would be given to the empress’s supporters if caught.

  Meanwhile, the siege of Winchestre continued. In a concerted effort to knock out the empress’s troops when they tried coming through the North Gate, the bishop rained fireballs over the northern part of the town, burning Hyde Abbey to the ground in his zeal. More refugees flocked to the churches, but most came to the cathedral for shelter, for many of the churches had fallen in the path of the bishop’s firebrands. The number of dead and wounded grew apace. Janna went to the cathedral when she could, every time dreading who she might find there. As the days went by, and there was no sign of Hugh, Godric or Hamo, she began to hope that perhaps they had fled before the siege began. She couldn’t bear to think of them in danger.

  But there was little opportunity to brood, for most of her time and energy went into her work at the tavern. Every time the alarm went out, Sybil set them all to carrying everything movable from the tavern down to the cellar for safekeeping. On one occasion, their luck ran out. The kitchen caught alight, and the blaze threatened to spread to the brew house and to the tavern itself. At once Sybil promised free ale to any who stayed to take part in a bucket brigade, and a number of willing helpers lined up to carry water from the canal that ran nearby. They didn’t manage to save the kitchen, but they did prevent the fire from spreading. And as a result of the celebrations that night, the tavern ran out of ale.

  Because the brew house had escaped the blaze, thereafter it also served as a kitchen, with Sybil and Elfric getting in each other’s way as they went about their various tasks, becoming more and more short-tempered with each other in the process. This day Elfric had gone out to scrounge whatever he could find in the way of food, using coins from Sybil’s horde to sweeten the trade, for there was a great shortage of just about everything, including barley malt for brewing. Meanwhile, there was a new wort ready and waiting to be flavored.

  Knowing how short-handed Sybil was, and thinking to make the most of the situation, Janna found some of the herbs she’d collected and set aside when first she’d thought of experimenting with the brew. She made a selection and put them in a bag before offering to help the taverner. She wasn’t ready to commit to her idea just yet, but this was the first step along her path.

  The taverner accepted her offer with relief, giving the liquid a final stir before wiping her sweating face on the corner of her apron. “This one’s been strained and I’ve added the gruit. You need to keep it boiling for a little while longer.” She handed the mash stick to Janna and pointed a finger at a second large container. “This one’s ready to be strained into barrels for serving.”

  Once the taverner had left the brew house, Janna quickly threw a handful of wild hops into the steaming wort. She looked at the size of the container and then added several more handfuls, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. She’d never prepared ale in such quantities before. She felt a little shaky as she realized she’d set her path and was committed to it. She took an exploratory sniff. As she’d suspected, the taverner had stuck to her same tried-and-true recipe: rosemary, alecost and sweet gale. It was a good base for what she had in mind. Janna smiled as she selected several other herbs to throw into the mix, then looked about for the crock of honey among the supplies that had been rescued. The pot stood in pride of place, and she scooped up a large dollop and added it to the hot li
quid. It would make the ale more potent, while the taste would off-set the bitterness of the hops.

  Next, she turned her attention to the ale that Sybil had said was ready for straining and serving. Janna knew that what she put in now might make no difference at all, but it was worth a try. She carefully added a mix of herbs and ash keys, and gave the liquid a vigorous stir. It was too late to add hops, but the ash keys would help to preserve the ale, while the sage would give the brew the distinctive taste that Janna remembered from her childhood.

  After leaving the liquid some minutes to settle, she tasted it again. More sage, she thought, and added an extra portion, followed by a generous spoonful of honey. She laid the mash stick aside and found the stick she’d cut from the ash tree while out in the water meadows, which she’d hidden in the brew house hoping for just this sort of opportunity.

  Eadgyth had always insisted that their brew be stirred with wood from an ash tree. “The ancients called ash the tree of knowledge and wisdom,” she’d said. “The bark of the ash flavors the ale in a special way. But ash trees also have great healing powers – magical powers, Janna. When we drink ale stirred with a wand of ash, not only are we refreshing our spirits and our souls, we are also giving ourselves protection, health and prosperity.”

  Eadgyth’s words rang clear in Janna’s mind as she stirred, tasted, added a little more sage, and tasted once more. Thinking about it now, she could understand the value that her mother had placed on all these properties, although given the hard life they’d had, it seemed they’d needed more than sage and an ash stick to help them.

  Finally satisfied with her new brew, she left it to settle a while longer. Let Sybil say what she would, the patrons of the tavern would have a stronger, sweeter brew to taste this night, a taste that would remind Janna of her home and her childhood.

  She was still in the brew house and had just finished straining the ale into barrels, when Ulf came to find her. “The taverner told me you were out here,” he said. Janna looked at his grave face, and instantly feared the worst.

  “My – my father has come? He’s been hurt in the fighting?” she stammered.

  “No.”

  “He’s dead?” Janna felt suddenly giddy. She stretched out blindly and Ulf caught her hand.

  “No, Janna! Nowt so bad as that. But bad enough. The bishop’s fireballs have razed much of the northern side of the town. The street of the Jews has been all but destroyed, along with many properties in adjoining streets.” There was great compassion in Ulf’s eyes as he continued. “Your father’s property is one of them. It’s gone, Janna. It’s burned to the ground. There’s nowt left.”

  Janna felt faint. She clutched Ulf, needing his support.

  “The steward has fled, and everyone else living there with him,” Ulf continued. “I asked around, but no-one has seen them since Winchestre began to burn.”

  “Are they – could they have died in the fire?”

  “I don’t think so. I looked around the ruins in case there was anything to salvage, anything to tell the whereabouts of your father in Normandy. But there was nowt like that at all. No bodies neither. I also asked at the chapel of St Michael nearby. It’s a miracle it still stands. Some of the townsfolk have taken refuge there – but not Warin, or the gatekeeper. Nor even Roger.”

  “So they ran at the first sign of trouble,” Janna said bitterly.

  “It looks that way. One of the merchants said he didn’t think anyone was in residence even afore the troubles started.”

  Janna was silenced, both by the cowardice of her father’s steward and also by the inescapable fact that her final – her only – link to her father had gone. Yes, he was somewhere in Normandy. But where? And how was she ever going to find him now?

  “I’m right sorry, lass.”

  Ulf’s voice broke through Janna’s misery. She found she was still clutching him, and reluctantly let him go. This was her problem, not Ulf’s.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts and see a way through this new calamity. “Whatever shall I do now?”

  “You could go to Normandy, seek him out there,” Ulf ventured.

  “Where? How?” Janna’s voice was flat with despair.

  “You’re right, lass. It’s probably best if you stay here and wait. I suspect he never got the message you sent him. Either that, or this blessed trouble between his kin has kept him away. But once he hears what’s happened to his property, someone must surely come to oversee the new building and manage your father’s affairs. You just need to keep looking out for him.”

  “Do you think my father might come himself?” Sudden hope brought new light to Janna’s eyes.

  “Aye, ’tis possible. Why not stay here a while longer and see what happens? Besides, it’s more than your life’s worth to try to leave Winchestre right now. I’ll stay on a bit myself. There’s a lot of people who are in need of comfort and are willing to pay for it.” Ulf patted his bag. It seemed to Janna that it was less bulky than usual, bearing out the truth of his words. “But I’ll have to move on eventually. There’ll be nowt left for me here once the troubles die down. I might go on to London. I need to find somewhere safe and with enough trade to keep me going through the winter.”

  He looked so apologetic, Janna hastened to reassure him. “I understand. Don’t worry about me, Ulf. I’ll manage on my own. I’ll do as you say. I’ll wait until spring next year, and if no-one’s arrived by then I’ll go to Normandy myself.” Her spirits quailed at the thought, but she kept a bright smile on her face. She didn’t want Ulf to feel sorry for her.

  “At least you have employment and shelter here.” In spite of his comforting words, Ulf didn’t look too happy about it.

  “And I’ve been promoted! See, today I’m in charge of the brew!” Sudden doubt assailed Janna. “Wait a moment. Taste this, and tell me what you think.” She poured some of the new ale into two mugs and held one out to Ulf. “It’s my own special recipe. I just hope it meets with Sybil’s approval – not to mention the ale taster!”

  “I shouldn’t worry about him,” Ulf advised, as he took the mug from her. “The people of Winchestre have more important things on their minds than waiting for an official to say whether they can drink a new brew or not.” He sniffed the brew and then took a cautious sip.

  Janna took a mouthful from her own mug, and was instantly transported into the past as she savored the contents. She swallowed the ale in a long series of gulps. “What do you think? Do you like it?” she asked anxiously.

  Ulf sipped again. “Hmm,” he said doubtfully. “I’m not too sure about this one, lass.”

  “Ulf!” Janna felt devastated, until she noticed the bright twinkle in his eyes. He grinned at her and drained his mug.

  “Delicious!” He smacked his lips. “This is a right good brew. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.” He tipped up the mug to lick the last few drops. “It’s a bit sweeter than usual, and there’s summat in it I can’t quite tell. What is it?”

  “It’s…” Janna began, but decided instead to keep the recipe a secret. If Sybil liked the new brew, she would also want to know what Janna had put in it. But if Janna kept the ingredients to herself – well, she would be guaranteed employment for as long as Sybil wanted her brew. “It’s something that will bring you long life and prosperity,” she said.

  “I like the sound of that – especially the last bit!”

  “Me, too!” Janna picked up an empty pitcher, ready to fill it to the brim. Now that Ulf had given his seal of approval she would try her new brew on the customers.

  “I pay you to work for me, not entertain your friends.” Sybil’s voice signaled her coming, and Ulf shot Janna a guilty glance. She grimaced in return, remembering how the taverner had scolded her predecessor. But she was no Ebba, and the taverner knew it. Janna felt secure enough to defend herself.

  “Ulf had some urgent news to give me.” A wave of misery washed over her as she faced again the full extent of her loss. But
she struggled on. “He’s not interrupting my work. See, I’ve already strained the wort. It’s ready.” She quickly removed the bung from the barrel and filled the jug.

  “Hmm.” The taverner wasn’t prepared to back down quite so easily. “You’d better get back to the tavern and start serving it, then.” She sniffed the air and shot Janna a suspicious glance. “You haven’t been tampering with the ale, have you?” As Janna wondered how to reply, Sybil continued, “I’ll finish off here. You get outside and tie the bush to the pole. And take your friend with you.” She flapped her hands at them like a farmwife harrying hens.

  Relieved to be pardoned, Janna beckoned Ulf to follow and quickly led the way to the tavern. Once over the threshold, she stopped to let her eyes adjust to the dim light within. Automatically she looked about at all the customers, wondering who was first in line, who the most impatient, and who the most important. Who should she serve first? With a sudden gasp, she lowered her head and skipped behind Ulf.

  “Hide me,” she whispered, as she tried to sidle backward through the door.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, so bewildered by her actions that he stepped aside, leaving her once more exposed to the eyes of all the patrons. It was too late; Janna had seen the sudden flash of recognition in Godric’s eyes even as she’d tried to duck out of his sight.

  “I have to go!” She thrust the jug into Ulf’s hands and took to her heels. She was almost at the brew house when she heard Godric’s voice.

  “Janna?”

  For a moment she thought to dash into the brew house and hide, but common sense told her that he had followed her outside and would continue to follow her until he’d seen for himself whether or not he was mistaken. Reluctantly, she swung around to face him.

  “Janna,” he said again, more softly this time. His hand trembled as he reached for her arm, as if to make sure she was real. His touch ran through Janna’s body with the force of a lightning bolt. Dazed, she stared up at him, slowly becoming aware of the changes that time had wrought. Godric was a man now, tall and with shoulders broad and strong enough to bear whatever troubles might come his way. Janna had the impression that hardship and disappointment had molded the angular planes of his face, even though his expression showed only his delight in seeing her again. His clothes reflected his new status while emphasizing his manly physique: the knee-length wool tunic stretched wide across his shoulders and was belted around his narrow waist. It was worn with long breeches and fine leather shoes, as befitted the companion of a lord.