Janna retreated. The cook kept coming forward, jabbing the besom at her until she turned and fled out into the quiet night. Once outside, her steps slowed. She lifted her face to the cool night air, and breathed deeply, trying to settle her agitated spirits. Where was the gate? She looked at the bulky shapes of the buildings around her, trying to make sense of them, to remember the way in. From the smell, Janna judged that some of the buildings must be used to house pigs and other animals.
She spied the gatehouse then, and hurried towards it. To her relief, the gate was still up, and the gatekeeper was nowhere in sight. She scurried outside. Not for anything would she stay at the manor through the night.
She felt exhausted, shattered by grief, as she started the long walk home over the moonlit downs. Questions tormented her. Who and what had killed her mother? How had she come to die such a hard death? Janna drew a shuddering breath. Now was not the time to give in to sorrow. She must be strong. She must concentrate, ask questions, find answers. She would not rest until she had found out the truth.
Eadgyth would never poison herself, not even by accident. Someone must have given her poison; someone must be responsible for what had happened. Someone who held a grudge – like the apothecary, whose position at the manor had been threatened by her mother’s greater knowledge and expert treatment of her patient. Or Aldith, who must know that women – and even Dame Alice herself – would rather seek help from clever, knowledgeable Eadgyth than an ignorant village midwife.
Perhaps she should talk to Cecily again. She’d seemed fearful. Perhaps there was something she did not want to say in front of Hugh? Janna resolved to win her confidence and find out all she knew. She would also question the cook, who had run her out of the kitchen in spite of Hugh’s instructions to take care of her. Did the cook have something to hide?
No-one would believe her if she spoke her suspicions out loud, Janna realised. She must find proof before she could accuse anyone. So she would ask questions; she would not stop until she had discovered the truth and found the evidence she needed to bring whoever was responsible for her mother’s death to justice.
It was a solemn vow, one that Janna knew she must keep if she was ever to know peace of mind again.
THE JOURNEY THAT had flown by on the back of a horse was long and frightening on foot. Spooked by shadows and plagued by dark suspicion, Janna felt shaken and sick at heart. As she came to the cottage she’d shared with her mother, she was surprised to find the door open. She remembered, then, her hasty departure. She walked into the cottage, half-expecting to find her mother stirring something over the fire, or perhaps drowsing sleepily in her fine chair. Grief shook Janna anew as she surveyed the empty room. She felt especially wretched as she recalled the last words they had spoken together.
She’d never been so angry, so outspoken before. Through her childhood she’d trusted and respected her mother’s wisdom and her skills with herbs and healing, and had been keen to learn all she could. It was only lately that she’d begun to feel constricted, to feel that she could do more with her life, and that there was much of the outside world for her to learn about and see. Now, when it was too late to explain how she felt, and make amends, she must live forever with the knowledge that she and Eadgyth had not parted on friendly terms. It was too late to apologise. Worse, it was too late now to learn the secrets of her mother’s past.
Hot tears welled in Janna’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She dashed them away, but they continued to fall until at last she crumpled down into the large chair and buried her head in a cushion to smother her sobs. Even though there was no-one around to hear her, Janna needed to hide the sounds of her own distress from herself. If she could smother her cries and pretend that all was as it should be, then perhaps life might continue as it had always done. The truth of her situation was much too huge and frightening to think about.
Janna cried until she felt sick. She had never, ever, felt so lonely as she did now. There was no-one she could talk to, no-one to whom she could turn for help. She cried until there were no tears left to shed. Exhausted, she blew her nose and mopped her sore eyes one last time. Then she stood up, knowing that she could postpone the future no longer. She would have to face it, no matter how bleak.
One day at a time, she thought to herself. But a day seemed too long and too hard; even an hour was too much of a trial.
Moment by moment then, at least for now.
Janna took up the tinder box and laboured to produce a spark from flint and steel, to ignite the kindling and start the fire going again. Light and warmth seemed a good way to begin the rest of her life. Her task accomplished, she glanced around the room seeking Alfred. She was surprised he hadn’t already come to greet her.
The cat was nowhere to be seen. Janna remembered her hasty flight, the open door. He would have escaped outside, delighting in the opportunity to go hunting at night. Janna felt a cold frisson at the thought that, in turn, the cat might find himself hunted. They always kept him shut in at night for that very reason. But Alfred was a survivor, just like the king after whom he’d been named. She went to the door. ‘Alfred!’ she called.
She listened intently, but there was no answering miaow. ‘Alfred! Tssss-sss-sss-sss.’ Silence, broken by the lonely hoot of an owl. Janna comforted herself with the thought that, like the owl, Alfred would be busy chasing field mice and voles and other small creatures, and stuffing his belly full of wild food. She looked into the silent forest, its silvered treetops, its dark and secret depths. The moon was low in the west. Soon a new day would dawn. Briefly, passionately, Janna wished that she could turn back time. She would rather face the boar without Godric than face the future alone.
Desolate and despairing, she called the cat one last time, searching the inky blackness for a gleam of silky fur. Through the noises of the forest she strained to catch any sound of the cat’s presence. The crunch of leaves made her heart quicken. ‘Alfred!’ she called again.
‘Janna!’
For one wild moment Janna wondered if the cat had answered her, until reason told her that even if Alfred could talk, he wouldn’t have answered with Godric’s voice.
‘Godric?’
He came towards her out of the darkness. ‘I’m so sorry to bring you bad news, Janna. Your mother has been taken ill up at the manor.’
‘Oh, Godric!’ She stretched out her hand to him, then hurriedly snatched it back as she recalled their parting words. It was not fair to encourage Godric to believe he had a chance with her. ‘News travels fast, it seems,’ she said warily.
‘You know about your mother’s illness?’
‘I’ve already been to Babestoche and back tonight.’
Godric looked surprised. ‘Everyone is saying your mother has been poisoned by one of her own potions,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’ve told them all that they are mistaken.’
‘Of course they are!’
‘But you have the knowledge and skill to aid her recovery, I am sure of it.’
‘My mother is beyond help, Godric. She is dead.’ Janna’s throat ached with the pain of saying it.
Godric drew in a quick breath of surprise. ‘I am so sorry, Janna. I am so sorry.’ Not giving her time to retreat, he threw his arms around her and held her tight. Secure in his embrace, Janna began to cry.
‘Sshh. It’s all right, everything’s going to be all right,’ he soothed. ‘You mustn’t worry, Janna. I’ll help you.’
Nothing would ever be all right again, Janna thought. With an effort, she broke free and wiped her eyes.
‘You’ve seen your mother? You are certain there’s no hope?’ he queried.
Janna nodded, unable to speak.
‘But this is so sudden! Was she ailing?’
‘No. I believe she was …’ Janna stopped abruptly. Should she tell Godric of her suspicions?
No, she thought, remembering the vow she’d made to herself. She would speak to no-one until she could prove the truth of her words.
�
�She was …?’ Godric prompted.
‘… quite well this morning. You’re right. Her death was very sudden.’
Godric stood back so that he could study Janna more closely. Pity set his feet in motion. He walked into the cottage and fanned the fire into brightness. Once set, he added pieces of wood to keep it burning high. He put aside the vegetables then filled the pot with water from a bucket and hung it over the fire to boil. Then he poked about the few provisions set on a shelf close by. ‘You need a hot drink and something to eat,’ he said, and held up the leftover griddle cake. Numbly, Janna picked up a jar and pushed it forward. Godric inspected the contents, then pulled out his knife and spread the cake with a paste of honey and crushed hazelnuts.
‘Eat,’ he commanded.
Janna realised that, in spite of her misery, she was hungry. She gave Godric a shaky smile as she took the cake from him. She crammed a piece into her mouth and chewed, relishing its sweetness. He smiled back at her, and settled down on a stool beside the fire, sneaking glances at Janna as she ate. A soft rustle outside sat him bolt upright, straining his ears to listen.
‘What is it?’ Janna’s voice was indistinct through a mouthful of bread.
‘I heard a noise outside.’
‘My cat?’ Janna jumped up and went to the door. She peered out into the dark night. ‘Alfred?’ she called.
Godric stood up and looked over her shoulder. ‘Fluffy!’ he bellowed.
Janna was surprised into laughter. ‘He won’t come if you insult him like that,’ she said. They stayed by the door, looking out into the night. All was silent and still. There was no sign of the big black cat. Finally, Janna shrugged and sat down again. ‘There are always noises in the forest at night.’ She took a large bite from her bread, and began to chew once more.
Not satisfied, Godric ventured a few paces outside, searching for movement, for the source of the sound. But there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. He waited a few moments, then came back in and closed the door behind him.
‘A squirrel, a deer. It could be anything,’ Janna said indistinctly, still chewing.
Godric nodded, and settled down beside the fire once more.
Janna stuffed the last of the bread into her mouth. Too late, she wondered if Godric might also be hungry. There were only crumbs left now to offer him. She licked her sticky fingers, then jumped up to attend to the pot of water steaming over the fire. Glad to have something to do, she picked up the dipper and scooped water into two mugs, flavouring the hot drinks with crushed herbs and a spoonful of honey for sweetness.
Godric cleared his throat. ‘Janna,’ he said, and took hold of her hand. ‘I came to escort you to the manor house to see your mother. I’m sorry I arrived too late. Now that I know your mother is gone, I’m worried about you. You are so far from help, should you need it. We don’t know each other very well, but I wonder if you’d consider …’
‘Please don’t ask me to be your wife!’ Janna snatched her hand away. ‘I don’t want to marry you, Godric.’ The surprise on Godric’s face was quickly masked by a guarded expression that told Janna she’d hurt his feelings. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone – not yet, anyway,’ she added hastily.
‘I wasn’t going to offer marriage,’ Godric retorted. ‘This is certainly not the time for such a question. But it seems, from what you say, that I would be foolish even to consider such a thing.’ There was a rough edge to his voice. Janna deeply regretted her thoughtless outburst. Eadgyth always said that her quick tongue would get her into trouble, and she was for ever being proved right! But Eadgyth would never say such a thing to her again, Janna remembered. Utterly downcast, hardly knowing what to say to redeem the situation, she studied her boots intently.
Godric broke the silence. ‘I was actually going to suggest that you stay with my mother and me for a while. For your own safety.’
‘Oh.’ Janna couldn’t look at him for shame and embarrassment. ‘This is my home,’ she mumbled. ‘This is where I must stay.’
‘Then I’ll trouble you no further.’ His earlier warmth was gone, replaced by a cool courtesy. He set down his mug, stood up and moved to the door.
‘Thank you, Godric. I’m sorry if I –’
‘I thought we were friends, Janna. After last night and tonight, I hoped that one day we might become something more. A fool’s dream, I see that now. I shall not trouble you again.’ He walked out of the cottage and slammed the door shut behind him.
Godric had every right to be annoyed, Janna thought, remembering how she had clung to him, and how tenderly he had held her. She wished now that she had gone with him, but she didn’t want to give him false hope, nor did she want to be beholden to him and his mother. She didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. Even though it was frightening to face the world on her own, she knew she must get used to it. Only hours before she had longed for freedom, yet now it had come to her, and so unexpectedly, she shrank from it. She lay down on the straw pallet and pulled the covers over her head. If only she could sleep a little, things might look better in the morning. This thought was followed by a desperate wish: that she might wake to find that today was all a bad dream.
She closed her eyes. Tears began to flow once more. She sniffed and tried to wipe them away, but they continued to flow until, at last, she fell into a troubled sleep.
THE SUN WAS already up when Janna awoke. A beam of light slanting through the window slit brightened the room and warmed her face. Joyously, she sprang from her bed to greet the day. Memory struck her with the force of a body blow. She crumpled back onto the straw pallet, holding her stomach and gasping with the pain of it.
Not for one moment would she accept that her mother had been poisoned by her own potion. Who could have given the poison to her, and why did her mother not recognise what it was? Surely she would have realised the truth when she was dying. Why did she not speak out about it?
Perhaps she had! Janna tried to recall Cecily’s words. Eadgyth had complained of feeling cold. Numb. She’d had difficulty speaking, but had called for a monk. Why?
Cold. Numb. Janna searched her memory for her mother’s instructions on the herbs she used, particularly her warnings about poisonous plants.
Hemlock was one. It caused paralysis and loss of sight, but Cecily hadn’t said anything about her mother going blind.
Deadly nightshade? Her mother sometimes ground the tiniest portion of the plant into a powder to relieve a toothache. Janna knew there’d been no call for such a remedy recently, so it was unlikely that she’d had it to hand – but others might. The plant was common enough, and most people would know that it could be dangerous. If too much was ingested, rapid breathing was followed by convulsions and death.
Not nightshade. Cecily hadn’t mentioned anything about panting or fits. She’d said her mother had complained of feeling cold. Numb. And she was vomiting. Cecily had said she could barely speak, but it seemed she’d stayed conscious until the end.
The spice merchant’s face flickered into Janna’s mind. Why was he important? He’d had a whole selection of herbs and spices on display, exotic substances she’d never seen before, which were on sale to any who could afford them. Could her mother have been poisoned by something like that up at the manor house, something unfamiliar and therefore dangerous?
The only substance the spice merchant had warned about was his rubbing oil. Aconite was common enough. Prized for its pretty blue flowers, it grew in gardens everywhere. Most people would know its poisonous properties, although they would call the plant by its common name: wolfsbane or monkshood.
Monkshood! It caused numbness of the face and tongue, making speech difficult. It also caused nausea and severe pain, leading to death. Eadgyth hadn’t called for a monk at all. Her mother was trying to tell someone she’d been poisoned!
Anguish jerked Janna upright, and she cried aloud as she recalled how she’d gone into the forest, how she’d been so afraid of the boar that she’d grabbed at the strawberries and stuffed
them into her purse. Had she been so hasty that she’d also pulled off bits of the poisonous plants growing alongside them? Her mother might well have eaten the fruits that were left over from the potion, not noticing as she ate them that she was also swallowing bits of the monkshood that grew close by.
In her mind, Janna had accused everyone but herself. Now, she was faced with the realisation that she alone was responsible for her mother’s death. Time and again Eadgyth had scolded her for her clumsiness, and warned her of the need to be careful; warned her that she should never underestimate the power of the herbs they used. Now her mother had died as a result of her carelessness.
The thought squeezed Janna’s heart into a small tight ball. She didn’t know how it was possible to feel so much pain and fear, and still be able to breathe. She jumped up from the pallet and rushed over to the shelf that held Eadgyth’s medicaments. Her hands shook as she began a desperate search for any sign of the strawberries, and the potion that may have contained them.
A new horror forced itself into Janna’s consciousness. Her mother’s important visitor! Had she also taken poison along with the strawberry mixture? Was she also lying dead? Desperate to find out the worst, Janna tumbled and almost dropped jars and dishes in her haste to open stoppers and sniff the contents. Some she tasted before setting them aside to continue her search. Her heart gave a sudden lurch as she spied a rough earthenware dish pushed towards the back of the shelf. It contained several small, ripe strawberries. Janna inspected them carefully. Their bruised, torn flesh bore testimony to the haste in which they’d been collected and bundled into her purse. Yet they were quite clean, sitting in a small puddle of water that indicated they’d been washed.
Relief swept over Janna, leaving her feeling dizzy and light-hearted in spite of all that had happened. She sagged onto a stool, blinking back tears of gratitude. Her mother had washed the strawberries before using them. Of course she had! How many times had Janna witnessed that very act, the careful washing of all roots, leaves, flowers, seeds, fruits and nuts. Her mother had always insisted on it.
Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup Page 8
