After a few moments’ thought, it came to Janna that she belonged here, that her home and her life with her mother were all she knew. Without warning, they had been snatched from her, and as yet she had no idea what might take their place. But no matter where she went or what adventures lay ahead, no-one could ever replace Eadgyth in her life. Janna was sure that, in her own way, her mother had loved her and wanted to protect her, to save her from making the same mistake that had shattered her own life. Even so, she’d called her ‘Johanna’ as she lay dying. Their argument must have cut deep indeed. If only she could have got to her mother in time to make up their quarrel. Tears of grief and loss came into Janna’s eyes. She dashed them away. It was too late for regrets, too late for an apology. She was on her own now, and must make the best of things.
Janna turned her attention once more to the parchment. Was it a message from someone? She kept looking at the symbols, trying to fathom what they all meant. A word at the end caught her eye. Familiar letters, but not quite enough of them. J. O. H. N. She sounded them out as her mother had taught her to sound out the letters of her own name. Joe-han? No, that wasn’t right, there was no A between the H and N. Juh oh huh hn? Juh-hin? Joh-hin? John?
John! It seemed to Janna that everything in the world stopped still. John! She recalled Cecily’s words as she told Janna of Eadgyth’s dying moments. ‘Actually, I thought Eadgyth was calling for John, but when I questioned who he was, one of the tiring women told me your name. Your real name.’
Johanna. John. In her dying moments, her mother had called for John. Her thoughts had not been with her daughter but with … who? The man she’d always loved? Was John her father? Had she, Johanna, taken his name?
Yes! Janna had never thought before to ask why her mother, a Saxon woman, had given her a Norman name. Now she had the answer: her father must be a Norman, and of noble rank if Aldith was to be believed. No wonder her mother could speak the language of the Normans. Janna was grateful that this, at least, was something her mother had taught her. With a growl of frustration, she caught up the parchment and studied it once more. If only she could read this letter from her father to her mother, so much of the past might be explained. But the symbols told her nothing. They could have been the footprints of spiders for all the sense they made.
Janna carefully refolded the precious parchment and laid it in her lap. She felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, the burden of guilt. Her mother had forgiven her for their argument after all.
She looked inside the box to see what else Eadgyth had hidden from her.
A gold ring, large and heavy. It had an embossed design on its face instead of the sorts of sparkling gems which adorned Dame Alice’s hand. A man’s ring, then? She studied the design. It depicted a swan, but was it only a swan or did that long neck and body form the letter J? Above the swan, on one side, were two beasts with tails, the likes of which Janna had never seen. On the other side was a crown which she thought must denote the man’s allegiance to the king. Frowning, she considered the matter and came to the conclusion that the king must have been Henry, for Stephen had usurped the throne during Janna’s own lifetime. She certainly could not recall any man of their acquaintance who knew her mother well enough or was wealthy enough to give such a keepsake. The J, if it was a J, seemed to suggest that it had been another present from her father. Janna carefully repacked the casket and set it aside. With mounting excitement, she peered into the hole to see what else she could find. It was empty, save for a glass bottle.
Taking great care, understanding its value and fragility, she lifted it out. Did it have some special significance? Could it once have belonged to her father?
She turned the bottle in her hands, admiring the beauty of the green glass. If only it could speak to her, what secrets it might tell! Janna frowned as she tried to puzzle out why her mother had buried such a precious object when she could have traded it for something more useful. Its appearance seemed oddly familiar. She was sure she’d seen something like this before.
A scene flashed before Janna: Robert of Babestoche, pouring wine into a goblet for his wife. The bottle had looked exactly like this one. Had this bottle come from Robert’s own household? Or did all bottles look alike?
For certes, Robert would never have made a present of a bottle of wine to Eadgyth – but Cecily might! Was this Cecily’s missing gift? From what Janna had seen of Cecily’s circumstances, it seemed unlikely that the tiring woman could have had such a costly gift to give. Unless she had stolen the bottle of wine, someone must have given it to her. Hugh? Was this a gift for Cecily, or his payment to the wortwyf for taking care of Cecily’s problem? Janna squeezed her eyes shut against the image of Hugh with his arm around Cecily’s waist, his tender care of her at the graveside. If Hugh really was the father of Cecily’s unborn babe, it was a matter between the two of them, she told herself firmly.
She unstopped the bottle, eager to try her first taste of wine. To her amazement, it was empty. How so, when her mother had had no time to drink any of it? Janna cradled the bottle on her lap as she struggled to solve this new puzzle. If her mother had drunk all of the wine straight away, she would have been far too unsteady to follow Cecily to the manor and minister to Dame Alice. Cecily had not said that her mother was drunk when she arrived. Ill, yes, but not drunk. What, then, had happened to the wine? And why had her mother hidden the empty bottle?
Janna sighed. While her mother’s life had been a mystery, her death seemed to have uncovered even more secrets. The real question was: where to start looking for answers?
ALTHOUGH CONSCIOUS THAT time was passing, Janna sat on amidst the ruins of the cottage. Random thoughts, a jumble of impressions, ran through her head. Somewhere in the events of the past few days lay the answer to her mother’s death, she felt sure of it. It was just a matter of fitting all the pieces together.
She looked down at the bottle in her lap. In case a few drops of wine remained, she picked it up and tilted it to her mouth, hoping for a taste to satisfy her curiosity. A few drops moistened her tongue and she held them there, smacking her lips as she tasted the precious liquid. Her brow creased in thought. Unless wine tasted exactly like water, this was water! But the moisture was certainly proof beyond doubt that this was a recent gift, rather than an old token kept as a memento of her father.
It must have come as a gift from Cecily, there was no other explanation. Janna closed her eyes, and tried to imagine the last few hours of her mother’s life. Cecily had come knocking on the door, and had handed over her gift. In return, her mother had given Cecily the foul-tasting mixture that would bring on her menstruation. Cecily would surely have stayed for a little while, long enough to listen to Eadgyth’s instructions and to take the mixture, but she had not lingered long enough to share a sup of wine. She would have mentioned it else, but instead she’d told of her great hurry to get straight back to the manor before her absence was noted.
So Eadgyth must have drunk the wine by herself, and washed out the bottle afterwards. This in itself seemed surprising to Janna, for she and her mother always shared whatever they had. A bottle of wine would have been a rare treat! Surely she would have kept some of it to drink with her daughter.
Janna had to face the fact that her mother had finished the wine without her. She had rinsed out the bottle and then gone to the manor house to see Dame Alice.
No, that couldn’t be true, for Aldith would have noticed that her mother was feeling the effects of too much wine and would have remarked on it. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Janna stroked the cold glass bottle, wishing it could speak its secrets. If her mother hadn’t drunk all the wine by herself, someone must have shared it with her. Not Aldith. She would have mentioned it, she would have been jealous of the gift. As it was, Aldith had been kind enough to share her own cordial because her mother had said she was thirsty. If she’d just drunk a whole bottle of wine, she wouldn’t have been thirsty – unless she was feeling the
effects of poison!
Was the wine poisoned? Was that how her mother had come to die?
Startled, Janna sprang to her feet and began to pace about, trying to keep up with her agitated thoughts.
Her mother could not have drunk the whole bottle by herself; the poison would have killed her long before she got to the manor house. So perhaps Eadgyth had tried just a sip or two, meaning to share the rest of it with Janna later on. Not liking the taste, or maybe thinking the wine was tainted, she’d thrown it out and washed the bottle, then hidden it so as to protect Cecily’s identity as she’d promised. She had certainly not drunk enough of the wine to suspect that monkshood had been added to the mixture, for she would have prepared a brew and taken steps to combat the poison if that was so.
Janna gnawed on her top lip as she contemplated where her thoughts were taking her. If her mother had taken only a sip, it would explain why the poison had taken some time to work its dark mischief. It would also explain why her mother had not suspected anything until its symptoms had become fully manifest. The problem was that Janna no longer had any proof of her suspicions, for the wine was now tipped out and gone.
Sudden and shocking, a picture of her dead cat flashed into her mind. So much blood, both under the animal and elsewhere. She had wondered about that patch of blood so far from the animal’s body. Now she understood how she’d misread the scene. Not blood at all, but the stain of red wine, the stain left after her mother had poured the contents of the bottle away.
Janna paced silently for a few moments, pondering Cecily’s role in Eadgyth’s murder. Who had added poison to the bottle of wine? Cecily, who was so anxious to protect her secret she would go even to these lengths? Or was it her lover? Was it Hugh?
It was Dame Alice who owned everything, not Robert of Babestoche. And Hamo was in line to inherit it all. As Dame Alice’s nephew, Hugh would need to look for better prospects for marriage than his aunt’s tiring woman if he was to make his way in the world. Soon enough, Hamo would be old enough to come into his inheritance, to claim for his own the manor at Babestoche, as well as the manor now managed by Hugh. By then, Hugh must have married, and married well. For certes he could not afford news of a dalliance with Cecily, and a baby as proof of it, to come to the ears of either his aunt or his future wife. To what lengths would he go to keep that secret?
Hugh – or Cecily? Or were they in it together? Janna remembered the tiring woman’s tears of guilt and grief. She remembered also that Cecily had tried to care for Eadgyth as she lay dying, and had braved the priest’s wrath to watch her interred. She found it hard to believe a cold-blooded killer could be capable of such kindness as Cecily had shown. Nevertheless, Cecily hadn’t hesitated to lie when it suited her. She had to be careful, Janna thought. She’d made wrong judgments in the past, but if she got it wrong this time, her own death might follow. She could not afford to be careless.
Fear lay at the heart of all that had happened, she understood that now. It was because of fear that Eadgyth had died. It was fear that might drive the killer to strike again. The key to the puzzle was Cecily and her unnamed lover. Was it Hugh? With all her heart, Janna wanted to believe the best about the man who had been so kind to her. But she knew she could not afford to let her heart rule her head. The poison had not got into the bottle by accident. Someone had put it there, someone who would stop at nothing to keep Cecily’s secret safe. She held the bottle close to her eyes and looked through the thick glass, trying to put her whirling thoughts into order. It was how the world seemed to her right now, she realised, as she squinted at the distorted shapes that were the ruins of her home. If the bottle could only speak, it would tell her what she needed to know: the name of its owner.
The bottle stayed mute, but other voices spoke in Janna’s mind. She’d been focused on who had the means, the motive and the opportunity for murder, but there was something else she needed to take into consideration in order to solve the mystery: the telltale gestures, the actions that revealed more than the speaker realised. Her heart quaked as she understood that there was someone else at the manor, someone who might have an even more urgent reason than Hugh to keep Cecily’s secret.
She lowered the bottle. Tendrils of fear twined and knotted in her stomach. If her guess was right, not only did the killer want her dead, but he thought he’d already succeeded. Janna knew that her safety depended on his continuing to believe that. She was in the most deadly danger. The last thing she wanted to do was go to the manor house, yet she knew she must, one last time. She had to speak to Cecily. For her own sake, and for her mother, she had to find out the truth. If she was right, it would mean that Cecily was in far more danger even than Janna. If she was wrong, and Cecily and her lover were in this together, then Janna herself would be walking into a trap – a trap that could end only in death.
All Janna wanted was to flee to safety, but not if her safety was bought at the price of Cecily’s life. Not for anything would she have Cecily’s death on her conscience. So she must go, quickly, for there was no time to lose.
First, though, she would have to find something else to wear. She looked down at her kirtle, stained from her night among the bushes and shredded from the fire. It would draw curious eyes and curious comments and she could not afford either, yet every other garment she owned had been destroyed.
Her tattered kirtle woke Janna to the danger she faced if anyone came looking for her. The villagers had also wanted her dead. They must all think that they had succeeded. She bent down and picked up her mother’s treasures, and hurried into the sheltering depths of the forest. Once safely concealed behind a large beech, she set down the box and bottle, and sat beside them to plan how she might find a change of clothes.
‘Janna!’ The sound was like the howl of a wolf, a wild cry of desolation. With a gasp of fear, Janna flattened herself behind the tree and peeped cautiously around it. Godric was on his way up the hill. Had he seen her? He seemed to be looking her way. ‘Janna!’ he shouted again, and turned in a slow circle to scan first the green downs and then the cottage and the forest.
Janna pressed closer to the sheltering tree. Truly, Godric looked awful, she thought. His beard and hair seemed even more unkempt than usual; his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Or something else. He scrubbed his face against his sleeve as he peered about. Surely he could not be crying?
Janna longed to go to him. She had so misjudged Godric, she desperately wanted to beg his forgiveness. Shame kept her hidden, and also caution. It would be for the best if everyone thought she was dead – or if not dead, driven out and gone from her home. She tried to console herself with the thought that she and Godric hardly knew each other. He would forget her as soon as some other comely young woman crossed his path, someone more deserving of his love, someone who would give him babies and make him happy. Someone who wasn’t an outcast: hated, feared, and driven even to death.
Janna blinked back tears of self-pity, desolation and loss, and continued to watch from her hiding place. All Godric’s concentration was now focused on the blackened ruins of the cottage ahead. He walked among the debris, just as she had walked earlier. Like Janna he was looking for something. He lingered for some moments beside the remains of the animal pen, carefully sifting through charred fragments of bones and feathers, before moving on into the devastated remains of the cottage. There, he began a systematic search. He bent down time and again, now to move a blackened beam, now to sift through a pile of ash. There were no bones for him to find, but she might have left footprints. She pressed closer to the tree, trying to become invisible.
Whatever Godric was looking for, he seemed pleased not to find it for at the end of his inspection he stood up and looked about him. It seemed to Janna that he stood taller; he seemed straighter, more confident. Suddenly, she heard her name again.
‘Janna!’ His voice rang out loud and clear, startling a pair of blackbirds. They squawked and fluttered their wings at the sound.
Janna pressed
her hand hard against her mouth to stop herself from answering him. Godric must know now that she hadn’t died in the fire. She was touched by the change in him, but reason told her there was no future for them, either in friendship or anything else. Godric was tied to the manor. He was not free to go wherever he chose, whereas she needed to flee the wrath of the villagers as well as the murderous intentions of those who feared her knowledge up at the manor. She had to leave, had to go as fast and as far from this place as possible. A glance at her kirtle confirmed her decision. She didn’t want Godric to see her in rags, with her hair all burnt; she didn’t want this to be his last memory of her. So she stayed hidden, and listened while he began to search through the forest, all the while shouting her name. He was coming closer to her hiding place. Silent as a snake, she wriggled into a dense cover of leafy bushes and tall grass close to the shielding beech, stifling a cry as bare skin touched a patch of stinging nettles. She stayed hidden and listened to him search.
Godric’s cries grew fainter; she could no longer hear the crunch of leaves, the crackle of twigs under his boots. In the silence, birds began to chitter and sing once more. At last, when she was sure he had gone, Janna slid out from her cover. She straightened cautiously and looked about her. There was no sign of Godric, and no sound of him either. For the moment she was safe.
She was also thirsty, so thirsty! She hurried to the dewpond and cupped her hands into the water, splashing silver droplets as she drank. The ruffled surface gave her an idea, but she kept cupping her hands to drink until her thirst was slaked. She wiped her tattered sleeve across her mouth then, and waited until the water had stilled. Then she looked down at her glassy reflection.
She looked a fright! Carefully, she washed the smut and ash from her face and hands, then dipped her whole head into the pond to cleanse her sore, soot-blackened scalp. With water streaming down her face, blinding her, she raised a hand and fingered the long wet hanks of hair among the singed stubble. She had no cap or veil to hide the bare patches on her scalp. She would have to cut her hair so that it was all of one length. To leave it as it was invited ridicule and comment. She would be noticed wherever she went.
Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup Page 20
