Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  Chapter 4

  Although Janna had been to Wiltune several times in the past, it had always been in the company of her mother. Now she enjoyed a new sense of freedom as she looked about her, fascinated by all that she saw. The abbess held the barony over just about all of the land she was walking through. Her villeins were out in the fields, working her lands and paying rent for the privilege of having a home and employment. Some, like the miller, paid rent and rendered services, while others paid their dues in labor. Every year Janna’s mother grumbled about having to find the fee for the abbess for, although they were free to leave if they wished, while they stayed they must pay for their cottage and the land that came with it. In bad seasons, payment caused hardship for everyone. Fortunately, this year had started well and promised fair, unless the civil war between the king and his cousin came close enough to upset smiling nature and wrecked the harvest to come.

  The sun was peeking through the clouds. It warmed Janna’s face and dried her mouth. She shifted the strap of her basket from one shoulder to the other; her back ached from carrying it. She put it down and turned toward the river, squelching through mud and pushing apart sharp reeds to reach the water’s edge. There, she bent to scoop a handful of cold, clear liquid into her mouth, relishing the moisture as it slipped down her parched throat. She drank her fill, picked up her basket, and set off once more, coming at last to the high stone walls that encircled the abbey. Janna followed them around, heading for the market square outside the abbey’s main portal.

  She heard the noise long before she got there: shouts of pedlars, shrill cries of children, yapping dogs and squealing, clucking livestock, and the rise and fall of voices as shoppers and traders bargained hard to get the better of each other. Janna sighed with pleasure. This is where I want to be, she thought. This is where real life is going on!

  Pleasant odors wafted toward her—hot pies, spiced wine and gingerbread—but they were offset by the stink of sewage, newly tanned leather and salted fish. Traveling merchants had set up stalls among the more usual goods for trade. Janna stopped to admire a display of soft leather gloves and slippers, then moved on to inspect trays of ribbons, cheap trinkets, bone combs and buttons, strings of amber and glass beads and finely wrought brooches. She fingered her empty purse, imagining how it would feel to have enough money to buy whatever she wanted.

  With a small sigh, she moved on to join a group gathered around a juggler. As she came closer, two women stepped out of her way, neither acknowledging her nor meeting her eye. Janna recognized them and was puzzled. One of them, the wife of a weaver from Berford, had made the journey to the edge of the forest several times to consult her mother. Surely she would not be influenced by the priest’s prejudice against them?

  “I give you good day, Mistress Bertha,” Janna said, as she came closer.

  “God be with you, Janna.” Bertha didn’t look at her, seeming absorbed instead in the antics of the juggler, who had now added a flaming sword to the three balls he was keeping in the air so skilfully. Janna scowled at Bertha’s back as the woman walked away, then chided herself for being silly. She would not allow anyone to spoil her pleasure in the day. So she watched the juggler, and clapped his performance when he was done. She wished she had a coin to put in his cap, for he’d entertained and delighted her with his skill.

  She was about to move on when she recognized another face. There, in the marketplace, his black cloak flapping around his short, thin frame so that he looked like an old crow as he swooped about, was the priest from Berford. What was he doing here? Probably making sure none of his flock managed to enjoy themselves, Janna thought with a grin, and edged away out of his notice. There was so much to see and do; she had no intention of being waylaid and lectured by the priest.

  She ambled on, fascinated by all the products for sale: fruits and vegetables, sparrows, pigeons and hens, woven cloth of varying quality, fresh bread, candles and soap, crocks of honey and blocks of cheese. Her nose twitched as she smelled once more the fragrance of hot meat pies. She had come out in such a rush that she’d not yet broken her fast. Her empty stomach rumbled to remind her of the fact. As soon as she had sold her wares, she would visit the pieman. She looked for a space to set out her scented candles, creams and rinses, enjoying her new feeling of independence.

  The thud of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of a bridle alerted her to the presence of a stranger coming toward her. The first detail Janna noticed was the horse, a huge black destrier such as a soldier or a crusader might ride into battle. It was a sleek beast, quite unlike the shaggy ponies and plodding carthorses she usually saw in the fields. The horse’s glossy coat shone, and Janna shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight the better to admire it.

  She became aware of its owner next, as he reined his mount to a standstill and surveyed the market scene before him. Dark, shoulder-length hair and clean-shaven face in the old Norman fashion. A long and decorated tunic, the sort worn by the nobility. A faint smile curled his mouth. Seeing it, Janna clenched her fingers into fists, feeling hot indignation on Wiltune’s behalf. Condescending bricon, she thought, automatically assigning to him the Norman word for fool. He must surely be a Norman, for no Saxon would sneer at the villagers as he was sneering now.

  As if becoming aware of Janna’s gaze—and her judgment—the man glanced down at her. The smile died on his lips, burned away perhaps by her furious expression. Feeling no fear, for she had nothing to lose, she continued to glower up at him. A smile twitched his lips once more as he nodded to her from his horse and called out, “Bonjour, ma belle petite.”

  Janna bridled anew. She tilted her head back and glared at him. Pretty little girl indeed!

  “Can you give me directions to the manor house at Babestoche?” The man continued his careful inspection of Janna. There was warmth in his gaze; a smile of appreciation curved his mouth.

  For a moment, Janna thought to send him off in the wrong direction entirely, but she had the sense that the stranger already knew the way and was using this merely as a ruse to speak to her. Telling herself she wasn’t in the least flattered, she said, “Follow the river to Berford, then ask again.” Although the stranger had asked directions in her own tongue, pride prompted Janna to answer him in the language of the Normans, taught to her by Eadgyth. She jerked her head in the direction the stranger should ride, and walked away, conscious that his eyes still watched her. Belying her cool manner, her mind was full of a jumble of impressions, not least of which was the stranger’s easy assurance, his fine tunic and hose and, yes, she was forced to admit it, his handsome face and strong physique.

  Frowning, Janna considered the matter. Some years older, perhaps in his twentieth year, she thought. She could sense the experience behind his ease, the experience that told him his worth in terms of his birth but also in matters of life—and death. This was a man sure of himself, someone not to be disregarded or put aside. A scar down one cheek spoke of his having tested himself in combat, either of a personal nature or on the battlefield. A man of courage, then. A man’s man. A lady’s man too. Janna felt herself grow hot as she recalled how his bold glance had raked her body. He’d called her a pretty girl, but she was a Saxon serf and therefore unworthy of his notice; he was merely teasing her. This was a man who could pick and choose among women—and most probably did so, for who could not fail to be impressed by that proud, handsome face, that confident demeanor?

  Janna was surprised how much she had noticed—and remembered—on such a short appraisal. Who was he? And what could he want up at the manor? These were troubled times for travelers—and for all of England. King Stephen had usurped the throne and was now forced to defend his position against his cousin, the Empress Matilda. Janna had a secret admiration for the empress. It seemed that, enraged by Stephen’s action and determined not to give up the throne, Matilda had gathered her own army of supporters and come to England to fight for her rights. Her claim seemed just, for she had been named heir by her father, King H
enry. He himself was the son of the Norman bastard, William the Conqueror, who had taken England for his own and established the line of Norman rule. There had already been several skirmishes between Stephen’s army and Matilda’s supporters. Was the stranger here on Stephen’s behalf, to demand from the abbess and the manor house the knight service due to the king?

  Telling herself his business was none of her concern, Janna found a space near to a traveler, a spice merchant. She pulled a clean linen cloth from her pack and spread it on the ground, having first cleared straw and assorted rubbish out of the way. Carefully, she laid out her goods for sale, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for the abbey guards or the shire reeve, for she had no permission to sell her wares. “Creams to perfume your skin, ladies!” she called, gesturing to the pots on the ground. “Smell like a rose for your husband tonight! I also have rosemary and chamomile rinses to cleanse and lighten your hair. I have fragrant lavender for your linen, and a mint rinse to freshen your breath. Only a ha’penny a jar.”

  The spice merchant leaned over and inspected the pots, perhaps calculating whether or not their presence would damage his own business. In turn, Janna stared at his portable table, fascinated by the strange seeds, berries and plants upon it. She stepped closer, then bent over and inhaled, savoring their fragrance. “What are these?” she asked, pointing at a pile of light brown sticks.

  “Cinnamon.”

  “And those?” Janna gestured toward a crock of small black balls.

  “Cloves.” His manner thawing in the face of Janna’s interest, the merchant kept on pointing out various spices, perhaps hoping that she might buy something. “My wares come from across the sea, from the east,” he told her, speaking loudly so that his voice might be heard above the hubbub of the marketplace. “It is a long journey, and my spices are highly prized because of it. See—I have yellow saffron, cardamom, peppercorns and caraway seeds.” While he answered Janna’s questions, the merchant kept a sharp eye out for passing trade. She became aware that he was using his answers to her questions as a means to tempt others to inspect his wares. His ruse was working, for first one and then another woman drew closer. There was quite a crowd of observers around when Janna pointed to a small phial of brownish oil, and asked its purpose.

  “It is a marvel, a miracle cure, most efficacious for aching joints. A little of this oil rubbed in at night, and you’ll be as agile as a young spring lamb come morning.” His eyes twinkled. “Not that you’ll need it for quite a while yet, lass.”

  “But what is in the oil?” Janna persisted, refusing to be either diverted or beguiled by his flattery.

  The man hesitated for a moment, then said, “It is a substance of such danger that I am loath to sell it to any other than those who are skilled in the art of healing and who know well the care that must be taken in its employment.”

  Was he sincere, or was he merely building up the mystery and therefore the desirability of his liniment? Janna wasn’t sure, and didn’t really care. Curiosity drove her on. “My mother is a healer, and would be interested to learn more of such a substance. Pray tell me what is in the oil?”

  The man tapped the side of his nose, but stayed silent.

  “Answer the lass,” said Bertha.

  Janna hid a smile. No doubt Bertha was after the secret ingredient so she could cure her own aching back rather than continue coming to Eadgyth for a special liniment.

  A sergeant-at-arms had joined the swelling crowd around the spice merchant, and now he stepped closer. “Give us your answer, trader, and tell it true or I’ll send you on your way. There’s no place for quacks and charlatans here in Wiltune.”

  “I mean no harm, I mean merely to warn.” The spice merchant stood his ground, looking self-righteous.

  “Then warn away, and tell us what it is we need to fear.” The sergeant moved even closer, dwarfing the spice merchant by many inches both in height and girth.

  “It contains Aconitum napellus. The root is ground and mixed with oil and hot mustard and then rubbed into aching joints. It brings almost instant relief. It really is a wonder cure—but it is for external use only. Ingested, it may well prove fatal.” The man was anxious to ingratiate himself now—and perhaps to make a sale in spite of his warning.

  Aconitum napellus. Aconite. The man was making the herb sound more important by giving it the Latin name—unless it was a ploy to keep a common plant a secret? Janna was willing to wager that no-one present knew what it was but she knew what he was talking about. Her mother had instructed her well in the properties of herbs and the art of healing. The merchant could not bluff Janna with fancy Latin names. Aconitum napellus was known by several common names: monkshood, blue rocket, wolfsbane, helmet flower. Janna suppressed a shudder as she recalled the last time she’d seen it. It was the plant that grew near the strawberries she had risked so much to pick.

  There was no secret here, for her mother already knew the properties of aconite, and no doubt the weaver’s wife had felt its benefit on more than one occasion. Janna felt some satisfaction in thinking that Bertha would have to continue relying on Eadgyth for relief if she wasn’t prepared to ask any more questions.

  The sergeant nodded, and walked away. Janna breathed a sigh of relief that her own modest wares had not attracted his attention. Perhaps the sergeant had assumed that her pots were part of the merchant’s display.

  The trader was busy with other customers now. They all wanted to finger his spices, and smell them before making a purchase. Taking advantage of the crowd, Janna sang out a temptation to the women to inspect her own wares. As she did so, she noticed that Bertha had taken her turn to hand over a coin, receiving from the spice seller a small phial of the rubbing oil. Had things come to such a pass that Bertha would rather hand over good silver than visit the wortwyf, who would treat her in return for a piece of woven woollen cloth or the gift of a few eggs?

  Bertha hurried off, but several other women turned to Janna after making their purchases from the spice merchant. She congratulated herself on choosing such a good position as she smeared a dab of cream perfumed with violets onto her skin so that the women might smell it. Judging from the stench of perspiration and unwashed clothes emanating from some of them, they might well benefit from its application, she thought, as she held out her wrist to a new customer to take a sniff. “The cream is good for your skin; it’ll make it soft as a baby’s cheek,” she said persuasively when the woman hesitated.

  Strangers bought from Janna; some who knew her hurried on, crossing themselves or making a sign against her to ward off evil. Janna assuaged her annoyance by calling out, “Buy my special perfumed candles for the church. Real beeswax, they’ll burn for hours and hours and save your souls from damnation!” As her purse swelled and supplies dwindled, Janna’s thoughts turned again to the handsome man on horseback. Would she ever see him again? The thought stirred her blood, bringing an unexpected heat to her cheeks and body. Blushing, although she knew not why, she sang her song of temptation once more, loud enough to drown out the thoughts that would not lie quiet in her mind.

  “Lavender and roses to perfume your skin! Mint balm to refresh tired feet and hands! Comb out the tangles and add sunlight to your hair with a chamomile rinse.”

  When the last jar and the last candle were sold, Janna folded the linen square, now filthy from the dirt and dust of the street. She placed the fabric carefully in her empty basket. It would have to be washed and bleached before it could be used again. Coins and tokens jangled in her purse as she stood. She smiled, feeling well pleased with the day’s trade.

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t yet broken her fast. She pulled a token from her purse and set off toward the pieman.

  Munching ravenously, she walked on then to the sundial in the center of the market square and inspected the shadow cast by the marker. Only a little past the hour of one. She was tired and she had a raging thirst. She was ready to go home, but dared not until she heard the abbey bells ring
the three hours of None. She would not risk her mother’s anger—not when there was so much at stake. If she annoyed her mother by coming home early, then the secret of her father’s identity might well stay locked in Eadgyth’s heart. Nor would she need to hurry home at None either, she realized with some dismay. Once her mother’s visitor left, surely Eadgyth would go straight to Dame Alice, to take her the physic she’d been busy preparing for the new infant. It could be hours before she came home to answer questions as she’d promised.

  Janna decided that she might as well relax and enjoy her small holiday. She glanced about the marketplace and the small shops that hedged it in. Master Fulk’s shop was closed. Dame Alice must be paying him well for the business he was losing by attending her. Close to his shop was an alehouse, its purpose made clear by the bush tied to a pole outside the door, the same sign that marked the premises of several other alehouses in Wiltune. She fingered her bulging purse, and nodded to herself. She had never been to an alehouse before, but was curious to see inside. If she was old enough to wed, she was surely old enough to brave the louts who were hanging around outside, and who seemed to have made the alehouse their headquarters. She would go in, sit down, and have a jug of cool ale to slake her thirst. While she was resting, she would listen to the market gossip. Perchance she might overhear the identity of the man on horseback, and the mission that had brought him to Babestoche Manor.

  Her first thought when she stepped over the threshold was to turn and run. The room was dark, having only a couple of window spaces to let in the light. Although there was no fire, stale smoke hung heavy in the air. It was mixed with the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes, and a lingering odor of animal waste brought in on boots and smeared over the already filthy straw strewed across the earthen floor. Janna placed her hand over her nose and coughed, debating whether she should leave. The bold glances of the patrons inside, and a lewd invitation for her to join some drinkers at their table, eroded her confidence even further. The only other women in the alehouse seemed to be whores looking for business. Yet pride made her defiant. She was not a coward; she would not turn and run. She had as much right to be there as any of them. She would find a seat and take some refreshment and the devil take them if they didn’t like it. So Janna forced herself to keep on walking past the crowded tables until, mercifully, she spied an empty stool at the back of the room.