Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1

by Felicity Pulman

  Whatever Godric was looking for, he seemed pleased with the result for at the end of his inspection he stood up and looked around. It seemed to Janna that he stood taller; he seemed straighter, more confident. He called her name once more. His voice rang out loud and clear, startling a pair of blackbirds. They squawked and fluttered their wings before settling once more.

  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 she’d observed 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 must flee the wrath of the villagers as well as the murderous intentions of those who feared her knowledge. She had to leave, had to flee as fast and as far from this place as possible. She felt a piercing shaft of sadness at the thought. Nevertheless, she longed to see him one last time, to say farewell and to thank him for his care and his concern.

  A glance at her kirtle confirmed her decision. She didn’t want Godric to see her in rags, with her hair all but burnt to a stubble; 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, stifling a cry as bare skin touched a patch of stinging nettles. She stayed hidden, and breathed a silent prayer of relief as he moved away in a different direction.

  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 quite sure he had gone, Janna slid out from her bushy cover. She straightened cautiously. 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 down 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 and waited until the water had stilled. She looked down at her reflection.

  What a fright! Carefully, she washed the smut and ash from her face and hands before dipping her 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 left among the singed stubble. She had no cap or veil to hide the bare patches and to leave it as it was invited ridicule and comment; she would have to cut her hair short, so that it was all of one length.

  She drew the knife from her purse. Pressing her lips together to contain her distress, for she had been proud of her long, fair locks, she began to hack into them. As she cut, she remembered the admiration in Hugh’s dark eyes when first they’d met. He would not look at her again, not after this!

  “’Tis better so,” Janna reminded herself, for her safety depended on the fact that everyone, save one, must believe her dead. She stared at her reflection in the dewpond, at the drying blond wisps that fluffed around her head like the halo of a saint. No chance now of anyone’s admiration –not when her hair was shorn even shorter than a youth’s!

  Could she perhaps pass herself off as a young man? She considered the thought. It pleased her greatly. People would have less chance of recognizing her if they thought her a boy. As a young woman, alone and defenseless, she would always be at risk; she would be much safer in disguise, especially up at the manor where at least one person had even more at stake than the villagers in wanting her dead.

  Janna gathered up the incriminating bits of hair and hurried back into the forest to bury them. She must leave no sign of her activities for Godric, or anyone else, lest they suspect what she was about. She looked down at her kirtle. She needed men’s garments, but she could not use the few pennies she had from her sales at Wiltune market to trade, for that would expose her to the world. What was she to do? Janna came to the reluctant conclusion that she would have to steal some clothes to fit her new identity. She remembered the horse barn up at the manor house. Inside, on a peg, hung a smock and breeches, no doubt some poor serf’s Sunday best, kept for church and special occasions. She would take them while she was there. She’d never stolen anything in her life before, and balked at the thought of starting now, but she had no choice. Without proper attire she could go nowhere. Dressed as a youth, she would be free to roam wherever she chose.

  She would rather have gone to the manor under cover of night, but there was no more time to lose. She could not take the usual path across the fields, for she would be seen and recognized. Instead, she would have go through the forest to get there. Janna knew she had no chance of finding the ancient Roman road that Godric had told her about, but she didn’t have to go too far into the forest to be safe from prying eyes. She could stay close to the tree line, away from wolves and wild boar yet close enough to the river to maintain her bearings. Once she’d talked to Cecily she could make her escape, for the longer she delayed, the more peril she faced. Not knowing the true reason for the destruction of her cot, Godric would surely tell everyone that she had survived the fire. And they would come looking for her again, all of them, for they could not risk her witness against them for their night’s treachery and their destruction of abbey property.

  She walked back to her hiding place and pulled out the box and bottle. She didn’t want to carry them with her, for they were awkward to hold. Yet she must keep the bottle; she needed it to confront Cecily. What about the box? Janna opened it once more and stared at its contents, feeling a frisson of excitement as she picked up the ring. It was a link with her father, she felt certain of it. She slipped it onto her middle finger, imagining the hand of her father, the finger that had once worn this ring. It was far too large for her. As she tilted her hand, it slid off. Janna tried it next on her thumb, but it looked ridiculous. Finally, she unlaced her purse and placed the ring inside, adding to it the precious piece of parchment and the brooch with its strange inscription. Then she knelt and buried the empty box under the bushes. It was time to go.

  She steeled herself to take a last look at the remains of her home. Resolutely fighting tears, she whispered goodbye to her childhood, and to her mother. She had planted rosemary on Eadgyth’s grave and had sworn an oath to remember her. She had vowed to seek the truth, and make whoever was responsible for her mother’s death pay with their own life. Now Janna understood so much of what had happened, she began to understand that vengeance was impossible. She was alone and an outcast, now more than ever before. She had not the power to bring anyone to justice. It was a bitter realization, made worse by the knowledge that she must flee the village. Her mother’s grave would stay untended, probably even defiled by those who would take out their fear and hatred on the dead if they could not take it out on the living.

  Janna thought about the ring and parchment in her purse. A glimmer of hope lifted her spirits slightly. She wasn’t quite alone, and she might not be utterly powerless either. Aldith had described her father as wealthy and important; he could even be a Norman nobleman. Should she try to find him? Would he welcome her? Those questions were less important than the central question, however: if she did find him, could she convince him to act on Eadgyth’s behalf? Could she convince him to come back to Babestoche Manor and bring to justice those responsible for Eadgyth’s death?

  She had to try. As soon as she finished her business at the manor, she would go in search of him. No matter how long it took, she would do all in her power to find him. Although she had to leave her home and everything that was familiar to her, she resolved that, in time, her journey would lead her home again. And by then, she would have changed. No longer a powerless victim, she would have the authority of her father behind her and everything would be different. She knew not where he might be, did not even know which direction she should
take. She could only start the journey, and hope that she might find guidance along the way.

  First, though, she must brave the manor and hope that her wits were enough to save her from the danger that awaited her there. And so she set off along the edge of the forest in the direction of Babestoche.

  Chapter 13

  It was after noon by the time Janna left the last of the forest cover and stealthily made her way down to the manor through a field of sheep. They stared at her with incurious eyes as she hurried past. A new problem had presented itself. Would someone be guarding the gate during the daylight hours? What might she say to the gatekeeper should her way be barred? An urgent message from the shire reeve for the lord of the manor? No, the reeve would not entrust an important message to any other than one of his deputies. He would certainly not give instructions to a serf. Perhaps she could say she was in need of urgent assistance? No again, for why should anyone care about her welfare?

  Janna sighed. Somehow she must gain admittance, preferably without anyone seeing or recognizing her. As she approached the entrance gate, Janna saw that it was open. She sidled closer; the gatekeeper had his back turned, seeming far more interested in his dinner than in a bedraggled young woman. She scuttled past, her arms folded across her chest to hide the worst of the burns in her kirtle. Keeping her head down, hoping to avoid recognition, she hurried on to the shed where Hugh’s destrier had been housed, and where the smock and breeches had hung.

  Once safely inside, Janna stopped still and held her breath, listening for sounds, be they animal or human. Soft scuffling and rustling told of the presence of mice and rats, and perhaps even a cat. Janna felt a moment’s sympathy for the cat’s quarry. She knew, only too well, how it felt to be hunted. No soft neighs to greet her this time, or even the chink of a bridle. To Janna’s relief, the clothes still hung where she’d seen them. She swiftly stripped off her kirtle, then unhooked the smock and pulled it on. It was stiff with dirt and sweat and smelled strange. It was also far too big for her. She stuffed her kirtle down her front, to conceal it and also to change her shape. She tied her girdle underneath the bulge to keep the kirtle in place, and hitched up her smock so that it wasn’t quite so long. No matter that her purse still dangled from the girdle; so too did men hang objects from their belts.

  The clink of coins gave Janna an idea. She took out a silver penny and dropped it under the hook where the smock had hung. It would be noticed when the villein searched for his missing clothes. Janna felt sure that he would keep it without telling anyone of his good fortune, save his family perhaps, for he might spend it to their benefit. With her conscience somewhat eased, she pulled off her boots, then unhooked the breeches and pulled them up. They immediately fell down in folds around her ankles. Janna looked more closely and discovered a cord through the waistband to keep them up and in place. She pleated up the rough homespun and tied the cord tight, but they were still far too long for her. After a moment’s thought she rolled up the bottom of each leg so that she could walk without tripping over. It felt strange to be wearing a man’s breeches. Janna kicked out, marveling at her new freedom of movement. She could stride out now; she could even straddle a horse and ride it without showing ankles and legs. It seemed that there were other advantages to changing her sex.

  She stepped back into her boots while she pondered the next problem: how to approach Cecily. Dressed as she was, she could not march boldly up the stairs of the manor house and demand admittance. Some other trick was called for. Cecily would not come to her so she must go to Cecily, and find a way for them to meet in privacy and safety. Janna decided the best approach was through the kitchen. She was about to leave the barn when a gorget with a pointed hood caught her eye. She snatched down the short cloak and put it around her shoulders, then pulled the hood down low. It was meant for winter wear, but it would shield her from prying eyes. Thus clad in her new garments, Janna strode out of the barn to practice her new identity.

  Before braving the cook, Janna went first to the garden to seek lily or mallow to soothe the burns that still stung her scalp and limbs. As she searched for what she needed, a scullion came out to pick vegetables for the evening meal. The girl stopped short in surprise when she noticed Janna. Giving her no chance to speak, or to raise the alarm, Janna approached her.

  “I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” she said quickly, making her voice deliberately low both to disguise it and to mimic the speech of a youth. “I’ve come with an urgent message for Mistress Cecily. Is she at the manor? Is she well?”

  “Yes. Yes, she is here. And she is quite well.” The scullion looked surprised. She tried to peer under the hood for a better look at the messenger.

  Janna’s worst fear was over. She took a quick breath, relieved that she had not come too late. “I am a stranger here; I have no knowledge of the household. Will you take the message to Mistress Cecily for me?”

  “Who is it from?” The scullion continued to stare suspiciously.

  Janna tipped her head down. The hood fell lower, now covering most of her face. “From…” She was about to say a name, but suddenly understood the danger she courted if she’d miscalculated, or if her message went astray. “From someone who would not give me his name,” she amended quickly. “He saw me about the manor grounds, and bade me ask Mistress Cecily to meet him. My instructions were to find an excuse to seek her out and speak to her alone, so that no-one else might hear what I say. Can you do that for me?”

  “Certes; I shall tend the fire in Dame Alice’s bedchamber. Where does he say they should meet? And when?” There was a smile of anticipation on the scullion’s face. It was clear she suspected an assignation and took great delight from the notion.

  “He will be waiting for her in…in the shed over there.” Janna pointed so that there could be no misunderstanding between them.

  “The stable where the lord Hugh keeps his steed?”

  Janna nodded quickly. “Yes, indeed. Ask Mistress Cecily to come just as soon as she can get away. And tell her to make sure that no-one sees her leave.” Janna was happy to fuel the girl’s feverish imagination. It seemed more likely that the message would get through if the scullion thought it a romantic tryst. “Go to it,” she urged, conscious of time passing. There was no time to waste, for soon enough the workers would return from the fields. Yet the maid lingered, perhaps hoping to hear more. “Hurry!”

  As soon as the scullion was out of sight, Janna collected what plants she needed. She went back to the stable to wait for Cecily, and to treat her wounds. The juices from the roots and cool leaves soothed her skin, but nothing could soothe her mind. Her worries increased as time passed. Where was Cecily? Had the scullion not delivered her message after all? What if the girl had taken fright and instead had given the message to Dame Alice or, even worse, Hugh or Robert?

  The barn was dark. She’d closed the door to give herself privacy while she applied the salve to her burns. Did the closed door make Cecily think that whoever waited for her had gone? Janna was about to open it when she heard the clink of the latch. She hastily snatched up the gorget that she’d thrown aside in order to minister to her sore scalp, and pulled the hood down over her face.

  The door creaked open. A woman’s form stood in silhouette against the brightness of the open doorway. With a swift movement, the woman pulled the door to and stood still. “Are you still here?” she called softly.

  Janna knew a moment’s triumph. The scullion had delivered the message, and Cecily had come. This meeting must answer everything, for there was much to tell and also much to discover. She was sure, now, that she knew the truth behind her mother’s death, but it would place her in the greatest danger if she’d got it wrong.

  In the silence she heard Cecily call again: “Is anyone here?”

  Janna made a movement toward her. Cecily heard, and whirled around. “Have you changed your mind? Please, please tell me that—” She stopped short. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to block further speech. Her eyes,
startled and uncomprehending, examined Janna, who pushed back her hood, then took off the gorget. Cecily showed no recognition but kept on staring.

  “It’s Janna,” Janna said helpfully.

  Cecily backed away and crossed herself. “You!” she whispered. “I thought you were dead and buried.”

  “I’m not.” Janna offered her an arm. “I’m real enough. Give me a pinch.”

  Cecily reached out and nipped fabric and skin together with a tentative touch. She gave Janna a shaky smile. “You seem real. Yet we were told that your cottage has burned to the ground, and that you perished within it.”

  “I’m not dead—but only you are to know that,” Janna warned.

  “I don’t understand.” Cecily inspected Janna with wide eyes. “The priest has just come to tell us that you died in the fire.”

  “And did he also tell you that he, Lord Robert and the villagers all blame me for the baby’s death, and that’s why my cottage was set alight, with me in it?”

  “No!” Horrified, Cecily stared at Janna. “The fire was an accident!”

  “Like my mother’s death was an accident?”

  Cecily flinched. “The reeve told the priest a stray spark from your fire must have set the floor rushes alight.”

  “And I’m telling you that it was the villagers who set fire to my cottage. I know, because I was inside! They accused me of killing Dame Alice’s baby, and they told me to leave. Who do you think might have incited them to take action against me?”

  “I can’t say,” Cecily whispered. “All I know is that my lord Robert went with the priest to report the baby’s death to the shire reeve, and to make preparations for a requiem mass. My lord said that the priest told the villagers you had given the baby a physic shortly before the child died. He was concerned for your safety, he said, because the villagers were exceedingly agitated and alarmed when they heard what had happened, particularly in view of the priest’s belief that your mother was in league with the devil. My lord assured us he’d done his best to calm them and allay their fears.”