Janna thrust her anxiety aside and tried to join in the conversation around the dining table, for the family was at dinner once more, and again her father had joined them. In his presence, Blanche and her children smiled at Janna until their faces must have ached. All the same, Janna appreciated their efforts, although she was more than surprised when Blanche suddenly cleared her throat and made an announcement.
“Today, we have special fruit pastries to finish our repast,” she said, beckoning a serving lad bearing a tray of sweetmeats. “I ordered them myself, for I wanted to demonstrate to you how much we welcome and value your presence, my dear daughter.”
Janna swallowed hard, forcing down a gurgle of disbelief. John beamed his approval at his wife, who turned a sweet smile on Janna. “This is for you, my dear.” She indicated one of the honey-glazed pastries, which was slightly larger than the others and had a baked pastry heart on top as a decoration. “Please give that one to Mistress Johanna,” she instructed the servant, who obediently slid the sticky confection in front of Janna.
Janna’s mouth watered. She loved the taste of honey, relished its sweetness. At this time of the year it was in short supply. She wondered that Blanche would squander both honey and the dry fruits that had been marinated to make the filling, but felt unduly grateful that her stepmother was putting on a brave face and making a show of affection. “I thank you, my lady,” she said.
“Surely, Johanna, you may call your stepmother ‘Maman’ now that she has gone to such lengths to welcome you as our daughter?” her father said.
Janna almost choked. She noticed that Blanche looked as horrified as she felt. She could not deliberately flout her father’s wishes, but made a silent vow that never, while she still had the ability to draw breath, would she ever think of Blanche in the same terms as her own mother. True, she wanted her father to love her as if she’d always been his daughter, as if he and her mother had made a life together and she had come along to complete it. But Blanche would never be a part of that, nor could she ever take the place of Eadgyth.
“As you wish, sire,” she said demurely, without committing herself to anything.
“And you should call me ‘Papa.’ I am your father, after all,” John added.
“Yes, Papa.” Janna was delighted. For the first time since she’d approached her father, she felt not only acknowledged, but also loved.
Blanche was eating her pastry with gusto, and even Richildis, Janna was pleased to note, had taken a dainty bite of the sweetmeat. Suddenly impatient to taste it, she raised it to her lips and quickly licked away a few droplets of the honey glaze that threatened to spill onto her gown. She was about to bite into the confection itself when she caught the faint whiff of an unpleasant odor. It seemed familiar, but for the moment she couldn’t place it. Buying time, she lowered the pastry and tested the taste of the honey on her tongue. Beneath its sweetness lay something else – something that Janna did not quite trust. And now that she was looking at it, the honey glaze on her pastry looked somewhat different from the others; it seemed thicker and darker.
Blanche was watching her carefully. Janna didn’t have the courage to question her openly, so she took a bite, held it in her mouth, and raised her napkin to her lips to dab the stickiness. Under cover of the napkin, she spat out the mouthful and lowered the cloth to her lap while pretending still to chew and swallow. “Delicious,” she lied, smiling at Blanche. “Thank you for this lovely surprise.”
Blanche’s little whippet was snuffling under the table, scavenging for scraps as usual. Instead of offering a taste of her sweetmeat to her dog, as she usually did, Blanche held out the pastry to her son, who’d already demolished his own treat in two swift bites. “Giles, dearest,” she cooed, “would you like some of Maman’s fruit pastry?”
With Blanche’s attention elsewhere, Janna quickly scooped the remaining pastry shell into her napkin and dropped it on the floor. It was an instinctive reaction to danger; she hadn’t considered the consequences until a smacking noise revealed that the dog had found the pastry and was wasting no time devouring this unexpected treat. Janna’s conscience pricked, slightly assuaged by the thought that she wasn’t sure there was anything wrong with it. In fact, she rather regretted her hasty action. Blanche certainly seemed happy enough to share her portion with her beloved son. She would never do that if the pastry had been tampered with.
But perhaps it’s just my portion. Janna remembered the heart that had marked her pastry from the others – the heart that was meant to show love but might mean just the opposite. She peered surreptitiously under the table, relieved to find that the little dog had curled up at its mistress’s feet, seemingly replete. She gave a wry smile, happy to admit she’d been wrong. It really had been a gesture of good will and she had been stupid to be so suspicious.
And then it came to her. The smell! There’d been an old woman in their village who had suffered dreadfully from crippled, twisted joints. Her mother had made up a rubbing lotion of hemlock to give the woman relief from pain, giving her also a solemn warning never, ever to taste the lotion, for it would kill her. Which wasn’t quite true, Eadgyth had told Janna later, for the tiniest amount of hemlock taken internally might relieve pain, but it was too great a risk when even a small amount could prove fatal.
Janna peeped under the table again at the dog. Was it asleep? Or dead? Hemlock, Eadgyth had told her, caused paralysis before death. Janna knew of no antidote and could only hope that she herself had not consumed a fatal dose. She flexed her fingers and toes, testing their mobility. All seemed to be in working order, although she wondered if she felt a little giddy. She looked around the table at the watchful Blanche, and at the girls, who were sharing a joke with their brother and father. Blanche would expect some reaction, Janna realized, and would also take great care to stay away from her so as to maintain an air of innocence. The thought spurred her to action.
“May I be excused from the table, Father?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she ran from the solar. She wasted no time in going to the sleeping quarters that Blanche shared with John. Fortunately the servants were all in the hall having their own dinner, and there was no-one to witness her actions as she commenced a thorough search of their room. She knew exactly what she was looking for: a phial of rubbing oil designed to ease aching joints – and at the same time rid oneself of an unwanted heir to the family fortune.
The knowledge of just how much she was hated seared her heart; she felt panicky as she understood that Blanche would not give up trying once she realized her first attempt had failed. All that could save Janna was evidence, and truth. She wondered what her chances were of finding either.
There was no trace of a phial in the room, and Janna was wondering where else to look when she became aware of the hullabaloo outside. The door burst open and a weeping Blanche was escorted in by John. She jerked to a stop when she saw Janna.
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” Janna said steadily, although she could guess only too well.
“My little dog. My Fleur. She is dead! You have poisoned her!” Blanche burst into hysterical tears once more.
“Come, my dear.” John patted his wife’s hand. “You mustn’t throw such accusations around, not without proof. And I am willing to vouch for Janna’s innocence in what has just transpired.”
“Innocence?” Blanche’s voice rose to a shriek. “How can you say that girl is innocent? Didn’t she try to poison us all with that sauce! And when that failed, she poisoned my little Fleur in revenge. You yourself said she has a knowledge of herbs from her mother, a knowledge that must include those that are harmful as well as those that heal. And she has put that special knowledge to use, husband, for none of us know of such things. Oh!” Blanche gave a deep shudder and clung tighter to John. “You must send her away, and quickly, before she tries once more to poison us all!”
“S
ire – Papa, I am innocent of this, I swear it!” And yet Janna knew full well that she was not. She could have stopped the dog from eating the dropped pastry – if she’d been sure enough of her suspicions. But she was not, and consequently the dog was dead. And wasn’t she glad, after all, that it was the dog who had died and not herself? She drew a breath, summoning all her courage to speak out.
“I didn’t eat the pastry because I thought it had been tampered with,” she said, keeping a careful eye on Blanche to gauge her reaction.
“I saw you eat the pastry!” Blanche retaliated. “And you enjoyed it, as did we all!”
“That was pretence. In truth, I spat out the mouthful and dropped it and the rest of the pastry under the table – and your little dog found it and ate it instead.”
“What lies are these! See, husband, how she insults me, how she turns my welcoming gesture against me to her own purpose.”
Janna waited, hoping desperately that her father would give her his support, or at least defend her against Blanche’s accusations. But he did not. Instead, he gave a deep sigh and said, “Lie down, my dear, and I will order a tisane to help you compose yourself.”
“Make sure you keep her away from its preparation,” Blanche instructed, with a venomous glare at Janna.
John nodded. “What you have said has given me much to think about, and we shall talk again when you are calmer.” He did not look at Janna as he added, “Come, daughter, come away with me now.”
“You must send her away from us forever,” Blanche’s voice hissed across the room. “I shall never feel safe unless you do!”
Close to tears, Janna followed her father out of the room. All the love, the trust that had been slowly building between them, had been destroyed by Blanche’s accusation. If only she could have found the preparation and shown it to her father. Any apothecary would confirm what Janna herself knew: that the concoction was beneficial for aches and pains, but poisonous if swallowed. On an impulse, she asked, “Do you or Dame Blanche suffer from aching joints at all, Papa?”
“No, I don’t, and neither does my wife. What are you suggesting, Johanna?”
Janna knew a moment of blind panic as her theory crumbled to ash. “A rubbing oil containing hemlock may be used to relieve aches and pains. It may also be used in a lotion to treat tumors and ulcers,” she added hopefully.
“I believe my wife recently sought advice from an apothecary here in Winchestre for a sore that wasn’t healing as it should.”
“And would you know where she kept the preparation for it?”
“There was a phial. I believe it came with a warning of some sort.” John’s eyes sharpened as he scrutinized his daughter more carefully. “Is that what you were looking for in our room?”
Janna hesitated, not having courage enough to openly accuse Blanche. Finally, she said, “I thought I could smell hemlock on the pastry. It has quite a distinctive scent. And it is very, very poisonous.”
“Are you accusing my wife of deliberately trying to poison you?” John’s voice rose in disbelief. “Jesu, Johanna!”
“Hemlock gives great relief when applied to sore limbs, and to ulcers and swellings,” Janna said steadily. “I know not how it found its way onto the pastry I was given, but I do know that it causes paralysis and then death if ingested – and the dog died after eating my pastry.” She looked up at her father, trying to mask her distress. “I swear on my life I didn’t mean for the dog to die. I just thought the pastry was tainted in some way and I didn’t want to eat it.”
“Come with me.” Abruptly, John whirled toward the stairs, taking Janna down and across the courtyard and into the kitchen. All activity stilled in his presence and, after a quick look around, he beckoned the cook forward with an imperious finger.
“Those fruit pastries,” he began.
The nervous cook immediately interrupted him. “I hope they were to your liking, sire? Dame Blanche was very particular as to their making, and stood over us to watch that we did everything just so.”
“Did you see my daughter here during their preparation?” John pointed a finger at Janna so there could be no mistaking his meaning.
The cook hesitated, perhaps trying to work out an answer that wouldn’t get him into trouble. “No, sire. That is to say, I have seen her here before – but not today.”
“And once the pastries were ready?” Janna asked quickly. “What happened to them?”
“They stayed on a tray right here until the servant took them in to you.”
John nodded thoughtfully. Janna felt a great relief that the cook’s testimony must surely clear her from suspicion – while calling the actions of Dame Blanche into question. But it seemed that John was not prepared to lay any blame on his wife.
“So anyone could have tampered with them between the time of their preparation and their serving,” he mused. “Thank you.” He removed a coin from his purse and, after leaving instructions for a tisane to be made up for Blanche, he pressed it into the willing hand of the cook and shepherded Janna from the kitchen.
As they crossed the courtyard once more, they were hailed by one of the bishop’s guards, who hurried forward and dropped to his knee in front of John.
“Pardon my interruption, sire, but a messenger has arrived, and he wishes to speak to you. He appears lowborn, but he would not tell me even his name, nor would he state his business. He says only that he must speak to you in private, and that the message is urgent. Do you wish to see him?”
“No, indeed. Tell him I can’t see him now.” John waved an impatient hand, unwilling to be distracted from the problem of the little dog’s death and his wife’s hysterical accusations. He strode on, but Janna paused and looked toward the gateway in the hope of glimpsing the servant.
“Did the messenger say where he was from?” she asked the guard, curious as to the contents of the message he brought.
“No, my lady. He would tell me nothing at all.”
A sudden suspicion prompted Janna to probe further. “Did he ask to speak to Bishop Henry before he asked for my father?”
“No, my lady. He asked only for your father.”
“Tell him my father will not speak to him. Ask him if he will speak to me instead.” She was taking a huge risk and knew it might well rebound against her; she would have to proceed carefully. She watched the guard return to the gate, while her mind raced through the questions she might ask in order to protect herself.
She’d become increasingly worried by the reports coming from Oxeneford of the empress’s misfortunes. The bishop was still away from Wolvesey, said to be with the king, his brother, at Oxeneford. Stephen’s troops had blockaded the castle, preventing any supplies from getting through. Everyone knew that the empress was trapped inside with her entourage. It was a matter of speculation how long they could hold out before they were starved into surrender. What intrigued Janna was why a lowly servant should demand to see her father. If the message was from her father’s steward, he would have come in person to speak with him. If the message was from the bishop or the king, the messenger would have traveled in style to deliver it. But what if the message was actually from the beleaguered empress? That was what Janna intended to find out, if she could.
She watched thoughtfully as the guard approached, dragging the man along with him. Persuading him to divulge the message to her was only the first hurdle she must overcome. Because, if the message was from the empress, she would not allow it to be delivered to her father until she had first ascertained where his loyalty lay. Not for anything would she deliver this man to his enemy, and with the same stroke destroy all the empress’s hopes of escape.
If that was what the message was all about. But what miracle could the empress hope for from her half brother? Janna was tempted to change her mind and dismiss the man after all. Yet she remained in the courtyard, waiting for him. She admired the empress and had always supported her bid for the crown, even when that loyalty had brought her great personal grief and anxiety.
She could not give up now, not if there was something she might do to persuade her father to give the empress the help she so desperately needed.
The man was travel stained and looked exhausted. A deep wound, seeping with a yellow matter that indicated it was not healing properly, marred the side of his forehead. Janna could see no sign of a mount. Doubt crept in, for surely the man would have been given a horse – or might even have stolen one – if the message was as urgent as she supposed.
“Have you traveled here on foot?” she asked as he approached her.
The man hesitated. “I was ambushed on the road and my mount and pack were taken, my lady,” he said at last, perhaps believing there was nothing incriminating in admitting this much at least. He touched his forehead and winced.
“Is that when you suffered your wound?”
“Yes, my lady.” He hesitated. “I was lucky that I was found by a traveling packman, for I was out of my senses and incapable of walking. He took me to the nearest village and there I was looked after until I was well enough to make my way here.”
“And where have you traveled from?”
The man shook his head, wincing again at the movement. “I have orders to speak only to Sire John.”
“And my father will not speak to you, for he is busy at present,” Janna said impatiently. “So you have a choice: either you speak to me, his daughter, or your message goes undelivered.” She did not say straight out that she was prepared to help the empress if he would only answer her questions. She waited for him to say something, but he stayed obstinately silent. Maybe there was some other way to make him speak? As a first step she dismissed the guard. If her suspicions were correct, the messenger would not want someone in Bishop Henry’s employ to overhear anything he might have to say.
Day of Judgment: The Janna Chronicles 6 Page 4
