Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (20 page)

Not daring to turn her back on them, she felt behind her for the door latch. She watched them steadily all the while, for although they’d quietened, she knew that if she presented her back to them they would attack her like the cowardly animals they were. She must get away from them while she could and hope that, if she was not there to provoke them, their tempers would cool and their senses return along with the light of morning.

Janna snicked the latch, pushed the door open behind her and, in a quick movement, stepped back and slammed the door shut once more. For safety, she dragged her mother’s heavy chair against it. For added protection she donned her girdle and slipped the knife inside her purse. If they came for her, she would be ready. She collapsed onto a stool, breathless and trembling with fear as she waited to find out what the villagers would do next.

A low muttering came from outside, buzzing like a swarm of bees. A voice was raised, and quickly hushed. The words had been indistinguishable. Janna wondered if Hilde was being taken to task for her actions. A man laughed then, the sound drifting off into silence.

It was quiet outside now, too quiet. Surely she should hear their footsteps, the sounds of crunching leaves and snapping twigs, if they were returning to Berford? The silence made Janna uneasy.

Smoke. Smoke and the thin crackling snap of burning tinder. She stood up to inspect the fire in the center of the room. A thin plume coiled upwards from a log which, even as she watched, crumbled and fell away into ash.

Janna settled back down on the stool and tried to calm her frightened spirit, but a new worry came into her mind. How would she manage if she could not trade her skill and knowledge of herbs in return for the goods she needed in order to survive? She would have to set aside more of the small piece of land in order to grow extra wheat. She would also have to grind it herself in the future. It was another task added to a burden already too heavy to bear. She drew a deep breath, weary beyond endurance.

Smoke. Janna looked at the dying fire. The crackling of burning wood was louder now, the smell stronger. Tendrils of smoke seeped through small cracks in the mud and straw daub that sealed the wooden frame of the cottage. Aghast, Janna noticed flickers of light as flames began to lick and burn through timber. The cottage was on fire, and she was trapped inside.

“God rot your souls until Doomsday!” she shouted, hoping the villagers were still outside to hear the curse. She hated them with all her heart. What had she ever done, how had she harmed them to make them turn against her like this? But now was not the time for curses and questioning. The cottage was on fire, the flames all around her. She must act, and quickly, or she would be burned alive.

She pounced on the heavy chair and dragged it away from the door. The door was alight now, and the surrounding walls with it—she was surrounded by a ring of fire. Terrified, she made haste to save what she could, quickly casting about for Eadgyth’s precious weighing scales, but the room was filling with smoke, making it hard to see. It stung her eyes and tore at her throat and she began to cough. The sound was growing louder, roaring in her ears as the fire took hold. Hungry tongues of flame closed in on her, licking up the wooden cottage and its contents.

Janna put her hand over her nose and mouth in a vain effort to filter the choking smoke that billowed around the room. No time to save anything, she must flee for her life. But where was the door? She peered about, trying to fathom its direction from the furniture, but her eyes were watering and the smoke was too thick now to make out anything at all.

In panic, she stretched out a hand and blindly stepped forward. Her boot jarred against a heavy object. She touched it, felt its shape. The chair! She’d moved it to the right of the door, but the door itself was burning. In sudden hope, she turned to the window, but it was too small; she would never fit through.

Janna knew that if she didn’t get out right now, she would die. She cast about in search of the pot of vegetable soup. Her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled, missed, then at last managed to pull the pot off the hook. She dashed the contents over herself.

The smoke was suffocating, she could hardly breathe. The rushes had caught alight now; fiery rivulets snaked across the ground toward her. She had to go. She sucked in a breath and held it fast. Using the cooking pot as a battering ram, she ran at the door, smashed it wide open and raced through. The scorching breath of the flames stung her as she passed, but she was out and running for her life.

The air was cool and fresh. She was safe. She doubled over, coughing and choking, whooping for breath as she tried to suck in enough air to feed her starved lungs. She smelled the stink of scorched hair and her scalp smarted and stung. Her hair was on fire! Shivering with shock and fright, she undid her girdle and purse, then ripped off her wet kirtle and wrapped it tight around her head in a desperate effort to smother her smoldering hair.

She looked through the trees at the incandescent pyre that was once her home. She began to retch. She heaved up all she’d just eaten in painful, agonized gasps, vomiting until her stomach was empty. Finally, when the spasms had passed, she straightened and looked about her. Desperate and distraught, she watched the fire destroy what was left of her life, everything she knew and everything she had shared with her mother.

Was she still in danger? She stood still, listening for sounds of the villagers. Had they stayed to admire their handiwork or had they fled to the safety of their own homes like the cowards they were? It was difficult to hear anything above the roar and crackle of the flames, but Janna detected no movement close by. She strained her eyes to see if anyone lurked in the outer darkness, but all seemed still and quiet.

The animals! Caring nothing for her own safety, Janna snatched up her girdle and the purse with its few precious coins from the marketplace, and ran around the side of the burning cottage to the pen that housed the goats and hens. She could hear an anxious bleating as she came closer, and felt an overwhelming relief that the goats were still alive. “Get out, get out!” she urged, as she unsnicked the catch that kept the gate closed.

They huddled together, too fearful to move. “Shoo!” Janna ran at them, forcing them to move apart. The hens cackled and milled about, in danger of being trampled to death by the frightened goats. “Shoo!” Janna’s voice shrilled high with terror. She flailed her arms to scare them into action, and at last the goats ran through the opening and out into the garden, followed by the hens. “Shoo!” she shouted again, urging them to the forest and freedom.

As soon as she was sure they were on the move, she raced ahead and dived into the sheltering trees. The villagers wanted her dead. If any of them were still about they would know that she had survived, and would need to silence her lest she tell anyone of their deeds this day. She wriggled into a bushy thicket and rolled flat onto the ground, trying to become invisible in the darkness. After a few moments, during which she gathered up her last remnants of courage, she raised her head and peered cautiously about.

The cottage still burned fiercely, the fire casting its light in a wide arc. Janna watched the scene intently, alert for any movement or sound that would betray the presence of the villagers. How delighted they must be by the success of their mission to drive her away. Her eyes smarted from the heat and smoke, and her skin stung where the fire had scorched her. She blinked hard and stifled a sob as she continued to watch. But she heard no voices; she saw no signs of life. No-one had been brave enough to stay and witness the destruction of her home and her life.

Sparks broke free of the blaze and floated through the air. Fire fairies, Janna thought fancifully, until she noticed that a stray spark had alighted on a clump of leaves close to where she was lying. The leaves were smoldering, could easily flare out of control. Janna jumped up and stamped on them, extinguishing the danger. But the smoking vegetation had awakened her to the hazard she faced. It would be stupid, she thought, to save herself from a burning cottage only to die in a forest fire instead.

She could not seek the safety of the fields in case some of the villagers were still on their way home, so she forced her trembling legs to run deeper into the forest, ducking branches and bushes, tripping over flints and into unexpected hollows, pushing her way past brambles that caught her clothing and scratched her skin, until she reached a wide clearing. Believing herself safe at last, she collapsed onto a patch of grass.

The burning cottage had set the sky alight, the fiery glow shining above the trees. There was no escaping the horror of her loss. Numbly, Janna kept watching as the leaping flames gradually sank lower. It came to her that she was still clad only in her short tunic. She unfastened the damp and singed kirtle, shook it out and put it on, her fingers catching in holes where the fire had burnt it right through. Even though it was in rags, it would give some protection to her bare arms and legs and safeguard her modesty.

She had cried all the tears she could cry. Now she felt achingly empty and sad as she assessed her situation. She had no way of earning her keep in the future. She was an orphan. There were no family or friends to help her; indeed, the villagers hated her enough to destroy the only thing she had left: her home, with all of its memories. Janna clenched her hands as a new emotion swept through her, filling her with a white heat so strong it drove out all fear and loneliness. It was rage; an anger that blazed as hot and as blinding as the sun.

Impulse bade her run to the village and demand justice. She might still have some support there; not everyone had come out to the forest this night. Caution told her that it may only have been fear that kept the other villagers away. If forced to choose, they might not have the courage to go against others whose hatred of her was so great they didn’t care that she might die when they set fire to her cottage. After some consideration, she came to the conclusion that it would be better, for the moment, if everyone thought she was dead. Let the villagers think they had succeeded in their purpose. At least it would stop them coming after her before she had a chance to flee.

But until she could find some way of bringing the villagers to justice, and her mother’s killer along with them, she had to find shelter. Where could she go? South to the sea? No, she wanted to put the protection of the forest between her and the villagers. She could not go east to Wiltune, for she was known there. Nor should she go west; from what Godric had told her, she’d never find the ancient way through the forest that would lead her to safety. North, then? There was a track right through the forest to Wicheford, so she’d heard, but she’d never gone so far before. She would be walking into the unknown.

Janna found the thought reassuring. If she knew no-one it would mean that no-one would know her. She would be able to beg for bread and shelter in safety. She knew she should leave tonight so as to put as much distance as possible between her and the villagers. But she was tired, so tired! Everything hurt, body and soul, while her spirit felt utterly crushed. She was surrounded by the dense, secret fastness of the forest. Surely it was dark enough for shelter, for safety? Tonight she would hide here, she decided. Tomorrow would be time enough to start her new life.

Wearily, Janna sank down onto a soft bed of grass and leaves beneath the comforting branches of a spreading beech.
I can’t stay here; I need to climb up and away from danger
. It was her last thought before her eyes closed in utter exhaustion and she fell fast asleep.

Janna sat up with a jerk, awoken by the melodious warbling of blackbirds and puzzled by the leafy roof above her head. Her heart did a somersault as she recalled why she was sleeping out under the trees. A shudder shook her to her core. She was cold and she was wet. She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands in despair. She had to think, to make a plan for the future even though there seemed to be no future at all for her. It was true she couldn’t stay here, but even if she found her way to Wicheford, what would she do there, how would she survive?

Something felt different. She explored her scorched and tender scalp with careful fingers and felt stubble, all that was left of her burnt hair. Yet not all of her hair was gone, she discovered—she still had a few long locks where sparks hadn’t fallen. She shed her wet kirtle to examine her arms and legs. Bright pink streaked her skin where fire and brambles had branded her. She reached for her kirtle. The front was burnt so badly it was beginning to disintegrate. As she dressed, she comforted herself with the thought that at least there was no-one around to see her body through the ruined fabric. Her first task, then, must be to find something else to wear. She could not make her journey dressed like this.

She stood up, and slowly found her way back to the edge of the forest. Lowering clouds shrouded the dawning of a new day. There was still a hint of rain in the air, a fine sifting that added to Janna’s misery. She knew she should flee the forest before anyone was out and about to notice her, and understand that she had survived the fire. Yet all her instincts bade her go back to the cottage one last time. Like a wounded animal, she needed to return to her lair. It made sense to see if there was anything left among the detritus that she could salvage, perhaps some medicaments to trade along her journey, wherever that might take her. She might even find something to replace her tattered kirtle. At the very least, she should wash away the ravages of the fire from her skin.

The misting rain kept Janna shivering in the cool early morning as she hurried to the blackened ruin, all that was left of her home. Yet the rain was providential, for it had dampened the fire and prevented it from spreading through the forest itself. If only it had rained sooner, some part of the cottage and her life within might have been saved. As it was, the stench of the charred remains hung in the air.

Keeping a sharp lookout for unwelcome visitors, Janna went first to the herb garden in the hope that some of her precious plants might have survived the inferno. A small heap of burnt bones and charred feathers lay among the ashy remains of a lifetime’s work. Laet, Janna thought sadly. In the race for food, and everything else, the little hen had always come last. She looked away from the devastating scene.

“Nellie! Gruff!” she called. There were no answering bleats, but Janna took comfort from the fact that there was no sign of burnt goats in her garden either. Hopefully they were happily foraging in the forest. Soon enough someone would find them, and the hens too, and give them a home.

The hives had burnt through, leaking precious honey onto the ground. “I’m so sorry,” Janna told the bees, although she knew that none could be alive to hear her. They would not have survived the heat and smoke. Feeling empty and despairing, she walked on through the herb garden. The fire had taken everything, leaving only mounds of ash and black stalks to bear witness to a lifetime of toil. There was nothing to salvage, no warm milk or eggs to fill her empty aching belly, no sweet herbs or honey to ease the hurt, no balm to replace a shattered life.

Desolate with grief, Janna wandered slowly through the damp, charred mess back to the remains of the cottage to inspect its contents. Their precious chest, which had contained a change of clothing and some warmer wear for winter, had burnt right through. Their meagre bits of furniture—the table, stools, her mother’s carefully crafted chair and cushions—were all reduced to ash. So were the bunches of dried herbs, the sachets of powders and pills. Clay saucers and jars had crashed to the ground when the shelf had burned through. While most were smashed, a few pots had survived the fall and their contents remained intact. Yet all the medicaments in the world could not cure the pain in her heart, Janna thought, as she inspected these few pitiful remnants. She kept searching through the debris and found the hard flint and small piece of steel. Amid the devastation of the fire, the means to start it had been saved. With a wry smile, she secreted them in her purse. Should she need to keep warm, should she be lucky enough to find something to cook, being able to light a fire would come in handy.

She crouched among the ruins. Carefully, she began to sift through soggy, blackened fragments, the remnants of her life. Mostly they fell apart as she handled them. Some were recognizable: shards of jugs that had shattered in the heat; a tin basin, warped and buckled and now unusable. A faint gleam caught Janna’s eye. Eadgyth’s scales! Eagerly, she uncovered them. They were blackened by the fire and twisted beyond repair. Heartsore, she left them lying and turned her attention to the iron cooking pot. It lay close to where the door had been. Janna peered inside the pot and was delighted to find scraps of charred vegetables stuck to the bottom. She ate them. They tasted foul, but she was hungry and had no notion of where she might find her next meal.

A rough patch of earth caught her attention. It looked as though someone had dug a hole and then covered it over. Puzzled, Janna stared down at it, mentally picturing the cottage and its contents. The straw pallet she shared with her mother had completely burnt away, but this was where it had once rested. Could her mother, the keeper of secrets, have hidden something of her past there? Janna’s breath came faster at the thought.

She pulled the knife out of her purse and began to dig. The earth was already softened from the rain, and loosened easily. Encouraged, Janna’s pace quickened. The earth sprayed about her as she dug deeper. The blade hit something hard, jarring her hand. Cautious now, she felt around the object and then carefully lifted it. A small tin box with a clasp. It was not locked.

Janna’s hands shook as she lifted the lid. The first thing she saw was a silver ring brooch studded with multicolored gemstones. She gasped with pleasure and surprise. Why hadn’t her mother ever shown this to her? She turned it over, and frowned at the inscription engraved on the back. It meant nothing to her. Carefully, she set the brooch aside.

Underneath it was a piece of parchment. She picked it up and unfolded it. It was covered with writing. Janna stared at the symbols on the page, wishing she could read. Where had her mother come by these things, and why had she hidden them? It was all very strange.

A distant memory came to Janna. She was very young, just learning to talk. She was standing outside the cottage. Eadgyth had a stick in her hand, and was tracing letters into soft sand with it. “See, Janna,” she’d said, “see how you write your name. Johanna.” As she said the letters, she pointed to the symbols scratched into the sand and sounded them out.

“Janna,” Janna had repeated obediently. She had picked up the stick then and tried to copy her mother’s writing. But it had proved difficult, and she had thrown the stick down and started to cry. Her mother had done nothing further that day, but some months later she had patiently tried again, and then again, encouraging Janna to write and write and write the letters of her true name so that now she could do it without trouble, without even having to think about it.

Janna had spoken the truth when she’d told Hugh she could write her name, but that was all she could write. Her mother had never taught her how to read, or to write anything else. Why? Janna frowned at the lines of writing on the parchment, trying to make it out. She could see a J and there was an N, and some Os and an A and another A—but they were none of them joined together in a pattern that she recognized, and they had strange symbols in between that she did not know at all. If her mother knew the letters of her name, surely she must have known some other letters too? If she could read and write, why did she not teach her daughter all her skills, instead of only the skills of healing?

Janna gave an exasperated sigh as she stared into the distance and once more pondered the secrets her mother had insisted on keeping hidden from her. She was well aware that Eadgyth had thought it best to tell her nothing of the past, and keep her safe by marrying her off; Janna wished rather that her mother had told her the truth and trusted her judgment instead. By steering her toward marriage and a lifetime of drudgery, her mother had cheated her of her heritage, had kept her both innocent and ignorant of who she was, and where she might find her father.

Now, with her mother dead and her home gone, she knew she was free to go wherever she wished and have the adventures for which she’d always longed. So why, instead of feeling excited about the challenges ahead, did she feel so lonely and bereft?

After a few moments’ thought, it came to Janna that this was where she belonged, for 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 lay ahead, no-one could ever replace Eadgyth in her life. Janna felt 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. And yet 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. She turned her attention once more to the parchment. Was it a message from someone, perhaps even her father? Excited, she stared at the symbols, desperate to fathom what they might mean. 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 suddenly stopped, frozen into silence. 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 colorful gems that 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? To one side of the swan was a beast with a tail, 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 lifetime. She cast her mind around all of their acquaintances, but could think of no-one who knew her mother well enough or was wealthy enough to give her such a keepsake. But 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. She peered into the hole to see if there was anything else to 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 might it 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. And then it came to her: 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! Janna’s heart flipped in excitement. Could this be Cecily’s missing gift? From what Janna had seen of the tiring woman’s circumstances, it seemed unlikely that she could have had such a costly gift to give. So 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 shut her eyes, but could not blank out the images of Hugh with his arm around Cecily’s waist, and his tender care of her at the graveside. If Hugh really was the father of Cecily’s unborn babe, then the matter was between the two of them. It was nothing to do with her.