Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (6 page)

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.

The alewife appeared from the brewhouse behind. She paused at the door to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. She bustled over then and looked Janna up and down, mouth pursed in disapproval.

“I bid you good day, mistress,” Janna said, continuing in a rush before she lost her nerve, “bring me a jug of your good ale, if you please.”

The alewife didn’t budge. Quickly, Janna produced a token and slapped it down on the rough wooden tabletop.

The woman waited until Janna produced another token. Then she nodded, slipped the tokens into a purse at her waist and disappeared through the crowd. Janna wondered if she’d ever see her again. She stretched out her legs and leaned back against the rough plastered wall of the alehouse, glad to rest as she waited to see what would happen next. Realizing that they would get no fun out of her, the other patrons of the alehouse stopped their stares and resumed talking among themselves and flirting with the harlots.

Janna relaxed further when a wooden bowl was shoved in front of her. The alewife filled it from a leather bottle, the liquid sloshing over the brim. Janna muttered her thanks and bent over to slurp up a mouthful so that she could then lift the bowl without wasting any more ale. The alewife kept on circulating around the tables, refilling and clearing as she went. Janna wasn’t sure if the woman had taken against her because she despised her, thinking her another whore come to do business in the alehouse, but if so, Janna didn’t care. She was determined to enjoy her drink. She lifted the bowl and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls.

She smacked her lips, savoring the cool liquid as it slipped down her dry throat. She swallowed again, and then again more slowly, holding the ale briefly in her mouth as she thought about its taste. Janna helped her mother brew their own ale from the barley and herbs growing in their garden and, like most villagers, they broke their fast each morning with ale and a hunk of bread. She sipped again. The difference was subtle, but it was there: this ale was flavored with some different herb. It was not nearly as sweet as their own ale, for Eadgyth tended to have a liberal hand with the honey, but was there something else added that gave this ale its different flavor?

Janna sipped and sipped again, trying to decide what it was that left the faintly unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth. Could it be that the water used by the alewife was not quite so fresh as the water Eadgyth always insisted that they collect from the most swiftly flowing stretch of the river for their own brew? In the past Janna had grumbled about having to carry the water some distance in heavy buckets, but she thought now that the effort was worthwhile if it made such a difference.

Having analyzed the ale to her satisfaction, Janna sat back to survey the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she found that a couple of the drinkers were known to her. She wondered if Fulk the apothecary was among the crowd, but after a careful scrutiny she concluded that his new patient must be keeping him occupied up at the manor. She just hoped he was not undoing all the good her mother had done.

In need of diversion, she began to listen to the conversations going on around her. To her surprise, almost the first thing she heard was a reference to herself.

“…the
wortwyf’s
daughter. I’m told she’s grown into a real beauty.” The man gave a grunting laugh, unaware the subject of his conversation was listening in. “I’d be more than happy to take her on, if it wasn’t for—” He stopped abruptly as his companion gave him a hard nudge and jerked a thumb at Janna. Undeterred, the man turned to wink at her before taking a thirsty swig of ale.

Janna looked away, not sure whether to be amused or upset. She knew that Torold the blacksmith was recently widowed, and had a number of motherless children. No wonder he was in the market for a wife. She wondered what stopped him from approaching Eadgyth to speak of the matter. “If it wasn’t for…” What? The priest’s denouncement of her mother? Eadgyth’s reputation for shape-shifting and communing with the dead? Or was it because of Alfred, the devil cat who lived in their home?

“…on his way to Babestoche Manor.” Another voice came to Janna’s ears. “Did you see him, Eadric? Anyone would think he was King Stephen himself, mounted on that big black horse of his.”

Janna shifted her stool closer to the speaker, eager for news of the handsome stranger.

“Does he come to rally support for the king?” Eadric was a dark, ill-featured man who seemed to be taking no pleasure from either his companion or the drink in front of him. “Does trouble come our way?”

“I think he comes only to visit his aunt, Dame Alice. He is quite often at the manor.”

“I hope you speak the truth of it, for if he has come to raise an army for the king, there will be trouble.” Eadric gave a loud belch, then patted his stomach. “His liege lord, the abbess, must surely side with the empress, not the king. After all, the Empress Matilda’s mother spent part of her childhood here at the abbey.”

“But the abbess risks everything if she supports the empress. If Stephen can arrest Bishop Roger, throw him into prison and seize his palace at Sarisberie, he most surely can arrest our abbess if she supports the wrong side. Mark my words, the abbess will put the abbey’s interests first and go with the king. But you are right: if my lord Hugh comes to raise an army, there
will
be trouble.”

“Why?” Eadric plonked an elbow on the table and leaned forward. “What do you know of Dame Alice’s nephew then? Where does his allegiance lie?”

“I had it from that traveler, him with the fancy leather goods for sale, that he has witnessed the lord Hugh in the company of Earl Robert of Gloucester.”

“Then that makes him the king’s man.”

“No, it does not.”

“But Earl Robert has pledged his allegiance to the king.”

“That was after the king seized the throne, but the earl has since changed his mind. After all, he’s half-brother to the empress. ’Tis said he’s now Matilda’s strongest supporter and the leader of her army.”

“So, if our fine lord is here on Matilda’s behalf, he’ll likely be clapped in irons and handed over to the king.” Eadric smirked. It was the first time Janna had seen him smile.

“Aye, that’s what I told the traveler. But his uncle, Robert of Babestoche, is the king’s man.”

“Is he, though? Are you sure of that?” The two men buried their faces in their beakers of ale and drank deep as they considered the question. Eadric’s friend was the first to put down his pot and voice his concern. “’Tis a fact that Robert of Babestoche hasn’t traveled even as far as Sarisberie to pay homage to the king, so who knows where his loyalty lies? Or ours, for that matter?” He cast a quick look over his shoulder to check whether any had heard his words, for they could be construed as treason. Janna quickly averted her gaze and instead studied her hands as if red, chapped skin and ragged nails were the most important things in her life.

Eadric drained his beaker and set it down with a determined thud. “I don’t care who supports what, so long as the fighting don’t come any closer,” he said. “I’ve heard tell there’s terrible hard times for those who are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whole villages burned, crops and beasts destroyed, people murdered in their beds or left to rot in dungeons. Tortured, even.” He shuddered. “May the king, his ambitious cousin and those murdering barons keep as far from us as the moon itself, that’s what I say. The devil can take them all!” He pushed his stool back and stood up, then lumbered slowly out of the room, followed by his companion.

So the stranger’s name was Hugh and he was Dame Alice’s nephew. Janna sat back, finding more questions to replace those that the drinkers had already answered. When had Hugh been seen with Robert, Earl of Gloucester—before or after Matilda’s half-brother had changed sides? Were they in agreement or at odds over the king? And what was his true purpose in coming to the manor? A small shiver of fear ran down her back at the thought that he might be running into a trap. Hastily, she consoled herself with the notion that Robert of Babestoche must have his mind on more urgent matters than affairs of state, like the birth of his new son and the health of his wife.

The crowd in the alehouse was thinning now as, refreshment taken, people went outside once more to bargain, buy or sell. Janna heard the bells ring out, and counted them: one, two, three. It was time for her to change her market tokens into good silver, and go.

On the way home, preoccupied as she was with questions about Hugh, and the more pressing matter of her father’s identity, Janna almost walked past the mill, but, recalling her errand of the morning, she turned aside and went to the door to collect the bag of flour promised her by the miller’s wife. Hilde was not there, but the miller was, and he smiled a welcome as he noticed his visitor. Stockily built, he had the fair hair and beard typical of Saxon men. Some women might find him irresistible, Janna thought, as she noted his cocky demeanor, but for herself she’d rather keep company with Godric—or even Hugh! The thought of the handsome stranger brought a rosy blush to her cheek. Hastily, Janna tried to compose herself. “I…I have come for the bag of flour promised me by Mistress Hilde,” she said.

The miller stood by the door, unmoving. His smile grew broader.

“I left the usual crock of honey and some ointment for Mistress Hilde in return for the flour.” Janna waited, wondering why he did not answer.

He made no move to fetch the flour, but instead let his gaze roam over Janna’s body. “I believe I hold the toil of my labor more dearly than my wife does,” he said at last, and stepped closer. “However, I am sure we can come to an arrangement agreeable to both of us.” Before Janna had time to move, his hand was at her breast. He stroked her shrinking flesh through the fabric of her kirtle.