Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup (8 page)

Yet Dame Alice had quickly put Fulk in his place when he’d tried to suggest that Eadgyth’s potion might have killed her. Janna took some comfort from that, but knew that she must also use her own persuasion to counteract Fulk’s accusations.

‘My mother was always careful with her mixtures, sire,’ she said. ‘I have never known her make a mistake, not ever. Besides, if the mistake lay in my mother’s potion, it would be Dame Alice lying dead now, not …’ Janna swallowed hard, unable to finish her sentence.

‘What you say makes sense. It may be that you speak the truth of the matter.’

‘Then what happened to my mother? She was perfectly well when I last saw her. There must be a reason for … for …’

‘I’m sorry, Johanna, I really don’t know. All I can tell you is what I saw towards the end, after Jeanne, one of ma dame’s tiring women, came in search of Fulk and Robert. I was with Robert at the time and I accompanied him to Alice’s bedchamber for I am her kinsman and so have great concern for her wellbeing. It is fortunate I was present, for Robert fell into such distress when he entered the bedchamber that I thought he might lose his senses altogether. His face blanched of all colour; he trembled as if with the ague. We thought his wife was beyond all care, you see. It took some moments before we realised that, in fact, it was your mother who was taken ill. Dame Alice insisted that Robert send the groom to fetch you. He stayed to reassure and comfort her, while Cecily looked after your mother. She gave her water and washed her clean, but alas, nothing seemed to help.’

‘And Master Fulk? What did he do?’

‘He sent Jeanne to the kitchen for one of his possets. Really, he did his best to help your mother.’

Janna made a rude noise at the back of her throat, knowing that Fulk’s best wasn’t worth a dirty straw. She looked up at Hugh and struggled to put her suspicions into words. ‘Did my mother say anything of what ailed her before she died?’ She didn’t believe for one moment that Eadgyth had been affected by one of her own mixtures, yet something unexpected had caused her mother to die so quickly and in such distress. Perhaps her mother had said something, left some clue?

‘Let us ask Cecily. She may have spoken to your mother while she tended her,’ Hugh said, as the young tiring woman entered the hall in company with the steward she had been sent to fetch. He beckoned her forward and she hurried towards them. Janna plaited her fingers together and squeezed them hard as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. She could not give in to grief, not yet. She needed all her wits to find out the truth of her mother’s death, and all her courage to get through it.

‘My lord?’ Cecily bobbed a knee in front of Hugh and waited, her eyes cast down in humble submission. Full of gratitude and forgetting her place, Janna took the young woman’s hands in her own. ‘Thank you, mistress,’ she said. ‘Thank you for taking the time to ease my mother’s passing.’

Cecily nodded, not speaking. She was much younger than the other attendants, Janna realised. In fact, Cecily looked no more than a year or so older than Janna herself. She had delicate features, set in a heart-shaped face which was framed by a cloud of dark hair. For all that she must be highborn to be a tiring woman to Dame Alice, she seemed afraid. Janna wondered why.

‘Can you tell us, did the herbwife, the healer, say anything before she died, Cecily?’ Hugh asked the question before Janna could, and she was glad of it for surely the girl would respect him and so would answer more truthfully. Janna felt a rush of warmth towards him as she realised he had called her mother a healer, acknowledging her mother’s true worth.

Cecily stole a quick glance at Janna, then looked downwards. ‘Mistress Eadgyth complained of feeling cold,’ she whispered. ‘She said her lips felt numb. She could barely speak or swallow. It was hard to hear her, and to understand her words, but she said your name, Johanna. She called also for a monk, I suppose to give her absolution before she died.’

A monk? Janna frowned, utterly rejecting the notion. If her mother had known she was dying, if she’d wanted absolution, she would have called for the priest. Even that seemed unlikely, given her mother’s reaction to him at the first and only service they had attended when the new church opened at Berford, when she had turned her back on the priest and walked out of his church, dragging Janna behind her.

‘Thank you, Cecily.’ The tiring woman bobbed a curtsy and hastened back to the bedchamber. Hugh shot a glance of concern at Janna. ‘Come.’ He put his hand under her arm and propelled her down the stairs and out into the night. The dark shapes of other buildings spread out before them under the star-filled sky. Janna hardly had time to wonder as to their purpose before Hugh hurried her on and into a small stone building set close to one side of the timbered palisade that enclosed the manor.

Two great fires, set along one wall, heated the room to an almost unbearable temperature. The cook’s sleeves were pushed up to her elbows; her face was red, dripping with perspiration. She was rolling pastry, pressing it down with hard, determined thumps of the rolling pin. A rich scent of food flavoured the air: fresh bread, and the smell of stew from a cooking pot hanging over one of the fires. A joint of beef was being turned on a spit by a scullion who crouched beside the second fire, sweating heavily as he laboured. In spite of her distress, Janna’s mouth began to water.

The cook paused in her labours, as did two maids and a young boy who was busy washing vegetables. They all stood to attention as Hugh came forward, propelling Janna ahead of him.

‘This is Johanna, daughter of Mistress Eadgyth the
wortwyf
,’ he introduced her. ‘Treat her kindly for she’s had a great shock. Her mother has died most suddenly and unexpectedly. Give her a hot drink and find her a pallet and somewhere to sleep tonight.’ To Janna he said, ‘You shouldn’t be alone. Stay here and I’ll escort you home in the morning. You’ll need to make burial arrangements with the priest in Berford, but I can help you with that.’

Why was he being so kind? Janna didn’t know, could only feel grateful for his understanding and care. ‘Thank you, sire,’ she whispered, and bobbed a curtsy. He nodded to her and left the kitchen.

At once everyone relaxed. But they did not go back to their labours. Instead they crowded around, staring at Janna as if she’d come down to them from the moon.

‘Don’t think you can come in here and start telling me what to do like your mother did.’ The cook was the first to speak. She smeared huge floured hands down her stained apron in a vain effort to clean them, then stuck them on her hips to confront Janna. ‘Giving me all manner of strange berries and roots and ordering me around in my own kitchen. “Boil this, soak that,” as if she was Lady Muck of the Manor herself.’

‘In truth, I do believe the
wortwyf
’s mixtures helped Dame Alice,’ one of the kitchen maids ventured timidly. The cook flashed a glare in her direction.

‘Not according to Master Fulk! Now there’s a gentleman. We were in absolute agreement over what was needed to help ma dame. In fact, he paid me many compliments on my preparations.’ She shot a triumphant glance at Janna. ‘Master Fulk threw out your mother’s vile potions and ’tis just as well he did, seeing as the woman has now died by her own hand.’ She shook a fat finger under Janna’s nose. ‘You’ll not brew any concoctions in my kitchen while you’re here,’ she warned. ‘I’ll be watching you.’

Janna drew in a breath, almost too indignant to speak. ‘I’ll not stay here to be watched,’ she retaliated. ‘My mother was quite well when she left home this morning. Who is to say it’s not something from
your
kitchen that has poisoned her!’

The words were out before she’d thought them through. Poison! Yet Janna knew instinctively that she’d spoken the truth. Her mother must have been poisoned; there was no other explanation for her sudden and untimely death.

The cook’s face flushed dark red. She drew herself up, large bosom heaving so hard it seemed she might burst through the fabric of her kirtle. ‘How dare you!’ she spluttered. ‘I keep a fine kitchen and a fine table. My lady has told me so herself.’ She picked up a twiggy broom and gave Janna a hard poke in the chest. ‘Get out of my kitchen! I’ll not stand here to be insulted by an ill-bred brat like you!’

Janna retreated. The cook kept coming forward, jabbing the besom at her until she turned and fled out into the quiet night. Once outside, her steps slowed. She lifted her face to the cool night air, and breathed deeply, trying to settle her agitated spirits. Where was the gate? She looked at the bulky shapes of the buildings around her, trying to make sense of them, to remember the way in. From the smell, Janna judged that some of the buildings must be used to house pigs and other animals.

She spied the gatehouse then, and hurried towards it. To her relief, the gate was still up, and the gatekeeper was nowhere in sight. She scurried outside. Not for anything would she stay at the manor through the night.

She felt exhausted, shattered by grief, as she started the long walk home over the moonlit downs. Questions tormented her. Who and what had killed her mother? How had she come to die such a hard death? Janna drew a shuddering breath. Now was not the time to give in to sorrow. She must be strong. She must concentrate, ask questions, find answers. She would not rest until she had found out the truth.

Eadgyth would never poison herself, not even by accident. Someone must have given her poison; someone must be responsible for what had happened. Someone who held a grudge – like the apothecary, whose position at the manor had been threatened by her mother’s greater knowledge and expert treatment of her patient. Or Aldith, who must know that women – and even Dame Alice herself – would rather seek help from clever, knowledgeable Eadgyth than an ignorant village midwife.

Perhaps she should talk to Cecily again. She’d seemed fearful. Perhaps there was something she did not want to say in front of Hugh? Janna resolved to win her confidence and find out all she knew. She would also question the cook, who had run her out of the kitchen in spite of Hugh’s instructions to take care of her. Did the cook have something to hide?

No-one would believe her if she spoke her suspicions out loud, Janna realised. She must find proof before she could accuse anyone. So she would ask questions; she would not stop until she had discovered the truth and found the evidence she needed to bring whoever was responsible for her mother’s death to justice.

It was a solemn vow, one that Janna knew she must keep if she was ever to know peace of mind again.

T
HE JOURNEY THAT
had flown by on the back of a horse was long and frightening on foot. Spooked by shadows and plagued by dark suspicion, Janna felt shaken and sick at heart. As she came to the cottage she’d shared with her mother, she was surprised to find the door open. She remembered, then, her hasty departure. She walked into the cottage, half-expecting to find her mother stirring something over the fire, or perhaps drowsing sleepily in her fine chair. Grief shook Janna anew as she surveyed the empty room. She felt especially wretched as she recalled the last words they had spoken together.

She’d never been so angry, so outspoken before. Through her childhood she’d trusted and respected her mother’s wisdom and her skills with herbs and healing, and had been keen to learn all she could. It was only lately that she’d begun to feel constricted, to feel that she could do more with her life, and that there was much of the outside world for her to learn about and see. Now, when it was too late to explain how she felt, and make amends, she must live forever with the knowledge that she and Eadgyth had not parted on friendly terms. It was too late to apologise. Worse, it was too late now to learn the secrets of her mother’s past.

Hot tears welled in Janna’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She dashed them away, but they continued to fall until at last she crumpled down into the large chair and buried her head in a cushion to smother her sobs. Even though there was no-one around to hear her, Janna needed to hide the sounds of her own distress from herself. If she could smother her cries and pretend that all was as it should be, then perhaps life might continue as it had always done. The truth of her situation was much too huge and frightening to think about.

Janna cried until she felt sick. She had never, ever, felt so lonely as she did now. There was no-one she could talk to, no-one to whom she could turn for help. She cried until there were no tears left to shed. Exhausted, she blew her nose and mopped her sore eyes one last time. Then she stood up, knowing that she could postpone the future no longer. She would have to face it, no matter how bleak.

One day at a time, she thought to herself. But a day seemed too long and too hard; even an hour was too much of a trial.

Moment by moment then, at least for now.

Janna took up the tinder box and laboured to produce a spark from flint and steel, to ignite the kindling and start the fire going again. Light and warmth seemed a good way to begin the rest of her life. Her task accomplished, she glanced around the room seeking Alfred. She was surprised he hadn’t already come to greet her.

The cat was nowhere to be seen. Janna remembered her hasty flight, the open door. He would have escaped outside, delighting in the opportunity to go hunting at night. Janna felt a cold frisson at the thought that, in turn, the cat might find himself hunted. They always kept him shut in at night for that very reason. But Alfred was a survivor, just like the king after whom he’d been named. She went to the door. ‘Alfred!’ she called.

She listened intently, but there was no answering miaow. ‘Alfred! Tssss-sss-sss-sss.’ Silence, broken by the lonely hoot of an owl. Janna comforted herself with the thought that, like the owl, Alfred would be busy chasing field mice and voles and other small creatures, and stuffing his belly full of wild food. She looked into the silent forest, its silvered treetops, its dark and secret depths. The moon was low in the west. Soon a new day would dawn. Briefly, passionately, Janna wished that she could turn back time. She would rather face the boar without Godric than face the future alone.

Desolate and despairing, she called the cat one last time, searching the inky blackness for a gleam of silky fur. Through the noises of the forest she strained to catch any sound of the cat’s presence. The crunch of leaves made her heart quicken. ‘Alfred!’ she called again.

‘Janna!’

For one wild moment Janna wondered if the cat had answered her, until reason told her that even if Alfred could talk, he wouldn’t have answered with Godric’s voice.

‘Godric?’

He came towards her out of the darkness. ‘I’m so sorry to bring you bad news, Janna. Your mother has been taken ill up at the manor.’

‘Oh, Godric!’ She stretched out her hand to him, then hurriedly snatched it back as she recalled their parting words. It was not fair to encourage Godric to believe he had a chance with her. ‘News travels fast, it seems,’ she said warily.

‘You know about your mother’s illness?’

‘I’ve already been to Babestoche and back tonight.’

Godric looked surprised. ‘Everyone is saying your mother has been poisoned by one of her own potions,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’ve told them all that they are mistaken.’

‘Of course they are!’

‘But you have the knowledge and skill to aid her recovery, I am sure of it.’

‘My mother is beyond help, Godric. She is dead.’ Janna’s throat ached with the pain of saying it.

Godric drew in a quick breath of surprise. ‘I am so sorry, Janna. I am so sorry.’ Not giving her time to retreat, he threw his arms around her and held her tight. Secure in his embrace, Janna began to cry.

‘Sshh. It’s all right, everything’s going to be all right,’ he soothed. ‘You mustn’t worry, Janna. I’ll help you.’

Nothing would ever be all right again, Janna thought. With an effort, she broke free and wiped her eyes.

‘You’ve seen your mother? You are certain there’s no hope?’ he queried.

Janna nodded, unable to speak.

‘But this is so sudden! Was she ailing?’

‘No. I believe she was …’ Janna stopped abruptly. Should she tell Godric of her suspicions?

No, she thought, remembering the vow she’d made to herself. She would speak to no-one until she could prove the truth of her words.

‘She was …?’ Godric prompted.

‘… quite well this morning. You’re right. Her death was very sudden.’

Godric stood back so that he could study Janna more closely. Pity set his feet in motion. He walked into the cottage and fanned the fire into brightness. Once set, he added pieces of wood to keep it burning high. He put aside the vegetables then filled the pot with water from a bucket and hung it over the fire to boil. Then he poked about the few provisions set on a shelf close by. ‘You need a hot drink and something to eat,’ he said, and held up the leftover griddle cake. Numbly, Janna picked up a jar and pushed it forward. Godric inspected the contents, then pulled out his knife and spread the cake with a paste of honey and crushed hazelnuts.

‘Eat,’ he commanded.

Janna realised that, in spite of her misery, she was hungry. She gave Godric a shaky smile as she took the cake from him. She crammed a piece into her mouth and chewed, relishing its sweetness. He smiled back at her, and settled down on a stool beside the fire, sneaking glances at Janna as she ate. A soft rustle outside sat him bolt upright, straining his ears to listen.

‘What is it?’ Janna’s voice was indistinct through a mouthful of bread.

‘I heard a noise outside.’

‘My cat?’ Janna jumped up and went to the door. She peered out into the dark night. ‘Alfred?’ she called.

Godric stood up and looked over her shoulder. ‘Fluffy!’ he bellowed.

Janna was surprised into laughter. ‘He won’t come if you insult him like that,’ she said. They stayed by the door, looking out into the night. All was silent and still. There was no sign of the big black cat. Finally, Janna shrugged and sat down again. ‘There are always noises in the forest at night.’ She took a large bite from her bread, and began to chew once more.

Not satisfied, Godric ventured a few paces outside, searching for movement, for the source of the sound. But there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. He waited a few moments, then came back in and closed the door behind him.

‘A squirrel, a deer. It could be anything,’ Janna said indistinctly, still chewing.

Godric nodded, and settled down beside the fire once more.

Janna stuffed the last of the bread into her mouth. Too late, she wondered if Godric might also be hungry. There were only crumbs left now to offer him. She licked her sticky fingers, then jumped up to attend to the pot of water steaming over the fire. Glad to have something to do, she picked up the dipper and scooped water into two mugs, flavouring the hot drinks with crushed herbs and a spoonful of honey for sweetness.

Godric cleared his throat. ‘Janna,’ he said, and took hold of her hand. ‘I came to escort you to the manor house to see your mother. I’m sorry I arrived too late. Now that I know your mother is gone, I’m worried about you. You are so far from help, should you need it. We don’t know each other very well, but I wonder if you’d consider …’

‘Please don’t ask me to be your wife!’ Janna snatched her hand away. ‘I don’t want to marry you, Godric.’ The surprise on Godric’s face was quickly masked by a guarded expression that told Janna she’d hurt his feelings. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone – not yet, anyway,’ she added hastily.

‘I wasn’t going to offer marriage,’ Godric retorted. ‘This is certainly not the time for such a question. But it seems, from what you say, that I would be foolish even to consider such a thing.’ There was a rough edge to his voice. Janna deeply regretted her thoughtless outburst. Eadgyth always said that her quick tongue would get her into trouble, and she was for ever being proved right! But Eadgyth would never say such a thing to her again, Janna remembered. Utterly downcast, hardly knowing what to say to redeem the situation, she studied her boots intently.

Godric broke the silence. ‘I was actually going to suggest that you stay with my mother and me for a while. For your own safety.’

‘Oh.’ Janna couldn’t look at him for shame and embarrassment. ‘This is my home,’ she mumbled. ‘This is where I must stay.’

‘Then I’ll trouble you no further.’ His earlier warmth was gone, replaced by a cool courtesy. He set down his mug, stood up and moved to the door.

‘Thank you, Godric. I’m sorry if I –’

‘I thought we were friends, Janna. After last night and tonight, I hoped that one day we might become something more. A fool’s dream, I see that now. I shall not trouble you again.’ He walked out of the cottage and slammed the door shut behind him.

Godric had every right to be annoyed, Janna thought, remembering how she had clung to him, and how tenderly he had held her. She wished now that she had gone with him, but she didn’t want to give him false hope, nor did she want to be beholden to him and his mother. She didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. Even though it was frightening to face the world on her own, she knew she must get used to it. Only hours before she had longed for freedom, yet now it had come to her, and so unexpectedly, she shrank from it. She lay down on the straw pallet and pulled the covers over her head. If only she could sleep a little, things might look better in the morning. This thought was followed by a desperate wish: that she might wake to find that today was all a bad dream.

She closed her eyes. Tears began to flow once more. She sniffed and tried to wipe them away, but they continued to flow until, at last, she fell into a troubled sleep.