Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup Read online

  Hugh led the destrier out into the fading sunlight. This time, he placed Janna in front of him, sitting as decorously as any highborn lady. His arm came around her for support, and she leaned back against him as the horse proceeded on its slow journey across the downs. She was close enough to smell Hugh: a faint odour of sweat mingled with leather and horse. It was masculine, unfamiliar, exciting – and very unsettling.

  The ride seemed to last for ever, yet was over far too quickly. Hugh dismounted then reached up and put his hands around Janna’s waist. He swung her down from the saddle but kept hold of her, standing close. Janna trembled, and closed her eyes.

  His kiss was light and fleeting, but Janna thought there was warmth there too. She resisted the urge to cling to him, to kiss him back. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst right out of her chest. She took a step away, hoping that this small distance might keep her safe from him. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘For the kiss, or for bringing you home?’ His voice was cool, amused. He seemed not to feel the turmoil of emotion that had so unsettled her. The realisation strengthened Janna and gave her the courage to give him a light reply in turn.

  ‘I thank you for bringing me home, for it was kind of you to take the trouble. I feel sure kisses can be no trouble to you, for you must have bestowed kisses aplenty in your life, and to far more purpose than merely seducing a … a naive and ignorant child of the forest!’ A vision of Cecily’s tear-stained face flashed before her. She took another step away from him.

  Hugh laughed. ‘I have already admitted that I misjudged you, Johanna – but now you misjudge me! I always kiss to a purpose, but I only bestow kisses where they are wanted.’

  Now Janna wished she’d kept silent. She had no knowledge that he wished to seduce her! What must he think of her presumption? ‘I beg your pardon, sire,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sshh.’ He put a finger across her lips. ‘I understand,’ he murmured.

  There was a moment’s silence while Janna became aware of the dark forest, silent at her back, and the green fields spread before her, rolling down to the river and to Berford. She felt as if she was standing on a lonely precipice. She had no protection against Hugh should she fall, no protection for a heart that was in danger of being stolen – save the memory of Cecily’s sorrow and disgrace. She stood straighter and rubbed her mouth. It tingled where his lips had touched it. She longed for Hugh and feared him in equal measure.

  Perhaps he understood something of the storm of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her, for he moved away to untie the palfrey and bring it back to where the destrier waited. He remounted, then touched two fingers to his head in a casual salute. ‘Good night, Johanna,’ he said, and turned the horses towards Babestoche.

  THE COTTAGE FELT cold and unwelcoming, and very, very silent. Tears came into Janna’s eyes as she thought how different it would be if Eadgyth was home. The thought of what Eadgyth would say if she knew how Janna felt about Hugh helped to brace her and give her courage. ‘Turnip head.’ That’s what Eadgyth would call her, what she called Fulk and anyone else who got too puffed up with self-importance.

  ‘Turnip head,’ Janna repeated silently as she set about milking the goats and foraging for their food. But keeping busy could not disguise the fact that all her efforts to find the person responsible for poisoning her mother had failed.

  She remembered that Cecily had said she’d brought a gift. A flicker of interest stirred Janna into action. Where was it? Now she thought about it, she certainly couldn’t remember seeing anything unfamiliar about the place. She walked inside. She’d already searched through her mother’s medicaments; now she turned her attention to the rest of the small cottage. Her search didn’t take long. There was nothing to be found. Could Cecily have lied about bringing a gift? Or had she perhaps brought a cake, or something to drink with poison in it?

  Surely her mother would have kept such a thing to share with her daughter. They always shared everything. Janna looked about, searching for what she might have missed. But there was nothing there that she did not recognise. Nothing.

  Too agitated to rest, she walked outside again and paced about the garden, pulling weeds from among her herbs and nipping off dead leaves and flowers, creating order where her mind could find none. Why hadn’t she thought to question Cecily about her gift? A moment’s reflection told Janna that, if guilty, the tiring woman would have lied. If innocent – the gift would still be in the cottage, waiting to be found.

  Janna busied herself with tasks until it was too dark to see. Weary now, she came inside. Her agitated thoughts continued to weave webs in her mind yet she knew she could take the matter no further until she had another chance to speak to Cecily.

  She took up flint and tinder to light the fire, then stopped dead as a thought occurred to her. If Cecily had stopped her mother’s tongue to protect her secret, she might well take the same action against Janna! She would have to be careful dealing with the tiring woman – very careful.

  With a fire burning and an extra light coming from a peeled rush soaked in fat, Janna began to feel a little more confident. The hollow feeling in her stomach returned, and she realised suddenly that she was ravenous. She took up a knife and unlatched the door. She peered out, fearful of what, or who, might be lurking outside. Cecily wasn’t the only one who might wish her harm.

  All seemed quiet. No Cecily, or Hilde, or even a wild boar. Janna felt a crushing sadness as she recalled her angry accusation. Godric had risked everything to save her, and had then suffered her insults at the graveside. He was a kind and decent man, and she owed him an apology. Could he, would he, ever forgive her for thinking such ill of him?

  She bent to dig out some reddish purple carrots for the pot, adding a leek and some beans plus a couple of sprigs of marjoram. The herb would calm her troubled thoughts, as well as adding extra flavour to the pottage. The hens clucked around her. ‘Go and lay some eggs,’ she told them as she searched the empty coop.

  Once inside, she emptied the jug of water into the large cooking pot and hung it over the fire to boil. She gave the vegetables a careful wash before slicing them up. She threw them into the pot to cook, along with a handful of oats to thicken the stock. She should save the goats’ milk to make cheese, she knew, but she mixed a little in with some flour to bake another cake on the griddle.

  Pottage might not suit the lord and lady of the manor, but to Janna the hot food resembled a feast and she savoured every morsel of it. She set the pot aside and, with the ache of hunger eased, she blew out the rush light and lay down on the straw pallet to sleep.

  Tomorrow, she thought, I shall talk to Cecily again, and see if I can trap her into admitting what really happened between her and my mother. And I’ll tidy the cottage and sort through my mother’s possessions. A shaft of sorrow lanced Janna’s heart at the thought. To banish it, she kept on compiling a list of things to do. It hadn’t rained for some days; the soil where she’d dug out the carrots had felt very dry. She must fill some buckets from the dew pond to keep her garden alive and thriving. The floor rushes needed changing. She must go down to the river to cut some more. Resolutely, Janna added chores to her list. She must make cheese, and also more wax candles, perfumed creams, and balms and ointments to sell at the market. She must pick some more herbs and hang them to dry. She must …

  A sudden noise set her upright, ears straining to hear, eyes straining to make sense of the ghostly flickers of firelight cast by the dying embers in the centre of the room. Was that someone standing in the corner, watching her? Her heart thundered in fright. She stayed still, waiting for the phantom to move, to betray its real and living presence. She could hear breathing, loud rasping breaths that spoke of terror. It took Janna some moments to realise that the breaths were her own.

  Now she heard a voice calling her, the name unmistakeable. ‘Janna!’ Who could be visiting her at this time of the night? She bounded out of bed and pulled on her kirtle and boots.

/>   ‘Janna! Come outside!’ The command was followed by a furious knocking, so loud Janna thought the door might come down. It was a woman’s voice calling her, but she could not place it. Was someone in trouble? With some reluctance, Janna pushed the door open and stepped outside.

  A group of villagers faced her, the leader bearing a flaming torch held high so that his face was illuminated. With a shock of recognition, she saw that it was Wulfgar, the miller. He shook his fist at her, his face grim and determined.

  ‘What do you want?’ With an effort, she kept her voice steady. Sweat pricked her skin in the cool night air. She thought of the knife still lying on the table, and wished she’d remembered to snatch it up before opening the door. Alone and unprotected, she faced the villagers.

  ‘Murderess! Child killer!’ Janna peered into the darkness behind the lighted flare, able now to identify the voice. Hilde, the miller’s wife. She stepped out in front of her husband and shook her fist at Janna. Her face, savage and sneering, was lit by the flaring light from the torch. The rest of her was thrown into shadowed relief. With her swollen body and wild gestures, she looked like a huge and grotesque ogre.

  ‘Why do you say such things when you know they’re not true?’ Janna held her ground, determined to make Hilde explain her spiteful words.

  ‘Everyone says you poisoned the baby up at the manor. You took the life of a young and innocent child!’

  ‘Who says so?’ It took all of Janna’s courage not to flee inside and close the door on the group. She could see the hate in Hilde’s face, a hate which must be shared by all or they would not have come knocking at her door. What was their purpose?

  Once again, Janna remembered Eadgyth’s warning. ‘Never turn your back on a wild animal. Never let it see that you are afraid.’ But these were people – not animals! Yet, like sheep, they seemed to be following Hilde’s lead without question. Should she treat them like animals? Yes, if it ensured her safety!

  ‘Who says that I am a child killer?’ she demanded again, her voice loud to cover her fear.

  ‘The priest says so!’ An angry murmuring followed Hilde’s reply.

  ‘What reason does he give for these lies?’

  ‘You gave the baby a potion of your own concocting – and he died.’

  ‘My lord Robert and Dame Alice know that is not true.’

  ‘Fulk the apothecary told the priest that it was so.’

  ‘My lord Robert and Dame Alice know that I did all I could to save their child.’

  ‘Both the priest and Robert of Babestoche say that the baby died because of the poisoned physic you gave him.’

  ‘The baby died because he was too weak to live.’

  ‘Your mother died from drinking her own poisonous brew. And now you have poisoned the lord Robert’s newborn son.’

  ‘I gave him no poison! My mother’s elixirs have helped save the lives of your own children.’ Janna spread her hands out in appeal. Surely some among this small group must know that she was innocent, must be grateful for the healing she and her mother had given in the past? She looked at their faces in the flickering torchlight, trying to recognise who was there. Her heart quaked as she saw the anger and ill-will reflected by them all. Aldith was not among them, she noted. Nor was Godric. It was a relief that they were not here to accuse her, yet she would have given anything for a friendly face, for some support against these vile accusations.

  ‘Your mother’s death was a just reward for her godless ways!’ Ulf swaggered forward, a baby in his arms and the rest of his children straggling along behind him. It seemed he no longer thought of Janna as a potential wife, for he continued, ‘Just so should you pay for the death of a child with your own death.’ He spat at Janna. The glob of mucus landed an ant’s width from her toes. Alarmed, she jumped back out of his reach. He leered at her, his eyes hot and hungry, but Janna sensed that there was fear in them too.

  Acutely aware of the peril she faced, Janna spread out her hands in appeal once more. ‘I swear to you, I did not harm the baby. Nor did my mother. She was skilled with herbs, you all know that for you have all been helped by her in the past.’

  ‘She was a godless woman. Her death is a punishment for her godless ways!’

  ‘She was a good woman. And she believed in God as much as any of you.’

  ‘Why then would the priest not bury her in the churchyard? And why does he say that you, too, are damned?’ The miller came forward to stand beside his wife and Ulf. They were so close Janna could hear their breath, read the hostility in their eyes, and see the flecks of spittle around Ulf’s mouth. She would have retreated, but the door behind her was closed and there was nowhere else for her to turn.

  ‘The priest is ignorant. He does not understand.’ It was not, perhaps, the best thing to say in the circumstances, Janna realised, as she heard the hissing intake of breath. Better to change the subject, and quickly. ‘Why are you here? What do you want with me?’

  Now they watched her, silent and still. They were waiting for something to happen, just as she herself was waiting. Her heart raced harder; her breaths came short and shallow in her breast. She wiped her damp hands down her kirtle. ‘Why don’t you go home?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve heard your accusations. There is no more for you to do here.’

  Hilde grabbed the flaming torch from her husband and stepped closer, so close Janna could feel the hot breath from the flare. Her eyes were dark holes in her angry face. ‘You’ve killed a child. You’ve murdered an innocent babe! You’re a godless woman whoring after other women’s husbands. We don’t want you here. You’ve got to go.’

  Janna felt a burning anger as she faced Hilde, yet she knew she should not speak of what lay between them. She had to stay silent for her own sake. She turned to the other villagers. ‘I cannot go anywhere. I live here. This is my home,’ she said, pleading for understanding.

  ‘Go, and take that devil black cat of yours with you!’ The miller’s mouth contorted as he gathered saliva. He spat at Janna with a fine accuracy. With a shudder of revulsion, Janna wiped the mucus off her face, understanding that his action represented payback for the kiss she’d so painfully terminated.

  ‘My cat is like any other creature that lives and dies,’ she said coldly. ‘My cat once lived, but now it is dead.’ She looked at Hilde.

  ‘I saw the devil on our way up here, I swear I did,’ said Ulf.

  ‘I saw the cat too,’ Hilde chimed in eagerly. ‘It was playing in the shadows. Did you not see it?’ She turned to the other villagers for confirmation.

  Janna sucked in a sharp breath. ‘The cat is dead!’ she insisted, remembering Godric’s warning about shape-shifting. She would not give them a further reason to accuse her.

  ‘Then truly the cat is the devil, for I swear I saw it just moments ago.’ Hilde smiled as an uneasy muttering broke out behind her back.

  Janna knew a moment of pure, wild rage. ‘Do you carry a knife with you tonight, mistress?’ she hissed. ‘Would you use it on me as you used it on my cat?’ She turned to face the villagers, feeling sick as she tried to defend herself against their ignorance, and the hate and fear in their hearts. ‘My cat is dead. It was killed by Mistress Hilde,’ she said. ‘She came to my cottage in the night and saw me with the villein, Godric.’ Now she addressed Wulfgar directly. ‘She thought she was following you, she thought you were with me. To punish me, she slit my cat’s throat and tied it to a tree! She also threatened to use her knife on me if she saw you with me again. Pray tell me, who is the murderess here?’ She stepped forward and thrust her face close to Wulfgar. ‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Be very careful whose bed you lie on, lest your wife next uses her knife on you or your mistress!’

  Taking advantage of the stunned silence that followed her words, Janna turned to the villagers. ‘My home is here, far from the village. I will not trouble you, nor do you need to trouble me. Please go away.’ Not daring to turn her back on them, she felt behind her for the door latch. She watched them steadily all t
he while, for she sensed that if she turned her back they would attack her like the cowardly animals they were. Yet she sensed also that she must get away from them, for the longer she stayed to argue with them the more angry and determined they would become. She could only 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 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, then slipped the knife inside her purse. If they came for her, she would be ready. She collapsed onto a stool then, breathless and trembling as she waited to see what the villagers would do next.

  A low muttering came from outside, a 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, snapping twigs as they returned to Berford? The silence made Janna uneasy. Were they still outside?

  Smoke. Smoke and the thin crackling snap of burning wood. She stood up to inspect the fire in the centre 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 to her mind. How would she manage if she could not trade her skill and knowledge of herbs in return for the goods she needed to live? With the memory of Wulfgar came the realisation that, because of his crazed wife, she would have to grind her own corn in the future. It was an extra task added to a burden already too heavy to bear. She drew a deep breath, weary beyond endurance.