Pilgrim of Death: The Janna Chronicles 4 Read online

  She had known hunger and hardship, but not in the abbey. She gave a rueful smile as she recalled her early life with her mother, when everything they grew was either eaten or traded along with her mother’s potions and her skill in healing. Even so, they’d often been forced to roam the forest, risking discovery from the king’s forester while they hunted for nuts, berries and mushrooms, and the eggs from birds’ nests. Small creatures were trapped, and nettles, weeds and the wild seeds from hedgerows were gathered; anything edible to sustain them through the lean and hungry times. Now she might have to get used to that fare all over again.

  Grimacing at the thought, Janna hurried to catch up with the others. Winifred matched her steps, seeming determined to keep her company along the way. Janna looked sidelong at her companion, wondering what Winifred could own that she was so sure would guarantee her a place at Oxeneford – or elsewhere perhaps, for Winifred still hadn’t answered Janna’s question about her destination. Certes she must realize there would be no place for her at any abbey if she had no dowry to offer in return. She must have left – or run away from – her home with something of substance.

  From the position of the sun, Janna judged they were walking northeast, following a straight track across the downs. It was scorching hot, she could feel sweat pooling in her armpits, and wished she owned a broad-brimmed hat like the pilgrims. She longed to stop under a shady tree, preferably beside a river, for her throat felt parched and scratchy. Her new shoes were beginning to rub her heels and pinch her toes. Janna debated taking them off and walking barefoot, as once she used to do. But her year in the abbey, wearing either boots or sandals, had softened her feet. She decided to persevere for a little while longer.

  Having caught up with the group, she slowed down, letting Winifred walk ahead while she dropped back to keep company with Juliana. Master Bernard’s mother appeared to be walking with some difficulty. Janna had observed such a gait before, and knew it was caused by a stiffness of the hips that would become progressively more crippling. But the woman applied her long staff with vigor, using it to support her weight. It seemed a handy aid, and Janna decided to take time out at the next clump of bushes to cut a staff of her own.

  “God be with you, my lady,” she said. “My name is Johanna, but I am called Janna by all who know me.” She spoke once more in the Norman tongue taught to her by her mother.

  “I am Dame Juliana.” The woman surveyed Janna, taking good note of her appearance. “Those shoes will never take you all the way to Oxeneford,” she observed.

  “But I go only to the abbey at Ambresberie.”

  “Just as well.” Juliana turned her nose up and gave the air a contemptuous sniff. “A highborn lady traveling with no mount, and only the clothes you stand up in,” she muttered. “Why are you keeping company with us? Surely you have your own servants to escort you?”

  Janna felt a wry amusement that her clothes had so deceived the pilgrim band. “No, my lady, I have no servants,” she answered. “And I value your company for otherwise I would have to make the journey alone.”

  The old woman gave her a sidelong glance. “Hmph.”

  “You have come a long way,” Janna observed. “Did you find the journey very hard?”

  Juliana was silent. Janna wondered if she hadn’t heard the question. Unless she’d done something to offend the old woman? Her wrinkled face had clamped into a wary suspicion that left no room for friendliness. Janna was about to walk on when Juliana said, “We’ve been gone many moons, ’tis true, journeying by both land and sea. A merchant ship took us to the shores of Galicia and from there we walked the Camino, following the path of stars with other pilgrims.”

  “The path of stars?”

  Juliana pointed the tip of her staff upward. “The Camino is named for that path of stars that blazes its glittering trail across heaven every night. We followed it, as all pilgrims follow it, for it shows the way to the shrine of St James. ‘Santiago’ they call him over there, ‘Santiago of Compostela.’ But the correct name of the place where the saint lies buried is ‘campus de la stella.’ It means ‘the field of stars.’”

  Janna remembered some of her earlier concerns. “Where did you stay along the journey?” she asked. “Did you sleep in fields or find shelter at monasteries?”

  “Both.” Juliana’s mouth twitched into a malicious smile as she surveyed Janna’s finery. “If we found a monastery along the route we sought shelter there, but there were many times when we were forced to rest overnight in a barn, a cave, or a field. We have known hunger, thirst and great hardship along the way.” She gave Janna a disdainful glance. “It’s not a life you are used to, or that you will find comfortable, mistress.”

  Janna chuckled. “Do not let these fine clothes deceive you,” she said. “I have known more hardship than you can ever imagine.” She was about to ask the old woman if she considered her pilgrimage had been worthwhile, but decided her question might be considered impertinent. “Was it very wonderful, the shrine of St James?” she asked instead.

  “Truly wonderful.” Juliana’s face glowed in rapturous reminiscence. “A cathedral has been built to house his remains, which lie in the crypt below. Marble steps lead down to his tomb, which is a silver coffer, richly embossed. In truth, I was so crippled by the journey, and so exhausted when first we arrived there, I feared I had no strength left for our return. But I prayed to the saint to make me well, strong enough to undertake our journey home, for I fear that great ill will befall us, befall my son.” Juliana paused to cross herself. “We should look to our own souls, and leave justice to God,” she said, her voice so low that Janna could scarcely hear her.

  Janna frowned in bewilderment. Juliana’s words had the ring of prophecy, yet the countryside around seemed utterly peaceful, while the purpose of the pilgrims’ journey must surely put them on the side of the angels. Yet Janna had heard enough news from visitors to the abbey to know that peace was an illusion in this year of our Lord, 1141. Following the disastrous battle at Lincoln, England’s King Stephen was now incarcerated at Bristou castle. His cousin, the Empress Matilda, had gathered her supporters together and had marched to London to claim his crown, but it was rumored that she’d been put to flight by a horde of angry citizens led by an army of Flemish mercenaries who answered only to Stephen’s queen, Matilda of Boulogne. Despite this setback, it was widely thought that the king’s cause was hopeless and that this check to the empress’s ambition was merely temporary.

  “Think you that the civil war is not yet over, my lady?” Janna asked. “Do you fear that more fighting will come our way to upset our journey?”

  The old woman shot her a sharp look. “I know naught of that,” she muttered. “I listen only to a mother’s heart.” She bowed her head, looking old, tired, and suddenly vulnerable.

  Janna frowned, puzzled by the unexpected change in her companion’s demeanor. “Is it not possible for you to travel on horseback so that the journey will pass more quickly and easily?” she ventured.

  Juliana pursed her lips, then intoned:

  “Stand at the crossroads and look,

  Ask for the ancient paths,

  Ask where the good way is,

  And walk in it,

  And you will find rest for your souls.”

  Janna wondered if the words were her own, or had come from a book of God such as she had seen in the abbey. She didn’t like to show her ignorance by asking. It seemed clear that the text had sustained Juliana on her journey, and she wondered what the old woman had done in the past that she needed to find rest for her soul at the cost of such discomfort.

  “You look tired. May I help you in some way?” she tried.

  Juliana shook her head. Although the woman was looking at her, Janna had the feeling she couldn’t see her, for her eyes looked through and beyond her to something far away.

  Whatever Juliana saw there did not please her, for her lips thinned into a grim line. “You should not be here,” she said, “for death follo
ws you. You, and my son.”

  “Death?” Alarm sharpened Janna’s voice. “What do you mean?” But Juliana bent her head and would not answer.

  Janna walked beside her for a while longer, wincing as blisters rubbed deeper, stinging her feet. She became aware that Juliana was observing her once more, watching her limp along in her new shoes. She hoped the old woman didn’t think she was mocking her own gait. She quickened her pace, feeling too uncomfortable now to linger in the old lady’s presence. She crested a small hill, and caught sight of a thin ribbon of water coiling like a silver snake through green trees below. She swallowed hard over her dry throat, anticipating the pleasures of a long, cool drink.

  A sudden shout jerked her to a standstill. It was Bernard, hurrying back to the stragglers and gesturing urgently to one side. Janna noticed that the pilgrims ahead of her had already turned off the path, moving toward the river with its sheltering screen of trees. As Bernard came closer, she understood the reason why.

  “Riders ahead,” he panted. “Get off the road. Hurry now!” He caught hold of his mother’s arm and half dragged, half carried her along, hastily explaining his actions to Janna as she kept pace with them. “We live in uncertain times. Even the barons who are supposed to protect us are known to cut down anyone who stands between them and their lust for new land and castles. And their subjects follow their example, knowing they will not be called to account for their actions. We’ve heard several tales of travelers robbed and left for dead, so any bands encountered on the road are a source of concern. Come quickly if you value your life.”

  Catching his alarm, Janna quickened her footsteps. Once safe within their bushy cover, the pilgrims stood motionless, listening to the muted thunder of the horses’ hooves and waiting for the danger to pass. At last, when all was quiet, Bernard gave the signal to move on. Janna forged ahead, pushing her way through weeds and reedy grass, keen to slake her thirst as soon as possible.

  “You’re in a great hurry, Johanna,” Bernard observed as he caught up to her.

  “I’m hot and thirsty, Master Bernard.” Janna quickly wiped a strand of damp hair from her forehead and tucked it under her veil. She remembered then that she was no longer in the abbey and didn’t have to hide her hair. In fact, she didn’t have to wear a veil at all if she didn’t want to, but at least it gave her a small amount of protection from the sun. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “We’ve come off an ancient road that people hereabouts call the theod herepath.” Janna nodded, understanding that he meant the “people’s way.” “Ahead of us is the River Avon,” Bernard continued. Janna could not see the river now, but she could hear the cool sound of running water in the distance. She licked her dry lips in thirsty anticipation as she listened to Bernard.

  “Sarum, that the Normans call Sarisberie, is to the right of us. Once we’ve had a rest, we’ll follow the path of the river until we come to Ambresberie. That’s probably the safest way for us to travel now.”

  “How far is it to Ambresberie?”

  “Some days away. My mother tires quickly, and we’ll also travel more slowly now that we’ve left the road.” Bernard gave Janna a worried glance. “I fear you are not clad for rough living, mistress. We may have to beg several nights’ shelter in a farmer’s barn, or even sleep under a hedge if naught else comes our way.”

  “I have slept in far rougher places, I assure you.”

  Bernard nodded, although Janna could see he didn’t believe her. “We’ll make a stop once we come to the river. You can have a drink there, and something to eat.” The worried frown came back as he surveyed Janna’s empty hands. “You have no pack? And no cloak for protection against the cool of the evening?”

  “No. And nothing to eat, either.” Janna hoped that, if they did stop at a barn for the night, the farmer might be persuaded to provide them with some bread and ale, or perhaps even some warm milk from a cow.

  “The abbey gave us some provisions for the road, and what we have, we share,” Bernard promised. He turned to address the pilgrims. “There seems to be a gap in the undergrowth over there,” he said, and pointed with his staff. “Wait here while I look for access to the river.”

  He set off, full of purpose. Janna hurried after him, determined to waste no time in slaking her thirst. She had almost reached the river’s edge when she noticed Bernard check abruptly, and stoop down to scrutinize a long, dark log that lay nestled deep in thick grass. He made the sign of a cross and sank to his knees. Intrigued, she came to his side, wondering what it was that smelled so putrid. As Bernard reached out a shaking hand, a swarm of flies buzzed up around his face. With an oath, he swiped them away.

  A sickening jolt brought Janna to her knees. It wasn’t a fallen log that Bernard was touching so reluctantly. It was the body of a man.

  Chapter 2

  The man’s head was bare, the hood of his black cloak pushed askew from the fall. He had the cropped brown hair of a Norman and lay face down in the grass. It was quite clear that he was dead. Fighting nausea, Janna watched as Bernard gingerly rolled the corpse over. She had seen dead bodies before, from helping both her mother and the infirmarian in the abbey, but she had never seen anything quite like this. Sickness rose from her stomach up into her throat. She swallowed hard against an urgent need to vomit.

  The man had been dead for several days, she surmised, as she peered queasily at his corpse. His skin was a greenish color. As soon as his face was bared to the sky, flies buzzed and massed around his eyes, nose and mouth. A seething mass of maggots was already burrowing into the soft cavities of his face. With a heaving stomach, Janna noted that the man’s flesh, where exposed, was bitten and torn. He’d been gnawed at by foxes, perhaps, or badgers. The stench of death and his voided bowels was overpowering, and she put a hand over her nose to block out the worst of it while she continued her examination. It seemed important to find out how and why he had died, for the pilgrims might face similar danger.

  She knew bodies began to stiffen into rigor mortis after several hours, and that they relaxed once more into softness after a day and a night had passed. Although she was sure that he’d lain here for some time, she stretched out and reluctantly lifted one hand. His arm was limp, his skin cold and clammy to her touch. She dropped the hand in a hurry, and wiped her fingers down her skirt in an instinctive effort to remove all trace of him. A careful survey showed no obvious sign of a fatal wound, or of blood other than what marked the sites of hungry animals.

  She stood up to look down on him, noting how his head lay twisted at an unnatural angle from his body. “An accident?” she asked anxiously. “Or could this be murder, think you?”

  “Do not fret yourself with morbid fancies, mistress.” Bernard patted her hand. “’Tis an accident, no more than that. See? The man’s neck is broken.” He carefully opened the purse that was bound by a leather thong around the dead man’s neck. “There may be something here that will help us identify him.” He felt inside, and pulled out a thin strip of parchment folded into a small packet, with a red wax seal on it. Janna looked at it with interest. There was a cross at the top, and some letters in a band around the figure of a man. He wore a crown like a round pot on his head, and carried a staff. Janna peered at the letters imprinted deep in the wax, trying to read them. HENRICUS DEI GRATIA WINTONIENSIS EPISCOPUS. It was Latin, she knew that much. From her time at the abbey she understood that “dei gratia” meant “by the grace of God,” but she wasn’t sure what the other words meant.

  Bernard slowly traced the raised edges of the design with his finger. “I’ve seen something like this before,” he said. “I think this is the seal of Henry, Bishop of Winchestre.” He stared down at the parchment in his hand. “’Tis said the bishop has changed sides in the war for the crown, that he has swung his support behind the empress now that his brother, the king, languishes in Bristou castle under the guard of Robert, Earl of Gloucestre.”

  Janna nodded. It was common knowledge that the Earl of Gloucestre w
as the empress’s half-brother and most loyal supporter, and that he’d taken the king prisoner during the battle at Lincoln. She looked with new interest at the courier who had met such an unfortunate and untimely death. He was obviously a man of substance, judging from his glossy black cloak, the fine green linen of his tunic, the soft leather of his boots. Janna frowned. Why would he be wearing a cloak in summer, unless it gave him some measure of disguise? There were several jeweled rings on his hand; a gold chain hung around his neck, and a dagger was secreted in a sheath hanging from his waist. Janna crouched down to draw it out. The hilt was silver, and beautifully engraved. It looked expensive. She replaced it carefully and sat back on her heels to sift through her findings. The evidence pointed to an accident, not murder, for if the latter, the man most certainly would have been robbed. So how had he come to break his neck, and in such an unlikely place?

  Bernard was still holding the sealed parchment in his hand. “The messenger must have been on his way to Oxeneford, for I believe the empress resides there now after her…ah…unfortunate rout from London,” he mused. “I wonder if this message is urgent.” He turned the parchment over as if hoping to read something on the other side, but the page was blank, sealed from curious eyes. “We are on our way to Oxeneford ourselves,” Bernard continued. As if his course of action had been decided, he thrust the small packet into his own scrip. “I will take it to my brother,” he said, by way of explanation. “He will arrange its delivery to the empress.”