Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup Page 21

  She drew the knife from her purse. Pressing her lips together to contain her distress, for she had been proud of her long, blonde locks, she began to hack into them. As she cut, she remembered the admiration in Hugh’s dark eyes when first they’d met. He would not look at her again, not after this!

  ‘’Tis better so,’ Janna reminded herself, for her safety depended on the fact that everyone, save one, must believe her dead. She stared at her reflection in the dewpond, at the drying blonde wisps that fluffed around her head like the halo of a saint. No chance now of anyone’s admiration – not when she looked like a youth!

  Could she pass herself off as a young man? She pondered the thought. It pleased her greatly. People would have less chance of recognising her if they thought she was a boy. As a young girl, alone and defenceless, she would always be at risk. As a boy she could move freely. She would also be much safer in disguise, especially up at the manor where at least one person had even more at stake than the villagers in wanting her dead.

  Janna gathered up the incriminating bits of hair and hurried back into the forest to bury them. She must leave no sign of her activities for Godric, or anyone else, to suspect what she was about. She looked down at her kirtle. She needed men’s garments, but she could not use the few pennies she had from her sales at Wiltune market to trade, for that would show her intention to the world. What was she to do? Janna came to the reluctant conclusion that she would have to steal some clothes to fit her new identity. She remembered then the horse barn up at the manor house. Inside, on a peg, hung a smock and breeches, no doubt some poor serf’s Sunday best, kept for church and special occasions. She would take them. She’d never stolen anything in her life, and baulked at the thought of starting now, but she had no choice. Without proper attire she could go nowhere. Dressed as a boy, she would be free to roam wherever she chose.

  She would rather have gone to the manor under cover of night, but she knew there was no more time to lose. She would not be able to take the usual path across the fields, for she would be seen and recognised. Instead, she would have go through the forest to get there.

  Janna knew she had no chance of finding the ancient Roman road that Godric had told her about, but she didn’t have to go that far into the forest to be safe from prying eyes. She could stay close to the tree line, away from wolves and wild boar. As soon as she’d talked to Cecily she could make her escape, for the longer she delayed, the more peril she faced, both at the manor house and from the villagers. Godric would tell them that she had survived the fire. They would come looking for her again, for they could not risk her witness against them for their night’s treachery and their destruction of abbey property.

  She walked back to her hiding place and pulled out the box and bottle. She didn’t want to carry them with her, for they were awkward to hold. Yet she must keep the bottle; she needed it to confront Cecily. What about the box? Janna opened it once more and stared at its contents, feeling a frisson of excitement as she picked up the ring. It was a link with her father, she felt certain of it. She slipped it on her middle finger, imagining the hand of her father, the finger that had once worn this ring.

  It was far too large for her own finger. As she tilted her hand, it slid off. Janna tried it next on her thumb, but it looked ridiculous there. Finally, she unlaced her purse and placed the ring inside, adding to it the precious piece of parchment and the ring brooch with its strange inscription. Then she knelt and buried the empty box under the bushy screen. It was time to go. She steeled herself to take a last look at the remains of her home. Resolutely fighting tears, she whispered goodbye to her childhood, and to her mother. She had planted rosemary on Eadgyth’s grave and had promised to remember her. She had vowed to seek the truth, and make whoever was responsible for her mother’s death pay with their own life. Now that Janna understood so much of what had happened, she began to understand also that vengeance was impossible. She was alone and an outcast, now more than ever before. She had not the power to bring anyone to justice.

  It was a bitter realisation, made worse by the knowledge that she must flee the village. Her mother’s grave would stay untended, probably even defiled by those who would take out their fear and hatred on the dead if they could not take it out on the living.

  Janna thought about the ring and parchment in her purse. A glimpse of hope lifted her spirits slightly. She wasn’t quite alone, and she might not be utterly powerless either, she realised. Aldith had described her father as wealthy and important; he could even be a Norman nobleman. Should she try to find him? Would he welcome her? Those questions were less important than the central question: if she could find him, could she convince him to act on Eadgyth’s behalf? Could she convince him to come back to Babestoche Manor and bring to justice those responsible for Eadgyth’s death?

  She had to try. Janna vowed to herself that as soon as she’d finished her business at the manor, she would go in search of her father. No matter how long it took, she would do all in her power to find him. Although she had to leave her home and everything that was familiar to her, she resolved that, in time, her journey would lead her home again. By then, she would have changed. No longer an outcast, a powerless victim, she would have the authority of her father behind her and everything would be different.

  Janna knew not where her father might be, did not even know which direction she should take. She could only start the journey, and hope that she might find guidance along the way. First, though, she must take her chances at the manor and hope that her wits were enough to save her from the danger that awaited her there.

  She set off along the edge of the forest in the direction of Babestoche. Her hopes and her future were bound in the contents of her purse. She wondered if dreams and these small clues would be enough, and just where they might lead her.

  IT WAS AFTER noon by the time Janna left the last portion of forest cover and stealthily made her way down to the manor through a field full of sheep. They stared at her with incurious eyes as she hurried past them.

  Now a new problem presented itself. Would someone be guarding the gate during the daylight hours? What might she say to the gatekeeper should her way be barred? An urgent message from the shire reeve for the lord of the manor? No, the reeve would not entrust an important message to any other than one of his deputies. He would certainly not give instructions to a serf. She thought anew. Could she be in need of urgent assistance? No again, for why should anyone care about her welfare or what became of her? Janna sighed. It would be too bad if, after all this, she was not allowed in.

  As she approached the manor, Janna was still undecided how to talk her way past the gatekeeper. To her great relief her luck seemed to have returned, at least in part, for the great gate was raised, while the gatekeeper seemed far more interested in his dinner than in a bedraggled young woman. Janna scuttled past, with her arms folded across her breast to hide the worst of the burns in her kirtle. Keeping her head down, hoping to avoid recognition, she hurried on to the shed Hugh’s horse had been kept in, where the smock and breeches had hung. Hopefully, it would still be deserted save for the lone horse.

  Once safely inside, Janna stopped still and held her breath, listening for sounds, be they animal or human. Soft scuffling and rustling told of the presence of mice and rats, perhaps even a cat. Janna felt a moment’s sympathy for the cat’s quarry. She knew, only too well, how it felt to be hunted. No soft neighs to greet her this time, or even the chink of a bridle. It seemed safe to swiftly strip off her kirtle, unhook the smock and pull it on. It was stiff with dirt and sweat and smelled strange. It was also far too big for her. She stuffed her kirtle down her front, to conceal it and also to change her shape, and tied her girdle underneath her new and enlarged stomach both to keep it in place and to hitch up the smock so that it wasn’t quite so long. No matter that her purse still dangled from the girdle; so too did men hang objects about their person.

  The clink of coins gave Janna an idea. She took out a silver penny an
d dropped it under the hook where the smock had hung. It would be noticed when the villein searched for his missing clothes. Janna felt sure that he would keep it without telling anyone of his good fortune, save his family perhaps, for he might spend it to their benefit. With her conscience somewhat eased, she pulled off her boots, then unhooked the breeches and pulled them up. They immediately fell down in folds around her ankles. Janna looked more closely and discovered a cord through the waistband to keep them up and in place. She pleated back the rough homespun and tied the cord tight. The legs were far too long for her. After a moment’s thought she rolled up the bottom of each leg so that she could walk without tripping over. It felt strange to be wearing a man’s breeches. Janna kicked out, marvelling at her new freedom of movement. She could stride out now; she could even straddle a horse and ride it without showing ankles and legs. It seemed that there were other, less obvious, advantages to changing her sex!

  She stepped back into her boots while she pondered the next problem: how to approach Cecily. Dressed as she was, she could not march boldly up the stairs of the manor house and demand admittance. Some other trick was called for. That she must leave the shed was certain. Cecily would not come to her so she must go to Cecily, and find a way for them to meet in privacy and safety. After a moment’s thought, Janna decided the best approach was through the kitchen. She was about to leave the barn when a gorget with a pointed hood caught her eye. She snatched down the short cloak and put it around her shoulders, then pulled the hood down over her face. It was meant for winter wear, but it would shield her from prying eyes. Thus clad in her new garments, Janna strode out of the barn to practise her new identity.

  Before braving the cook, Janna went first to the garden to seek lily or mallow to give balm to the burns that still stung her scalp and limbs. As she searched for what she needed, a scullion came out to pick vegetables for the evening meal. The girl stopped short in surprise when she noticed Janna. Giving her no chance to speak, or to raise the alarm, Janna hurried into speech.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ she said, her voice deliberately low both as a disguise for her own voice and in an attempt to mimic the speech of a boy, ‘I’ve come with an urgent message for Mistress Cecily. Is she here? Is she well?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she is here.’ The scullion looked surprised. She tried to peer under the hood for a better look at the messenger.

  Janna’s worst fear was over. She took a quick breath, feeling relief that she had not come too late. ‘I have no knowledge of the household. Will you take the message to Mistress Cecily for me?’

  ‘Who is it from?’ The servant continued to stare suspiciously at Janna. Janna tipped her head down. The hood fell lower, now covering most of her face.

  ‘From …’ She was about to say a name, but suddenly understood the danger she courted if she’d calculated wrong, or if her message went astray. ‘From someone who would not give me his name,’ she amended quickly. ‘He saw me about the manor and bade me ask Mistress Cecily to come out and meet him. My instructions were to find an excuse to seek her out and speak to her alone, so that no-one else might hear what I say. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘For certes, when I go to make up the fire in Dame Alice’s bedchamber. Where does he say they should meet? And when?’ There was a smile of anticipation on the scullion’s face. It was clear she suspected an assignation and took great delight from the notion.

  ‘In … in the shed over there.’ Janna pointed so that there could be no misunderstanding between them.

  ‘The barn where my lord Hugh stables his horse?’

  Janna nodded quickly. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she agreed. ‘Ask Mistress Cecily to come just as soon as she can get away. Tell her to make sure no-one sees her leave.’ Janna was happy to fuel the girl’s feverish imagination. It seemed more likely that the message would get through if the scullion had romance on her mind.

  ‘Go to it,’ she urged, conscious of time passing. There was no time to waste, for soon enough the workers would return from the fields. Yet the maid lingered, perhaps hoping to hear more.

  ‘Hurry!’ Janna snapped.

  As soon as the girl was out of sight, Janna collected what she needed to heal her burnt skin. She went back to the barn to wait for Cecily, and to treat her wounds while she waited.

  The juices from the roots and cool leaves soothed her skin, but nothing could soothe Janna’s mind. She felt her nerves grow taut as time passed. Where was Cecily? Had the scullion not delivered her message after all? What if the girl had taken fright and instead had given the message to Dame Alice or, even worse, Hugh or Robert?

  The barn was dark. She’d closed the door to give herself privacy while she applied the salve to her burns. Perhaps the closed door had made Cecily think that whoever waited for her had now gone? Janna was about to open it when she heard the clink of the latch.

  She hastily snatched up the gorget that she’d thrown aside in order to minister to her hurts, and pulled the hood down over her face.

  The door creaked open. A woman’s form stood in silhouette against the brightness of the open doorway. With a swift movement, the woman pulled the door to, and stood still. ‘Are you here?’ she asked softly.

  Janna knew a moment’s triumph. The scullion had delivered the message, and Cecily had come. This meeting must answer everything, for there was much to tell and much to discover. She was sure, now, that she knew the truth behind her mother’s death, but it would place her in the greatest danger if she’d got it wrong. In the silence she heard Cecily call again.

  ‘Is anyone here?’

  Janna made a movement towards her. Cecily heard, and whirled around. ‘Have you changed your mind? Please, please tell me that …’ She stopped short. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to block further speech. Her eyes, startled and uncomprehending, examined Janna.

  Janna pushed back her hood, then took off the gorget. Cecily showed no recognition but kept on staring.

  ‘It’s Janna,’ Janna said helpfully.

  Now Cecily started as if she had seen a ghost. ‘You!’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Then, as Cecily shrank back in obvious fear, Janna offered her an arm. ‘I’m real enough. Give me a pinch,’ she invited.

  Cecily reached out and nipped fabric and skin together with a tentative touch. Then she gave Janna a shaky smile. ‘You seem real. Yet we were told that your cottage has burned to the ground, and that you are dead and buried.’

  ‘I’m not – but only you are to know that,’ Janna warned.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Cecily inspected Janna with wide eyes. ‘The priest has just come to tell us that you died in a fire.’

  ‘Did he say that he, my lord Robert, and the villagers all blame me for the baby’s death and that’s why my cottage was set alight, with me in it?’

  ‘No!’ Horrified, Cecily stared at Janna. ‘The fire was an accident!’

  ‘Like my mother’s death was an accident?’

  Cecily flushed. ‘The reeve told the priest a stray spark from your fire must have set the floor rushes alight.’

  ‘And I’m telling you that it was the villagers who set fire to my cottage. I know, because I was there! They accused me of killing the baby and told me to leave. Who do you think could have incited them to take action against me?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ Cecily whispered. ‘All I know is that Robert went with the priest to report the baby’s death to the shire reeve, and to make preparations for a requiem mass. Robert said the priest told the villagers that you had given the baby a physic shortly before he died. He was concerned for your safety, he said, because the villagers were exceedingly agitated and alarmed when they heard what had happened. He assured us he’d done his best to calm them and allay their fears.’

  ‘Lies. All lies,’ Janna said fiercely. ‘Robert of Babestoche incited them to rise against me. They would not dare to disobey him.’

  ‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Cecily drew away fr
om Janna, refusing to be associated with such disloyalty.

  ‘He had his reasons.’ Now that she’d planted the thought in Cecily’s mind, Janna changed the subject. ‘You said that I was dead – and buried. Who told you that?’ she asked.

  ‘The priest. He had it from the shire reeve. It seems a villein, Godric, reported the fire. He told the reeve that he found your body among the burnt remains of the cottage, and that he has buried you in the forest. He refused to say where, nor would he show the reeve the site. When the reeve remonstrated with him, Godric told him that he did not trust the priest to give you a proper burial, not after the way the priest had treated your mother. The reeve has threatened to take action against him, and the priest is so offended he has ordered Godric to live on bread and water until he confesses. But Godric will tell them only that he has buried you close to the home you loved, so that you might rest in peace.’ Cecily looked at Janna in wonderment. ‘Why would he say that when you are still alive?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ But Janna did. It seemed that in spite of everything, Godric was still protecting her. She said a silent thank you, wishing she could say it to him in person.

  He must have talked to the villagers, suspected their part in this and realised that her safety depended on his lie. There could be no other reason for it. ‘What else did the priest tell you?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘Not quite all. Tell me about Robert of Babestoche. Why is he so hostile towards me, do you think?’