Pilgrim of Death: The Janna Chronicles 4 Page 5

  She looked about for Winifred, hoping that her chatter would distract her from the pain of walking, but there was no sign of her. Janna glanced over her shoulder, and was just in time to see the girl emerge from behind a dense clump of holly bushes. Her steps faltered for a moment as she caught Janna’s eye. “A call of nature,” she said. “Just in time, too! I thought that guard would never leave us in peace.”

  Janna grinned in sympathetic understanding. “I should have gone too,” she said, and looked about for some bushy cover of her own.

  Bernard finally called a halt when they reached a smallholding on the outskirts of a hamlet. It was not as grand as the manor farmed by Hugh for his aunt, Dame Alice, but it looked prosperous enough, surrounded as it was by long strips of vegetables and ripening grain in the fields. A sizable number of sheep grazed peacefully on open downland nearby, some accompanied by half-grown lambs. The smell from a pigsty wafted toward them, along with the sound of frenzied grunts and squeals. As they came closer, Janna noticed that a lad had emptied a slop pail into the trough and was watching the swine shouldering one another aside to get their share of the vegetable peelings and other leftovers that made up their daily fare. A flock of geese swooped toward them, hissing a warning, pursued by a young goosegirl, who flapped her hands and shouted “Shoo!” in a vain effort to draw them away.

  Bernard stood his ground. “Could you please fetch your master to us?”

  She nodded and wheeled about, clicking her fingers for the geese to follow her. As she set off, the geese trundled after her, hostilities apparently in abeyance for the time being.

  “I hope we may stay here for the night,” Bernard told the group. He bent solicitously over Juliana. “How are you bearing up, Mother?”

  “Well enough.” She looked up at her tall son. Janna could see the love in her eyes, but could sense also her fear. It was easy to dismiss the old woman as witless yet it was obvious that she imagined the worst. It was also obvious that she believed Janna had some part to play in Bernard’s downfall. A frisson ran down Janna’s spine.

  With an impatient shrug, she shook off her dark thoughts; she would not be with the pilgrim party for too much longer. And yet it was true that there had been a death, albeit of a stranger, and as the result of an accident, if Bernard was to be believed.

  Another question cast a deeper chill. Were Bernard’s fortunes tied in with the message he had removed from the body? She’d been with him when it was found; perhaps that was what Juliana had sensed? She stood, lost in thought, as Bernard negotiated with the farmer for accommodation and the provision of a meal for them all.

  A trestle table was set up in the main room of the farmhouse, with benches for them to sit on. The meal, when it was brought, was plain but plentiful. Janna gladly accepted a bowl of vegetable pottage and a hunk of bread from the farmer’s wife. A jug of ale was set before them, along with several leather mugs that had been sealed with pitch to make them watertight. The ale was rather sour, but Janna drank it gratefully for it was a warm evening and she was thirsty after their walk.

  The talk around the table began with expressions of shock at the death of the stranger Bernard had found, but quickly gave way to a buzz of speculation as to the fate of the hand of St James. No-one said openly that one of their own party might be responsible for the theft of the relic, but Janna noticed that the pilgrims continued to watch each other carefully. As newcomers to the group, it seemed that she and Winifred were the favored suspects. There had been much whispering that stopped whenever they came close enough to overhear what was being said.

  Winifred put Janna’s thoughts into words. “They think it was us, either you or me,” she said quietly, sounding dispirited. “I can feel it in the way they look at us, and the way they talk about us behind our backs.” She took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then picked up the mug she shared with Janna and drank some ale.

  “It’s hardly surprising,” Janna said, wondering why Winifred looked so downhearted. “After making such a long journey together, they must all know each other quite well.”

  “And they don’t know us at all.” Winifred set the mug back on the table with a sigh. “We have to convince them we’re innocent of this crime.”

  “I don’t know how we do that. Telling them won’t make them believe us.” Unlike Winifred, Janna refused to feel worried about a situation that was not of her making. She looked about for the basket of bread, and was about to sign for it when she remembered she was no longer at the abbey. “Could you pass me some more bread, please, Master Bernard?” she called.

  She took a bite of the hard, dark bread, then spooned up a mouthful of pottage to soften it. The bread didn’t taste particularly good, but it was filling. Janna thought it had probably been made of rye rather than wheat. She knew, from her own experiences of “the hungry month,” that peasants could starve at this time of the year when grain hoards were low but newly growing grain was not yet ready for harvest. She and her mother had often augmented their meager fare with seeds gathered from hedgerows, added to whatever else they could scavenge to fill their hungry bellies. She was grateful that the farmer’s wife had found food enough to spare for them. But the pilgrims had paid for the food and also for lodging overnight in the farmer’s hall, and that should please their hosts. After some thought, Janna had handed a silver penny to Bernard and asked that it be used as her contribution for any accommodation they might require during the journey, with the promise of another should it be required. It was a pleasure, for once, to be able to pay her way instead of depending on charity.

  With the meal over, the table was folded away and the farmer and his wife bade them goodnight. Janna surveyed the rush-covered floor of the hall. By common consent, the men huddled on one side of the room while the women kept together on the other, but indeed the space was so small there was barely enough room for the two groups to stretch out without mingling. A cresset light had been left for the pilgrims to use when seeking the latrine pit outside before they bedded down. Even in its dim glow, Janna could see that the rushes had been laid for some time, and were discolored with dust and dried mud, and strewn with unidentifiable scraps. She looked about for a cleaner patch to lie on, but could not find one. She sighed as, still fully clothed, she settled down. Her fine gown would not stay fine for long, not if this was to be their standard of lodging.

  Janna watched Winifred carefully undo her girdle and purse and put them close to one side before wrapping a threadbare cloak around herself. Her hands bore the marks of scratches, some so deep they had drawn blood. Had the girl been mortifying her flesh? Janna had heard talk of mortification in the abbey, how monks, and sometimes also nuns, would flagellate themselves as punishment for sins both real and imaginary. But despite her professions of piety, Winifred was not yet a nun, nor could she possibly have so much on her conscience that she must resort to such a practice. But perhaps it was Winifred’s call of nature that had caused the scratches. Janna chuckled quietly to herself, thinking that Winifred must have chosen a particularly prickly spot in an effort to ensure that no-one might observe what she was about. In which case she probably bore painful scratches elsewhere about her person as testimony to her modesty!

  With a faint sigh, Winifred settled down beside her. The girl’s proximity reminded her, suddenly and sharply, of Agnes, who had shared her straw pallet with Janna on the first night she’d spent at Wiltune Abbey. The lay sister was the first friend Janna had ever known, and she already missed her irreverence, and her sense of humor. Winifred seemed altogether too serious to promise much fun along the journey. But she would not be with the pilgrim group for much longer; not unless there were more dead bodies and missing relics to be encountered along the way.

  “God bless you this night and keep you safe, Janna,” Winifred said. Janna noticed that her girdle was now looped around her arm, and that she clutched the purse to her chest. It seemed that, just as the pilgrims didn’t trust the newcomers to their par
ty, neither did Winifred trust the pilgrims. What was so valuable that she needed to guard it so carefully? Or was the object fragile? Was she afraid she might squash it if she rolled over in her sleep?

  “God be with you, Winifred.” Janna closed her eyes, hoping that she would be able to fall asleep on the smelly, prickling straw. She told herself that the young girl’s secrets were of no concern to her, yet her mind kept throwing up questions. What was in Winifred’s purse that she guarded so carefully and kept so private, and was potentially valuable enough to ensure her welcome at any abbey? What was in the message carried by the dead man? And why did the pilgrims seem so out of sorts with one another?

  Chapter 4

  They made up some of the time they had lost on their second day of travel, although Janna found herself dropping further and further behind, walking slower even than Juliana, as she tried to find a smooth way between the pebbles and flints that strewed their path. No matter how carefully she trod, or how heavily she leaned on her new staff, still she winced with every step. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she bent and eased on the tight shoes once more, then limped forward to catch up with the others.

  It was not as hot as the previous day; gathering clouds spoke of the promise of rain later. Janna sighed at the thought and wished she had a cloak to protect her new gown from the ravages of the journey. As there was little she could do about it, other than hope they found shelter before the rain came, she turned her thoughts away from her gown, and her sore feet, and instead gave herself up to enjoyment of the journey. A riot of twining honeysuckle and wild roses scented the hedgerows. Lacy white elderflowers, privet and creamy meadowsweet added their own fragrance to the air. Tall purple-pink spikes of foxglove and rosebay willow herb and the yellow stars of St John’s wort added splashes of color to grassy banks and green weeds. Fat bumblebees nuzzled among pale pink blackberry blossom, while gaudy butterflies and jeweled dragonflies flitted everywhere, busy about their purpose and content just to be.

  Janna looked about, automatically noting which plants were of use for healing and which for food, for only a very few were merely decorative. She noticed clusters of red valerian, smelled the spicy scents of wood-sage and fennel. She itched to stop, to pick, to preserve some of them for future use, and smiled to herself, surprised to find how much she missed practicing her healing skills.

  The farmer’s wife had given them food for the journey, and they stopped to eat it on the path beside the cool, rushing river. Once more Janna found herself in the company of Ulf and Winifred. Her curiosity was fired as she noticed Winifred glance covetously at Ulf’s pack. She decided to press the girl a little further.

  “So what do you have in your purse that makes you so sure of your welcome when you come to Oxeneford?” she asked, thinking a direct question might catch Winifred off-guard and prompt her to an honest answer.

  Winifred stiffened. “Why n – nothing,” she stammered, but Janna noticed her hand curve secretively around the purse dangling from her girdle as if to protect whatever was inside. “It’s but a – a small thing from my home, something to remind me of my family.”

  Janna was sure she was lying, yet she appeared somewhat nervous too. A devil of mischief stirred. “You said yourself that they would welcome you when they saw what you carried,” she reminded Winifred.

  “I – I meant nought but that they would welcome me, mistress, for I am young and healthy, with strong, willing arms and the love of God in my heart.” The girl’s cry rang out, sincere and passionate, and immediately Janna felt ashamed of her teasing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have misunderstood what you said.”

  “If you carried a holy relic, lass, you’d be welcome at any abbey.” Ulf gestured toward his pack with a sly expression.

  Winifred dredged up a shaky smile. “I know you have many fine treasures, Master Ulf, but I have no coin to give you in exchange for even the least of them.”

  “Perhaps you should search for the hand of St James?” Ulf suggested. “A purse of silver would open any door.” Janna shot him a sharp look. Did he not know what his dog had done? Or didn’t he care that he was deliberately leading Winifred astray, giving her false hope when there was none?

  Her rising opinion of the relic seller dropped several notches. It dropped even further as she noticed color flood Winifred’s cheeks, heard the note of hope in her voice as she breathed, “Oh! Do you think, if I found the hand, I might claim a reward for it?”

  “We’ve all been searched and it hasn’t been found,” Janna said sharply, not wanting to encourage Winifred to hope for such a miracle.

  “No reason why it shouldn’t be found,” Ulf cut in. “Someone must have it, after all. It wouldn’t have been too hard to hide such a thing from the guard’s view while the search was on. It could have been secreted inside a thick bush, perhaps, or even buried for a time.”

  “Whoever claimed the reward would first have to find the hand – and how do you do that when the hand wasn’t found by the guard when he searched us all? You’d have an awful lot of explaining to do,” Janna pointed out.

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Winifred looked thoroughly downcast.

  “I wonder why the hand was taken,” Janna said thoughtfully, with a pointed glance at Ulf. “For gain, do you think, to be sold on as a holy relic? Or did someone covet it for their own private worship? Or could it have been lost by accident, perhaps?”

  “Not an accident, no ways,” Ulf said cheerfully, seemingly blind to Janna’s unspoken accusation. “I saw the hand at the abbey. And the reliquary in which it was kept. The hand was open to view while the sacristan was in attendance. And I’ll be willing to wager it was kept locked tight in her absence. Whoever took the hand took it by design, and by cunning. And unless the thief intends to keep it forever, for her – or his – private worship, sooner or later it must be returned to Wiltune so that the reward may be claimed, or else sold elsewhere.”

  Unless the hand had already served as a tasty feed for Brutus! Janna wondered how Ulf could maintain such an innocent expression. Surely he must know what his dog had done, for the hound had carried the thing in his mouth all the way from Wiltune.

  “But you are right, mistress.” Ulf gave Janna a knowing wink before turning back to Winifred. “Whoever returns the hand will have to answer how it came to be in her possession. She will have need of a very convincing story to escape punishment.”

  “She?”

  It wasn’t fair of Ulf to bolster Winifred’s hopes in this way, to encourage her to keep looking for the relic in the hope of claiming the reward. Janna shot him a disapproving frown as she puzzled out how to force him to admit the truth. “I saw Brutus eating something yesterday,” she said carefully.

  “A dog that size, he eats all the time! Pity me having to find the means to feed him,” Ulf acknowledged cheerfully, adding, “But of course I encourage him to forage for himself, for he is a hunting dog after all.”

  “And I saw what he’d hunted yesterday. It looked like he was eating a hand.” Janna observed that both Ulf’s and Winifred’s mouths had fallen open in shock. “I couldn’t help but wonder if Brutus was dining on the missing hand of St James?”

  Ulf froze into stillness. His gaze slid sideways to Brutus, then to Winifred and, finally, back to her. He looked thoroughly discomfited. “Why didn’t you say summat before now? Why didn’t you tell the guard what you’d seen?”

  Janna shrugged. “If it was the hand of St James, it was far too late to save it. There didn’t seem any point in causing trouble.”

  “That’s kind of you, Janna.” Ulf hesitated. “And the guard has gone now, so there’s no point in stirring things up again. Don’t you agree?” It seemed to Janna that he addressed this last remark to Winifred, who nodded eagerly. Janna wondered if Ulf had a plan to get himself out of trouble, and perhaps help Winifred at the same time? Was he planning to find a “hand” somewhere else? Could he and Winifred be conspiring in this togeth
er, working out how to share the reward?

  Not liking where her thoughts were taking her, Janna rose, brushed the crumbs from her gown, and strode away from the pair. She was ready to scream with frustration. She hated secrets – they had blighted her life from the very beginning. If her mother had only told her the truth, hadn’t kept so many things hidden from her, she wouldn’t be here now, walking with the pilgrims and hoping for what might prove to be impossible. Instead, she’d be doing…what?

  The thought stopped Janna’s angry questioning. Her life had changed forever because of her mother’s pride, her stubbornness, her secrecy. It was because of her mother that she was on this quest to find her father; because of her mother that she was meeting new people, going to new places and learning so many new things, as she’d always wanted to do, instead of staying at home and marrying Godric, as her mother had wanted her to do.

  Godric. He’d stood by her after her mother had died, and after everyone else had turned against her. He’d told her that he loved her. They might well have wed if she hadn’t insisted on setting out in search of her father. And she might well have regretted it if she had, Janna reminded herself fiercely. To marry the first man who had shown any interest in her and by doing so never find out the secrets of her family, or gain experience outside the narrow confines of the world she knew…

  She shook her head. Far better to be here than there. If she’d married Godric, she would always have wondered what might have been. Yet she couldn’t help thinking how sweet life with Godric might be. They might well have had a child by now. She dug her nails hard into her palms in an effort to block the painful recollection of Godric and Cecily together in the market square. That was all in the past, and best forgotten.