Stolen Child: The Janna Chronicles 2 Read online

  Harvesting the herbs, smelling their fragrance, reminded Janna of the last time she’d collected herbs for healing, when a child’s life had been at stake. She sighed with regret. The child had been ailing from the start, and had died. But if her mother had allowed her to administer to the sick as well as preparing and making up potions, she might have known enough to help the child thrive, just as she would have known more about the disease that afflicted those she was expected to treat now.

  Clutching her handful of herbs, she hurried back into the kitchen. A quick glance told her that Serlo had left off interfering, and that Gytha was now supervising the plucking of fowls, the gutting of herring and the dicing of vegetables in preparation for dinner. Janna resolved that if any of it came her way, she’d keep half for Edwin, who would not be nearly so well fed out in the fields. She’d seen his hunger as he ate the griddle cakes she’d prepared; how every last crumb had been wolfed down. In spite of his strength he was too thin, but regular meals would soon restore him to full health and vigor. Perhaps, then, he might have a chance with the lovely Gytha?

  Ignoring the activity going on around her, Janna carefully washed her hands and the herbs she had collected, just as her mother had always done. Then, with Eadgyth’s instructions whispering through her mind, she set about preparing what was needed. She had only Gytha’s and Serlo’s description of the disease to go on, but even so she was almost certain that she had seen its like before. She knew how to make up the preparations that would bring relief, even if she wasn’t sure she could cure the pox. Of course, prayers and holy relics might also help—for certes the priests would think so—but Janna had little knowledge of such things so the patients would have to look for that sort of cure themselves.

  She hung a pot of water to boil over the fire, moving a dish of savory pottage to one side to make room for it. “This won’t take long,” she told Gytha when the young woman protested. She added leaves and roots to the steaming water. Leaving the decoction to simmer, she began a survey of the kitchen, bemused at the array of spices, and the abundance of grain, fruits and vegetables stored in huge barrels and baskets in the larder. A hock of ham hung beside the fireplace to be cured in the smoke from the fire. She took a deep breath, inhaling the potent mix. Bread and vegetable pottage had been their staple diet, but she and her mother had often known great hunger at this time of the year, after what little grain that remained had grown moldy and the new wheat was still too green to harvest.

  She prowled around the kitchen while she waited, testing and sniffing the spices. Some she remembered from her encounter with the spice merchant at the market at Wiltune. She wished now that she’d asked their purpose. At the time they had seemed so far out of her reach she’d been reluctant to bother him with too many questions. Now she tasted and sampled them, enjoying the unexpected heat of some, the elusive fragrance and piquancy of others. She could see how they would add flavor to meat, vegetables and puddings. She longed to try them out.

  “Pray, take me to visit your mother, Mistress Gytha,” she said, once her medicaments were ready. The cook and her daughter did not share the common sleeping quarters upstairs in the hall; they had a separate cot of their own, set close behind the kitchen. Janna had come across the cook in the mornings when she and Edwin broke their fast and waited to collect their dinner. She was a disapproving, thin-faced woman whose tongue had been sharpened on the misfortunes of others. But she was a sorry sight now, Janna thought, as Gytha pushed open the door and led the way into their cottage.

  Mistress Tova lay on a straw pallet. She was flushed and sweating. Her hair lay in lank strands on her forehead, and her restless fingers scratched first at her face and then at her arms.

  “Don’t scratch!” Janna said quickly. “Some of those sores have already begun to fester; they will take longer to heal and you will be left with scars.”

  The cook’s gaze moved from her daughter to Janna, who walked closer so that she might see her patient more clearly. With a conscious effort, she made her voice deeper. “I beg your pardon for scolding you, mistress.” She was about to curtsy but remembered in time to catch herself and bobbed awkwardly instead.

  “Is that you, John? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve brought you an infusion to drink. It will dull the pain and cool your fever.” She held up a phial and a jar of lotion to show the cook. “There’s also a lotion to bathe your skin. It will soothe those itches and help the spots to heal. Please try not to scratch them; you will only make them worse.”

  The woman nodded, and even managed a faint smile. “I would be glad of some comfort, John, for in truth I think my head is about to burst. And my skin feels as if it’s been branded by the devil’s own fire.”

  Janna was somewhat relieved to hear the cook’s words. Her mother’s patients had described their symptoms in similar fashion. As she set about ministering to Mistress Tova, the woman gave her daughter a sharp glance.

  “Get back to the kitchen, Gytha, and make sure you prepare a goodly feast just in case my lord returns today. John can minister to my needs.”

  Gytha ducked her head in obedience and vanished outside, leaving Janna alone with the cook. She kept her head bent, for Mistress Tova’s sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  “You are very young,” she said now. “You have not even a hint of a beard.”

  Janna cleared her throat. “I may be young, but I am strong, mistress,” she said, fending off any implied criticism.

  “And skilled too, it seems.” The cook sniffed the draught that Janna handed to her. “What is in this? I’d like to know, for it is usually my task to minister to any who might fall ill here on my lord’s demesne.”

  As Janna detailed what she had used and her method of preparation, the cook nodded approvingly. Her eyes were alight with interest. After a first suspicious sip, she drank the mixture down. “And how did you prepare this?” she asked, when Janna unstoppered the cooling salve she had made.

  “Septfoil?” she queried, interrupting Janna’s recitation.

  “It goes also by the name of tormentil.” Using a small piece of cloth to keep her fingers out of contact with the sores, Janna began to dab the lotion onto the cook’s skin.

  The cook was silent for a few moments. “You have a wide knowledge,” she commented.

  “My mother was very skilled at healing. She wanted me to learn her craft and so she taught me what she knew.”

  “And your brother? Does he have the knowledge too?”

  “He has no aptitude for healing. He…he prefers to work outdoors in the fields, tilling the earth, or caring for the animals.” Janna hoped this was true.

  The cook grunted. “Master Serlo will keep him up to the mark. He is a hard taskmaster, but a fair one, you’ll find. Do as he tells you and he’s kindly enough. Go against him, and you’ll live to regret it. He tends the manor farm as if it were his own and he expects the same from all of us. Indeed this is his life, for he has no family to distract him. My lord relies on him completely.”

  “Master Serlo has indeed been kind to us,” Janna said. She continued to dab the cooling lotion onto the cook’s face and arms. The cook gave a quiet moan as the liquid touched several raw spots. “Am I hurting you, mistress?”

  “No, indeed. I am grateful for your aid and comfort.”

  “If you will remove your kirtle…” Janna remembered her new identity just in time. “You could also use this lotion on your stomach and your back. I will leave it here with you.”

  “Thank you.” The cook nodded gratefully.

  “And I will mix up some more medicaments, and visit you again tomorrow.” Janna moved to the door.

  “You should ask Master Serlo if he would like you to attend other villeins who are too sick to work, John. There is so much to be done, and too few hands now to do it. I know the reeve is anxious, for my lord is expected home at any time. He will want to give a good accounting of his stewardship during my lord’s absence.”

  �
�I will do what I can,” Janna promised. Curiosity prompted her to probe further. “You have a very beautiful daughter, mistress. I pray that she will not contract the disease.”

  “As do I,” the cook said promptly. “My daughter is of an age to wed, and I have great hopes of a good match for her. In fact, Master Serlo has already spoken to me. He would be a good catch for Gytha. I have urged her to consider his offer, but…” She hesitated. Pride overcame prudence. “I believe my lord is also attracted to Gytha and I know she cares for him. If he was to suggest that they wed…” The cook smiled at the thought.

  “Then I hope they will find happiness together,” Janna murmured. “God keep you, mistress. I’ll call in tomorrow.” Smiling to herself over the high hopes of the cook and her daughter even while wondering if they were deluding themselves, she opened the door and let herself out of the cottage.

  Chapter 5

  The next few weeks were busy for Janna. She physicked her patients and thus learned her way around the manor farm and the hamlet outside the manor gate where dwelt those villeins who gave service and goods to their lord in exchange for a few strips of land and somewhere to live. Urk and his mother she’d already met, but Janna now came to know everyone else in that small community, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. At first they were watchful, suspicious of the boy who claimed to possess the power to heal their hurts and lessen their misery. They asked instead for Mistress Tova, and Janna had to explain over and over again that the cook herself was struck with the pox and confined to her bed. But at Serlo’s urging, and as they themselves began to feel the benefit of Janna’s healing salves and lotions, they came to accept her, and welcomed her into their homes.

  For Janna, this was something new. She had no experience of living in a close community; she found that she enjoyed the villeins’ friendship as well as their appreciation. Tending the sick also gave her new confidence, and the hope that her years of watching her mother treating her patients in the confines of their own home might count for something after all. With practice, she might yet come to possess her mother’s skills. It was a source of pride that Mistress Tova made a good recovery, with only a few scars to show where the spots had been. Gytha escaped unscathed. Others were not so lucky and bore the scars of their misfortune, but it was a consolation that no-one died.

  As soon as they were well enough, the villeins returned to work in their own fields, although their time was restricted by Serlo, who insisted they also catch up on tasks on the lord’s lands. Rainy days postponed haymaking so, instead, Edwin and Janna continued to cut weeds, dig ditches and repair the hedges that protected the crops from hungry animals. Whenever she could, Janna fled to the kitchen garden to tend the plants and herbs that grew there, for the villagers continued to come to her with their complaints.

  The days were long and the work was always hard and despite the fact the villeins were now well enough to work in the fields, Serlo continued to find chores for Janna and Edwin. He seemed determined they would repay their full dues for his silence. He traversed the manor and surrounding fields tirelessly, keeping an eye on everyone and everything, making sure that whatever was needed would be done. Janna had come to admire and respect the reeve, even while she grumbled over the toll paid by her body. Yet she knew she was also growing stronger, and she gloried in the fresh air, exercise and freedom that her new life afforded her.

  Of the lord of the manor there was still no sign, although Gytha was forever preening herself in case he returned unexpectedly. “He’s much older than me, but not so old as Serlo,” she confided on one occasion, when Janna found her staring at her reflection in the still waters of a small duck pond. “He has at least twenty-five years.” She puckered her lips to blow a kiss to herself.

  “And has he spoken to you of marriage?”

  “He wishes first to make his way in the world.” Gytha tossed her head. Janna could see that she was out of sympathy with her lord’s ambition.

  “Is this not enough for him?” Janna spread out her hands to encompass the fields stretching before them. “Surely this fine demesne brings in a good income?”

  “It is not his to inherit.” Gytha sounded resentful. “And it’s not fair, when my lord works so hard. It is his aim to make this the finest manor farm in the shire, but he will be left with nothing once the young lord comes of age!”

  Janna nodded. She knew it was generally the custom for the first born to inherit everything, but life was hard for those sons who came after, or for any noblemen lacking property or wealth of their own. They had few options other than to enter the king’s service and hope to earn bounty in battle, or else go into the church. A third option was to marry a woman with a dowry and lands of her own—if they could find someone willing to be wooed. Watching Gytha admiring her reflection, Janna felt sorry for the young beauty. She might have her hopes pinned on the lord of the manor, but unless he was either blind in love or very stupid, he would be looking to wed someone far more suited to his ambition than the cook’s daughter.

  “When you grow up you should try to be just like him, young John. He’s very brave, and so handsome,” Gytha gushed. Janna wondered how many noblemen Gytha knew that she could make the comparison with such confidence.

  “When will he return?” she asked, thinking that perhaps even now he might be off scouting marriageable prospects.

  “We expected him home long before this.” Gytha scowled. “He went to visit his family, but the country is in such unrest mayhap he’s been summoned by the king to Sarisberie. It’s not so very far from here. Or he might have gone on to Winchestre.”

  Janna’s ears pricked up. “Which is the road to Winchestre?” she asked quickly.

  “I don’t know.” Gytha pouted, her mind fixed on her own problems rather than Janna’s question. “Really, there is no reason for him to be anywhere but here. While there’s fighting between the king and his barons, who keep changing their allegiance in the hope that it might profit them, none of the trouble comes anywhere near here. Besides, my lord mentioned that the king’s brother, Bishop Henry, arranged a council of peace between Stephen’s queen and the Empress Matilda’s half-brother, the Earl of Gloucester, only a month or two ago. The bishop hopes to bring about a reconciliation between the king and his cousin so that she will give up her claim to the throne.”

  This was welcome news to Janna. “Pray God he succeeds, for all our sakes,” she said.

  Gytha nodded absentmindedly. “Perhaps my lord is still with his family,” she said, coming back to the topic that most interested her. “Perhaps even now he is arguing his right to keep this demesne for his own. Oh!” She clasped Janna’s hand in sudden hope. “I pray that they will listen to his plea, John, so that our future together may be assured.”

  Janna wondered whether to sound a note of caution, but decided it was none of her business. “I hope your wish may come true, mistress,” she said, and gently removed her hand from Gytha’s grasp. She did not intend to become involved in the young woman’s schemes.

  It was not so easy, however, to keep herself detached from the villeins and the servants of the household for, having come to know them all as she ministered to their needs, she was popular and much sought after as a result of her skill. She stood in the kitchen early one morning, waiting for the cook to pack up their dinner while half-listening to Mistress Tova’s gossip. She had taken special care to stay on friendly terms with the cook, for it meant that she and Edwin sometimes gained extra meat, or a stale pastry or some fruit along with their bread and ale for the day. Their hard work out in the fields meant that they were always hungry, so Janna was happy to put in extra time and care in return for extra food.

  “Of course, that girl would look at anyone who wore breeches.” The cook’s lips tucked down with disapproval as she continued her petulant whine. “Only yesterday, I saw her walk past him. She pretended to stumble, and kicked aside her kirtle so that she could show off her legs. One of these days, you mark
my words, that girl will—”

  Was the cook speaking of her own daughter? Janna hid a smile, and bent her head closer to hear more.

  “You must warn your brother against her.” Mistress Tova clicked her tongue vigorously. “He’s handsome enough, I grant you, but he shouldn’t encourage her. No good will come of it, you’ll see. She’ll break his heart before she’s done, for she’s a flighty girl, that Bertha. Besides, she has her sights set much higher than Edwin.” There was an extra note of sourness in the cook’s voice “Not that she’ll get anywhere with my lord. He might have a keen eye for a pretty girl, but he’s not for the likes of Bertha.”

  Janna nodded in agreement, even while wondering how the cook could show so little common sense when it came to her own daughter. Yet she had some sympathy for Gytha, and also for Bertha, as she remembered her own dealings with the handsome Hugh of Babestoche. Truly, she’d been dazzled by his kindness. But Hugh also had his way to make in the world. Janna knew that he was not for her, although his easy kiss had shaken her heart and soul, shaken everything she’d thought and believed. How easy it would have been to lose her heart to him, even knowing that he would have broken it. She shook his image out of her mind. Hugh belonged to the past and besides, she was a youth now and so would not attract the eye of any man, be he as highborn as Hugh, or even as lowly as Godric, who had protected her so bravely, and who would have done even more if she had been willing.

  She turned her face away so that the cook wouldn’t notice her sadness. The whine continued, as relentless as a midge in summer. “Young as you are, John, you should also guard yourself against Bertha’s wiles. That Bertha will set her cap at anyone. Young or old, it matters not.”