Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (12 page)

She dragged her mind from Godric back to Hugh and his intended bride, Eleanor. She wished them both well, but couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if she’d spoken of her own promising fortune. She remembered Hugh’s many acts of kindness, the admiration in his eyes when she’d nursed him back to health at the abbey, and the attraction growing between them. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. It seemed certain, from the look he had just given her, that he would be willing to join his future with hers – if only she could bring something to the marriage.

She couldn’t bring love, but she might be able to bring him a connection to the crown. In return, she might find comfort for her own aching heart. She was sure Hugh would make a loving companion and in return she thought she could make him happy, happier than he might be if he married Eleanor. But with Eleanor, he was assured of a promising future. With Janna, he had no guarantee of anything at all. It seemed that Hugh had his eye on a wealthy wife, but now that they’d met up again, perhaps he might find the courage to choose a different path? If so, Janna was determined that it was his choice to make, and only then would she decide if she could go through with it. And that decision would have to wait until after she had found her father and fulfilled the oath she had sworn to her mother. That must come before everything.

“And it’ll serve you right if you die a destitute and lonely old maid,” she told herself, feeling hot tears of self-pity sting her eyes. As she went to the brew house to refill the pitchers with ale, she tried to cheer herself with the thought that she was not alone. Her father might come to Winchestre and, while Ulf was here, she had at least one friend on her side. Two, if she counted Godric. Three, if she counted Hugh. Godric might be with Cecily, and Hugh have expectations of Eleanor, but there was no reason why she couldn’t count them as her friends.

She looked down at her russet tunic and apron, now blurred through her tears but no less real. They were the flag for how far she had fallen. Friends? She shook her head at the folly of her thoughts. Godric and Hugh were far above her now. They would not introduce a lowborn skivvy into their circle of society. She was a fool even to think of it.

*

“…the new brew.” The words penetrated Janna’s misery. Suddenly recollecting her earlier experiments with the ale, she stopped filling up the customers’ mugs and paused to listen.

“New brew?” Sybil sounded puzzled. “It’s the same as usual.”

“No, it’s not,” the speaker said. He took another swallow and smacked his lips. “I don’t know what you’ve put into it this time, mistress, but it’s good.”

“Yair, it’s different.” The man’s companion drained his mug and set it down with a bang on the table. “I’ll have another.”

There was a general murmuring as several customers quaffed the contents of their own mugs and passed their opinions on the brew. Noticing Janna standing nearby clutching a jug, they beckoned her across to them.

“Do you know anything about this?” Sybil shot Janna a sharp look as she approached the table.

“No. Well, yes, I – ” Janna hastened to fill the proffered mugs.

“Brew house. Now.” Sybil jerked her head toward the door and walked away.

“Be kind to her, mistress!” one of the men called out. “She makes a better brew than you do!”

From Sybil’s grim expression Janna knew she was in trouble, so she was pleased that the taverner had at least heard the compliments before she walked out.

“I don’t like to be made a fool of by anyone, least of all you!” Sybil rebuked Janna as she entered the brew house.

“It was not my intention to make a fool of you, mistress,” Janna pleaded. “It’s just that – that I used to make ale under my mother’s instruction and – and suddenly I felt heartsick that she was dead and that…and that…” She tried to blink back the tears she’d been holding in check ever since she’d faced the destruction of her prospects and the truth about her own hungry, lonely heart.

Sybil frowned. “You went behind my back, without asking permission. You might have ruined the brew!” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Or has someone put you up to this? Are you trying to sabotage my business?”

“Of course not!” Janna wondered why Sybil was so mistrustful, and what more she could do to allay the taverner’s suspicions. “You heard what the customers said. They
like
the new ale!”

“It’s as well for you that they do,” Sybil snapped. “What did you put in it?”

Janna hesitated. She wanted to keep the recipe a secret, in the hope that her knowledge would secure her employment. On the other hand, Sybil was steaming like a pot on the boil, furious that Janna had shown her up in front of her own customers.

“Some new herbs and a dollop of honey,” she admitted grudgingly. “And I stirred the brew with a stick of ash.”

“Ash?”

“My mother always told me that the ash was a tree of knowledge and wisdom, and if we stirred our brew with it, it would bring us health, protection and prosperity. And the bark adds flavor to the ale.” Janna wondered if that admission would be enough to satisfy Sybil. But it wasn’t. Without commenting further, the taverner drew a full mug of ale from the barrel and took a cautious sip.

In spite of her anger, her grim expression softened a little as she rolled the liquid around her tongue before swallowing it. “Sage?” she guessed, and Janna nodded. She wondered if the taverner could also taste the ash keys. But Sybil didn’t mention them, saying only, “The brew tastes a little sweeter than usual, but it’s quite refreshing.” She took another sip. “Why sage? And honey?”

“For the taste.”
And to make the brew more potent and last longer
. But this, Janna kept to herself. “I hoped that a different brew, or even a choice of brews, might keep our customers loyal once the other alehouses open,” she said. She swallowed hard, summoning up the courage to continue, “I’ve also added some extra herbs to the gruit in the new brew.”

“You’ve
what
?” Sybil’s face flushed dark with rage. For a moment Janna feared the taverner was going to hit her.

“Just for a change,” she said hurriedly. “It’ll taste even better than this new brew, I swear it.”

Sybil gave an angry sigh and pursed her lips. “We’ll be running out of supplies soon enough, even sooner if you’ve spoiled the new brew. I might have to close the tavern, and then where will you be?”

Janna’s small show of confidence instantly evaporated in the face of this new threat. “How long can we hold out, do you think?” she asked quickly.

Sybil shrugged. “I won’t be able to keep you on if I close.”

So this was Sybil’s way of paying her back for not asking permission to change the brew. Indeed, it was probably no more than she should have expected under the circumstances. Janna tilted her chin, determined not to let Sybil see how her words had stung.

“I can always take my recipe elsewhere,” she said quietly.

Sybil glared at her. Janna held her gaze. It was the taverner who looked away first. “Get on and serve the customers,” she said, and turned her back to snatch up a pitcher and open the bung on the new barrel of ale.

Janna took the filled pitcher from her and hurried off, conscious that in the battle of wills with her employer she had won the first round. But her brief feeling of elation died abruptly once she re-entered the tavern. Automatically she looked about for Godric and Hugh, and saw that they were leaving. But they were not alone – two men had joined them. Hugh had an arm around each stranger and appeared to be urging them out the door. Janna studied his new companions, curious to identify them if she could.

It was a great mistake, for even as she thought they seemed familiar, one of them turned to look over his shoulder and she recognized the red face and piggy eyes of Hugh’s uncle by marriage, Robert of Babestoche. Just as she’d seen him, so had he seen her. With a gasp of alarm, she ducked her head to avoid his scrutiny. But she was too late. She saw him stop and wheel around; saw Hugh’s hand tighten on Robert’s shoulder as he tried to turn him away; saw Godric step into his path to prevent him coming after her. Robert stayed still. But his companion did not. With only a fleeting glance, Janna recognized the man who’d once tried to silence her for ever – Mus. She didn’t wait to see anything further. She turned and fled into the yard, through the gate and down the lane. She didn’t pause to see if she was being followed, but made for the only place she knew where she might find shelter. She ran as if the devil himself was after her, for indeed, that was how she thought of Mus. With one fearful glance over her shoulder, she shot down the lane leading to the cathedral.

She heard shouts and pounding footsteps, coming closer, sounding louder. She didn’t dare look again. She ran on, feeling pain cut like a knife into her side. She gulped in ragged gasps of air, but felt as if she was suffocating. And still she ran, until at last the great doors of the cathedral loomed before her. Without pausing, she burst through them and collapsed onto the floor.

She crouched low and closed her eyes as she felt herself spinning down into darkness. Panic gripped her, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or cry for help. All she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat and the ragged whooping of her breath as she tried to drag air into her tortured lungs. Bright lights flashed behind her eyelids; sound ebbed and crashed in waves, and she knew that she was about to faint. Hours – or perhaps only moments – later, she felt something cold and wet on her neck, and a voice came to her through the darkness. “Keep your head down, Johanna.” She recognized the speaker: Sister Benedicta. She relaxed then, and let herself float off into the void. She was safe.

Once the waves of dizziness had passed, Janna felt ashamed of her weakness and was embarrassed that she’d drawn attention to herself in this way. She tried to stand up and was pushed down again by Sister Benedicta.

“I’m feeling all right now,” she reassured the nun, and proved it by rising to her feet, although she took care to anchor herself against a stone pillar. “I thank you for your care but truly, the faintness has passed.” She glanced fearfully around the cathedral, but there was no sign of Mus. The space was less crowded with townsfolk seeking shelter now that the danger had eased, but there were still many wounded soldiers needing treatment, and also some civilians, women and children among them. Janna felt a surge of anger that the innocent should also be caught in this fight for the crown.

“Now that I am here, let me help you,” she offered. She knew Sybil would not take kindly to her running away, and that staying here in the cathedral would only compound her transgression, but not for anything would she risk another encounter with Mus. Sister Benedicta looked as if she was about to protest, but Janna didn’t give her the chance. Instead, she walked over to the children and crouched down to see if she could cheer them with a story.

Once everyone was bedded down for the night, Janna also tried to sleep. But her rest was troubled by nightmares: Mus crept up on her with a wire snare in his hands while she stood frozen with fear, unable to get away. Robert stood by and smiled, and Godric turned his back and walked off. She opened her eyes, feeling a great wave of relief to find herself surrounded by the safe stone walls of the cathedral. She forced herself to stay awake until the full horror of her nightmare had subsided, only to fall asleep again and dream of Godric once more. This time he was with Cecily. They were walking hand in hand through the water meadows, picking flowers and herbs just as Janna herself had done. She asked Godric to give her some sprigs of sage, but he gave them to Cecily instead. They walked away, their figures dwindling until they disappeared altogether.

Janna woke with tears on her cheeks and black misery in her heart. It was safer, after that, to stay awake. And so she spent the rest of the night flitting among the patients, bringing a mug of ale to a thirsty soldier, a draft of horehound to quieten the hacking cough of a small child, holding patients’ hands and soothing them with reassuring words. She massaged bruises with a salve of woundwort and goose grease, and renewed a bloody and suppurating bandage, cleansing the wound before binding it with new cloth and tying it with care, taking pride in her handiwork and pleasure in being able to use her healing skills once more.

But the new day brought a new terror. Janna had spent part of the morning helping the nuns tend the wounded until she deemed the tavern would be crowded enough for her to return to her work in safety. Just as she was about to leave, the great doors were flung open, revealing a solid phalanx of men, some in armor and with swords drawn.

“No!” Sister Benedicta hurried to the entrance to ward them off. Janna marveled at her courage: one small, stout sister facing a group of men intent on forcing an entry. They had checked and were eyeing her dubiously, seemingly pondering the wisdom of cutting her down if it meant putting their immortal souls at risk. But the infirmarian was not alone for long – almost immediately her sisters streamed to the entrance to join her. A bell clanged, warning of the trouble, and within moments the sisters were joined by the priest, his acolytes and, shortly afterward, the prior and all the monks from the priory attached to the cathedral. They made a formidable wall as they assembled in front of the soldiers.

“What is your purpose in coming here?” the priest challenged.

A man wearing some semblance of armor stepped forward. Janna pressed closer in an effort to identify him. Was this Earl Robert at the head of the empress’s troops, seeking sanctuary? But she didn’t recognize the man, or his insignia, nor was there any sign of the empress. She surveyed the soldier and the grim-faced militia behind him. She remembered Hugh’s whispered advice that she should flee while there was still time. If not the empress’s army, was this instead the infamous William of Ypres, feared and detested by all who had the misfortune to cross his path? A frisson of terror ran through her. What had happened to bring these men to the very door of the cathedral?

“The empress has fled, and her army with her.” The man smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He reminded Janna of a snake eyeing its prey. The resemblance intensified as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. Clearly, he was relishing the situation.

A whisper of distress echoed around the cathedral as the occupants began to realize the consequences of the man’s words.

“They have escaped your clutches, then.” There was satisfaction in the priest’s voice.

“The empress managed to evade the queen’s troops, but her half-brother, Robert of Gloucestre, has been taken, along with most of his men.”

Godric and Hugh! Stricken, Janna put her hand to her breast. Neither had the money to pay a ransom. Had they managed to escape, or were they even now – ? Janna couldn’t bear to complete her thought.

“The empress’s army fled like rabbits before a fox, abandoning those mounts they did not need and dropping their possessions as they went: weapons, armor, shields, cloaks and precious vessels, so anxious were they to save their own skins. But we captured them anyway!” The man chuckled at the memory, a mocking laugh that boded ill for the unhappy captives. “After such a rout, they will not lightly take up arms again. The empress’s war is finished, and the citizens of Winchestre with it! And a pox on all of you for supporting her cause at the expense of the king!”

He stepped forward, but the men and women of the church closed ranks behind the priest and held fast.

“Get out of our way!”

Janna knew then that they had come to loot the church: to take the gold and silver, the precious cross and chalices, the relics and fittings. What they did not destroy they would sell to the highest bidder. And, to keep their actions hidden, they would probably slaughter all witnesses. Her heart juddered with fear; she began to mutter a prayer to save her soul.

A sudden realization penetrated her terror. The leader of this rabble spoke in the Saxon tongue. Not Flemish, nor even Norman French. This couldn’t be William of Ypres and his mercenaries then, so who were these people? Londoners? Would they be likely to show more mercy than the Flemish? She remembered hearing how the citizens of London had risen against the empress, forcing her to flee to Oxeneford. They had shown no mercy then. Her hands were clammy with sweat as she waited for the rabble to invade the cathedral.

“You will not enter! You will not sack and pillage God’s house, or you will have to answer to the Bishop of Winchestre for your actions,” the priest said coldly.

The soldier checked, perhaps deciding he needed to rethink his strategy.

“And on your death you will have to answer to a higher power even than our bishop,” the priest continued, making the most of the advantage he had won. “God is watching, as are his saints and all the angels. Beware, lest you imperil your immortal soul.”

Still the soldier stood his ground, but behind him Janna could see his men shuffling and fidgeting, and whispering to each other. The solid block of his support began to unravel as, one by one, they peeled off and hastened away, keen perhaps to find easier pickings elsewhere. The soldier and the priest faced each other down while behind them, in the cathedral, those taking refuge held their breath in terror.

At last the soldier turned away. “Keep your flock inside, priest, if you value their lives,” he said curtly, and strode off.

“And so it has begun.” The priest closed the great doors behind him, and turned to face them all. He looked exhausted, and ill with worry. “The Londoners have come to ransack Winchestre, and it’s only a matter of time before the Flemings join them,” he said. “You must pray for your families and friends, and all who are not in here with us.”

He did not have to say any more, for Janna could imagine exactly what was going to happen outside the cathedral, might even be happening already. The empress and her army had scattered, run for their lives. This, then, was the meaning of Hugh’s warning. She could only hope that he’d heeded his own advice and that he and Godric had found somewhere safe to shelter. She knew that the king’s supporters, under the leadership of the cruelest villain of them all, William of Ypres, would not hesitate to burn, to rape, to kill and pillage, to lay waste to Winchestre and all who lived within its walls. She found herself praying in earnest now, not only for herself but for Godric and Hugh, and also for Hamo. Hugh had said that Sire Geoffrey’s manor was some way out of Winchestre; Janna hoped it was far enough to keep the boy safe. And Ulf. Where was he? Any looters would be glad to seize his bag of relics, but would they leave Ulf alive during the taking of it? Janna shook her head, knowing the answer.

She found herself praying also for Sybil, and for Wat and Ossie and Elfric. Would they have had time to take shelter in the cellar? Would the soldiers even think to look for a hidden storehouse? Or would they be content to lay waste only to what was on display, not knowing there was more to find?

Janna’s hands clenched; she was shaking with rage even as she continued to pray. Hugh’s warning meant that this retreat had been planned in advance. She could not forgive the empress’s troops for running away and leaving the citizens to face alone the depredations of the Londoners, along with William of Ypres and his troops.

She was distracted from her prayers by a growing tumult outside: screams and shouts, the thudding of horses’ hooves and their frightened whinnying. The priest stayed by the door, ready to open it to anyone seeking sanctuary. But few came; Janna imagined that the townsfolk were probably being cut down before ever they could reach safety. She sank to her knees and blocked her ears, willing her imagination to stop casting pictures of what was happening outside the cathedral. But the sounds penetrated, terrifying in their implication. Smoke drifted through the windows and some, the young and the elderly in particular, began to cough as it swirled and thickened around them. Janna rose wearily and went to help those who most needed relief.

The bells had ceased to ring. The thick smoke made it impossible to see how the day was passing, or tell when night fell. From his post by the door, the priest said prayers and told stories of the miracles of Jesus in a vain attempt to lift their spirits. As his voice failed, the prior from St Swithuns adjacent to the cathedral took his place, and continued to do what he could to take their minds off what was happening outside.

*

Janna had no way of knowing how long they were incarcerated in the cathedral. Minutes passed as slowly as days. She spent the time in a state of terrified anticipation, which she tried to blunt by filling her hours with caring for the wounded and entertaining the children. What little food was left was kept under the watchful eye of Sister Benedicta. She began to dole it out only to the children and later, only to those children who were older and strong enough to survive. Sickened, Janna tried to turn deaf ears to the pleas of the mothers with toddlers, those too old to be suckled but too young to thrive alone, should there be no release soon from their prison. And her rage grew at the senseless waste of war. She had supported the empress’s cause from the start, but felt her sympathy waning fast as she contemplated the consequences of the lady’s ambition. And the king’s. And she wondered what would happen next, with the king and the empress’s half-brother both held captive by their enemies. Would they call a truce? Would one side yield to the other? Or would the fighting continue until either the king or the empress was dead?

Gradually the tumult outside subsided, but it was a long time before the priest deemed it safe to open the great doors. The captives streamed out and stood blinking in the pale sunshine, appalled at what lay before them: bodies of the dead and dying, and the smoking ruins of the town. It was a scene of utter devastation and destruction.

Yet not everyone had died in the onslaught, nor had everything been destroyed. As the group slowly began to disperse, so other survivors began to trickle out from their various hiding places, reassured by the priest’s presence that it was safe to show themselves at last. Families were reunited with joyful cries, but there were also loud lamentations as the dead were identified and mourned.

Janna began her search, praying that Hugh and Godric, and also Ulf, had got away in time. She felt sick with fear as she traversed the lane and came into the high street, keeping always in the shadows and starting at any unexpected sound. She looked along the street, noticing that all the shops had been destroyed. A sudden yowling sent her heart ricocheting into her throat, and she froze in terror until she noticed the source of the unearthly yell. The cat had lost one eye and its tabby fur was badly burned along one flank. Janna held out her hand to it, and called softly, but it flattened its ears at her and hissed, then sprang away and ran for its life. Janna crept on, expecting the worst, yet still with the hope that the tavern and its occupants might have escaped unscathed.

The wall surrounding the bishop’s palace was partly demolished; the palace itself was a smoking ruin, as were the shops and pentices that had hung from the wall like ticks on a dog. A dead beast lay in the market square. Janna wondered if its carcass would be salvaged for food to feed the starving survivors, and saw several townsfolk with knives out and baskets at the ready, bearing down on it. She shuddered and moved onward, but recognized no-one among the ruins. Hopeful that those she loved might have escaped the murderous onslaught, she retraced her steps toward the East Gate and the tavern. This part of town seemed to have escaped the worst of the firebrands, although smashed doors spoke eloquently of the depredations of the marauders. Janna wondered nervously if any of them were still roaming about now, hungry for pickings.