Devilʼs Brew: The Janna Chronicles 5 (7 page)

Her probing fingers felt nothing out of the ordinary, and she breathed a quick sigh of gratitude. Just a bruise, then, and she knew what to do to soothe it, even had the herbs at hand to make up the necessary salve. Keeping to the back lanes, away from the madness in the high street, Janna found her way through the maze to the safety of the tavern. The gate leading into the yard at the back was barred tight against marauders. She stood for a moment, considering her options. Then, with a quick look around to make sure no-one was paying attention, she hitched up her tunic, knotted it out of the way, and climbed up and over the gate.

It seemed strange to be doing something she hadn’t done since childhood, since going out into the forest in company with her mother, and shinning up trees to pick tender leaves, new flowering buds, or fruits, or whatever else Eadgyth needed for a concoction. But the skill was familiar, and Janna didn’t hesitate as she found foot and toe holds, wincing at the pain of her bruised shoulder as she climbed.

The yard was empty of horses and patrons, but there was still some movement between tavern, kitchen, and brew house. The bustling figures stood still as they saw the intruder come over the gate. Sybil stepped forward, with Ossie behind her, as Janna dropped to the ground and hastily unknotted her tunic.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Sybil demanded, as soon as she recognized Janna. “Where have you been?” A hard hand closed around her arm and she was dragged into the tavern. Once inside, Sybil let Janna go and glared at her. Her white face and grim expression told Janna how frightened she was, but her words proved that, first and foremost, she was a businesswoman. “I am pleased to see you safe, but I need your help to get everything down into the cellar. Quickly! We have no time to lose.” She flapped a hand in the direction of the yard.

The tavern was empty of customers, and Sybil had pressed Wat and Ossie into service. Wat led the way, hefting a heavy sack of grain. This he pushed through a small hatch at the rear of the tavern, which Janna knew led to a ladder down into a cellar where Sybil stored the imported barrels of wine. The hatch was usually well hidden behind a screen, but the screen had been pushed aside, and she watched the potboy climb down, his head getting lower and lower until it disappeared altogether, while Ossie awaited his turn.

“Hurry up!” Sybil gave her a push, and Janna raced to do as she was told. Once outside, and knowing that she was safe for the moment, she looked around and began to understand Sybil’s fear. The smoky haze in the air was growing thicker as more and more properties were ignited by the flying fireballs. They were coming from both directions, for the empress’s troops were now hurling missiles at the old palace in the center of the town in retaliation for the bishop trying to burn down their own stronghold. The Bell and Bush, being close to the East Gate, was beyond their target, but the fireballs were flying so wildly that Janna knew they certainly couldn’t count on surviving the bombardment unscathed. A dark spire silhouetted against a reddish glow across the street told her that at least one firebrand had left its mark on St Mary’s Nunnaminster. She quickly crossed herself, praying that the nuns would find a safe shelter.

“Janna!”

Coming to herself with a start as she heard Sybil’s shout, Janna ran into the kitchen, seized the biggest basket she could find, and began to fill it with pots and pans, using her left hand for the task. She picked up the basket, wincing as its weight dragged on her sore shoulder. After a moment’s thought, she set the basket down and found the hempen bag she took on her occasional rambles into the meadows and where she kept those herbs she hadn’t already used or planted. She added the dry bunches of herbs hanging from the walls. Last, she tried the cabinet housing the precious pots of imported herbs and spices, but it was locked.

She slung the bag across her shoulders, picked up the heavy basket, and staggered out and into the tavern. Every step was a torment; it felt as if hot needles were piercing her bruises. Sybil entered just ahead of her, carrying a large pot from the brew house stuffed full with her brewing herbs and implements. Janna recognized a wooden mash stick and strainer poking out the top. She smiled to herself. In spite of fearing the worst, the taverner was making sure that, once this was over, she would be able to resume her trade.

“Don’t forget to bring the spice cabinet,” she reminded Sybil, as she passed the goods into the cellar, and the taverner nodded. Janna’s eyes widened as she peered down and noticed the numerous barrels of wine stored there, and the heaped sacks of grain and barley malt already shifted by Ossie and Wat. She straightened and gently rubbed her shoulder, wincing at the pain.

“What’s the matter with you?” Sybil asked.

“I hurt my shoulder.” Janna didn’t want to explain the terror of what had just happened, but Sybil was too preoccupied to show sympathy. She’d begun to unpack what had been brought in, and was busy stacking the goods out of the way. “Get down here and give me a hand with this,” she snapped. “And you two – ” she waved a hand at Ossie and Wat, “ – fill the barrels and roll them over from the brew house. Once you’ve done that, bring the spice cabinet and everything else you can carry from the kitchen. Things will be safe enough down here – and so will we, God willing.”

“Where’s Elfric?” Janna hoped no harm had come to the affable cook.

“Gone to his family, to keep them safe if he can. May God spare us all this day.” Sybil crossed herself, and Janna hastily copied her action. She still wasn’t sure whether or not she liked Sybil, but she certainly respected her. Although it was in her own interest to keep the tavern open for business, Janna wished she could leave, so that she could keep a look out for Hugh and Godric, and also for Ulf, for she feared greatly for their safety. Besides, she felt guilty hiding in the cellar when, with her knowledge of herbs and healing, she could seek shelter in the cathedral with other townsfolk and help with the wounded and the dying. She tried to ease her conscience with the thought that nuns fleeing from the burning Nunnaminster, including the infirmarian and her assistant, would surely have taken refuge at the cathedral. But doubts nagged her: even if the sisters had managed to escape the burning building, would they have been able to reach the safety of the cathedral? Her sense of duty pricked at her until she could stand it no longer.

“Mistress Sybil, may I leave the tavern? I want to – ”

“Leave?” the taverner interrupted. “Where could you go that is safer than here, pray?”

“I want to go to the cathedral. To – ”

But Janna was given no chance to explain her intentions, for the taverner gave an impatient hiss. “Get upstairs and help me bring down the bedding, and everything else we can carry.” She gave Janna a push toward the ladder. As Janna opened her mouth to argue, Sybil continued, “If you want to keep working for me, you’ll do as you’re told. I expect your first loyalty to be to me.”

“But – ”

“And be sure I’m watching you. If you leave now, don’t bother to come back here. There’ll be no job for you, no food or shelter either.” She thrust a basket into Janna’s hands, and followed her up the stairs.

Side by side, the four labored until the cellar was crammed with assorted bits of furniture, along with bags and baskets of produce and the means to cook and serve them, plus the barrels of ale and wine that would assuage their thirst if the siege continued. Eventually, a reluctant Sybil acknowledged there wasn’t room for another thing. In fact, there was barely enough room for themselves. With everything stored and safe, Janna managed at last to persuade the taverner to let her go outside for a look around. In truth, Sybil seemed pleased to have one less body cramped into the stuffy confines of the cellar.

“I’ll bolt the door from inside. You’ll have to knock when you come back, and hope that we’ll hear you ,” she instructed. Janna nodded, and hooked the hempen bag over her shoulder. She’d partly unpacked it, but had kept back those healing herbs she thought might prove useful. Now she was pleased that her last ramble had been recent enough that some of the leaves were still quite fresh.

Once out in the street, Janna was relieved to note that the buildings behind the tavern seemed still untouched by fire. She hoped their good fortune would continue, for they would need the use of both kitchen and brew house to cater to their customers once the fighting was over.

All seemed quiet now, but that didn’t mean it was safe, given that the town was full of soldiers with anything from murder to ravishment in mind. Keeping to the shadows, Janna turned into the high street, nervous about what she might find but knowing she had a duty to help the wounded and the dying if she could.

The long gloom of twilight had finally given way to night, but smoldering fires illuminated the darkness. Appalled, Janna looked about her at the devastation wrought by the ill-aimed missiles from both palace and castle. The flimsy shops and pentices that had once lined the palace walls were gone. The walls themselves were breached in parts. Through the gaps, she could see that the palace was largely in ruins. A thick cloud of choking smoke hung like a pall over everything. Some soldiers still lay where they had fallen, either caught by the fireballs or slaughtered in battle. Now it mattered not which side they had supported, for death had favored them equally. Janna gave each an anxious inspection, but recognized no-one. The pity of their untimely deaths stayed with her as she hurried down the high street, keeping to the shadows. She wondered if either side had scored a decisive victory, or if they had to do it all again on the morrow.

A group of soldiers stumbled out of Hell, drunk and high-spirited on stolen ale. Their clothes reeked of it. Janna pressed into the ruins of a shop to hide from them, praying there was enough cover to mask her presence. Heart-stricken and afraid, she held her breath and stayed still, for she knew her fate if she should be seen. But the soldiers reeled on down the street, looking for pickings elsewhere, snatches of song marking their progress.

At last, when she judged it safe enough, Janna came out of hiding. Moving more cautiously now, she retraced her steps along the high street and turned into the lane that threaded between the Nunnaminster and the cemetery and led to the cathedral itself. The nunnery, where she’d so recently taken shelter, was now a smoking ruin. Janna caught her breath as she pondered the fate of the nuns who had lived there. Unconcerned with the battle for power between empress and king, and innocent of everything but their wish to serve God and live in peace, they too had been swept up and destroyed in this madness. Had they managed to escape with their lives?

She scurried on, starting at every sound and furtive movement in the shadows. Scavenging rats – or humans? Either seemed likely. While Janna knew she could hold her own against any four-legged creatures she might encounter, the thought of pitting her strength and wits against stray soldiers sent quivers of fear through her body. She should have brought a knife with her, along with the hempen bag. It was foolish – dangerous – to be out in the night alone in the aftermath of a battle, she knew that, but still she forced her steps onward. Her mother had taught her the art of healing, and during her time at the abbey, Sister Anne had taught her even more. She could not let that knowledge go to waste when it was possible that her presence might help to save even one life. Hugh’s, perhaps. Or Godric’s. And what of Ulf and Hamo? Janna quickly crossed herself. Pray God that the youngster hadn’t been caught up in the turmoil this day.

Another thought came to her: Robert of Babestoche! If Hugh had taken part in the melee, so must Robert have been pressed into service. Janna smiled to herself in the darkness at the idea of her old enemy lying dead. It would give her great peace of mind to know he could not harm her ever again. And if he’d died horribly, so much the better!

She passed through the cemetery. All was dark and quiet for the dead were long gone, marked only by their gravestones. She wondered if their spirits were watching; if, like her, they mourned and regretted what had taken place. The hairs pricked on the back of her neck as the sound of soft footfalls came to her ear. Frightened, she quickened her steps, and heard the soft thudding of boots come closer. Her heart pounded as her imagination conjured up ghastly images of those dead who could not lie quiet in their graves. What if it was Robert, come back to haunt her for her vengeful thoughts? Even worse: what if it was the living, with looting and raping on their minds? She began to run, stumbling in the dark, but was stopped mid-flight as her wrist was caught and held.

“Janna?”

“Ulf!” She could hardly see him but recognized his voice. “Christ Jesu, Ulf, you scared me half to death!”

“I’m sorry, lass.” He loosened his grasp. “I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to shout out, in case there were soldiers nearby, but I didn’t want to lose you in the dark either. That’s why I ran after you. I own I’m greatly pleased to see you safe. I went to the tavern but it’s all closed up. I hoped you’d found somewhere to hide. You certainly shouldn’t be wandering around out here on your own.”

“I’m going to the cathedral to see if I can help tend the wounded. Will you escort me?”

“Of course. I was on my way to seek shelter there myself.” Ulf hefted his pack more securely onto his shoulder.

“And you’ve managed to save your relics as well as yourself?” Janna was overjoyed that Ulf had escaped unscathed.

Ulf nodded. “That bishop’s made a right mess of the town, and there’s talk of more fighting to come.” He patted his pack. “There’ll be plenty of people praying to the saints to save their lives, as well as their property. I’m going to be busy tonight.”

Janna grinned. It was an ill wind, she thought, knowing that Ulf was bound to profit from the terror of the townsfolk.

Utter chaos met their eyes when they ventured through the cathedral’s great doors and into the nave. It looked like a marketplace, crammed with the belongings of those seeking sanctuary within. Some had also brought their livestock, the assorted smells and anxious cries of birds and animals adding to the general cacophony. People stood about in knots, commiserating with their neighbors and calling down a pox on both bishop and empress alike. Standing in front of the altar was a priest, intoning prayers in a loud voice designed to quieten all and command their attention. Instead, it had the opposite effect, for all those within raised their voices ever louder to continue their conversations, contributing further to the uproar. Children shouted and chased each other, babies howled, and mothers, wives and sweethearts wept and prayed over their dying and their dead. Janna felt a great relief as she noted several black-robed nuns, refugees from the Nunnaminster, bringing water and comfort, tying bandages, and ministering potions to ease pain and discomfort.

Recognizing the infirmarian and her assistant among them, Janna left Ulf’s side and hurried to offer her services.

The infirmarian frowned as she watched the lowly serving maid approach. Her expression transformed into a look of shocked recognition. “Is it really you, Mistress Johanna?” Her disbelieving glance swept from Janna’s face down to her rough homespun tunic and back again.

“Yes.” Janna didn’t want to waste time on unnecessary explanations. “I offered you my help once before, and I hope you’ll accept it now,” she said, going on to remind the nun of her tuition under Sister Anne, the infirmarian at Wiltune Abbey.

Sister Benedicta nodded, her relief evident as she steered Janna toward a group of soldiers and townsfolk lying close to the huge arches at one side of the nave. “I’ve managed to rescue some salves and bandages from our abbey,” she told Janna. “But everything else of value is gone – our precious vestments, our relics, our books – all burned.” Her face contracted with pain and fury. “Our bishop and the empress have much to answer for regarding their deeds this day.”

“But you all escaped with your lives?”

“Yes, in the mercy of Christ.” The infirmarian indicated the trestle table on which stood all the supplies Janna would need to treat the wounded. “Brother Edgar has also given us medicaments from St Swithun’s Priory and is here, helping us.”

“I’ve brought you some healing herbs.” Janna handed them to the nun, confident that either Sister Benedicta or Brother Edgar would know their use, and would have more chance to brew potions and mix salves than Janna herself.

The infirmarian opened the bag, looked inside, and took a suspicious sniff.

“Soapwort and sanicle for cleansing the wounds, and selfheal, comfrey and marsh mallow to soothe and heal. There’s burdock leaves for burns, and better still if you can combine them with egg whites. There’s wood lettuce for pain. And if you have something ready-made for a bruise, sister – ” Janna touched her sore shoulder, “ – I’d be much obliged.”

“There’s a salve of comfrey root and bishop’s weed, you may use some of that.” The nun pointed to it. As Janna unscrewed the pot and dipped a finger into the cool unguent, the nun plunged her hand into the bag and brought up a fistful of the contents to see their worth for herself. Her expression cleared. “Well done,” she said. “I’ll give them to Brother Edgar. He’ll make them up as necessary.” She paused, watching Janna’s awkward attempts to massage the salve into her shoulder.

“Give that to me.” She took the pot and drew Janna further into the shadows. “Show me,” she commanded, and breathed in a soft whistle as Janna pulled the tunic off her shoulder. “’Tis the color of a ripened plum!”

“I got kicked by a horse,” Janna explained, wincing as the infirmarian’s fingers touched her tender flesh.

“Lucky it wasn’t your head,” Sister Benedicta commented, as she smoothed on the ointment with gentle fingers. “That’s all I can do for you at the moment,” she added, “but this should ease the pain and fade the bruising.”

“Thank you. My shoulder feels better already.”

The nun nodded and bustled off in search of Brother Edgar, the bag of herbs hooked over her arm. Left to her own devices at last, Janna immediately began a search among the injured and dying. Taking care to shade her face within the folds of her veil in case she should encounter Robert of Babestoche, she walked slowly along the line of bodies ranged down the nave. She felt sick with apprehension. But there was no sign of Hugh or Godric, or even Hamo. Or Robert, or Mus either. She scanned the long line of petitioners waiting for admittance to the sanctuary behind the altar and the monk’s quire, but recognized no-one. Ulf had told her all about the shrine of St Swithun when he’d shown her the badge he’d purchased on his first and only visit there.

“It’s right good business for the cathedral, all those pilgrims,” he’d said cheerfully. “We all had to come through the same door to pay our dues and buy our badges and that. Then we went into a small chapel on the side to give thanks to Saint Christopher – ’cause he’s the patron saint of travelers, you see. After that we went on to the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre. That’s where the saint’s relics rest in the feretory. It’s beautiful, Janna! Like a cave hollowed out of stone, with gold and silver on the altar, all a-sparkle in the candlelight. And behind it, painted on the walls, is the story of Christ’s Passion. It was worth the admission fee, for certain! All that color and splendor – I never seen anything like it in my life before. You must go and see it for yourself, lass.”

Janna had promised that she would. She no longer had the coins to pay for a visit, but she hoped the petitioners would find comfort from their communion with the saint. The queue was growing longer even as she watched. People were desperate for St Swithun’s intervention in the danger in which they now found themselves.

She began a closer inspection of the wounded soldiers, targeting those most in need of attention. She felt a great relief that Robert of Gloucestre, Bishop Henry and even the empress herself were not among the crowd. Was it God’s will that they’d been spared, or did it just mean there’d be another siege on the morrow, and another after that, until such time as a decisive victory was won?

With her second inspection completed, she went off to find a bowl, clean water, a handful of rags and a sharp knife. She began to remove the hauberk of an injured knight. The man groaned, half fainting with the pain, but he was conscious enough to know that she was trying to help him and did his best to cooperate with her whispered instructions.

Next, she cut away the bloody fabric of his padded tunic, and then the torn linen shirt he wore underneath, gently pulling the material away from where it had stuck to his skin, and taking care that no cloth or metal was left to poison his blood. The soldier groaned again. His face was yellow and beaded with sweat. From his badge, Janna could tell he was one of the bishop’s men. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, knowing that she would treat him just as well as she would any of the empress’s supporters.

She drew in her breath as the wound was exposed. A savage thrust from an enemy sword had pierced the soldier’s armor and found his side – but not his heart, God be thanked, or he would have been dead by now. Nevertheless, the damage was terrible and he was in great pain. Janna soaked a cloth in the basin of water and soapwort leaves, and did her best to cleanse the gash. It might be possible, she thought, to stitch the sides of the wound together for it was long and deep. But she had little experience with such a thing. Did Sister Benedicta? She inspected the wound more carefully. It was deep, but the cut itself was not wide. If tightly bound, the flesh should knit together – if the soldier survived the injury.

With a sigh, she went in search of a healing salve of woundwort, and selected also a long linen strip from a bundle that had been torn from a sheet. As she administered the salve, the soldier lay senseless for the pain had become too great for him to bear. Janna was glad he’d found relief from his suffering, but hoped that this was not a sleep that would lead him down into death. Once her task was completed, she went in search of Sister Benedicta, thoroughly unnerved by the soldier’s distress.

“Do you have any syrup of poppies?” she asked, knowing a concoction brewed from the white flowers of the poppy was the best of all remedies to dull pain.

Sister Benedicta nodded. “Only a little,” she said, producing a small flask. “Use it sparingly, and only on those who most need it. For the others…” She showed Janna a large flask of dark liquid. “A decoction of willow bark,” she explained. “It eases pain.”

“Thank you.” Janna wished she’d thought to ask for it earlier. She picked up the two flasks and hurried back to look after the next wounded soldier. In the past, with her mother and at the abbey, she had learned to treat diseases, sprains and broken limbs, but never before had she attempted to treat injuries as terrible as these. It worried her that her knowledge was so inadequate. Despite her best intentions, she knew that some of these men would die in her care, and she muttered the prayers and charms she had learned from her mother as she cleaned them up and tried to make them comfortable.