Willows for Weeping (3 page)

Catching his alarm, Janna quickened her footsteps to match his. Once within the sheltering belt of trees the pilgrims stood motionless, listening to the muted thunder of the horses' hooves and waiting for the danger to pass. At last, when all was quiet, Bernard gave the signal to move on. Janna forged ahead, pushing her way through weeds and reedy grass, keen to slake her thirst as soon as possible.

'You're in a great hurry, Janna,' Bernard observed as he caught up to her.

'I'm thirsty, Master Bernard.' Janna quickly wiped a strand of wet hair from her forehead and tucked it under her veil. She remembered then that she was no longer in the abbey and didn't have to hide her hair. In fact, she didn't have to wear a veil at all if she didn't want to, but at least it gave her a small amount of protection from the sun. 'Where are we?' she asked.

'We've just left an ancient road that people hereabouts call the
theod herepath
.' Janna nodded, understanding that he meant the 'people's way'. 'And this is the River Avon,' Bernard continued. Janna could not yet see the river, but could hear it chattering and bubbling beyond the green screen. She licked her dry lips in thirsty anticipation. 'Sarum, that the Normans call Sarisberie, is behind us now. Once we've had a rest, we'll follow the path of the river until we come to Ambresberie. That's probably the safest way for us to go now.'

'How far is it to Ambresberie?'

'Some days away. My mother tires quickly and we'll travel slowly now that we've left the road.' Bernard looked down at Janna with a worried frown. 'I fear for your fine gown, mistress. We may have to beg several nights' shelter in a farmer's barn, or even sleep under a hedge if naught else comes our way.'

'I have slept in far rougher places, I assure you,' Janna said, remembering the wet, cold nights she'd spent hiding up in trees.

Bernard smiled his relief. 'We'll make a stop once we get to the river. You can have a drink there, and something to eat.' The worried frown came back as he surveyed Janna's empty hands. 'You have no pack? And no cloak for protection against the cool of the evening?'

'No. And nothing to eat, either.' Janna hoped that, if they did stop at a barn for the night, the farmer might be persuaded to provide them with some bread and ale, or perhaps even some warm milk straight from a cow.

'What we have, we share,' Bernard promised. He turned to survey the rest of the pilgrim band.

'There seems to be a gap in the undergrowth over there.' Bernard pointed with his staff. 'Wait here while I look for an easy access to the river.' He set off, full of purpose. Janna hurried after him, determined to waste no time in slaking her thirst.

She had almost reached the river's edge when she noticed Bernard check abruptly, and stoop down to scrutinise a long, dark log that lay nestled deep in thick grass. He made the sign of a cross and sank to his knees. Intrigued, she came to his side, wondering what it was that smelled so putrid. As Bernard reached out a shaking hand, a swarm of flies buzzed up around his face. With an oath, he swiped them away.

Realisation came with a sickening jolt that brought Janna to her knees. It wasn't a fallen log that Bernard was touching so reluctantly. It was the body of a man!

THE MAN'S HEAD was bare, the hood of his black cloak
pushed askew from the fall. He had the cropped brown hair of a Norman and lay face down in the grass. It was quite clear that he was dead. Fighting nausea, Janna watched as Bernard gingerly rolled the corpse over. She had seen dead bodies before, for she had helped her mother minister to the sick and the dying. She had also helped Sister Anne in the abbey, but she had never seen anything quite like this. Sickness rose from her stomach up into her throat. She swal-lowed hard against an urgent need to vomit.

The man had been dead for several days, she surmised, as she peered queasily at his corpse. His skin was a greenish colour. As his face was bared to the sky, flies buzzed and massed around his eyes, nose and mouth. A seething mass of maggots was already burrowing into the soft cavities of his face. With a heaving stomach Janna noted that the man's flesh, where exposed, was bitten and torn. He'd been gnawed at by foxes, perhaps, or badgers. The stench of death and voided bowels was overpowering, and she put a hand over her nose to block out the worst of it while she continued her examination. It seemed important to her to find out how and why he had died, for the pilgrims might face a similar danger.

She knew bodies began to stiffen into rigor mortis after several hours, and that they relaxed once more into softness after a day and a night had passed. Although she was sure that he'd lain here for some time, she stretched out and reluctantly lifted one hand. His arm was limp, his skin cold and clammy to her touch. She dropped the hand in a hurry, and pressed her fingers down her skirt in an instinctive effort to wipe away all trace of the man's presence. She stood up then and looked down on him, noting how his head lay twisted at an unnatural angle from his body.

'An accident?' she asked anxiously. 'Or could this be murder, think you?'

'Do not fret yourself with morbid fancies, child.' Bernard patted her hand. 'Tis an accident, no more than that. See? The man's neck is broken.' He carefully opened the purse that was bound by a leather thong around the dead man's neck. 'I'll see if he carries anything that might help us to identify him.' He felt inside, and pulled out a thin strip of parchment folded into a small packet, with a red wax seal on it. Janna looked at it with interest. There was a cross at the top, and some letters in a band around the figure of a man. He wore a crown like a round pot on his head, and carried a staff. Janna peered closely at the letters imprinted deep in the wax, trying to read them.
'HENRICUS DEI GRATIA WINTONIENSIS EPISCOPUS'.
It was Latin, she knew that. From her time at the abbey she understood that
'dei gratia'
meant 'by the grace of God', but she wasn't sure what the other words meant.

Bernard frowned down at his find. 'I've seen something like this before,' he said, as he slowly traced the raised edges of the design with his finger. 'I think this is the seal of Henry, Bishop of Winchestre.' He thought hard for a moment, all the while staring at the parchment in his hand. ''Tis said the bishop has changed sides in the war for the crown, that he has swung his support behind the empress now that his brother, the king, languishes in Bristou castle under the guard of Robert, Earl of Gloucestre.'

Janna nodded in understanding. It was common knowledge that the Earl of Gloucestre was the empress's half-brother and most loyal supporter, and that he'd taken the king prisoner during the battle at Lincoln. She looked with new interest at the courier who had met such an unfortunate and untimely death.

He was obviously a man of substance judging from his glossy black cloak, the fine green linen of his tunic, the soft leather of his boots. Janna frowned. Why would he be wearing a cloak at the height of summer, unless it gave him some measure of disguise? There were several jewelled rings on his hand; a gold chain hung around his neck, and a dagger was secreted in a sheath hanging from his waist. Janna crouched down to draw it out. The hilt was silver, and beautifully engraved. It looked expensive. She replaced it carefully and sat back on her heels to sift through her findings. The evidence pointed to an accident, not murder, for if the latter the man most certainly would have been robbed. So, how had he come to break his neck?

Bernard was still holding the sealed parchment in his hand. 'The messenger must have been on his way to Oxeneford, for I believe the empress resides there now after her . . . ah . . . unfortunate rout from London,' he mused. 'I wonder if this message is urgent.' He turned the parchment over as if hoping to read something on the other side, but the page was blank, sealed from curious eyes.

'We go to Oxeneford already,' Bernard continued. As if his course of action had been decided, he thrust the packet of parchment into his own scrip. 'I will take it to my brother,' he said, by way of explanation. 'He will arrange its delivery to the empress.'

'You have a brother in Oxeneford?'

'Indeed. Walter is his name, and he is in the service of the empress – in a very minor capacity, of course.' In spite of his disclaimer, his face shone with pride. It was easy to see where his loyalties lay, and indeed, after meeting the empress at Wiltune Abbey, Janna shared his sentiments. But she couldn't agree with Bernard's proposed course of action.

'Should you not read the message?' she ventured. 'This man,' she gestured down at the messenger, 'seemed to travel light and perhaps in some secrecy. Could the message be urgent, think you?'

'Read a message meant for the empress?' Bernard sounded horrified at the very idea. 'No.' He shook his head in vigorous denial. 'My brother will know what to do with it.'

'Should you perhaps travel on ahead of us then, Master Bernard, so that the message might reach the empress as soon as possible?'

Bernard stood still for a moment, lost in thought. Then he shook his head once more. 'I cannot leave now, Johanna. I undertook to escort our group to Santiago and see them safely home again.' His mouth firmed into a grim line for a moment. 'I cannot escape my responsibility for seeing that justice is done,' he said quietly.

Intrigued, Janna was about to ask what he meant, but he shook his head. 'I'll say no more about the matter other than that the empress will have her message just as soon as I am home.'

Closing off the conversation, Bernard began to search the man's pack and scrip, looking for anything that might tell who he was. He was busy repacking the man's belongings when the sudden snapping of twigs startled them both. Janna sprang to her feet. A spike of fear sent her heart jumping. She looked to Bernard, seeking guidance.

'Stay here!' he commanded, and moved towards the sound, staff held in front of him like a weapon.

Janna was only too glad to do as she was bid. A dead man was one thing, but the thought that they'd misread the signs and that there might be a killer on the loose chilled her blood. Her heart hammered with fright as the crackles in the under-growth grew louder. Surely, if the man had been murdered, his killer would be long gone by now?

She could hear Bernard's voice. He was talking to someone. She strained her ears to listen, and realised it was not conversation she could hear. It was singing!

The pilgrim emerged from the cover of trees and thick rushes, leading a fine black stallion by its reins and crooning softly into its ear. Their progress was slow for the horse limped badly.

'Here's the cause of this poor man's death,' he called out when he noticed Janna's anxious expression. 'I expect the steed threw its owner at the same time it was lamed.' He gave the horse an absent-minded pat on the nose. 'Perhaps the creature was affrighted by something. A snake slithering across its path, or a sharp rock jabbed into its hoof? I should say that it stopped without warning and our traveller broke his neck when he fell.'

Bernard's words brought Janna a measure of ease. She'd found no wounds on the man's body to indicate any attack. All the evidence pointed to the fact that he'd died from a broken neck, most probably from a fall just as Bernard supposed. She chided herself for her wild imaginings, and looked down with pity at the ravaged body at her feet.

'Come.' Bernard still held the reins of the stranger's horse, and now he took Janna's arm to lead her away. 'We should not alarm the others. Let us move upstream a little; we'll stop there instead for our dinner.'

Janna resisted the pressure of his hand, and the force of his will. 'We can't just leave him here,' she said stubbornly.

Bernard gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders. 'You, yourself, have seen that there is nothing anyone can do for him now. I will report our finding at the next hamlet we come to, and make sure that someone brings a horse to transport the corpse back to Sarisberie.'

'We have a horse, the man's own mount. Surely we can take him with us to the next hamlet?' Janna hated the idea of leaving the body to the mercy of hungry wild creatures and the gathering insect life. She wondered how such a kindly man as Bernard could be so callous.

Her question was answered when he said, 'I know not if the message carried by the dead man was important, but we must continue without unnecessary delay. However, your point is a good one. It may well be quicker to bring the body with us rather than try to describe the site to others, or even have to return in order to show where he lies. Pray you, Johanna, go back to our party. Tell them what's happened, and take them further upstream. There's no need for anyone else to witness this distressing scene. Except for Ulf. Will you ask him to come and help me wrap the dead man in his cloak and lift him onto his mount?'

No need to spell out why the body should be concealed from view. Just the memory of it made Janna feel sick. 'Yes, I will.' She was about to hurry off to do as she was bid when Bernard stayed her with one final instruction.

'Say nothing of what we have found to anyone,' he said. 'We live in anxious and difficult times. A man may say one thing to your face and quite another behind your back. That this letter is intended for the empress I have no doubt, but if there are those among us who favour the king's cause there might well be a conflict of interest if it becomes known what I carry in my scrip. I would not risk that for anything, for I have taken it on myself to see that the message is safely delivered. Give me your word that you will say nothing of what we found, or that we know this man to have been the bishop's messenger, Johanna. 'Tis better so.'

'You have my word on it,' Janna promised, and set out to intercept the pilgrims before they came any closer. They greeted her news with anxious cries of alarm, but Janna quickly reassured them with the story that the horse must have shied in fright and unseated its owner. 'An unlucky fall,' she told them. She gave an involuntary shiver and turned to Ulf. 'Bernard asked that you join him down by the river to give him a hand with the body.'

Bernard hadn't mentioned Morcar or Adam, and she noticed that neither of them made any offer to help. Adam stood beside Golde, scowling at everyone. Janna wondered anew why he stayed with the pilgrim band. He appeared to shun all overtures of friendship, although she'd observed that all the pilgrims, at some time or another, had made an effort to walk with him and engage him in conversation.

Morcar and Golde began to walk on. Adam glowered after them but made no move to follow.

'Adam?' Morcar stopped, obviously waiting for him to join them. Golde stopped too, and beckoned impatiently. Janna was stunned by the hatred on her face, which quickly smoothed into a smile as she realised that she was being watched.

'Adam,' she cooed, soft as a turtle dove calling to its mate. The sullen pilgrim humped up his pack and shambled reluc-tantly towards them.

Shrugging aside her curiosity, Janna followed the band upriver. The pilgrims lost no time in slaking their thirst at the first suitable site they found. Janna noticed they used their tin badges to scoop up the water, the scallop shells making a more handy cup than bare hands. Having drunk their fill, they unwound their travelling cloaks and spread them onto the grass. Janna's stomach growled in hunger as she watched the party delving into their packs and bringing out hunks of bread and cheese.

With a sigh of regret, she walked on down to the river and crouched beside it. She could still feel the touch of the dead man, still smell his decaying flesh on her fingers. She thrust her hands into the cool, rushing water and picked up a handful of river sand. This she rubbed between her palms and through her fingers, scrubbing away all trace of the corpse. She repeated the procedure several times before, finally satisfied, she cupped her hands together to drink her fill. Shadows flicked and darted in deeper pools; a large trout shot into the sheltering growth of green watercress as Janna reached out to grab it. She licked her lips, imagining it sizzling in hot butter. She could almost taste its sweet flesh. But the water had filled her stomach to some extent, as did a handful of cress that she plucked and chewed with relish. She rose and looked about for somewhere to sit, somewhere clean enough not to soil her pretty blue gown. She was beginning to appreciate the advan-tages of rough homespun and a stout pair of sandals!

She spotted a fallen tree trunk in the shade, and sat down on it. Wincing, she eased off her shoes and flexed her toes, noticing that they were already bloodied and blistered. She knew she couldn't bear to put the pretty shoes on again, and resigned herself to walking barefoot after all – like a penitent, a true pilgrim. Yet Janna didn't feel like a penitent, for she'd done little in her life that she truly regretted. And she'd been long enough in the abbey to hope that God was a merciful and forgiving father; long enough too, to understand that the rules and restrictions the nuns lived under stemmed mostly from the Rule of St Benedict and others like him, and had little to do with the will of God Himself. Or so she believed.

So had her mother also believed, Janna thought, as she recalled Eadgyth's words. 'You don't need to go to church when God's great cathedral is all around you,' she'd said, as she pointed to the bushy herbs and bright flowers in their garden, and the green forest beyond. 'I follow God's law in my own way. I certainly do not need the priest to tell me how to behave, and what I may or may not believe.'