Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 (14 page)

“And did you do that?”

“Yes. At once when the mixture was given to me, and again in the morning. The lavender is still beside his cradle.”

“Did you have syrup enough for only two doses?”

“The apothecary ordered me to throw it away. Your mother brought a different potion back with her, but Master Fulk told me to destroy that too.” The girl looked uncomfortable. Janna wondered if she’d done what she was told. She must have a baby of her own, a child who might also be ailing and in need of a healing potion. Yet Janna was sure the nurse would not give her a straight answer in front of Dame Alice.

She tried another tack. “What was in the mixture? Did my mother tell you?”

“No.” The girl shook her head, not meeting Janna’s eye. Desperation forced Janna’s hand. “And did you throw it away, as you were bid?”

The girl remained silent.

“Come now, Dame Alice will not punish you if you disobeyed Master Fulk’s orders. In fact, I am sure she will reward you if you can bring the mixture to us now. For certes my mother knew exactly what was needed to save the baby’s life.” Janna flicked a glance toward the lady, mutely asking for her support.

Dame Alice leaned forward. “If you still have it, I beg you to fetch it immediately.”

The girl nodded, and fled. Dame Alice fell back against the pillows, her sigh of relief echoing around the chamber.

Exhilarated by what she saw as a win, Janna called for a jar of honey to be brought. As soon as the girl had returned with the mixture, and the baby had swallowed a few drops of Eadgyth’s healing brew, Janna dipped her finger into the honey and then, greatly daring, spread the sticky sweetness over Lady Alice’s nipple. Another dip into the honey, and this time she picked up the baby and put her finger in his mouth.

He turned his head away. She could hear his breath rattle faintly in his chest. The sound alarmed her, for it was the sound made by the dying. But she could not give up, not yet, and so she persisted, dipping her finger into the honey once more. Eventually, the baby responded to the sweetness and began to suck, although with little enthusiasm. At once, Janna removed her finger and lowered him into the lady’s waiting arms. Gently, she guided his mouth to the honeyed nipple, willing him to start taking nourishment. She held her breath.

At last his lips moved and he began to suckle. Janna felt her tense muscles unclench. The knot in her stomach began to dissolve.

“I thank you.” Dame Alice didn’t look at Janna. Her attention was focused on the small bundle in her arms. She bent to kiss the dark fuzz on top of the baby’s head. Unsure if she should stay or go, Janna hovered beside the bed. She wondered if she could ask for permission to leave the bedchamber. The baby’s rattling breath alarmed her. There were herbs that might alleviate the problem, if she could find any of them growing in the manor’s own kitchen garden. Cecily was not here to give her advice; another tiring woman was in attendance. Perhaps Cecily was looking after Dame Alice’s little boy? Janna wondered if he’d met his new baby brother yet.

A rattling cough brought Janna’s focus back to the bedchamber. “May I take a walk in your herb garden, my lady?” she asked. “I hope to find something there to ease your baby’s breathing.”

“Yes, go at once. But don’t leave the manor.” Dame Alice glanced briefly at Janna. “I need you here.”

“Yes, my lady. Of course. I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

Janna hurried out into the hall, keeping a lookout for someone to give her directions to the kitchen garden. She hated the thought of asking at the kitchen and having to face the cook once more, but she had no time to waste and so she set off toward the outside flight of stairs.

Before she’d taken more than a few steps across the hall, she heard her name called—Aldith had been lying in wait for her to appear. Now she stood fast, blocking Janna’s path. “So,” she said, “you have managed to push your way in here just as your mother did.”

A flash of anger heated Janna’s blood. “It was none of my doing. You heard the lord Hugh. Dame Alice sent for me.”

“A green, untried girl. What do you know of women’s and children’s troubles?”

“I know what my mother taught me. Which, I wager, is a great deal more than the apothecary knows, and probably more than you know yourself, mistress.” Janna knew she was being rude. Too provoked by Aldith’s accusations to guard her tongue, she continued: “You were very quick to take my mother’s place here at the manor. ’Tis certain that my mother’s death will be good for
your
business.” She was about to hurry on through the hall, but Aldith’s next words stopped her dead.

“Midwifery has always been my business. There is no blame in wanting to help a mother and her new child if they are in need. That’s why I’ve now offered my services to Dame Alice, and before that to your mother, when she told me where she was bound. She refused my offer, of course. Wanted all the glory for herself, I dare say.”

“You met my mother on her way to the manor?”

“Indeed I did. She was looking inordinately pleased with herself. I asked where she was bound and she told me.” Aldith put her nose in the air and gave a contemptuous sniff, trying to hide her jealousy.

“And you offered assistance? Did you tell her what to do to help the lady and her babe?” Janna tried to placate the angry midwife with flattery—and in the hope that she, in turn, might also be offered some guidance.

“I gave advice, yes. After all, I have been here before to attend Dame Alice and I have witnessed her troubles.” Aldith hesitated a moment, struggling between boasting or telling the truth. “Your mother wouldn’t listen to me, of course. She told me she already knew all she needed to help Dame Alice and her babe.”

Janna didn’t like to point out that Fulk the apothecary had only been called because, under Aldith’s care, the babies had all died. “Did my mother perhaps take any of your syrups or potions, even if she wouldn’t take your advice?” Janna held her breath. The answer to her mother’s death lay in Aldith’s reply.

Aldith’s face darkened. “She took no advice, and she spurned the tonic I offered. But she wasn’t too proud to ask for some of my special cordial to drink.”

“You gave her some cordial?” Janna kept her voice under control as she asked, “Did my mother drink it?” Her hands felt clammy; she sweated with the need to know the truth.

“Of course she drank it! My mint cordial is renowned for its cooling and reviving properties.”

“Of course it is!” Janna agreed hurriedly. “What herbs do you use, mistress, to make it so special?”

Aldith looked coy. “It’s a secret recipe.”

“Mint. And perhaps a few drops of poppy juice?” Janna probed.

“I will not tell you my secrets.”

“A little hemlock to dull the senses? A mite of monkshood, perhaps?”

“Are you accusing Mistress Aldith of poisoning your mother?” The deep voice of Robert of Babestoche startled both Janna and Aldith. They had not seen him enter the hall. Janna wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening to their conversation. Now he strode forward, and pinned Janna with a fierce gaze. Beside her, Aldith had sunk into a deep curtsy. Janna hastily copied the midwife’s action.

“I-I know my mother was poisoned. I am trying to find out how it happened, sire,” Janna stammered, as she rose to her feet once more. She was dismayed at having to explain herself when she’d hoped to keep her suspicions secret.

“If your mother was poisoned, it was certainly none of my doing.” Aldith drew herself up, looking deeply offended. Janna silently cursed the lord’s untimely appearance. She could understand Aldith defending herself, but knew she would come no closer to the truth while he was present. Still, she had to defend her mother’s reputation in front of him.

“My mother knew and understood herbs and their properties—especially the poisonous ones. She was very particular with her potions; very careful when she collected the ingredients and especially when she mixed them. She would never knowingly have ingested monkshood, and yet she died of its poison.”

“Just so am I particular with my mint cordial.” Aldith glared at Janna. “You cannot hold me to account for your mother’s death. I vow I will make you sorry if you try!”

Janna looked from Aldith to Robert, reading anger and condemnation in both their expressions.

“You do wrong to spread false accusations,” Robert said coldly. “I can only thank God that my dear wife has suffered no harm at the careless hands of your mother. Let this be a lesson to you not to meddle with nature or the Lord’s will. It was at my wife’s request that you were brought here, Johanna, but I will not have you spreading slander and lies about the manor. You may consider yourself dismissed!” Turning on his heel, he strode through the hall in the direction of the bedchamber, leaving the two women to confront each other.

“I offered your mother my advice and my cordial in friendship and as an act of Christian charity, hoping to ease her thirst and her fatigue,” Aldith hissed as soon as they were alone once more. “I will not forget or forgive your accusations. They are made worse by the fact that you tried to blacken my name in front of the lord of the manor.”

“I did not know he was there, listening to our conversation.” Janna wondered how far she could trust Aldith’s protestations of innocence. The cook, and everyone else, claimed that her mother had taken no food or drink on her return to the manor house. Aldith’s cordial was the only clue to her mother’s death that Janna could find, yet the midwife’s anger and dismay seemed genuine.

“You are a silly, impudent girl. I understand that your mother’s death has upset you, but you do your case no good by making these rash accusations.” Aldith leaned closer, so close that their noses almost touched. “You would do well to follow my lord’s advice. Go home, Janna. Do not meddle in what you don’t understand.” Cradling the jar with its liquid contents closer to her breast, she stepped away from Janna and went toward the bedchamber, casting a triumphant glance behind her.

“How much of your cordial did my mother drink?” Janna called after her.

“We shared a whole jug!” Aldith disappeared from Janna’s view.

A whole jug? It was true Aldith was proud of her mint cordial, and rightly so. Janna had once tasted some herself, when the midwife had paid her mother in kind for a soothing cream. It was to Aldith’s credit that she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d met Eadgyth on her way to the manor house, nor that she’d given her the cordial to drink. Even if Aldith was lying about sharing the cordial with her mother, Eadgyth knew its taste. If she’d had any suspicions about it, she would have spat it out and poured the rest of it away. And she would have broadcast her suspicions up at the manor house as soon as she started to feel ill.

Janna’s thoughts led her to conclude that it was kind of the midwife to share her cordial, especially if she was carrying it to sell. And if she was carrying it to sell, she would never have added poison to it. She couldn’t know that she would meet her rival, and that they would share a drink. It was far too great a risk to carry poisoned cordial when anyone might have stopped her along the road to buy some.

She had unjustly accused the midwife of poisoning her mother—and in Robert’s hearing too! She felt a pang of remorse, as well as annoyance that she’d let her suspicions run away with her. Aldith had shown kindness, both to Eadgyth and to Janna. Now, because of her stupidity, she had one friend less, when friends were what she most needed. First Godric, and now Aldith. Soon she would have no friends left at all.

Janna cheered up slightly as she remembered the gallant Hugh. And Dame Alice. She had asked Janna to save her baby—but Robert had told her to be gone. It took only an instant for Janna to make the decision. Impatient that she’d already wasted time, she ran down the stairs and set off toward the kitchen in the hope of finding the garden nearby.

Her spirits revived somewhat as the sunlight warmed her. The sight of a well made her lick her dry lips; talk of Aldith’s cordial had made her thirsty. She pushed the thought aside. A drink would have to wait until her mission was complete. She hurried on past several low buildings whose functions she could only guess at, fascinated by this glimpse of a life so different from her own.

She’d guessed that the herbs and vegetables would be grown close to the kitchen for easy picking, and so it proved. The garden was situated in a sunny and protected spot between the kitchen and the timber palisade surrounding the manor house and grounds and apple, pear and plum trees formed a screen to provide shelter from the worst of the elements. The plants were set out in neat rows for easy identification and picking; many of them were familiar. She took a quick glance around, envying the abundance and variety of vegetables occupying the large space available for their growing. It must be wonderful not to want for anything, she thought, as she eyed the long rows of cabbages, lettuces, leeks, turnips, broad beans, peas and onions. She turned her attention then to the herbs, noting with some pride that there were fewer to choose from than in their own garden, nor did they look as healthy. Her garden now, she corrected herself. There was great sadness in the thought.

She spied the thin, fleshy spikes of ground pine, and broke some off. The fragrant steam from boiling its shoots should aid the baby’s breathing. She looked about to see what else she could find to help him thrive.

With a heavy heart, Janna recalled her mother’s words some years before when, after several miscarriages, one of the village women had finally succeeded in giving birth to a living child only to have it die within a few short hours.

“
I know not how to explain it
,” her mother had said. “
The fact that the mother has had such difficulty carrying other babies to term tells me that there is some deep, underlying problem that we do not understand and therefore cannot treat. Mother Nature’s way is usually to expel the child before it has a chance to form properly, but in this case it seems that the baby’s will to fight kept it alive, at least for a time
.” Eadgyth’s voice had been troubled as she’d concluded, “
But
’tis better, I am sure, to lose a baby early, before it resembles a living child, than to give birth and watch your son or daughter die in your arms
.”