Janna Mysteries 1 & 2 Bindup (19 page)

A low muttering came from outside, a buzzing like a swarm of bees. A voice was raised, and quickly hushed. The words had been indistinguishable. Janna wondered if Hilde was being taken to task for her actions. A man laughed then, the sound drifting off into silence.

It was quiet outside now, too quiet. Surely she should hear their footsteps, the sounds of crunching leaves, snapping twigs as they returned to Berford? The silence made Janna uneasy. Were they still outside?

Smoke. Smoke and the thin crackling snap of burning wood. She stood up to inspect the fire in the centre of the room. A thin plume coiled upwards from a log which, even as she watched, crumbled and fell away into ash.

Janna settled back down on the stool and tried to calm her frightened spirit, but a new worry came to her mind. How would she manage if she could not trade her skill and knowledge of herbs in return for the goods she needed to live? With the memory of Wulfgar came the realisation that, because of his crazed wife, she would have to grind her own corn in the future. It was an extra task added to a burden already too heavy to bear. She drew a deep breath, weary beyond endurance.

Smoke. Janna looked at the dying fire. The crackling sounds were louder, the smell was stronger. Tendrils of smoke were seeping through small cracks in the mud and straw daub that sealed the wooden frame of the cottage. Aghast, Janna noticed flickers of light as flames began to lick and burn through timber. The cottage was on fire, and she was trapped inside.

‘G
OD ROT YOUR
souls!’ Janna shouted, hoping the villagers were still outside to hear the curse. She hated them with all her heart. What had she ever done to make them turn against her like this? But now was not the time for curses and questioning. The cottage was on fire, the flames all around her. She must act, and quickly, or she would be burned alive.

She pounced on the heavy chair and dragged it away from the door. The door was alight now, and the surrounding walls with it. Janna felt terror as she realised she was surrounded by a ring of fire. She must make haste to save what she could! She quickly cast about for Eadgyth’s precious weighing scales, but the room was filling fast with smoke, making it hard to see. The smoke stung her eyes and tore at her throat. She began to cough. The sound was growing louder, crackling and roaring as the fire took hold. Hungry tongues of flame closed in on her, licking up the wooden cottage and its contents.

Janna put her hand over her nose and mouth to try to filter the choking smoke that billowed around the room. No time to save anything, she must flee for her life. But where was the door? She peered about, trying to find her direction from the furniture in the room, but her eyes were watering and the smoke was too thick to make out anything at all. In panic, she stretched out a hand then blindly stepped forward. Her boot jarred against a heavy object. She touched it, felt its shape. The chair! She’d moved it to the right of the door, but the door itself was burning. In sudden hope, she turned to the window. It was too small; she would never fit through.

Janna knew that if she didn’t get out right now, she would die. She cast about in search of the pot of vegetable soup. Her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled, missed, then at last managed to pull the pot off the hook. She dashed the contents over herself then untied her purse and girdle and ripped the wet kirtle off over her head. Girdle and purse she tied around her waist, then she bundled her kirtle around her hands to protect them.

The smoke was suffocating, she couldn’t breathe. The rushes had caught alight now; fiery rivulets snaked across the ground towards her. She had to go. Janna sucked in a quick breath to summon up her courage. Using her bound hands as a battering ram, she ran at the door, shoved it open and raced through. The scorching breath of the flames stung her as she passed, and then she was out and running for her life. The air smelt suddenly cool and fresh. She was safe. She doubled over, coughing and choking, whooping for breath as she tried to suck in enough air to feed her starved lungs.

She smelt the stink of burning hair; her scalp smarted and stung. Her hair was on fire! Shivering with shock and fright, she shook her hands free of the kirtle and wrapped it tight around her head in a desperate effort to smother her flaming halo. Then she looked through the trees at the incandescent pyre that was once her home. She began to retch. She heaved up her dinner in painful, agonised gasps, retching until her stomach was empty and sore.

The spasms passed at last. Janna straightened and looked about her. Despair crushed her as she watched the fire destroying what was left of her life, everything she knew and everything she had shared with her mother.

The animals! Without giving herself time to think about her own safety, Janna ran around the side of the burning cottage to the pen which housed the goats and hens. She could hear an anxious bleating as she came closer, and felt an overwhelming relief that the goats were still alive. ‘Get out, get out!’ she urged, as she unsnicked the catch that kept the gate closed.

Too fearful to move, they stayed huddled together. ‘Shoo!’ Janna ran at them, forcing them to move apart. The hens cackled and ran about, dangerously close to being trampled by the frightened goats. ‘Shoo!’ Janna’s voice shrilled high with fright. She flailed her arms to scare them into action, and at last the goats ran through the opening and out into the garden, followed by the hens. ‘Shoo!’ she shouted again, urging them towards the forest and freedom. As soon as she was sure they were on the move, she raced ahead and into the sheltering trees. A greater fear filled her now. The villagers wanted her dead! She dived into a bushy thicket and rolled flat onto the ground, trying all at once to become invisible. After a few moments, during which she gathered what last remnants of courage she had left, she raised her head and peered cautiously about.

The cottage still burned fiercely, the fire casting its light in a wide arc. Janna watched the scene intently, alert for any movement or sound that would betray the presence of the villagers. How delighted they must be by the success of their mission to drive her away, and by their power over her. Her eyes smarted from the heat and smoke, her skin burned where the fire had scorched her. She blinked hard and stifled a sob as she continued to watch. There was no sound of voices, no sign of human life, no witnesses to the destruction of her home, her life. Like the cowardly dogs they were, the villagers had fled.

Sparks broke free of the blaze and floated through the air. Fire fairies, Janna thought fancifully, until she noticed that a stray spark had alighted on a clump of leaves close to where she was sitting. The leaves were smouldering, could easily flare out of control. Janna jumped up and stamped on them, extinguishing the danger. But the smoking vegetation had awakened her to the hazard she faced. It would be stupid, she thought, to save herself from a burning cottage only to die in a forest fire instead.

She could not seek the safety of the fields in case the villagers were still about. Instead, she forced her trembling legs to run deeper into the forest, ducking branches and bushes, tripping over flints and into unexpected hollows, pushing her way past brambles that caught her tunic and scratched her skin, until she reached a wide clearing. Believing herself safe at last, she collapsed onto a patch of grass.

The burning cottage had set the sky alight. The fiery glow shone above the trees. There was no escaping the horror of her loss. Numbly, Janna kept watching as the leaping flames gradually sank lower. It came to her that she was still clad only in her short tunic. She untied the girdle and purse at her waist, then unfastened the damp and singed kirtle which she’d wound around her head. She shook it out and put it on, her fingers catching in holes where the fire had burnt it right through. Even though it was in rags, it would give some protection to her bare arms and legs, she thought, as she secured her girdle once more.

Janna had cried all the tears she could cry. Now she just felt achingly empty and sad. She stood stock-still while she assessed her situation. She had no way of earning her keep in the future. She was an orphan. There were no family or friends to help her; indeed, the villagers hated her enough to destroy the only thing she had left: her home with all its memories. Janna clenched her hands, feeling another emotion that at first she could not identify. Its intensity filled her with a white heat so strong it drove out all fear and loneliness. It was rage, she realised, an anger that blazed as hot and blinding as the sun. Impulse bade her run down to the village and demand justice. She might still have some support there; not everyone had come out to the forest tonight. Caution told her that it might only have been fear that kept the other villagers away, and that they might not be on her side if forced to take a stand. Janna knew she hadn’t imagined the hatred that had prompted those who had fired her cottage. They hadn’t cared that she might burn along with it.

She hesitated, at a loss what to do next. Finally, she came to the conclusion that it would be better, for the moment, if everyone thought she was dead. Let the villagers think they had succeeded in their purpose. It was the only way to stop them coming after her again.

With that decision behind her, Janna was faced with a new question. Until she could find some way of bringing the villagers to justice, and her mother’s killer along with them, she had to find shelter. Where could she go? South to the sea? No, she wanted to put the protection of the forest between her and the villagers. She could not go east to Wiltune, for she was known there. Nor should she go west. From what Godric had told her, she’d never find the ancient way through the forest that would lead her to safety. North, then? There was a track right across to Wicheford, she’d heard, but she’d never gone so far as that before. She would be walking into the unknown. With this realisation came a thought to reassure Janna: if she knew no-one it would mean that no-one knew her. She would be able to beg for bread and shelter in safety.

Undecided, she hesitated. She was so tired! Her body hurt, and her spirit was weary to death. She was surrounded by the dense, secret fastness of the forest. It was dark enough for shelter, but too dark for venturing into the unknown. Tonight, then, she would hide here. Perhaps her path would seem clearer in the morning.

Wearily, Janna fashioned a nest of soft grass and leaves beneath the comforting branches of a spreading beech, and sank down. Although the night was cool and her thoughts were in turmoil, exhaustion claimed her. Almost instantly, she fell asleep.

The melodious warbling of blackbirds brought Janna suddenly wide awake. She sat up with a jerk, puzzled by the leafy roof above her head. Her heart did a somersault as she recalled why she was sleeping out under the trees. A shudder shook her body. She felt cold and she was wet. It must have rained at some time during the night. Alone and vulnerable, Janna rested her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t stay here. She had to think, to make some sort of plan for the future.

Something felt different. Cautiously, she touched her head and felt stubble, all that was left of her burnt hair. Yet not all of her hair was gone, she discovered, as she continued to explore her scorched and tender scalp with careful fingers. She still had a few long locks where sparks hadn’t fallen. She shed her wet kirtle to examine her arms and legs. Bright pink streaked her skin where fire and brambles had branded her. She looked down at her kirtle. The front was burnt so badly it was beginning to disintegrate. As she dressed, she comforted herself with the thought that at least there was no-one about to see through the holes in her kirtle. She knew her first task must be to find something else to wear. She could not make her journey dressed like this.

She stood up, and limped slowly to the edge of the forest. A faint glow lightened the sky to the east, heralding the dawn of a new day. Common sense told Janna that she should leave straight away, before anyone was up and about to see her. Yet all her instincts bade her go back to the cottage one last time. Like a wounded animal, she needed to return to her lair.

It made sense to go back and look around, she reasoned. There might be something left that she could salvage, some balm to heal her burnt and smarting skin, maybe even something to replace her ruined kirtle. At the least, she could wash away the ravages of the fire from her skin.

She looked about her, assessing the chances of discovery. The sky was dark and shrouded in cloud. It was early enough for most people to be still abed. No-one would have had time yet to walk to the cottage to survey their handiwork – if they had the courage to come at all.

There was a hint of rain in the air, a fine sifting that kept Janna shivering in the cool early morning. The rain had been enough to dampen the fire, she realised, as she hurried towards the blackened ruin, all that was left of her home. In fact, the rain was providential, for it had probably prevented the fire from spreading through the forest itself. If only it had rained sooner, she thought, some part of the cottage and their life within might well have been saved! As it was, the stench of charred remains hung acrid in the air.

Janna went first to their herb garden in the hope that something might have survived after all. Burnt bones and charred feathers lay among the ashy remains. Laet, Janna thought sadly. In the race for food, and everything else, the little hen had always come last. She raised her glance from the devastating scene. ‘Nellie! Gruff!’ she called. There were no answering bleats, but Janna took comfort from the fact that there was no sign of burnt goats in her garden either. They must be happily foraging in the forest. Soon enough someone would find them and take them home.

The hives had burnt through, leaking precious honey onto the ground. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Janna told the bees, although she knew that none could be left alive to hear her. They would not have survived the heat and smoke. Feeling empty and despairing, she walked on through the herb garden. The fire had taken everything, leaving only mounds of ash and black stalks to bear witness to a lifetime of toil. There was nothing left to salvage, no warm milk or eggs to fill her empty aching belly, no sweet herbs or honey to ease the hurt, no balm to replace a shattered life.

Desolate with grief, Janna wandered slowly on through the damp, charred mess to inspect the remains of the cottage and its contents. Their precious chest, which had contained a change of clothing and some warmer wear for winter, had burnt right through. Their meagre bits of furniture: the table, stools, her mother’s carefully made chair and cushions were all reduced to ash. So were the bunches of dried herbs, the sachets of powders and pills. Clay saucers and jars had crashed to the ground when the shelf had burned through. While most were smashed, a few pots had survived the fall and their contents remained intact. Yet all the medicaments in the world could not cure the pain in her heart, Janna thought, as she inspected these few pitiful remnants. She kept on searching through the debris, and found the hard flint and small piece of steel. Among the devastation of fire, the means to start it had been saved! With a wry smile, she secreted them in her purse. Should she need to keep warm, should she be lucky enough to find something to cook, being able to light a fire would come in handy.