Blood Oath: The Janna Chronicles 1 by Felicity Pulman Page A

glower up at him. A smile twitched his lips once more as he nodded to her from his horse and called out, “ Bonjour, ma belle petite .”
    Janna bridled anew. She tilted her head back and glared at him. Pretty little girl indeed!
    “Can you give me directions to the manor house at Babestoche?” The man continued his careful inspection of Janna. There was warmth in his gaze; a smile of appreciation curved his mouth.
    For a moment, Janna thought to send him off in the wrong direction entirely, but she had the sense that the stranger already knew the way and was using this merely as a ruse to speak to her. Telling herself she wasn’t in the least flattered, she said, “Follow the river to Berford, then ask again.” Although the stranger had asked directions in her own tongue, pride prompted Janna to answer him in the language of the Normans, taught to her by Eadgyth. She jerked her head in the direction the stranger should ride, and walked away, conscious that his eyes still watched her. Belying her cool manner, her mind was full of a jumble of impressions, not least of which was the stranger’s easy assurance, his fine tunic and hose and, yes, she was forced to admit it, his handsome face and strong physique.
    Frowning, Janna considered the matter. Some years older, perhaps in his twentieth year, she thought. She could sense the experience behind his ease, the experience that told him his worth in terms of his birth but also in matters of life—and death. This was a man sure of himself, someone not to be disregarded or put aside. A scar down one cheek spoke of his having tested himself in combat, either of a personal nature or on the battlefield. A man of courage, then. A man’s man. A lady’s man too. Janna felt herself grow hot as she recalled how his bold glance had raked her body. He’d called her a pretty girl, but she was a Saxon serf and therefore unworthy of his notice; he was merely teasing her. This was a man who could pick and choose among women—and most probably did so, for who could not fail to be impressed by that proud, handsome face, that confident demeanor?
    Janna was surprised how much she had noticed—and remembered—on such a short appraisal. Who was he? And what could he want up at the manor? These were troubled times for travelers—and for all of England. King Stephen had usurped the throne and was now forced to defend his position against his cousin, the Empress Matilda. Janna had a secret admiration for the empress. It seemed that, enraged by Stephen’s action and determined not to give up the throne, Matilda had gathered her own army of supporters and come to England to fight for her rights. Her claim seemed just, for she had been named heir by her father, King Henry. He himself was the son of the Norman bastard, William the Conqueror, who had taken England for his own and established the line of Norman rule. There had already been several skirmishes between Stephen’s army and Matilda’s supporters. Was the stranger here on Stephen’s behalf, to demand from the abbess and the manor house the knight service due to the king?
    Telling herself his business was none of her concern, Janna found a space near to a traveler, a spice merchant. She pulled a clean linen cloth from her pack and spread it on the ground, having first cleared straw and assorted rubbish out of the way. Carefully, she laid out her goods for sale, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for the abbey guards or the shire reeve, for she had no permission to sell her wares. “Creams to perfume your skin, ladies!” she called, gesturing to the pots on the ground. “Smell like a rose for your husband tonight! I also have rosemary and chamomile rinses to cleanse and lighten your hair. I have fragrant lavender for your linen, and a mint rinse to freshen your breath. Only a ha’penny a jar.”
    The spice merchant leaned over and inspected the pots, perhaps calculating whether or not their presence would damage his own