The Gallows Curse (3 page)

    I was
born, dragged from the earth, as you would say, in the hot, blood-soaked lands
of the Saracens. Who my midwives were and why they risked their lives and
sanity to pull me from the ground is another story, and perhaps I shall tell it
to you one day, but the tale I want to share with you now begins many years
after my birth. It begins in the cold lands far to the north, in England to be
precise, in a piss-poor village called Gastmere, in Norfolk, during the reign
of King John.

    John
has borne many titles, one such was Duke of Normandy, though he lost that to
King Philip of France. But he has others; his toadying courtiers call him the
true king of England. His nephew, Arthur, would doubtless have dubbed him
thief, traitor and regicide, if he had lived to utter such words. The Pope
proclaimed him apostate, the worst of the Devil's brood. John ignored them all
for he had once had another title — John Lackland.

    His
own father, King Henry II, had bestowed on him that mocking epithet. For Henry
had lands aplenty stretching from England to northern Spain. But when John, his
youngest son, was born, Henry promised him nothing, not so much as a stinking
village, for as the youngest of five lusty sons, John was surplus to
requirements, his father's lands already pledged to his brothers. And what can
you do with a babe that has no inheritance, no glorious destiny? Why, you give
him to the Church, dump the infant in an abbey, and bid him pray for the souls
of his royal father and lordly brothers.

    But
the boy without a future was determined to obtain one, steal another man's
destiny if there was no other way. He lusted after his brother Richard's lands,
those great domains of Normandy, Aquitaine and England. The premature demise of
Richard Cur-de-Lion might be considered by some a misfortune, but to his loving
brother John, it was as if the stars were smiling on him. Fortune has blessed
him, nudged along by a good sprinkling of cunning and a little dash of murder.
For John has finally got his wish; he rules England. And the people of England
have been granted their wish too; they finally have a king prepared to stay on
English soil and govern their fair realm. So all is well, a happy ending you
might think. Not so, not so at all. You don't need the powers of a mandrake to
see that both king and people are deeply regretting their wishes now.

    For
the year is 1210, and it is not a good year for England. The land lies under
Interdict; the churches are locked; corpses lie in unconsecrated ground and
babies sleep unbaptized in their cradles. The cause is the problem that has
always vexed the throne of England. The king believes he should have the right
to name the Archbishop of Canterbury, and is determined to see the plump
backside of his own secretary, John de Gray, sitting upon the most powerful
ecclesiastical throne in the realm.

    But
Pope Innocent III has other ideas. He dared to send word to John declaring that
his most favoured cardinal, Stephen Langton, had already been appointed to the
post. King John replied with cordial greetings and begged to inform His
Holiness that if Cardinal Langton should ever dare to set foot again on English
soil, he would take the greatest pleasure in having him hanged from the highest
gallows in the land.

    So
the Pope has ordered the Bishops of London, Ely and Worcester to lay an
Interdict upon England. No church services may be held for the laity. The
people are denied all the rites of the Church, save for baptism of infants and
shriving of the dying, which might save their souls from hell. But these rites
too have been snatched from the people of England, for John in his fury has
seized the property of the Church, and the bishops and priests have fled the
land or are hiding and dare not show themselves even to save the souls of their
parishioners from eternal damnation.

    So
here is a merry England indeed. The populace are terrified of dying in sin; the
Church is threatening eternal damnation; the barons are plotting rebellion and
King Philip of France, with the blessing of the Pope, is planning invasion; but
despite the army of entreaties and threats which daily assault his ears, King
John remains obstinately defiant. And you have to admire him for that at least.

    But
our tale does not concern King John himself, though you might say he is the
cause of much that occurs, if indeed you hold that any man may be blamed for
the crimes of others. No, our story is about two of John's most humble
subjects, Raffaele and Elena, both unknown to the king.

    To be
fair, if the name
Elena
means nothing to King John, his name likewise
means nothing to her, for as a villein, it doesn't matter so much as a beggar's
arse-rag to her who sits on the throne of England. It's the lord of the manor
who has the power to make her life heaven or hell and, for all she knows, he
will have that power in the next life too.

    But
the man, Master Raffaele, or Raffe as his few friends call him, knows King
John's name only too well. He fought for him in Aquitaine. He knows him by
sight and reputation. And just at this moment, Raffe is striding across the
courtyard of Gastmere manor and cursing his sovereign lord to the foulest pit
of hell. For Raffe blames John, the Pope and every cowardly priest in the land
for what he is about to do.

    
Deadly
Nightshade
— which some call
Belladonna
or
Devil's berry.
A
plant that befuddles the mind and brings death, for its other name is
dwale,
which means
mourning.
Since it is poisonous, it is sacred to the goddess
Hecate who taught her daughters the knowledge of all plants.

    Mortals
make wreaths of the plant to cure horses that are witch-ridden and to ward off
spells from their own persons. But the Devil jealously guards the plant for it
does his bidding. So mortals who wish to gather it must first release a black
hen which the Devil will not be able to resist chasing, and the plant must be
quickly harvested before the Devil returns.

    For a
man who desires to accomplish death must first deceive.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    Elena
didn't notice Master Raffaele at first. Only when she became aware of the other
girls jerking their heads in his direction did she glance behind her and see him
standing just outside the barn door in a patch of dazzling light. The outline
of the man shimmered against the sun, his form bleached to the pallor of a
ghost.

    The
doors were wide open at either end of the long wooden barn to catch the
slightest breeze and channel it between the walls. Inside, a circle of women
shuffled around a large pile of sheaves. Marion was singing the chant, and the
flails whistled through the air in answering chorus. The steps of the women had
slowed to the pace of a hobbled donkey in the drowsy afternoon heat, but
catching sight of Master Raffaele lurking outside, Marion took up a more lively
song to quicken the threshers, knowing full well that the steward's fury would
descend upon her if he thought the women were slacking.

. . .
I heard a pretty maid making her complain

That all she wanted was the saltiest grain
. . .

    The
women swung the flails in such a rapid, practised motion of the shoulders that
a perfect circle hung for an instant above their heads as if drawn on the air,
before they brought the shaft down to the ground, bouncing the full length of
the swelpe across the ears of grain. After each blow the women took a single
step sideways in unison as the flails were raised again, swing, thump, step,
swing, thump, step, obeying the rhythm of the caller. Miss a beat, miss a step
and it would be a human skull that was cracked instead of the ear of grain.

. . .
Kind Sir, you're the man to do the deed,

To sow my meadow with the wanton seed
. . .

    The
grain skipped and pattered in golden raindrops across the threshing floor and
the dust rose in a dense cloud until the women seemed to be dancing on mist.
The girls had masked their mouths and noses with rags to keep from choking, but
still they coughed.

. . .
then I sowed high and I sowed low,

And under her hush the seed did grow
. . .

    Several
of the girls began to giggle. Marion shook her head at them, but though her
mouth was covered against the dust, Elena could see that her eyes were watering
with mirth. Had she chosen that song deliberately, knowing that Master Raffaele
was listening?

    Elena
glanced over at the tall figure standing motionless in the hot sun. His
expression had not changed. If he knew they were taunting him, he showed no
sign of it. She felt a surge of pity for the man, but it was not without a
shiver of revulsion.

    Master
Raffaele strode towards the barn.

    Marion,
watching him out of the corner of her eye, shouted, 'Cease flail!'

    Like
dogs whistled to heel, the women instantly lowered their flails. It was a
command they never disobeyed. If a small child ran heedlessly into the barn or
a woman stumbled and fell, those words could save a life.

    All
heads turned to Master Raffaele as the dust swirled around his knees. Marion took
a step forward, expecting the manor's steward to address her with an
instruction or complaint, but he ignored her. His eyes searched the circle. The
women shuffled uneasily. Why didn't the man speak? Someone was in trouble, they
could tell from his grim stare. It was typical of the old bastard to make them
wait for the axe to descend.

    Elena
stared fixedly at the battered sheaves lying at her feet, praying she would not
be noticed. She saw his thick leather shoes take a pace towards her, but she
didn't look up. Her face flushed with guilt beneath the rag mask as she
remembered the full flagon of wine she'd broken in the manor's kitchens
yesterday. She'd scuffled the rushes on the floor to hide the spill and
smuggled the smashed flagon out, hiding the pieces under a pile of rubbish in
the yard. Surely he couldn't have found out? But what if one of the other
servants had seen her and reported it? There were always those who sought to
ingratiate themselves or divert attention from their own crimes by reporting
someone else's.

    She
saw the brown shoes turn as if the wearer was about to walk away. In her relief
she must have relaxed her grip on her flail. It slipped from her sweaty fingers
and fell with a dull thump. The shoes turned back.

    'You,
come with me.'

    He
was addressing someone else, he had to be. She dared not look up.

    'Did
you hear what I said?'

    His
voice was as high-pitched as a little girl's, but booming from his great barrel
chest, it echoed off the barn walls.

    She
felt the hand of the woman next to her pushing her in the back.

    'Do
as he says, Elena,' she whispered. 'Don't bait him. He's a bear with a
toothache today.'

    The
field hands and servants might mimic the steward behind his back, but few dared
do so in his hearing. Men knew from bitter experience that if he so much as
caught them grinning, they'd be lucky to escape with their faces smashed to a
pulp. He might sound like a small boy, but Master Raffaele had the temper of a
charging bull and the bulk and strength to match.

    The
steward waited long enough to be certain Elena was following, then he strode
from the barn. Elena stumbled after him. Her legs felt as if they were chained
to the threshing floor, but somehow she pushed her feet forward. Every woman in
the threshing circle was watching her, some anxiously, others winking at each
other as if they thought he had called her out because he wanted a tumble.