The Gallows Curse (38 page)

    The
priest crossed himself. 'By the blessed Blood and Body of our Lord, I swear it.
What other reason could I have?'

    Raffe
snorted. 'To aid England's enemies?'

    'Never,
on my life!' the priest said indignantly. 'I am a priest, not a traitor.'

    'There're
many who have been both,' Raffe said. 'But I will help you get away. No, not so
fast, wait.' He held up his hand to forestall the man's thanks. 'There is
something you must do for me first.'

    'I
cannot say a secret Mass, I have no host or any —'

    'A
good, brave man, Lady Anne's son, Gerard, lies unburied at the manor. He died
without rites for no priest could be found in these parts who would come to his
deathbed. Before you leave for France you will come and bless his resting place
and anoint him.'

    'But
if he died in sin,' the priest protested, 'I cannot anoint him. The Church does
not allow —'

    'I
said he died unshriven, but not in sin.'

    The
priest waved his hand impatiently, indicating that they were one and the same.
You may rest assured I will pray for him, and if you can get me safely to
France I will say Masses daily for his soul in recompense to you for your
services. Shall we agree three months of Masses for a safe passage?'

    He
squealed in alarm as Raffe suddenly reached across and grabbed the front of his
tunic. 'You will come to the manor and give him unction, or I promise you will
never set foot on French soil.'

    The
priest tried to prise Raffe's great fist from his clothes, but without success.

    'Don't
be a fool, my son, it's far too dangerous. You said yourself that Lord Osborn
almost caught the boy — what if he should catch me? I can't simply walk into a
bustling manor with a hundred pairs of eyes watching me. Besides, God will hear
my prayers for Gerard's soul just as well in France as over his coffin.'

    'But
I cannot,' Raffe retorted. He let the man go, and the priest shuffled as far
back in the tiny hut as he could get.

    'Now,'
Raffe said firmly, 'I will go and make arrangements for your passage to France.
When all is ready I'll send word to the boy to bring you to the manor after
dark. When you've done your duty by Gerard, you'll be taken to the boat. If you
don't come to the manor when I send for you, the boat will depart without you.
You have a choice, Father: freedom and safety, or starving out here on the
marshes until I get tired of waiting and tell the king's men where to find
you.'

    'You
would betray me?' The priest's eyes widened in alarm.

    'I
would not betray a priest, but if you will not act as a priest should, if your
miserable little skin is worth more to you than another man's immortal soul,
then you have abandoned your vows and you are no priest.'

    Elena
lay curled up on the turf seat in the darkened garden, but she wasn't sleeping.
She was so drained and exhausted that she felt she might never again have the
energy even to lift her head. But she couldn't sleep. She couldn't bear to
close her eyes in case he came to her again in her dreams.

    The
green scales glinting in the candlelight, the long black horns and the sharp
fangs protruding from the blood-red mouth. The only things that moved were his
eyes, glittering in the shadow of his wooden mask.

    She
saw him over and over again walking slowly towards her, silent and
expressionless. Just those cold green eyes flickering over her body. She felt
again the ropes tying her to the post, keeping her helpless, tangled like an
insect in a web, waiting for the spider to sink his fangs into her. She crushed
her fists into her eyeballs till they hurt, trying to make them stop seeing
what was burned on to them. The water, the cold water from the great fat lips
of the fish, pouring down over her head, running over and under her mask, till
she thought she was drowning, her lungs tearing as she struggled to breathe.

    Far
above, the stars prickled in the small square of hell- black sky caged by the
high walls of the courtyard. Elena's cheek was crushed against the rough stems
of the thyme, but she ignored the scratches. It was nothing to the pain that
engulfed her whole body and burned between her legs.

    Most
of the women had already staggered back to their own chamber or else lay
sleeping in the arms of customers who had paid to stay all night. The giggles
and shrieks had long since ceased, but still Elena didn't stir from the garden.

    She
was shivering, but she couldn't bring herself to go inside, to be near hot
human flesh, to smell the stench of sweat and semen on the women's bodies. She
tried in vain to draw in the cleansing scent of the thyme to rid herself of his
stench that returned again and again to her nostrils like an echo that wouldn't
stop.

    A
year and a day, Raffaele had said she must stay. A year and a day to gain her
freedom, but if she couldn't prove her innocence, who knew how long? And how
many times in a year could that man come again, or others like him? If only she
knew how long she had to endure this place, maybe she could teach herself to
bear it. But what if she waited and hoped and never got out? Never again felt
Athan's arms around her or saw her son's little face? She had to know if there
would be an end.

    Although
she had thought herself unable to move, Elena pushed herself upright. Her knees
almost giving way beneath her, she stumbled towards the communal sleeping
chamber. Carefully stepping around the bodies of the prone women, so as not to
awaken them, she found her own sleeping pallet and, lifting the edge, pushed
her arm beneath it until her fingers felt the cold leather of her scrip.
Sliding it out as quietly as she could, she crept back outside and crossed the
moonlit garden to the turf seat. She froze as she heard the great door of the
hall open and then close. But no one came into the garden. It must have been
someone leaving the brothel.

    Beyond
the walls, she could hear a dog howling, but inside the courtyard there was no
sound. Trees, gilded in silver, breathed softly in the warm night air, and the
dark shadows of the branches glided as gracefully as dancers across the sable
grass.

    Elena
needed no light to perform her task. How many times had she done this in
Athan's cottage while he lay sleeping? She drew out the little bundle from her
scrip and carefully unwrapped it. She lifted her knife and, steeling herself,
drew the sharp blade across her tongue. His semen was crusted on her thighs.
She pulled up her skirts and let the blood from her tongue drip on to her bare
legs, until it mingled with the dried white crust. Then she carefully anointed
the mandrake with the salty blood-milk.

    It
had been months since Elena had fed me. I had not drunk since her child was
born and I was hungry. I was ravenous. The red milk in my mouth was like sweet
wine is to men. It is easy to get intoxicated by it, giddy on the perfume of
it, heavy as iron. But unlike wine-sodden mortals our wits grow sharper, our
strength increases with each drop of the thick red curds we imbibe. I trembled
in her fingers and she felt me stirring in her grasp.

    I
knew what she wanted, far better than she did, but she had to ask, all she had
to do was ask. That is our code, our pledge —
Ask and it shall be given unto
you.
That was our promise long before another usurped it; for there were
gallows and crosses centuries before He bawled his lungs out in the byre. We
are as old as murder itself, and only the Angel of Death can make claim to be
our elder brother.

    Elena
held me close to her lips and whispered, 'Show me a dream. Show me what will
happen. That man who came tonight, show me if he will come again. Tell me how I
can be free.'

    But I
knew what she was really asking. I knew only too well.

    
Thyme
- This herb gives courage to the faint-hearted and joy to the melancholy. The
crushed leaves relieve the pain of bee stings, cure headaches, kill the worms
of the belly and banish nightmares. Foolish ladies give sprigs of it to those
who ride to the Holy Wars in the forlorn hope that their lovers will remember
them.

    The
souls of the dead take shelter in thyme. When a mortal dies, thyme is brought
into the house, and kept there until the body is taken for burial, but it is
not used in the funeral wreath, for time means nothing to the dead.

    But
if a man or maid be foully murdered, the sweet smell of thyme shall haunt the
place where they fell for all eternity, though no thyme plants grow near it.
For the passage of time cannot undo the crime of murder, since the victim is
gone from mortal reach and has no tongue or sign to forgive the one who wronged
him.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    
It
is dark, but she sees him standing there with his back to her, gazing into the
flames of a small fire. He is mesmerised by the twisting orange light, as men
are when they are exhausted. His head is drooping slightly. She advances, a
knife in her hand, but she doesn't mean to kill him. Not murder, no. She has
another use for him. Swiftly and silently as a cat pounces, she slashes him
across the backs of his thighs.

    With
a cry of agony he falls forward, narrowly missing the fire. He rolls away and
writhes on the ground, clutching at his legs. She is sure they must be
bleeding, but it is too dark to see. She raises the hilt of the knife and
brings it crashing down on the man's head. But the blow is not hard enough. He
is still moving, still yelling. She must make him stop. Someone will come
running, if she does not. She raises the knife to bludgeon him again, but he
knows what is coming and lashes out with his arm as she strikes, dashing the
blade from her hands and sending it spinning off into the darkness.

    Now
he is struggling to kneel, groping at his belt for his sword, but he is too
stunned to act quickly enough and it is awkward for a kneeling man to draw a
long blade from the scabbard. Even so, in time he will succeed in freeing the
sword and then she will be at his mercy for she has no weapon. She cannot see
her knife and she dares not waste time searching for it, for he is still
yelling, shouting for help, and soon someone must hear him. She pulls the rope
from her waist, the rope she meant to tie him with, but she knows now he cannot
be tied. It is too late. She flings it over the kneeling man's head like a
noose, pulling it tight against his throat. He struggles, trying to grab her
hands as the rope tightens around his neck. If he does, he will be able to pull
her over his head. She knows that, she has seen men do it.

    Something
rolls beneath her feet as she struggles with him. A kindling stick, not big
enough to strike him with, but she snatches it up and thrusts it through the
rope, twisting the rope tighter and tighter round the stick. She hears the rasp
of his breath, sees the frantic and now futile beating of his hands. Still she
twists the rope harder and harder. Finally she realises that it is only the
rope which is holding the man upright. His hands have fallen limp at his sides.
His head lolls forward. He is not screaming. He is not breathing. She lets the
body fall and this time he does not rise.

    Raffe
stayed away from the manor until he saw the early morning smoke rising from the
kitchens and the first of the carts trundling in through the manor's gates. If
he went banging at the gate for Walter to open up in the middle of the night,
word of it would race round the manor quicker than a lightning flash. But if he
strolled in through the morning bustle of servants, with luck he would not be
noticed. He thanked heaven Osborn and Hugh were away.