The Gallows Curse (4 page)

    Surely
he wouldn't have taken her so publicly if that was his intention. Old Walter,
the gatekeeper at the manor, had tried to drag most of the girls into the
stables at one time or other, mostly when he was sheep-drunk after a night in
the tavern. A knee in the groin and a threat to scream were always enough to
send him reeling off to find other company. But she was pretty sure it would
take more than that to drive Master Raffaele away.

    The
sun beat down hard on Elena's bent head, scorching her skin despite the cloth
she had wrapped around her hair to keep out the dust. Master Raffaele lumbered
across the courtyard ahead of her.

    Even
for a man he was unusually tall, with great long limbs out of all proportion to
his body. Elena's mother, Cecily, had said that when he'd first returned from
the Holy Land with Sir Gerard, Raffaele had been by far the best-looking man in
the shire. There wasn't a woman in Gastmere, young or old, who hadn't dreamed
of being bedded by him. With his heart- shaped face, delicate beardless chin
and head of luxuriant blue-black curls, he seemed to have stepped straight out
of the painting of the Annunciation on the church wall, a living, breathing
Archangel Gabriel, clothed in flesh as soft and fragrant as a virgin maid's.

    'Who
wouldn't want to feel that between your legs?' Elena's mother had sighed
wistfully.

    And
Master Raffaele was better than any heavenly messenger for he was, as everyone
knew, a gelding, so unlike the Archangel Gabriel there was no danger of him
leaving you with a bastard in your belly.

    It
was not uncommon for men to lose their testicles through getting injured in a
boar hunt or having them cut off to relieve the agony of a hernia, and there
were many whispered speculations about just how Raffaele had come to mislay
his. Nevertheless, all the women were agreed on one thing: no other geldings of
their acquaintance were blessed with such a wickedly tempting body as Master
Raffaele possessed.

    But
it is impossible for the young to imagine their parents' generation could ever
have been the objects of desire, for Master Raffaele was now approaching forty
summers, so rumour had it, and old enough to be Elena's father — not that he
could have fathered any brat. Even Elena's mother could scarcely believe she
once lusted after him, for his angelic beauty had long since faded. His
cream-soft skin was now scarred by battle and tanned to leather by sun and
wind. His hair, though still thicker than most women's, was the colour of old
lead. His belly, hips and backside were covered in sagging wads of fat, making
his ridiculously long limbs appear even more gangling and spindly. To Elena he
looked like a bloated spider.

    She
shuddered, feeling sick as she imagined those long fingers groping into her
flesh. He wouldn't, surely he wouldn't. No one had ever said he'd forced
himself on a woman. Quite the opposite in fact, for the alewives whispered that
if he was capable of getting his prick up, which most of them doubted, his
desire would surely be for the bull and not the heifers, for how else would you
account for the hours he and Sir Gerard spent alone together? Besides, isn't
that what you would expect from a grown man who had the voice of a little boy?

    They
were approaching the stables and Elena's stomach tightened, but Master Raffaele
strode on past and entered the small, dusty inner courtyard leading to the
great house. Elena was following so closely behind him that when he stopped and
turned, she almost fell into his arms. He stared down at her, then reached out
his great hand towards her. She flinched back, but he merely tugged the rag mask
from her face.

    'Brush
the dust from your kirtle, girl. The Lady Anne wishes to see you.'

    Elena
stared at him in horror. 'Master Raffaele . . . the wine, I didn't mean ... it
was an accident... I swear.'

    He
frowned at her as if she was babbling in a tongue he didn't recognize.

    'Wine?
This has nothing to do with wine.'

    The
expression in his hard brown eyes suddenly softened. He squeezed her shoulder
and she shrank under his grasp. He spoke more gently.

    'No
need to be frightened. The mistress is pleased with what she hears of you, a
good modest girl, mannerly. She's a mind to take you into the house, as one of
her tiring maids.'

    Elena
gaped at him. She couldn't believe that the Lady Anne even knew of her
existence. She had seen her often, but Lady Anne had never spoken to her. Why
would she? Any instructions she had to give to a villein would be passed on
through the steward, reeve or bailiff. And Elena mostly worked in the fields,
as her own mother had done and her grandmother before that.

    The
closest Elena had ever come to the house was the kitchens outside in the
courtyard where she was sent to take herbs and vegetables for the cooks. She
hated going there, a great noisy place with people flashing knives and rushing
about bellowing orders. Worst of all was the stifling heat from the fires, and
the smoke, steam and burning fat so thick in the air that it made your eyes
sting and water before you'd even set foot through the door. She always
imagined that the torments of hell would be just like the manor kitchens. Holy
Virgin, surely they weren't going to make her work in there?

    She
stared down at a daisy struggling to grow in the dust between the cobbles. 'How
. . . how does she . . . Lady Anne know me?'

    'I
knew she was looking for a new tiring maid, since that foolish girl got herself
with child.' He smiled. 'I've been keeping an eye on you. I think you'll do
very well.'

    Lady
Anne was standing at the window of the chamber, her greying hair covered by the
soft folds of a linen wimple. The afternoon light streaming in cruelly exposed
the dull flaking skin and sharp bones of her face. She was not yet in her
sixtieth year, but to Elena she looked ancient, older even than her
grandmother, which she probably was. Deep lines were gouged around her eyes and
mouth from years of anxiety, and little wonder, Elena's mother said, for the
poor soul had been a widow for nigh on twenty years. Cecily knew all about the
sorrows of widowhood, for hadn't her own husband died of the marsh fever before
Elena was even weaned?

    Elena
glanced only briefly at Lady Anne as she dropped a wobbly curtsy, for she was
far more fascinated by the room than by its occupant. The chamber was vast in
comparison to cottages in the village, with high ceilings and heavy tapestries.
Heavy carved wooden chairs and even bigger chests stood against walls. The
wooden floor was not strewn with rushes but with several rugs gleaming like
water in the sun. Elena had never seen silk before. She longed to run her hands
over them and trace the intricate patterns of blue, red and yellow flowers
which spiralled into one another till you could not see where one ended and
another began. They were not like any flowers that grew in the meadows of
Gastmere.

    A
large bed stood in the far corner. It was hung with drapes which were pulled
back into graceful loops to reveal a richly embroidered bedcovering. Elena
guessed it to be where Sir Gerard, Lady Anne's son, slept when he was at home,
for surely such a magnificent bed could only belong to the lord of the manor?
The bed looked as wide as the entire room in which Elena and her mother lived,
cooked and slept. Rumour in Gastmere was that Sir Gerard had recently been laid
low with the fever. A wicked thought popped up in Elena's head that she too
would declare herself sick, if she had a bed like that to lie in all day. She
hastily crossed herself to ward off" the evil she had tempted.

    Like
his father before him, Gerard had been away fighting for many years, first for
King Richard in the Holy Land and then for King John in Aquitaine. Cecily said
it was a wanton shame for an only son to leave his poor mother with the burden
of running manor and village. But all the village women and not a few of the
men were forced to concede that in her son's absence Lady Anne ruled the manor
as well as ever her husband had done — better, in fact, some whispered. 'She's
the spirit and tenacity of a sow-badger,' Elena's mother confided to Marion,
and Cecily was not known as a woman who scattered her compliments freely.

    From
outside the open casement came the distant hum of voices, the clatters and
bangs of dozens of people going about their work, but inside the chamber only
the buzzing of bluebottles which had wandered in through the open casement
broke the silence. Elena shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that Lady Anne's gaze
had not left her since she entered.

    'M'lady?'
Master Raffaele prompted.

    Anne
jerked, then seemed to realize she should speak. 'Master Raffaele tells me that
you are a good girl. You say your prayers each day?'

    Elena
glanced at Master Raffaele, unsure if this was a statement or a question. But
Lady Anne did not wait for an answer.

    'How
old are you, my child?'

    'Fifteen
summers, m'lady.'

    'So
young,' Lady Anne sighed. 'And you are unwed? A maid still?'

    Yes,
m'lady.' Elena had uttered the words before she realized she was lying, well,
half lying. After last night with Athan she could hardly call herself a maid
any more, but it wasn't a lie that could matter to anyone except herself. She
blushed at the memory. It had been the very first time she'd made love to him,
to anyone. Surely no one had ever adored a man as fiercely as she loved Athan?
She had not known that her body could give her such pleasure, but almost better
than that moment of passion had been the warmth and comfort afterwards of lying
in his arms under the stars and wanting him never to let her go. She was
Athan's wife now, in all the ways that really mattered.

    'But
I hope to wed as soon as . . . when the priests return and the churches are
opened again.'

    'Of
course you do, child. Every woman hopes to wed and why should you not? You're
young and comely, such pretty red hair. I'm sure a husband can be found for you
in time. But in the meantime, Master Raffaele tells me you want to work for me
in the house. Good.'

    There
was something strange about Lady Anne's smile, as if she was forcing herself
into a cheerfulness that she did not feel.

    Your
duties will not be onerous. After your labours in the fields, I doubt you will
even think them work at all. And of course, we must find you a pretty kirtle to
wear, one more suited to your new station. You'd like that, I dare say. But
time enough for that, you must be hungry and thirsty after the threshing. Come
and eat, we can discuss your duties when you are refreshed.'

    Elena
looked around her. The long table was bare save for a long band of
half-finished gold stitch-work and a pair of small silver scissors such as
might be used to cut threads. Lady Anne motioned to a large chest in the far
corner of the chamber. It was covered with a white cloth on which had been
placed a tiny wooden dish of salt, together with a pitcher, and a platter whose
contents were protected by a wicker cover from buzzing flies. A low stool had
been drawn up next to the chest.

    Elena
hesitated. She was ravenously hungry, but she couldn't understand why she was
being offered food. Was this some kind of test of her table manners? She'd
never eaten in the hall, but she knew from those who had waited at table here
that the manor had a whole mountain of rules to be learned — not to scratch
your head at the table; not to belch; not to dip your fingers too deep in the
shared dish.

    These
were not rules observed by the men and women with whom she shared her midday
bite or her supper. What if she made some dreadful mistake — would she be
bundled out in disgrace?

    She
felt a hand take hold of her elbow and Master Raffaele guided her gently but
firmly across the room and seated her on the stool. Flapping his hand to drive
away several flies, he lifted the wicker cover to reveal a hunk of bread and
slices of cold mutton. Raffaele poured a measure of ale into the beaker and set
it beside the bread. Elena glanced up at him, on the verge of saying she wasn't
hungry.

    As if
he knew what she was going to say, he shook his head and murmured in a low
voice, 'You must at least taste each thing set before you or Lady Anne will
take it as a great insult.'

    'But
if I do it wrong . . .' she whispered.

    'Break
the bread, dip it in the salt and bite a piece off. Then take a morsel or two
of the mutton, and when you have swallowed it and your mouth is empty, drink
from the beaker.' He smiled encouragingly. 'That's not difficult, is it?'

    Slowly
and carefully, Elena did exactly as she was told, trying to eat as daintily as
she could and not drop a crumb or spill a drop. It was hard, for as soon as she
tasted the food, it made her more hungry than ever and she longed to stuff her
mouth with the dough-soft wheaten bread and sweet herbed mutton, which seemed
to deserve far grander words than mere
bread
or
mutton,
for they
bore little resemblance to the coarse, hard ravel bread and tough salt-meat she
was accustomed to eating. Although she promised herself she would only take one
bite, she devoured every scrap of the food as if she hadn't eaten for weeks.