The Gallows Curse (10 page)

    Her
mother spat angrily into the rushes. Gytha smiled and slowly stirred the pot,
letting the rich aroma of the woodcock waft across to the hungry old woman. She
had her own ways of tormenting her Madron.

    
Salt
— When a man eats of another man's salt, their souls are bound together and
they are sworn to protect one another. When an oath is sworn on salt, if it
proves false, the oath- taker will surely die. A prayer made near salt will be
answered.

    If
mortals move to another dwelling they must leave behind a little bread and salt
else bad luck will follow them and ruin come to the new occupants. If salt is
spilled, it must not be gathered up, but the spiller must throw a pinch of it
three times over his shoulder. But he should beware lest he throw it between
himself and another, for salt which falls between two mortals is a sign that
they will quarrel bitterly.

    Salt
is sprinkled in the cradle of an unbaptized infant to keep it safe from the
faerie folk, and is placed on the body of the newly dead to guard the body from
being possessed by a demon and the departing soul from being snatched by the
Devil before the rites of burial.

    Salt
and water stirred three times and sprinkled over an object that has brought
ill-luck will lift the curse from it, but if a mortal would curse land or a
tree or beast that is fertile and render it barren, he should throw salt upon
it as he utters the spell.

    Salt
can bless and salt can curse, for salt is salt until it falls into the hands of
mortals.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    'Just
give me the name of one of the men!' Hugh demanded. 'Then I promise I will end
this.'

    'Can't.
. . master. I swear on my life. . . I've told you everything. She's called . .
.
Santa Katarina
, that's all I know,' the man sobbed.

    'Which
isn't enough,' Hugh snapped. 'I'm beginning to think you've invented this tale,
just to save your miserable little neck.'

    Hugh
shivered in the icy wind cutting across the marshes. He was beginning to get bored
with this. The light was rapidly fading from the sky and his belly was growling
with hunger.

    The
man struggled to push himself up on to his hands and knees. 'It's true, every
word of it. . . the French ship . . . everything.'

    He
screamed as Hugh's groom brought his whip down again on his bruised and
bloodied back. Hugh's horse reared and snorted in alarm, pulling against the
rein which tethered him to a nearby tree. Hugh took a few paces towards it,
murmuring softy. He stroked the beast's neck gently, soothing it until it had
calmed. The smell of fresh blood always makes young horses nervous until they
become battle-hardened.

    He
and Osborn were enjoying the hospitality of a neighbouring landowner for a few
days. That is to say, Osborn was enjoying it, but Hugh was bored witless by the
unctuous little toad and his even duller wife who were so anxious to welcome
their new neighbours they insisted on showing them every single hog and byre on
their wretched little estate.

    Hugh,
mercifully escaping for a few hours with the excuse of exercising his new
horse, had seen a man with a sack over his shoulder running along the edge of
the marshes. More for sport than from any real suspicion of wrongdoing, Hugh
had ridden the fellow down. But the sack, once opened, revealed two pewter
platters. Not the kind of thing any marsh- man could afford to own. Hugh had
threatened to drag him before a sheriff, but the man had started pleading for
mercy, saying that he had information that was worth far more than the
platters. Hugh had allowed him to talk, but the wretch had stuttered to a halt
just when his story was getting interesting.

    Hugh
surveyed him with disgust. The man was lying on the sodden ground, panting like
a dog. His nose and mouth were already so swollen that he was gasping to
breathe. The groom glanced over at Hugh, plainly uncertain if he should
continue.

    Hugh
gestured impatiently. 'Don't just stand there, you idiot, make him talk.'

    The
groom brought the whip down again, this time using the sturdy wooden handle.
Again and again he struck the man about the head. Hugh, half distracted by what
he'd heard, wasn't really paying attention to what the groom was doing, until
he realized that the marsh-man had stopped screaming, stopped groaning, in
fact, stopped doing anything at all.

    Hugh
kicked the body, but it didn't stir.

    He
rounded on the groom. 'You clumsy cod-wit, have you no idea how to question a
man? One thing's for certain, I'll get no more from him now.'

    'Maybe,'
the groom said nervously, 'he knew no more to tell.'

    Hugh
scowled. The question was — did he believe what little the man had told him? If
this marsh-man was speaking the truth, then it might prove to be the very
opportunity Hugh had been seeking. But if it was the truth, he would be
involving himself in a deadly game. He needed to discover more.

    He
beckoned to the groom, but when he approached, Hugh seized him by his throat
and pushed him up against the tree.

    'I
will deal with the matter myself, and if you utter one word of what this man
said to anyone, anyone at all, I shall personally rip your tongue out and feed
it to my hounds. Do you understand?'

    The
groom nodded vigorously as best he could with Hugh's hand about his neck. Hugh
dropped him.

    The
groom swallowed hard, tenderly massaging his throat. 'And what. . . what should
I do with him, my lord?'

    Hugh
unloosed his horse's reins and swung himself into the saddle. 'Roll the body
into one of the bog pools, of course, what the devil do you think they were
created for?'

    
Chicory
— Mortals who carry this plant believe it will render them invisible to enemies
and to evil spirits, and thieves swear that if it is held against a lock it
will open any door or strongbox.

    But
chiefly it is used as an aphrodisiac to arouse a reluctant lover. Though do not
think that it can be plucked from the ground by mortal hand. It must be dug up
with a stag's horn
or
a disc of gold, such as resembles the warmth and
fertility of the sun. To work its powers, the plant must be gathered on the
days of St Peter and St James, but mortals must take heed for if the one who
cuts the chicory should utter a single word as he digs he will die upon the
instant.

    A man
must learn to keep silent if he desires life.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    The
candles lighting the solar guttered in the draught, sending long shadows
gliding across the deserted room. Elena hurried down the length of the solar to
the door of Lady Anne's bedchamber at the far end. She was praying that Athan
had received her message. They wouldn't have long; she just hoped that it would
be long enough.

    First,
though, she had to retrieve the mandrake from where she had hidden it beneath
the linen in her little chest. This might be her only chance to use it. And she
had to do it this evening. She had to finish the dream. She couldn't face
another night of hearing that infant's wails in her dream, that awful sick
sensation of dread which made her heart race and her stomach turn sour. A fear
that was nameless and faceless was a thousand times worse than the demons and
beasts that leered from the tower of the church. If she could just see the end
of her nightmare, then maybe it would cease to torment her.

    She
grasped the iron ring on the door of the bedchamber and was just about to turn
it, when she froze. Voices were coming from behind the wooden partition that
separated the Lady Anne's bedchamber from the solar. Frustration and something
bordering on panic welled up in her. She'd been so sure the little room would
be empty.

    Lady
Anne and Hilda were both occupied in the Great Hall. Lord Osborn had returned
from visiting a neighbouring estate, together with his brother and a dozen men.
Not that Elena had yet seen any of them. As soon as the messenger had arrived
to warn the manor to make preparations for his immediate arrival, Lady Anne had
sent all the young girls to the kitchens or on errands to the village to keep
them out of the way of Osborn's men. And it was just as well, judging by the
shouts and gales of laughter coming from the hall below. The men were in such a
boisterous mood that their voices almost drowned out the clatter of dishes,
swords and spurs and even the barking of their favourite hounds which fought
and snarled around their masters' feet. The men were settling themselves in for
a night of eating and hard drinking by the roaring fire.

    So
who could be in the bedchamber at this time? She knew Hilda would never leave
her mistress alone in the Great Hall. She'd be flapping around Lady Anne like a
mother partridge protecting its brood, despite her own fear of the raucous men.
In any case it was a man's voice she could hear behind the partition. Servants
trying to avoid waiting on Osborn and his men? Elena pressed her ear to the
wood.

    'And
this Faramond will be aboard?'

    'He
will,' a second man replied. 'He's best, so they say. None more experienced nor
skilful in the service of France. He can take a city with his tongue, even
before a single sword's been raised.'

    Elena
didn't recognize either of the voices, but she knew they weren't servants. No
one from Gastmere spoke like that.

    'And
you're sure of the place they will land?'

    'Land,
no,' the second voice said. 'But it will be an easy matter to arrange for you
to meet with Faramond. Once the
Santa Katarina
sails up the channel from
the North Sea and around the island of Yarmouth into Breydon Water there're a
hundred little inlets cutting in across the marsh, all of them hidden from the
view of a man standing even a few feet away. The marsh-dwellers know them like
the faces of their own children. As soon as those Frenchmen are off the ship
and in the coracles, they'll be able to get clean away. They can go to ground
anywhere.

    'No,'
he continued, 'the only danger for our friends lies in sailing through the
channel between Yarmouth and Gorleston, but come spring those waters will be
thick with ships bringing in cargoes and men too. What's one among so many? If
you want to hide a bone, put it in a charnel house.'