The Gallows Curse (16 page)

    'Does
John think I would side with France, after all I did for him in Aquitaine?'
Osborn burst out furiously. He leapt from his chair and paced up and down the
room. 'It was my skill and experience that helped him capture the castle at
Montauban. It was me who ordered the escaping rebels to
be
hunted down
before they could join forces with Philip's men.'

    'I
can swear to that,' Hugh said, turning back from the window, having at last
been distracted from the rain. 'I served with my brother and I can assure you
there was not a rebel left alive when we were done. We even rooted out those
who
'd
gone to ground in the monastery, and then burned the monastery to
ashes as a lesson to teach all of Aquitaine what happens to men who rebel
against their lord. It was my brother who gave the orders and taught John's
subjects the duty they owed to their king. There's not a man more loyal to John
than Osborn.'

    'Which
is exactly why John put this manor in his hands,' Raoul said, trying to keep
the note of exasperation from his voice. Hugh praised his brother more often
than a love-sick maid extols her swain, but then Hugh didn't have a thought in
his head that Osborn hadn't put there.

    Raoul
turned back to Osborn. 'This is the part of England he fears for the most. The
sea voyage from France to Norfolk is many days longer and more dangerous than
the voyage across to the southern ports, and for that very reason most of
John's advisers believe that Philip will try to land the bulk of his troops in
the south. But there are some who believe that the spies are not being landed
through the southern ports; they are too closely guarded. Anyone being put
ashore in these parts could dissolve into the marshland mists in the blink of
an eye, but they would have to have a contact here. No stranger could find
their way through the marshes alone and they'd need someone who could help them
find the people they want to meet. John believes . . .' Raoul hesitated, then
decided he might as well tell all. 'John believes that there Is a traitor in
these parts, perhaps even in this manor. He sent me to root him out.'

    Hugh's
hand jerked so violently that it sent Raoul's goblet spinning down on to one of
the silk rugs. Hugh ignored the dark red puddle of wine sinking into it.

    'The
gelding! I knew it. I never trusted him. Raffaele's a foreigner; he's bound to
side with England's enemies. What else can you expect but cowardly treachery
from a man who isn't even a real man at all? You should dismiss him at once,
brother.'

    Raoul
shook his head. 'No, if it is him, we need to keep him close till we have
proof. Dismiss no one, whatever your suspicions. Sooner or later they will show
their hand, and when they do, God have mercy on their souls, for John will show
no mercy to their miserable bodies.'

    But
heaven knows when that will be, Raoul thought bitterly, for the truth was that
however confidently he had assured John he could discover the traitor, he had
no more idea how to go about it than of how to bake a pie or wash a shirt. So
far, he'd discovered precisely nothing. Even if the traitor was Master
Raffaele, how on earth did one set about getting him, or anyone for that
matter, to betray themselves? One could hardly walk up to the fellow and ask
him outright. Raoul only hoped that now he knew, Osborn would do the job for
him ... oh, and, of course, leave Raoul to claim the credit.

    
Beans
- a distillation of the bean plant when drunk will make a plain woman
beautiful. If a mortal has warts, he rubs the wart on the lining of a bean case
then buries it. As it rots, so will the wart fall from his skin.

    But
the scent of a bean flower will cause evil dreams and if any should fall asleep
in a bean field he will suffer terrifying visions and after go mad. And if one
bean in a row should come up white, then there will be a death in the household
of he who planted it.

    Beans
must be eaten at funerals to keep the ghosts of the dead from lingering about
the living. And the dried pods are rattled to drive away evil spirits.

    In ancient
times, when a human sacrifice was chosen, lots were drawn and the one who drew
the black bean from the pot of white beans, drew forth his own death. What
think you then: does death lie in his own hand to choose, or do his fingers
reach for it because it is ordained they must?

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    'No,
no, take it away. I don't want to hold it.' Elena turned her l ace away from
the bundle Gytha was holding out to her, and stared at the rough wattle wall.

    'Bless
you, the bairn's not an
it
,' Gytha chuckled. 'You've a boy, a beautiful,
healthy boy, just like I told you. He's a mite on the scrawny side, babies born
at green mist time always are, but he'll fatten up nicely on your milk once you
get some good fresh meat inside you.'

    Elena's
mother-in-law, Joan, sniffed disparagingly. 'It's well known May's the
unluckiest month to birth a bairn. You'll never rear a May baby, that's what my
mother always said; too sickly. If Athan had listened to me —'

    'Hush!
Don't be telling the poor lass that,' Marion muttered, but Elena could see from
her anxious expression she agreed with every word.

    Her
mother-in-law's tiny cottage was heaving with women. Her own mother, together
with Joan, Marion, Gytha and two clucking neighbours, all bustled over her
where she lay in the single room. Elena felt as if she was a small child again,
lost among the legs and wheels of the crowded market place.

    She
lay on the beaten earth floor, her arms and legs too heavy to move. Her mother
still supported her against her chest as she dabbed away at Elena's sweaty
forehead with a
rag,
making little crooning noises as if Elena was
herself a newborn again. Elena's buttocks were sore and numb from pressing
against the hard, cold floor.

    When
the pains had come hard upon her, the women had hauled her off the low bed,
scraped back the rushes and, pulling her shift up to her breasts, laid her bare
loins against the cold, damp earth, so that she could take strength from Mother
Earth from whence all men spring. It was how Gastmere women had given birth for
generations and even Elena knew better than to protest against it. Now she was
desperate to return to the bed, to curl up with her pain and misery and shut
them all out, but she was too exhausted to drag herself there.

    'Come
on, my sweeting,' Gytha coaxed. 'I know you're worn out, but just let the bairn
suckle, then you can sleep. He needs his mam's first milk. I'll help you hold
him if you're afeared of dropping the mite.'

    Gytha
tried to push the mewling infant towards Elena, but she lifted her arm, warding
him off as if he was a stick raised to beat her.

    'Get
him away from me,' she sobbed. 'I don't want him. I don't want to look at him.'

    The
women gasped and spat on their fingers to ward off the evil that would surely
follow her words.

    'That's
a wicked thing to say,' her mother scolded, pinching Elena hard on the arm, as
she used to do when Elena was a child and shamed her mother by misbehaving in
front of the neighbours. 'Do you want to tempt the faerie folk to take him and
leave you a changeling?'

    She
glanced over at the empty cradle into which Gyth had already laid a mistletoe
twig and sprinkled salt to prevent the faeries from abducting the child.

    'I
do, I do, I want them to take him,' Elena wailed.

    Her
mother gasped in horror, crossing herself and moaning, 'Mary the Holy Mother
and all the saints defend us. She doesn't know what she's saying'

    Gytha
rapped Elena sharply three times on the mouth. 'Don't speak so, they'll hear
you and take him.'

    Joan
pursed her lips. 'I knew it! I knew she'd never make a good mother. I warned
Athan, but did he listen? You should have heard some of the wicked things she
was saying before the poor lamb was even born. It was enough to mark the babe
in her belly for life. It's a wonder he hasn't come out with two heads and a
tail.'

    'She'll
feel different when she feels the bairn pull on her teats,' a neighbour said
soothingly. She patted Joan's shoulder as if to comfort her for the distress of
having such an unnatural daughter-in-law.

    Although
the women had wiped the baby, Elena could still smell the stench of birth mucus
and her own blood on him. They wouldn't wash him with water.
Never wash a
child's hands until he's a year old, else he'll not be able to gather any
wealth.
Joan had kept reminding her of that and a hundred more commandments
besides in these past few months, as if that would somehow allay Elena's fears
about the child she was carrying.

    But
nothing could do that. The mandrake had done all that Gytha promised. It had
shown her the end of her dream, and she was certain now, as she had been for
weeks, that she was destined to murder her own child.

    Elena
lay on the cold floor as Gytha scrubbed the blood and mucus from her thighs with
a hank of straw.

    Her
mother-in-law came bustling back into the cottage carrying a small pestle.
'I've just been to tell my bees there's a new babe in the family. Now we must
smear her paps with honey and butter. Should be the first thing the poor bairn
tastes, so the bees'll lend him strength and sweeten his nature.'

    Elena
felt the front of her sodden shift being pulled open. She tried to push them
away, but her mother firmly held her hands, as her mother-in-law roughly
anointed her sore breasts with a sticky mess of honey and butter.

    'Butter
to bless him with good health. And honey to keep the poor mite from the
faeries.' Joan shook her head grimly as she said it, as if the precaution would
be quite unnecessary if Elena hadn't so wantonly tempted the evil ones.

    They
held Elena tightly so that she couldn't push the child away. She felt the tiny
face held against her breast, the warmth of the cheek, the nuzzling, then the
soft lips fastening on her nipple. The hot little mouth pulling at her sent
waves first of pain then of pleasure through her, like Athan had done that very
first night. She felt her body relaxing towards this tiny, warm little bundle
pressing into her bare belly. She pulled her arms free and cradled her son in
her arms, as her resolve not to touch him melted away like butter in the sun.

    But
even in that moment as she fell hopelessly in love with her precious baby, even
then, she heard herself screaming, 'No, no, I mustn't. I mustn't hold him. I'll
hurt him, I know I will. I will kill him. I will murder my own little son.'

    Raffe
squinted up at the cold grey sky through the newly leafed branches of the
trees. Thick clouds were tumbling across the flattened land and the light was
beginning to fade. From his vantage point on the small rise he could see the
cog-ship rolling at its anchor in the haven of Breydon Water. Wriggling
forward, he peered down into the marshes that fringed the edge of the solid
land, but could see nothing moving among the tall rushes. He didn't really
expect to, a dozen little boats could have been hidden in the deep marsh
gullies and you'd never see them until they emerged into the' open waters of
the bay.

    'They'll
not stir till it's good 'n' dark,' a voice growled behind him.

    Raffe
whipped round and was mortified to hear a deep chuckle. He hadn't heard Talbot
creep up on him. The old soldier's legs were bowed as a barrel hoop, but he
could still move as quietly as an assassin.