The Gallows Curse (18 page)

    As
his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he saw three shapes below
moving across the water towards the ship. He couldn't hear the oars of the
little craft entering the water above the noise of wind singing through the rigging
of the ship and the constant slapping of the waves against her hold. But the
oarsmen were plainly skilled at their craft and that knowledge at least gave
him comfort.

    His
stomach had tightened so much it hurt. He glanced over the rail. The rope
ladder was flapping wildly against the boat each time she yawed. It seemed a
very long way down. In the darkness, it looked as if the ship was riding upon a
vast mass of writhing black maggots feeding on some gigantic beast that lay
dead beneath. Faramond shivered, and not just from the cold.

    The
first of the boats was drawing alongside. A man was standing up at the back of
the craft, rowing with a single oar that he rocked from side to side, trying to
bring the little boat level so that the man in the bow could catch the rope
from the ship. Just as the deckhand was about to toss it down to him, there was
a sudden sharp pip-pip-pip call like that of a plover from the boat behind.
Then Faramond saw to his alarm that just as swiftly as they had drawn
alongside, the boats were retreating back into the darkness.

    'Wait,
where are you going?' Faramond yelled, completely forgetting the captain's
warning for silence, but the captain was standing transfixed, staring up the
haven towards the channel between the island of Yarmouth and the mainland.

    He
began barking orders. Before he realized what was happening, Faramond felt
himself in the grip of powerful hands, being forced towards an open hatch.

    'Get
in there, hide, hide!'

    He
was pushed down the rickety wooden ladder with such force that he lost his
footing half-way down and fell, landing in thick, slimy water. It was only a
foot or so deep, but the planks beneath were so slippery he couldn't get a
footing to stand up. For a moment he thought the fall had blinded him for he
had rarely known such complete darkness, but he could hear the curses of his
companions as they splashed around him in the filth. A foul stench engulfed
him, making him choke. It was as if he had been thrown into a lake of rotten
eggs. The air was rasping in his chest as he struggled to breathe. Then he
heard the grating over his head being pushed back into place.

    A
voice that he recognized as the captain's yelled down, 'If you want to live,
keep as still and quiet as dead men. There's a ship, one of King John's,
bearing straight for us. If they board us . . .'

    If
the captain said more, Faramond didn't hear him, for a wooden hatch was slammed
down on top of the grate and they heard the bolts being shot home.

    The
men in the hold did as they were bid: despite the misery of sitting in the
freezing water, they instantly ceased splashing about trying to stand. The
water sloshed back and forth over their backs as the ship rolled, and the
crashing of the waves breaking on the wooden hull outside reverberated through
the darkness. Above them they could hear shouts and bellowed commands, but the
thick wood of the deck muffled the sound. Faramond was aware of the noisy
gulping of the others around him, their lungs aching from the struggle to
breathe through the gas that rose from the stinking water.

    Then
something heavy grated against the timbers of the hull. Had the ship caught up
with them? Were the king's soldiers leaping aboard, prepared to search every
foot of the
Santa Katarina
? Despite the captain's warning, Faramond
crawled through the stinking water, feeling his way cautiously towards the
hull, where no light would fall on him if the hatch was opened. Around him he
could hear the others doing the same, cursing under their breath as their hands
and limbs were grazed on the rough beams of the ship.

    They
were listening hard for the sounds of feet above them, boxes being overturned
or arguments breaking out, but they could hear nothing above the sound of the
water, not even voices. Perhaps the captain had managed to persuade the king's
men that the barrels of wine and other stores on the deck were all the cargo he
carried. It was so dark that Faramond's eyeballs hurt as he strained to see
into the blackness above, searching desperately for that first crack of light
that might give them warning the hatch was being opened.

    Then
he saw it, a line of orange so bright and yet so thin he thought for a moment
his eyes were playing tricks because he was staring too hard. He saw another line
of light flickering. He shrank back, wondering if he should duck his head below
the water and how long he could hold his breath if he did. But the light was
not coming from where he thought the hatch was, though in the darkness it was
hard to remember. Then he smelt it, just a whisper of it; the stench from the
water was so overpowering that it was hard to be sure and yet there was a waft
of something new . . .

    'Smoke!'
someone yelled from the darkness. 'They've set the ship afire.'

    Every
man tried to beat his way through the water to the ladder. They were groping
around for it in the darkness, catching hold of beams and the bodies of the
other men, until with a cry someone felt it. Faramond himself grabbed hold of
it just moments later and found other hands as cold as the dead also grasping
the ladder and trying to force themselves on to the rungs. But the first man
was already at the top. They could hear him battering at the grill, shouting
and yelling.

    Another
climbed up, pitching him off into the water; he fell heavily with a single
scream, instantly followed by silence.

    'It
won't shift. They've locked it! They've locked us in!'

    'Let
me try,' others shouted, but Faramond wasn't one of them. He splashed and
crawled his way back towards the side of the hull. Fumbling for his knife, he
started hacking at the wood, trying beyond all reason to make a hole in the
ship's timbers. As he did so, he knew it was useless. Even if he could chip his
way through the wood with his small knife, what chance would he have of making
a hole big enough to crawl through before the water poured in and dragged them
all to the bottom? Yet still he slashed away, desperately trying to split the
salt-hardened timber.

    Around
him he could hear men screaming or praying. Above them, louder by far now than
the crash of the waves, was the roar of the flames as they raced through the
oil- soaked and tar-coated timbers. Smoke was trickling down into the hold,
mixing with the bilge gas. Faramond was choking. As the timber above their
heads blazed, the heat rolled down as if they were trapped inside a vast oven.

    Faramond
clutched his reliquary through his shirt. 'Holy and blessed St Julian, save me,
save me!'

    There
was a huge crash as the mast toppled into the sea, followed by another as the
castle collapsed on to the deck, driving the timbers into the hold below. The
last thing Faramond saw was the blinding orange flames licking over a great
beam of wood as it hurtled towards his face. It struck him with a force that
was almost merciful, sending the poor wretch instantly into the darkness from
which there can be no return.

    As
soon as Talbot's sharp eyes had seen the three tiny craft creep out of the
marshes and glide towards the ship, he had made his way gingerly down the
hillside, the better to see where they might put ashore.

    Raffe's
whole attention was directed towards the land, trying to see if the traitor was
also watching for the men to be landed. So it wasn't until he glanced back at
the water to mark the progress of the little boats that he saw the king's ship.
It was racing up towards the
Santa Katarina.

    The
captain and crew on board the
Katarina
had seen it too. They had already
launched their shore boat and were sculling away from their ship, but not
before the crew had cut her anchor and tossed their blazing torches into rope
and tar barrels they'd stacked on the deck. The shore boat disappeared up the
River Bure and melted into the darkness as the flames on the ship took hold,
lighting up the sea around. Later the captain and the crew would claim alms and
shelter as poor shipwrecked sailors, for what could anyone prove against them,
now that all the evidence was going up in smoke?

    But
aboard the king's ship the sailors and soldiers had far more to worry about
than the vanishing craft. Every man aboard was racing to try to lower the sail
and bring their vessel about before they collided with the drifting fire-ship.
They finally managed to steer their boat clear of the
Katarina,
but only
just. They dropped anchor at a safe distance where wind and tide would not
drive the blazing ship into their own vessel.

    There
was no use in the king's men trying to board the
Katarina
now. The fire
had taken hold from bow to stern, sending flames and smoke leaping into the
tar-black sky. Only the sea could dowse those flames now and it would do so
soon when the whole flaming ball sank beneath the waves for ever, carrying all
her secrets with it.

    This
time Raffe heard the crackle of twigs as Talbot slipped back into the thicket
beside him.

    'It's
too late. The crew got off the ship, but the Skeggs didn't.'

    Talbot,
like most Englishmen, had been born hating the French, calling their soldiers
'Yellow Skeggs' in mockery of their emblem the fleur-de-lis, but despite this
there was a rare note of pity in his voice.

    Raffe
groaned. 'The king's ship must have been lying in wait, thinking to catch all
involved, but how the hell did John's men find out?'

    'Don't
look at me! Maybe one of the marsh-men tipped them off,' Talbot said. There's
always those ready to take money from both sides, if they can get away with it.
You can't trust a marsh-man, the only loyalty he has is to his own pocket.'

    There
were many who had cause to say the same thing of Talbot, but Raffe wasn't one
of them, not yet, anyway.

    Talbot
nodded his head towards the ship blazing in the darkness. 'I reckon that
bastard of a captain cut those poor runts' throats when he saw what was afoot.
Didn't fancy being caught red-handed smuggling Skeggs into England and couldn't
risk leaving them alive to talk after he scuttled off. Far as I could see, no
one jumped overboard, and if they were alive they'd jump whether or not they
could swim. Any man would sooner drown than burn.'

    The
two men were silent for a moment. They had witnessed the agony of flames
before, had heard the screams, seen the blistered flesh, still saw it in their
nightmares. The Saracens at Acre had a terrible weapon. Greek fire, they called
it. They'd throw clay pots against the wooden siege towers and down on to the
attacking men. The pots burst into flames and burned with a fire as fierce as a
blacksmith's furnace. It stuck to wood, leather, metal, flesh, everything.
Water wouldn't extinguish it, only vinegar, and where do you get that in the
midst of a battle? They'd seen men reeling away, blinded, their faces aflame,
roasting alive in their own armour, until they'd fallen on the mercy of a spear
or sword. Both men knew only too well what a man would do to end the agony of
burning.

    Talbot
tugged urgently at Raffe's arm. 'Look there, between those trees.'

    Raffe
glanced across at the rise. A lone figure sat on horseback, watching the
burning ship. Raffe, motioning Talbot to follow, crept forward. It was dark,
but even so Raffe could see from the cut of the long, heavy cloak that this was
no marsh-man.

    The
horse shuffled restlessly sideways. Its rider gathered the reins and turned the
beast's head, preparing to leave. As he looked back for one last time at the
ship, the light from the burning vessel revealed the full profile of the man's
face. It was so familiar that Raffe could have drawn it from memory.

    'God's
blood,' he breathed. 'Do you see who that is? That's Hugh, that's Osborn's
brother.'

    Talbot
threw his arm over Raffe, pressing his head down hard into the dirt, just as
Hugh dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and cantered off straight past the
thicket in which they were sheltering. As soon as the muffled sound of
hoof-beats had faded, Raffe sat up, brushing dried leaves from his face and
spitting out bits of twig.

    Talbot
whistled through his teeth. 'So that's your traitor. 1 always hated the
bugger.'

    Raffe
shook his head in disbelief. 'Unless I'd seen it with my own eyes, I'd never
have believed it. I knew it had to be one of Osborn's men, but his own brother!
Satan's arse, Hugh fought for John in Aquitaine.'

    'As
did you,' Talbot reminded him. 'And it didn't make you love the bastard.'