The Gallows Curse (19 page)

    'I
loathe John, but I'd never give aid to England's enemies, not even to save my
own life.'

    Talbot
grunted. 'Easy to say when your life's not at stake. Thing is, what are you
going to do now? Seems to me it's still your word against Hugh's, or rather
that girl of yours. And -'

    Raffe
smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. 'And I can't prove a bloody thing
against Hugh. If I could have seen him with this Faramond, or the king's men
had taken even one of the Frenchmen alive and questioned him, he might have
given them Hugh's name. But Osborn will never hear a word said against his
brother. If there's one thing in this world he has any feelings for at all,
it's that little whelp.'

    Raffe
grabbed a clump of grass and ripped it from the ground in frustration. His hope
of seeing the whole pack of them turned out of the manor had slipped so far
from his grasp, he couldn't see how to retrieve it.

    'Thing
is,' Talbot said, 'sooner or later Hugh's going to start wondering who tipped
off the king's men, and I reckon he'll get to thinking that the girl did
overhear what was said after all and told someone. If you've any feelings at
all for her, you'd best see she stays well hidden out of his way.'

    Raffe
raked his fingers through his hair. God in heaven, how much more could go
wrong? At least Elena was in the village, and Hugh was not likely to soil his
boots by mixing with cottagers from Gastmere. He just prayed Elena would have
the sense to stay away from the manor.

    Both
men stared in silence over the darkened bay. The flames reflected on the glassy
black water danced around the stricken ship like imps at a witches' Sabbath.
Even as the two men watched, the ship rolled over on its side with a mighty
crash. As waves broke over the deck, the flames clawed higher in the sky as if
they were desperately trying to escape the sea. But it was only for a moment,
then the water closed over it and the
Santa Katarina
and all she
contained was pulled down and down into the cold black depths.

    
Rowan
— was once known as
raun,
meaning charm, for it is a powerful weapon
against witches and the evil eye.

Raun tree and red thread, hold the witches all in
dread
.

    The
druids burn rowan to summon the spirits to battle, or to force them to answer
questions. Mortals often plant the tree near the door of a house so that no
evil may enter it. On Quarter Days, when the spirits of mischief are most
active, mortals lay a rowan sprig over the lintel of doors and windows, so that
evil spirits cannot enter. Some mortals wear necklaces of rowan wood and hang
garlands of it in the cattle byres or over the horns of a beast that they fear
has been overlooked by the evil eye.

    Those
whose milk is witched so that it will not turn to butter had best get
themselves a churn made from rowan wood. If their horse is bewitched and throws
the rider, it may be tamed with a rowan whip. But those who really fear the
spirits seek out the flying rowan, the tree whose roots do not touch the earth,
but grows in the cleft of a rock or on another tree, for its wood is the most
powerful of them all.

    But
take heed, mortals, rowan will protect you from the evils of men, but it will
not protect you from a mandrake's power, for we are neither witches nor spirits
to be commanded. We are gods.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    'You'll
never wind the bairn like that,' Athan's mother declared, scooping the baby
from Elena's arms and patting him briskly on his back.

    The
infant stopped grizzling and looked vaguely surprised.

    'You'll
join the other women in the barn soon as you've finished here,' Joan said. It
was a command, not a question. 'They'll help you with the little one.'

    What
you really mean is, I can't be trusted to look after him, Elena thought, but
she held her tongue and merely nodded. It was the first time since the baby had
been born that she would spend the day away from her mother-in-law. With the
sheep-shearing about to begin and ploughing still to be done and the first
haymaking starting in the forward meadows, every man, woman and child was
pressed into labour, no matter what their age or infirmity.

    Athan
had left for the fields at ghost light, before the sun was even visible above
the dark fringed marshes. Every precious hour of daylight had to be used while
the weather held fair. But his mother continued to linger at the door, still
watching Elena as a fox watches a rabbit, waiting for it to come close enough
to pounce.

    
Please
just go,
Elena willed her.

    'Remember
to take clean rags, he'll need changing'

    Elena
nodded to the bundle she'd made ready. 'I have them. Hadn't you better make
haste? Marion'll not be best pleased if you're late.'

    Joan
sniffed. 'Just because that harlot is keeping the bailiffs bed warm, doesn't
give her the right —'

    She
broke off abruptly as Marion and some of the other Women called out to her as
they passed the open door of the cottage. Pausing only to issue a further list
of instructions about the care of her grandson, she sped off to catch up with
them, only too eager to regale them with the latest of Elena's failings as wife
and mother.

    Peace
seemed to roll in through the open door in the wake of Joan's departure. Elena
took her son in her arms and gently kissed his face. His eyes were heavy with
sleep, but the lids were almost transparent so that the blue of his eyes glowed
through them like a jewel through gauze. She stroked the soft apricot down on
his warm head and slid her finger into the tiny fist, feeling the fingers curl
tightly round her own as if he knew without looking that it was his mother's
hand.

    
The
bairn,
that's what they all called him. Athan said he had chosen a name,
but Joan declared it was bad luck to say it out loud before the baptism in case
a stranger or the faerie folk should learn it and use it to witch the child
before his name was sanctified by the Church. At his baptism Athan would
whisper it to the priest at the font, but only when the priest proclaimed it to
the congregation would Elena knew what they were going to call her baby.

    She
already had a name in her heart for him, though she would never be allowed to
use it. She whispered it sometimes when she was sure no one would hear her, a
secret name because she adored him and he was
her
son. But she knew that
any name she gave the child would not keep him safe, only the Church, only
baptism could do that. But when would he be baptized?

    With
the Interdict and all the churches closed and half the priests fled or
imprisoned, no infant could be christened How many months more would they have
to call him
the bairn
? And all that time he would be unprotected from
witches who could cast the evil eye on him and faerie folk, who might snatch
him, and from demons and monsters who would devour his soul. If he died before
he could be made
a
child of Christ, his soul would wander lost for ever;
he would be buried at the crossroads or the hundred boundary where all the
suicides, madmen and murderers lay.

    Once,
years ago, Joan had told her, a girl in the village had given birth to a boy
and kept it hidden in mortal fear of her husband for he had been away at the
Holy Wars when it was conceived, so he would know it was none of his getting.
The poor little mite had died not long after. The sexton had found the mother
trying to bury the tiny body in the churchyard, and had torn the corpse from
her arms and buried it at the crossroads outside the village bounds, for he
knew that if they did not take it out of Gastmere the soul of the unbaptized
infant would wander through the village every night, rattling the doors and
shutters trying to find a mother who would take it in.

    Ever
after travellers who had the misfortune to find themselves at that crossroads
at night heard a baby wailing in great distress. If they were foolish enough to
go closer to try to find the child, they saw a little infant white as bone,
with large hollow eyes, burrowing out of the earth and crawling towards them on
one leg and one arm, screaming so piercingly that horses and men alike were
driven mad. Locals avoided the place after dark and if they had to travel that
way always carried a sprig of rowan and a horse shoe to beat the creature away
with, but many an unsuspecting traveller had been thrown from his horse, which
had bolted at the shrieks.

    Elena
gazed down at the softly rounded cheeks, the tiny nose and pink plump lips
wrinkling as if he still suckled in his sleep. She would never let them bury
her son at some lonely crossroads in an unmarked grave. She would not have
horses trample the ground above him or carts drive over him. She would not have
them curse her beautiful angel or watch his decayed corpse crawling up out of
the ground. But if she killed him, they would bury him there. They would drag
his little body from her arms and bury him deep and alone in the cold, hard
ground, without even a twig to mark where he lay.

    As
each day passed she loved him more and she knew it would only get harder to do
what she must do. It had to be today. She could not wait for another. She must
do it now, before it was too late. She must keep him safe — safe from them and
above all safe from her, his own mother. Tying her baby tightly to her chest
with her shawl, she slipped out of the house. The track was deserted. Everyone
who was fit enough to walk was already at work in the fields or barns, but
Elena was not making for the barn, she was walking as rapidly as she could in
the direction of the forest.

    A
soft, warm breeze had sprung up with the setting sun. It rustled the leaves on
the currant bushes and stirred the bright green shoots of the onions in their
beds. Elena gently removed one of the two young pigeons from the little wicker
cage hanging under the apple tree and carried the bird back into Athan's
cottage. She sat down on a stool by the rough wooden table. The pigeon was
struggling, flapping its wings fiercely in an effort to get away, but as she
caught the wings and smoothed them back into a resting position with her
fingers, the bird, calmed and lay passively in her grip. Its bright black eye
looked sideways at her and blinked. She could feel its tiny heart thumping
beneath its soft warm feathers.

    'Hush
now,' she murmured, 'I'm not going to hurt you.'

    Outside
in the small wicker cage, its mate cooed in the hot evening sunshine. For a
moment or two, Elena stroked the bird gently, calming it almost to a point
where it was falling asleep in the warmth of the fire. Then Elena's right hand
moved up to the bird's neck. In one deft movement, she twisted and pulled
sharply. The pigeon flopped limp in her lap.

    She
began to pluck it at once. It is always easier when the body is still warm. She
ripped the feathers out, letting them drift into a soft mound on a rag she had
spread out at her feet. When the bird was clean, she took her knife and ripped
open the belly, pulling out the guts before tossing the carcass whole into the
iron pot that was already bubbling on the hearth.

    Then
she went outside to the little wicker cage where the second bird still cooed,
its hope undiminished, as if expecting an answering call from its mate. Elena
reached inside and gently removed it, soothing it in her hands as she carried
it back to her stool next to the steaming pot.

    Preparing
meals was something she had done ever since she could walk, like every girl in
Gastmere. Her mam had taught her, just as her mother taught her before that.
Most days Elena hardly wasted a thought on it, as long as there was food to be
prepared. Her hands worked steadily as her mind drifted off to other places.
But now she suddenly recalled how as a tiny child she had watched her own
mother cleaning a bird. The picture was as clear in her head as if she was
still there in her mother's cottage, though she had never remembered it before.
Fascinated, Elena had pulled herself up on to her wobbly little legs by
clutching her mother's skirts. Then, standing unsteadily, she had watched, with
the wonder that only a child can know, as the soft grey feathers drifted down
in dizzy spirals over her mother's legs, only to be caught by the breeze and
lifted again, like a thousand tiny birds in flight. She remembered how she'd
reached out her chubby hand to catch them and had overbalanced and tumbled on
to the rushes. Her mother, laughing, had bent down to haul her upright again,
with big red-raw hands smelling of feathers and onions and blood.