The Gallows Curse (33 page)

    'It
is time,' Madron said.

    Her
milky eyes swivelled towards Gytha as if she could see her in the darkness and
beyond her into her very thoughts.

    Gytha
shifted uncomfortably on her bed of bracken, trying to ignore her mother. Once
this business was done, they'd have to move on, and Gytha was happy here. She'd
no wish to go traipsing into the city. She hated it. People staring at you
suspiciously as if you were going to thieve from them, that's when they weren't
trying to rob you themselves. You couldn't breathe, all those people jostling
and shouting. You couldn't hear anything above the foolish clamour of their
voices, not even your own thoughts.

    'Take
me outside.' Madron's tone was more querulous than usual.

    Gytha
sighed and struggled to her feet. It was a warm night. She needed no shawl over
her coarse, threadbare kirtle. She bent over her mother and the old lady put an
arm around her neck. Gytha scooped her up in her arms and, ducking low, carried
her out of the bothy. Madron was as light as a bag of fish bones, but the thin
arm locked around Gytha's neck had a grip as hard as ice in winter.

    Gytha
placed her gently in the centre of the clearing. The old woman's head lifted,
turning her face towards the bright moon, as if she was seeking its coldness.

    She
pinched Gytha's arm. 'Fetch my bones and my blackthorn rod.'

    Gytha
returned once more to the bothy and fetched the objects, laying them in her
mother's lap. This summoning would require greater magic than a thorn apple,
for they had nothing of his which they could use against him.

    The
air was still and heavy in the forest. The trees were shaggy with leaves. They
encircled the glade like great dumb trolls silently watching the stars
glittering above: the Bear and the Swan, and the great arching bridge of stars
over which the souls of the dead travelled. The Milky Way, Gerard once told her
she must call it, but he would know it for its real name now, for his soul had
walked that path. She had seen it.

    Madron
was squatting in the glade. Her hair glowed silver in the moonlight, her skin
was turned to pearl. She had drawn a circle around herself in the leaf mould
with the tip of the blackthorn rod. Then around the circle she had made four
marks. A stranger might not have recognized the crude symbols, but Gytha knew
them well, for her mother had taught them to her when she was still in her
cradle: a serpent for the earth, a fish for the water, a bird for the air and a
salamander for fire. The moonlight poured into the scratches in the earth,
filling them with molten silver. Madron could not see them, but Gytha knew she
could feel them just as well as she could feel her own hands.

    Madron
fumbled in the bag and drew out one slender bone, only as long as a woman's
hand. She placed it before her, then from her sleeve withdrew a small posy of
herbs, bound together by a scarlet thread — periwinkle, orpine, vervain,
monkshood and deadly nightshade. She laid the bundle across the bone, so that
it made a slanted cross.

    Finally
she turned her sightless eyes towards Gytha, extending her hand.

    'Come,
you must stand inside the circle, else you'll not be safe.'

    Gytha
stepped over the mark scratched in the floor of the forest, careful not to
break the circle. Then she crouched behind her mother and waited.

    The
old woman threw back her head and lifted her face to the moon. She began to
chant, ancient words long since forgotten by the world, words that women had
taught their daughters since first the owl flew and the wolf hunted her prey.
The hairs on Gytha's neck prickled.

    Madron's
chanting died away and silence flooded back into the moonlit grove, a silence
as solid and lucent as glass. A cloud drew across the moon, plunging the
clearing into darkness. The forest held its breath.

    Then
the ground around them began to tremble, shaking as if a thousand horses were
charging by. As the cloud peeled back from the moon, Gytha could see something
rising in front of them just beyond the circle. A wisp of mist was uncurling
from the ground, pushing up the earth around it, like the first shoot of a
plant. Then the column of mist burst out of the black earth with a thin wail
like a newborn baby's cry. It whirled around and around, and as it turned there
came a low moaning in the forest as if an icy winter wind was wandering among
the branches of the trees, but the trees were quite still. The moaning grew
into a shriek, rising higher and higher till the very darkness was vibrating
with the pain of it. Then, just as suddenly, the shrieking stopped.

    A
naked infant stood in front of them, its body so thin the ribs stood out like
the timbers of a wrecked ship. The lips were drawn back to reveal the toothless
bones of its jaws, its empty eye sockets were as dark as black fire.

    Madron
turned her sightless eyes towards her daughter. 'Has he come? Do you see him?'

    Gytha
could not wrench her gaze from the little corpse in front of her.

    'He
is here, Madron, the babe is here,' she whispered.

    The
old woman lifted the bone and the bundle of herbs together and pointed them at
the creature.

    'Spirit,
I command you to fetch Hugh of Roxham. Bring him here to us.'

    The
little corpse hopped towards her, the clawed fingers of its left arm scrabbling
uselessly in the air, as if it was trying to snatch at something. Its right leg
was missing.

    'I
command you,' Madron repeated. 'Fetch Hugh of Roxham. You will bring him here.
You will bring him!'

    The
creature took another step towards her, reaching for the bone, but it drew back
as if burned as it touched the air above the circle. 'Give me, give me! It's
mine. Mine!'

    Madron
lifted her head, pronouncing the words for the third time. 'I command you by
the bone of your body, bring us Hugh of Roxham. Go, go now. Ka!'

    As
she pronounced the last word the corpse shuddered violently; it slumped down to
the ground and for a moment Gytha thought it was going to disappear back into
the earth. But as she watched, its ashen, waxy skin began to bubble all over,
as if maggots were crawling out of it, covering it from its skull to its feet.
The skin was erupting into soft white feathers. The child lifted its head, and
in the dark empty hollows of its eyes were two black glistening pearls. Two
long wings unfurled on either side of its body and as they beat, the pale creature
rose silently into the air. The barn owl hovered above them for a moment, its
wings outstretched against the moon, then it turned and glided away over the
dark mass of the trees.

    Madron
slumped back, exhausted. She turned her head to Gytha. 'It is done. Carry me
back inside. You know what to do when he comes.'

    Gytha
bent to lift her mother up. 'You're sure he will come, Madron?'

    'He
will come. Sooner or later, he will be drawn to us.'

    Gytha
laid her mother in the bothy and wandered back out beneath the trees, bathed
silver in the moonlight. From under her shift, where it nestled between her
breasts, she withdrew the wizened apple and plucked another thorn. Was it a
waste? Should she simply wait patiently for Madron's spell to work? Her sixth
sense told her that another little twist of the apple was needed. Something all
of her own. She laid the thorn carefully in the embers of the supper fire. A
shiver of pleasure stroked her spine as a tiny flame danced in the darkness.
She watched it burn; she loved to watch them burn.

    Raoul,
yawning and trying to ease his aching shoulders, stumbled across the courtyard
towards the steps leading to the Great Hall. The light from the burning torches
on the walls flickered across the uneven cobbles of the courtyard, making it
hard to see where he was putting his feet. God's bones, but he was tired and
stiff! His backside was bruised and his thighs raw from a day in the saddle. He
was starving too, but he wasn't sure if he could even manage to stay awake long
enough to eat.

    He
heard a clattering on the stairs, and lifted his head in time to see Osborn
striding down them. Raoul groaned to himself. He knew he'd have to see Osborn
tonight to deliver the message, but he had hoped to get at least a goblet or two
of wine inside him before he was forced to speak. His throat was as dry as old
leather from the dust on the roads.

    Osborn
confronted him at the bottom of the stairs. 'And how fares the king?'

    Raoul
massaged his parched throat. 'In health His Majesty is as fit as a man half his
age and has twice the energy. In temper . . .' Raoul winced at the memory.

    The
king's violent rages were legendary, and Raoul had felt the full force of the
royal displeasure, having been forced to admit to John that he had so far
failed to discover the identity of anyone engaged in aiding England's enemies.
It was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. The king's fury had only
been slightly tempered when his latest mistress, a sweet, sympathetic girl who
had smiled coyly at Raoul, reminded the king that the
Santa Katarina
had
been prevented from landing her cargo thanks entirely to the brave and loyal
Raoul.

    It
had not been thanks to Raoul at all. He'd never heard of the ship or its French
cargo until he arrived back at court and he'd no idea who had alerted the
king's men, but he certainly wasn't going to contradict the rumour. It was the
only thing that was preventing the full measure of the king's anger from
descending on his head.

    Raoul
sighed. He wasn't suited to this business of skulking around trying to uncover
traitors and spies. All he'd ever wanted was a comfortable position at court
and the only thing he had any desire to uncover was the breasts of a lovely
young girl, someone like the king's mistress. Now she had a body just begging
to be ravished.

    He
was jerked out of his daydream by Osborn. 'Speak, man, what did the king say?'

    Raoul
fumbled in his scrip for a roll of parchment bearing a heavy wax seal. 'His
Majesty instructs me to give you this, but I know what it says, there are
similar messages going out across England. John's called a council of the lords
known to be loyal to him. He intends to draw up plans if Philip should attempt
to land. You and your brother, and the other commanders who are experienced in
the field of battle are instructed to attend. He expects you in three days'
time.'

    'God's
teeth!' Osborn swore vehemently, his fists clenched.

    He
must have seen the startled expression on Raoul's face for he added quickly, 'I
am, of course, honoured to wait upon the king in this matter. But I have just
this day learned of something I had hoped to attend to personally.'

    Osborn
gnawed at his lip for a moment, then his face brightened. 'John has not
commanded you to attend?'

    Raoul
tried to suppress a shudder. He was in no hurry to return to the king's
presence in his present mood. 'I've never seen battle, unlike you. I would be
of little use to His Majesty.'

    'Then
you may do me a service instead.' Osborn glanced around the darkened courtyard.
There were only a few candles still burning in the casements for most of the
manor's inhabitants were already asleep. Nevertheless, he drew Raoul away from
the steps and into a corner of the courtyard as far as possible from any doors
or windows.

    'I
received word from the sheriff in Norwich this afternoon. One of his men has
heard a rumour that my runaway villein was taken to Norwich by boat when she
escaped from here and is still in the city somewhere. I want you to go to
Norwich first thing tomorrow and see if you can track her down.'

    Every
aching muscle and bone in Raoul's body screamed out in protest at the thought
of another day in the saddle. 'My lord, surely the sheriff can order his men to
search for her?'

    'The
man is a lazy, incompetent numbskull whose only interest is in filling his
personal coffers. He says red-headed girls are as common as bird shit in Norwich,
and he doesn't have the men to spare to go banging on every door of the city.
So you'll have to do it. I'd go myself, but the king . . .'

    'But
I've never laid eyes on the girl,' Raoul protested. 'How am I to find her, if
the sheriff's men can't?'

    'The
man who brought the news says he heard talk of it in an inn. The Adam and Eve,
he called it. It's a place frequented by all the knaves, rogues and cutpurses
in Norwich, or so he says. Take lodgings there. Drink with them. Flirt with
their whores. Buy the customers whatever disgusting muck they throw down their
poxy throats to get them drunk, so they'll talk freely. I don't care what you
have to do, just find that girl. I'll not have any villein on this manor think
they can defy me and live.'