The Gallows Curse (39 page)

    He
had not wasted the night. Even now a small boat laden with sacks of grain was
being sculled upstream towards Norwich, by the same boatmen who had taken Elena
to safety. They would carry the message to Talbot that passage was required on
a ship for a gentleman who needed to slip away quietly from these shores.
Talbot would know where to find a ship's captain who would ask no questions.

    The
few hours' sleep in the bottom of the boat Raffe had managed to snatch before
dawn had been fitful and uncomfortable. Perhaps it was meeting the priest that
made him think of it, but for the first time in many years, when he did manage
to sleep he dreamed not of the wars, but of the abbey where he lived as a
child.

    Those
years in the abbey choir had been the happiest Raffe had ever known. After the
initial shock of being left there by his parents, given to the Church to pay
for his father's life, he had found himself among friends, boys and men like
himself, mutilated for the greater glory of God. He was taught to read and
write, to sing in Latin and to study music. The laity who flocked to the abbey
church treated the castrati like princes. Stout matrons vied with one another
to bake them the most delicious treats; girls gave them flowers; and rich men
bought them costly trinkets. Among the ordinary choir whose voices, though
accomplished, were merely human, these rare and costly boys and men were the
elite.

    The
boy castrati worshipped the beautiful young men in their twenties whose looks
and voices surpassed the angels'. But they'd giggle and whisper about the older
castrati who dragged their bloated bodies about, yet whose voices, behind the
screen, could still move men to tears. It never occurred to them that one day
their own bodies too would become as aged and grotesque.

    Raffe
loved the comradeship of this little band of chosen brothers. But his greatest
joy was to sing, to stand among the choir and hear their voices rising together
up to the throne of God. Daily he dreamed that one day the whole church would
hold its breath as his voice ran like molten silver from the moon.

    But
though he prayed every night and tried to convince himself that he was one of
them, he knew something was starting to go badly wrong. Even if he hadn't seen
the singing master shaking his head and the choir members exchanging glances
whenever he was asked to sing alone, he knew that his voice wasn't like the
others'. The music was perfect in his head. He could hear exactly how each note
should sound. He knew what was required of him, but when he opened his mouth,
what came out now made even him cringe.

    When
he was eleven years old, they sent for him. The cart to take him back to his
village was already standing at the abbey door. Sometimes with training the
voice can be improved, they said, but his was becoming worse. It happens with
some castrati. Unlike normal boys, their voices can never break, but they can
crack as the child grows, and a bell that is cracked cannot ever sound a pure
note.

    Raffe
begged them to let him become a monk or to take Holy Orders as a priest, so
that he could remain among them and listen to those voices even if he could
never be one of them. But they sadly shook their heads. Did he not know, had he
not learned in his studies what is written in the Holy Bible — 'He that is
wounded in the stones shall not enter the congregation of the Lord.' Eunuchs
are unnatural. They are an abomination. They are unclean. He had been wounded
for God, and for that very wound he would be cast out from God's sight.

    When
he returned home, his father said nothing. In contrast, his mother had plenty
to say about the wicked waste of money and the dashed hopes of the whole family
after all they had sacrificed for him. He had trampled on all their dreams by
failing to study hard enough, by failing to be good enough. He found his
sleeping place occupied by his younger brother. His tasks on the farm had been
shared out among the others. They had not expected him to return. Like a stone
lifted out of a pond, the water had closed over the gap where he had once been,
leaving no trace. But all that he could have borne, for none of it had hurt him
as much as his father's silence.

    A
swan alighted with a splash on the river, almost colliding with the boat. The
ripples sent the slender craft rocking. Raffe squinted up at the sky; the sun
had risen high enough now for Walter to have opened the gate and the servants
to be about their morning tasks. He hauled himself upright, scratching
violently at the swelling bites of the marsh midges on his arms.

    Having
returned the boat to the old eel man, Raffe made his way back to the manor. He
could not suppress a yawn as he crossed the courtyard, weaving between the
bustling servants.

    'Weary
already at this bright hour, gelding?'

    Raffe
whirled about to find Osborn's younger brother, Hugh, standing in front of the
stables. God's teeth, when had he returned? Only yesterday he'd ridden out with
Osborn and the rest of his men on their way to attend the king at court. What
was he doing back here?

    Hugh
looked the steward up and down with amused disdain. 'By the Blood, you look so
draggled, had it been any other man I'd have sworn he'd spent the night in the
arms of a whore, but we know you weren't losing your sleep in that cause, don't
we?'

    Raffe,
aware of the barely suppressed grins of the other servants, turned away, trying
hard to swallow his anger. It wasn't easy for his fist was itching to connect
with Hugh's nose.

    'I
can see you still want for manners. Like a dog to a whistle you should come
running to your masters when they address you.'

    Raffe
wheeled around and walked rapidly towards Hugh, his fists clenched. He stopped
so close to him that, being a good head shorter, Hugh was forced to crane his
head back to look Raffe in the face.

    'Did
you want something?' Raffe said coldly.

    Hugh
giggled. 'You know, however many times I hear you speak, I still can't get used
to the voice of a little girl coming from a man's body. Well, I say man, but we
all know that's not exactly true, is it?' His tone changed without warning.
'Yes, I want something, gelding. I want to know where you were yesterday. When
I returned last night I was burning up with a fever, but the maids brought me
nothing to ease it. I was kept waiting for my food for hours and when those
feckless arse-wipes did finally stir themselves to bring it, it tasted like dog
shit. I sent for you to speak to you about their neglect, but apparently not
one of the numbskulls you laughingly call servants could find you. So where had
you sneaked off to?'

    'I am
not a villein,' Raffe said coldly. 'I may come and go as I please. Since my
duties were done, I decided to spend the night where the air was sweeter and
the company had greater wit than I've been forced to endure these last weeks.
So I spent it on the river with the fish.'

    'Let's
see, shall we?' Hugh's dark grey eyes flicked to Raffe's basket, the same one
in which last night he had carried food to the priest. 'Open it!'

    Raffe
shrugged and unfastened the lid. A knot of three fat black eels squirmed over
one another in a nest of damp weeds. Just as Raffe had hoped, the eels had
snapped at the worms on the lines he'd laid out in the river before meeting the
boy and had got their teeth entangled in the mass of sheep wool. He had pulled
them from the water at dawn in a matter of minutes, but how could any man prove
how long it had taken to catch them?

    Hugh
scowled. 'So you were off enjoying yourself when you should have been here
checking that the servants carried out their duties. It's as well I returned to
see how my poor brother's manor is neglected the moment his back is turned.'

    'The
servants know their duties.'

    'That's
what you think, is it? Here, you! Come here, boy.'

    A
thin, hollow-chested stable boy crept out of the darkness, his head held down
at an angle, cringing away from Hugh. Raffe could immediately see why. The
lad's nose, encrusted with blood, was so swollen it was hard to tell if it was
broken. His eyes were purple and one was so puffy he couldn't open it more than
a crack. There were bruises on his scrawny arms, and from the way the lad was
limping, Raffe suspected that his clothes concealed more injuries.

    Hugh
grabbed the lad's neck and pushed him forward to face Raffe. 'This wretch was
instructed to tend to my horse, but when I came to see all was well with the
beast, I found his hooves still caked in mud.'

    'So
you beat him?' Raffe demanded furiously.

    If
any of the lads had been so lazy as to neglect a valuable horse, Raffe would
have taken a switch to them himself, but he would never have disciplined them
like this. Besides, they all knew better than to leave mud under the hooves
where it could cause rot. And this lad loved horses and doted on all of them as
if they were his personal pets. Raffe knew that Hugh had beaten the boy solely to
punish him for his absence rather than anything the poor lad had neglected to
do. God's blood, he wouldn't rest until he'd found proof that Hugh was a
traitor, and when he did, nothing would give him greater satisfaction than
watching the bastard die as slowly and painfully as possible.

    The
boy stood shivering with misery. Raffe placed a gentle hand on his shoulder,
shocked to feel him cringe under it. He called out to one of the scullions who
was crossing the yard with an armful of fresh-cut herbs.

    'Take
this lad to the kitchen, and tell cook she's to mull him some ale. My orders.
And get someone to clean the lad up, gently mind. I'll be across myself
presently.'

    The
scullion laid a brotherly arm around the lad and led him off as quickly as he
could, darting a scared glance over his shoulder at Hugh.

    'You
reward a lazy little midden-brat like him, when you should be thrashing him,'
Hugh thundered. 'No wonder you can't keep order in this manor.'

    Raffe's
temper finally lunged out of his control. You are not master here and if you
ever lay a hand on one of my charges again, I'll break every bone in it, one by
one.'

    Hugh
was white with anger, two high spots of colour blazing on his pale cheeks.
'Have a care, gelding, I'll see you brought to the whip yet, by God I will.'

    He
stormed into the stable and, grabbing the reins of his horse from a boy, swung
into the saddle and clattered across the yard and through the open gate,
scattering terrified chickens and maids to the right and left of him.

    Raffe,
now that his temper had cooled slightly, cursed himself silently. Hugh would be
watching him like a vulture from now on. How the Devil was he going to get the
priest past him? He felt for Gerard's pearl ring which hung from a leather thong
beneath his shirt. Whatever the danger he must do it. If there was the
slightest chance that the priest's anointing would bring peace to Gerard's
soul, then he must try even if it cost him his own life.

    The
serving maid waddled awkwardly across the courtyard at the back of the Adam and
Eve Inn, trying not to let the contents of the slops bucket she was carrying
splash on her skirts. She glanced up at the shuttered windows of the inn; the
guests wouldn't stir for another hour or more, and even then they'd be lucky if
they could crawl off their sleeping pallets, given the amount of ale and cider
most had drunk last night. She thumbed her nose at the shutters behind which
the innkeeper and his crabby wife still lay snoring. It was all very well for
them, they could sleep on, but the old termagant would grumble all day if the
chores weren't done by the time she deigned to wake.

    The
maid went round the back of the wooden shack where the meals were cooked over
the great fire and flung the contents of the bucket towards the midden, without
bothering to look. She didn't need to; she'd been emptying slops here at least
twice a day for the past five years. There was a screech, and a cat with a wet
tail raced past her ankles, spitting its indignation.

    The
sudden appearance of the cat made her glance down. For a moment she just stared
at the ground without her mind being able to comprehend what her eyes saw. Then
she began to scream and once she'd started, she couldn't stop. She carried on
screaming until the innkeeper, naked save for a short shift which barely
covered his scrawny thighs, came hurrying round the shack, closely followed by
his wife who was armed with a heavy cudgel. Several of the guests trailed after
them, grumbling at the disturbance.

    The
maid, her hand trembling violently, pointed at the earth next to the midden
heap. A man lay on his belly in the filth, his head twisted to the side. Flies
swarmed over the dark blood congealed in his hair and crawled over his purple,
grotesquely swollen face, settling in the deep black bruise that encircled his
neck. Only the buzzing of the flies broke the stunned silence in that
courtyard.