The Gallows Curse (42 page)

    'No!'
The word burst out of Raffe so loudly that the boatman's head jerked up and he
stared at them, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be listening.

    Your
lass as good as admitted it. And there's proof of it too.'

    'This
is madness.' Raffe felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. 'She couldn't.
How . . . why would she?'

    'This
Raoul came to Ma's the night he died. And your lass entertained him. She must
have followed him after he left, for he stayed a while drinking in the guest
hall after he'd finished with her and no one saw him leave.'

    Raffe
couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What possessed you to let him see
her, never mind entertain him, when you knew he was looking for her?' He seized
the front of Talbot's shirt, blazing with fury. You swore to me you'd keep her
safe, you miserable little maggot.'

    Talbot
was unmoved. Even though Raffe was much taller,

    Talbot
had no doubts about who would come off best in any fight.

    'I
wasn't there. I was trying to find a ship for
your
friend,' he said
pointedly. 'Luce was on the gate and she let Raoul in. But she'd no idea who he
was for he didn't use his real name, who does? Even if he had, it would have
meant nowt to her. Thing is, your lass was missing from the house that night
and she knew exactly how this Raoul died afore she was told.'

    'She
could have heard someone talking about it or guessed . . .' Raffe protested
feebly. 'But she couldn't murder anyone; she's just a young girl. She's so
gentle she couldn't even kill a bird.'

    'Murdered
her own bairn, didn't she?' Talbot said gruffly. 'You and I, we've both seen
plenty of women fighting to the death under the Cross in the Holy Land. There
was that lass who took down a two-score of men with her long bow, afore the
Saracens killed her, remember? Even Saladin admired her, though she was a
Christian. When a woman's blood is up she's more ruthless than any man.'

    'Not
Elena.' Raffe felt as if the earth beneath his feet had suddenly turned to
liquid. From the day she'd been accused, he'd tried to convince himself she
hadn't murdered her child, yet hadn't there always been a tiny seed of doubt?
Mothers did harm their children . . . But not Elena. He pictured those wide,
innocent eyes staring up at him. Those were not the eyes of a murderer.

    Then
a thought struck him. 'What about you, Talbot? Where were you when Raoul died?
You're always in the Adam and Eve, and if you discovered he was one of Osborn's
men, you wouldn't think twice about killing him if you saw the opportunity.'

    'I
could ask the same of you. A man who's smitten with a woman would do just about
anything to protect her, and if you found out this Raoul had tracked her down .
. .' Talbot gave him a shrewd glance.

    Raffe
didn't answer. An even more alarming thought had occurred to him. 'Do the
sheriffs men think it was Elena? Are they looking for her?'

    Talbot
eyed him for a moment or two. 'They say this Raoul was in debt, owed the dog
fighters a deal of money.'

    'And
did he?'

    Talbot
grinned. 'Who's to know? A whisper planted in the right ear, and afore you
count the claws on a cat the whole town is certain it's true though no man can
remember who told him of it. It'll take them a while to untangle those
whispers. Thing is, if this Raoul was one of Osborn's men, I reckon that means
Osborn knows his runaway is in Norwich. He doesn't know where yet, else his man
would not have been asking questions. But when Osborn returns and learns his
man's been murdered, he's not going to take that kindly. And he won't be so
easy to cod as those frog-wits the sheriff has working for him.'

    Gytha
was pulling her bucket up from the spring when she heard a furious grunting and
crashing in the bushes behind her. She whirled round. A great boar was standing
not a man's length in front of her, his flanks heaving as he panted for breath.
The beast's red mouth hung open, and his long yellow tusks curled up over his
cheeks, dagger-sharp. He lifted his hairy black head and snouted the air.

    Gytha
stayed quite still. She knew those tusks could rip the guts out from her belly
in one swift jerk of his great head. They said that when it was hunted, a
boar's tusks grew so hot they would burn the fur from a hound. She had a
healthy respect for the beast, but she was not afraid. She lifted her hand
slowly, palm open, reciting a charm under her breath calling on the ancient
ones, on Freyr and Freyja, whose sacred boar with the golden glowing mane
illuminated the darkest storm. The beast blinked his tiny red eyes.

    'Whist
now, whist,' Gytha said softly.

    The
boar turned a little and as he did, she saw the blood dripping from a gash on
his hind leg on to the green blades of grass. Gytha had heard the distant calls
of a hunting horn earlier that morning and the excited baying of the hounds.
This beast had doubtless been their quarry. He had been wounded, probably by a
spear. Gytha knew by now he would be tormented by thirst. That was all the poor
creature wanted, water. He could smell it.

    Moving
as slowly as she could, she tipped her bucket, letting the water trickle out
towards the boar. Most of the water soaked away before it could reach him, but
it was enough to make him lower his massive head towards the muddy trickle.
Gytha used that moment's distraction to edge away to the side of the spring,
leaving a clear path for the boar. Pulled by his raging desire to drink, the
beast lumbered forward, pushing his snout deep into the clear, cold pool.

    A
boar's eyesight is poor, but Gytha knew that he could sense any movement and if
he did, he would charge. So she stood quite still, trusting that once he had
sated his thirst he would move off.

    Both
woman and beast lifted their heads as one as they heard the sound of snapping
twigs and blundering footsteps. Someone was crashing through the bushes towards
them. The boar swung round with an agility that belied his great bulk and
squared himself to the direction of the sound, snorting and lowering his head
for the charge. Whoever was coming would have their legs ripped open by those
tusks before they even realized what was thundering towards them.

    As
she bellowed a warning, Gytha snatched up a stone and flung it at the rocks
behind the spring; it hit them with a resounding echo, then splashed into the
water. The boar whipped round in the direction of the sound. Whoever was in the
bushes had the sense to stand still. The boar charged towards the pool, then
stopped, turning his head this way and that, snuffling the air.

    Again,
Gytha held up her hand and recited the charm. Then, in the distance, she heard
the blast of the hunting horn and the far-off baying of the hounds. With a
grunt, the boar turned, crashing off through the undergrowth away from the
barking dogs. And Gytha finally let her hand drop.

    The
bushes parted and a man stepped out. Gytha could see at once this was no
charcoal burner. His fine red leather gloves and boots were not fashioned by
any cordwainer in these parts. Nor was he a man who needed to hunt to fill his
family's hungry bellies, for the flash from the gold thread on the trim of his
tunic was enough to alert any quarry for miles around. He was limping. Gytha
guessed he'd been thrown from his horse, for a man like that would hardly enter
the forest on foot, and there was a long, deep scratch across his cheek, which
still oozed beads of blood.

    He
inclined his head, but there was nothing respectful in those iron-grey eyes. 'I
believe I should thank you for your timely warning, mistress.'

    'You
were hunting that boar?'

    'My
men were trying to put it up, but the fools lost it.'

    'And
your horse?' Gytha asked him.

    A
look of anger born of humiliation flashed across his face. No man, especially a
nobleman like him, cares to admit they cannot master a dumb animal.

    'A
barn owl flew right in my face, in broad daylight. I'd almost swear it had been
trained to go for my eyes.' His gloved fingers briefly touched the gash on his
face.

    A
thrill shuddered through Gytha's frame, but she tried to conceal her excitement.
Instead her tone was grave.

    'An
owl at noon. 'Tis a bad omen. An omen of death.'

    His
chin lifted in a challenge. 'If you think to frighten me, woman, you've chosen
the wrong mark. I've fought in battles that would turn men's guts to water. I'm
not going to start trembling like an old village crone over some bird.'

    But
Gytha could read the flash of uncertainty in his eyes.

    'There
are some things that can't be fought with a sword, Hugh of Roxham.'

    This
time his grey eyes betrayed something bordering on fear. 'How do you know me?'

    'Every
soul in these parts has heard of you and your brother. But they say Hugh is the
handsome one of the pair.'

    Hugh
laughed. 'You heard right, mistress.'

    'Yet
they say Osborn is the more powerful.'

    'Is
that what they say?' Hugh muttered savagely.

    Gytha
knew that baiting such a man as Hugh was as wise as baiting a wounded boar, but
it is sometimes necessary to goad a beast into charging before you can ensnare
him.

    'Osborn
was born afore you, isn't that the way of it? The elder receives the title and
property, while the younger is tossed his brother's leavings.'

    Fury
blazed in Hugh's face. 'My brother is a fool and treats me like some halfwit
child. He has all the power and wealth and knows nothing of how to use either.
He follows in blind obedience whoever sits on the throne, even if it leads to
ruin. He was forced to borrow a fortune to finance Richard and his own men in
the Holy Wars and he won back not a half of it in spoils. And now John demands
more money for more wars.'

    'But
what can you do?' Gytha asked innocently. 'It's the way of it, the natural
order for the younger to obey the elder, and the subject to obey the king.'

    'John
didn't sit around waiting for his divine right to inherit the throne,' Hugh
said, his eyes glittering with malice. 'If he had, it wouldn't be his royal
backside sprawled across it just now. But I promise you, my brother won't...'
He seemed to realize what he was saying and seized Gytha's wrist, yanking her
towards him. 'What is this to you? What do you want?'

    Gytha
did not betray even by the smallest grimace that he was hurting her. She had
mastered that art as a child. She'd had to, for the offspring of cunning women
are seldom treated kindly by their playmates.

    'It
seems unjust that the fool should lord over the wise,' she said evenly. 'I
could help you get what a man like you deserves.'

    Hugh
snorted, looking down at her stained homespun kirtle. 'And what can a beggar
offer a man such as me — money, soldiers, power? What could you possibly do to
help me?'

    'I've
already saved you from death today,' Gytha said. She slid her hand into her
scrip and pulled out a long thin band of black fur with two leather thongs dangling
from either end. 'This'll guard you against the owl's curse and aid you in
gaining the power you seek.'

    Hugh,
as if he couldn't help himself, stretched out his hand and fingered the fur.
Then, shaking his head to clear his senses, he pushed it roughly away.

    'Don't
you dare take me for a fool. Do you really think I'm going to buy a mangy old
piece of fur from you? This is how you make your living, is it, cheating the
gullible with fake charms? I could have you flogged bloody for this.'

    Gytha
shrugged and pushed the fur back into her scrip. 'How do you think I could
stand so close to a wounded wild boar and come to no hurt?'

    She
turned back to the spring and calmly dipped her bucket back into it.

    There
was a moment's silence, then Hugh asked suspiciously, 'What are you asking for
it? I warn you, don't try to cheat me; I know what these things are worth.'

    Gytha
placed a tight coil of cloth on her head and swung the full pail up, balancing
it on the coil.

    'Nothing.
I ask nothing now. When you have the power you seek, perhaps you will remember
me.'

    Hugh
gave a harsh laugh. 'So when I have my brother's estates, you think I will
reward you handsomely, do you?'