The Gallows Curse (43 page)

    Gytha
thought no such thing. But she knew only too well that men are suspicious of
anything which is freely given and anyone who gives it. She smiled, then set
the pail down again.

    'Show
me your hand.'

    Hugh
hesitated, then peeled off the glove. Gytha ran her fingers over his palm,
turning the hand this way and that to the bright sunlight, as if she was
examining it carefully. She was not. She knew what lay there would tell her
nothing. She had already decided what she would say to him.

    'You
are a king-maker, Hugh of Roxham. And kingmakers have more power than the
sovereign himself.'

    His
eyes flew wide. You know this . . . you . . . you can see this?' He peered down
at his own hand as if he had never noticed his arm ended in such an appendage
before.

    Gytha
let his hand fall. Then she pulled out the strip of fur again, and held it up
before his greedy eyes.

    You
must wear this as a girdle about your waist, next to your bare skin. It will
guide you. Do whatever it leads you to do. Follow the desires it awakens in
you, for as you satisfy them so your power will increase. You will feel the
hunger, you will feel the strength grow in you, as soon as you put it on.'

    Hugh
was about to speak, but she held up a warning hand.

    'Listen,
your friends are coming this way.'

    He
turned his head towards the sound. She was right; the barking of hounds and
crashing of the horses' hooves were growing louder, coming straight towards
them. He turned to say something to her, but she had vanished. Puzzled, he
looked down and started violently as he realized that he was holding the girdle
of fur.

    Hugh
would wear the girdle of fur about his waist, Gytha was sure of that. He
wouldn't be able to resist the temptation, not if he thought there was the
slightest chance it would give him what he desired. And when he wore it, he
would be forced to satiate the desires it would awaken in him. He would have to
act. He would be driven to it. It was but one small step, but each step leads
to another.
You must raise the skeleton one bone at a time before you can
set it dancing.

    Darkness
stretches time, as wetting stretches a woollen cloth. A man waiting alone under
the stars feels each passing hour drawn out so far he can no longer trust even
the hourglass to mark it faithfully, and Raffe had no hourglass in his hand.

    He
was squatting in the concealment of some trees, gazing out on the twisting
black waters of the river, his ears straining for the splash of a paddle. His
limbs were so stiff, he was beginning to think that if the boat came now, he
would be unable to stir a muscle to meet it.

    His
mind felt more numb than his legs. Although he'd thought of little else all
day, still he could not digest the news that Elena had murdered Raoul. It was
impossible to think that such a fragile, innocent creature could have killed a man.
Yet Talbot said she had as good as admitted it. If she had realized who Raoul
was, if he'd threatened to take her back to Gastmere, she would have been
terrified. If he'd hurt her, forced himself on her, she might have lashed out
in panic, like a cornered animal, not meaning to kill him, an accident. But
Talbot had said the corpse had been found at the inn and she'd been missing all
night. That meant she must have followed him and . . . no, Raffe couldn't bring
himself to think that. He wouldn't allow himself to think that.

    Osborn
would tear the city apart when he discovered Raoul was dead. Raffe's head was
pounding. He couldn't think about this now, he would drive himself mad and he
couldn't afford to lose concentration, not tonight, too much was at stake. He
must focus on the priest. If the priest was caught and started talking, both
Raffe's and Lady Anne's lives would be forfeit. And there was Gerard's body.
This might be his only chance to obtain holy unction for Gerard. Raffe would
not fail his friend.

    No,
before he could even think about Elena, he must deal with the priest first. As
long as Osborn was at court, Elena was still safe where she was.
Blessed
Virgin, let John send Osborn to France, Flanders, anywhere, but just keep him
far away from us.

    A
chill wind blew off the marshes and Raffe drew his cloak tighter about him.
God's bones, why was it always so damn cold at night in England? Even in
midsummer, as soon as night closed in, you felt yourself encased in cold as if you
were entombed in a cave.

    When
he'd been a boy in the mountains of Italy he could lie outside on a summer's
night staring up at the great bright stars and the air was as silky and warm as
a perfumed bath. It had been just such a night when he'd first laid eyes on
Gerard.

    Gerard
had ridden into the farmstead near sunset, with all the bravado of a youth of
nineteen years, scattering chickens to the four winds. Four other knights
clattered into the yard behind him, their horses foaming at the bit. Sweat had
caked the white dust from the road to the men's faces so thickly that one of
Raffe's little sisters had come screaming into the cottage that dead men were
attacking the house.

    All
of the men and boys in the household had grabbed up pitchforks and stout sticks
and run outside to defend their farm to the death if need be, but Gerard had
wearily eased himself from the saddle and walked towards them, his hands
upraised in a gesture of peace. One of the horses had a loose shoe, he told
them, which the beast was likely to lose altogether if they continued to the
next town. So he announced that this household would have the pleasure of their
company for the night.

    Raffe's
mother and aunts had whispered to Raffe's father that the knights must be sent
away. They had not enough food to spare and where would these gentlemen sleep
for they could hardly be asked to bed down in the byres?

    Raffe's
father sadly hushed the scolding women. 'What we don't give them, they'll take
anyway and more besides. Have you not seen their sign?'

    He
gestured to one of the knights who carried a lance from which hung a small
pendant in the shape of a scarlet cross on a white ground. Crusaders! The women
crossed themselves, muttering and spitting on the first two fingers of their
right hands to ward off the evil eye, for if rumours were to be believed, and
they always were believed in those parts, Crusaders were the very demons of
hell made flesh. If they rode into a village they were likely to ride out again
with the cottages in flames behind them, and their scrips bulging with the
looted treasure from the village and its church.

    Raffe's
mother seized Raffe's younger brother. 'You take your sisters and female
cousins through the cellar to the caves. Get word out to warn our neighbours.'

    The
cellars of every home and church on that mountainside led into a series of
labyrinthine caves, once home to their ancestors, but which now served as
storage chambers as well as an escape route for any who might need to disappear
from view. A man might enter one cottage and while his pursuers were keeping
watch on that door, he was slipping out of another house a mile or more away.

    Raffe's
brother knew well what to do. He herded the five unmarried girls down to the
cellars along with his pregnant sister, for her swelling belly would be no
deterrent to a soldier whose blood was hot. The old women would have to pray to
the Blessed Virgin that the Crusaders were not desperate enough to want them,
for they would be needed to cook.

    The
men dragged trestles and benches out into the yard and called to Raffe to bring
wine, while the women heaped onions and olives dressed with olive oil into
wooden bowls to stay the men's hunger and buy them the time to add more
vegetables and beans to their family's own meagre pottage.

    The
Crusaders picked suspiciously at the proffered bowls. Then one scooped up a
handful of olives and angrily threw them at Raffe's head. 'God's arse, what are
these, sheep droppings? Are you trying to poison us?'

    Raffe
wiped the drips of oil from his face. 'They are the fruits of the tree, very
good to eat.'

    The
man stared at him then roared with laughter. 'What are you, a maid or a man? I
do declare I've never heard a girl's voice come from a man's body. Did your
mother think to dress her daughter like her brothers to protect you from our
ravishings?'

    The
others joined in the mocking laughter, for a moment forgetting their impatient
demands for food. Even Raffe's own brothers giggled. Gerard alone didn't laugh,
but met Raffe's dark eyes with his own sapphire-blue ones. His face creased in
a grimace of pain as if he had felt the barb himself.

    'Are
you the maid's mother?' the knight asked. 'Tell me what you have bred here, for
she's the mostly comely maid I've seen yet in this household, and I think I've
a mind to warm my bed with her, if you've nothing better to offer me.'

    Raffe's
mother regarded her son with disgust. 'Do what you like with him, for he's
neither man nor woman, and has brought us nothing but shame.'

    'In
that case, I'll throw him back, mistress. Once when I was a boy, I pulled a
fish from the river that was covered in a furry white wool. "What's
this?" I said, "Mutton you can eat on a fish day, now there's a miracle."
But when I tasted it, it was
fowl
and I was as sick as a drunkard all
night.'

    The
others snorted with laughter, but it only reminded them they were hungry and
they roared again for food, banging with the hilt of their knives on the wooden
table. Even the pottage did not satisfy them and they demanded meat. When
Raffe's father protested they had none, two of the men went to the byre where
the hens were roosting and returned with five of them dangling from their
fists, their necks wrung. Raffe's mother wept as she plucked them.

    The
family spent the night huddled together in the byre while the Crusaders
occupied their beds in the house. Raffe did neither. He could not sleep and
wandered alone among the olive trees under the star-filled sky. What the
Crusader had said had glanced off him like a deflected lance blade leaving only
a flesh wound, nothing more. He'd swallowed such jibes ever since he had
returned to the village. He scarcely separated the pain of each remark any
more, for they merged like bruises. No, it was not the Crusader's laughter that
made him punch his fists over and over again into the trunk of the olive tree.
It was the burning pain of his mother's words that was tearing him apart from
within.

    'Can
you beat a man with as much strength as you can strike that tree?'

    The
voice startled him and he turned around searching for the source, and
eventually saw a man sprawling on the ground in the darkness under an almond
tree.

    'I
can beat any man to pulp,' Raffe boasted through gritted teeth.

    'Then
don't wreck your hands on an enemy you cannot overcome. Ride with us, and try
your strength on men who can be beaten.'

    Raffe's
face burned with anger. He took a step closer. 'Can you fight as well as you
can mock? Get up and face me.'

    'I
have no wish to fight you.' The man held out one open palm towards Raffe. 'I am
Gerard of Gastmere, and I don't mock you, my friend. I'm serious. I have no
squire to ride with me.' He chuckled. 'Or rather I do, but I couldn't prise him
from the arms of a doe-eyed beauty he discovered the first night we landed on
these shores. I suppose I could have forced him to come with me, but I would
have no man ride by my side or drink with me in a tavern who does not want to
be there with his whole heart. So I told him to stay until he wearies of her or
her of him.' He laughed again, an open, honest laugh and in spite of himself,
Raffe felt drawn to this man.

    'Now,
what do you say, lad? Shall you stay here and be the whipping boy of your
family for the rest of your life or do you ride with me and make men respect
you for your courage and your fists? Oh, you'll hear jokes aplenty at your
expense wherever you go. I'm not pretending you won't. Those men riding with me
will torment you till you're ready to crack their skulls open, but if you hit
harder, ride longer, and fight with more courage than any of them, those
knights will come to call you
brother
and run any man through with their
swords if they hear him say one mocking word about you.'

    And
Raffe had needed no other words to persuade him.

    The
two of them had stayed sitting side by side under the vast arch of stars.
Gerard talked of the manor of Gastmere and his own beloved parents. His father
had left him in charge when he rode off to the Holy Wars with King Richard.
Gerard had been desperate to ride with his father, but his father would not
hear of it. It was his duty to stay and look after his mother and the manor.