The Gallows Curse (48 page)

    He
followed her painfully slow progress across the yard. With gracious nods she
acknowledged the hasty bobs and bows of servants as they hurried across the
yard with fruit and herbs for the kitchen or armfuls of linen for the washing
tubs.

    Then
the door of the Great Hall opened and Hilda, Lady Anne's sour-faced old maid,
bustled down the steps, her hands flapping frantically skywards like a
clipped-winged goose. Hilda's bellyache must have seemed like the answer to a
prayer for Anne, who was plainly craving a week or two of peace. She couldn't
travel with a maid who was rushing to the privy several times an hour. So Hilda
had been forced to remain behind, moaning and fretting in her mistress's
chamber. Raffe knew that Hilda was now reciting all the insults, both real and
imagined, she had suffered in her ladyship's absence. But Lady Anne was merely
nodding absently at Hilda's prattling, plainly not listening to a word.

    Raffe
ranged up and down the wooden floor, praying Anne would retire first to her
chamber and not stay to eat in the Hall. He needed to get her alone. After an
agonizing wait, he finally heard Hilda's shrill bleating approaching the
chamber and knew Anne must be with her.

    
'...
and Lord Osborn's manservants show me no respect. Why, the other day that one
with the missing finger had the audacity to tell me,
me,
that I should
fetch . . .'

    The
door opened and both women entered, looking startled to find Raffe waiting for
them.

    Raffe
bowed stiffly. 'Welcome home, m'lady.'

    Anne
grimaced. '
Home
, is that what I should call it? I fear it feels less and
less like my home each time I return.'

    She
limped towards a chair, sinking wearily into it. Her face was grey with fatigue
and even the effort of pulling off her riding gloves seemed to exhaust her.

    Raffe
swiftly poured a goblet of wine and handed it to her.

    'M'lady,
I must speak with you . . . alone,' he added, pointedly staring at Hilda.

    Anne
waved a dismissive hand at him. 'If these are more complaints about Osborn's
retinue, they will have to wait. I am too weary to hear them now. Besides, you
know there is nothing I can do to make Osborn's servants curb their behaviour.
By order of King John, Osborn is the master here now. You'd best try appealing
to him, if you think it will do any good.'

    Raffe
inclined his head. 'I am sorry, m'lady, but this can't wait. It's not a matter
concerning Osborn. In fact it is imperative I speak with you before he
returns.'

    Hilda,
her eyes now aglow with intrigue, crouched down to unlace Anne's boots, and
gazed up eagerly at Raffe, as much as to say, I'm listening.

    You'd
better speak then,' Anne said with heavy resignation.

    Raffe
swiftly knelt down and, elbowing Hilda out of the way, began untying Anne's
laces himself.

    'It
is a delicate matter, m'lady ... if you would be so good as to dismiss your
maid.'

    Hilda
turned on him, spitting like a cat whose tail has been trodden on. 'Her
ladyship has only just returned and I have to help her out of her soiled clothes
and dress her. Are you proposing to do that? Anyway, as she said, she's far too
exhausted to talk to anyone just now. And I won't have you making her ill.
Whatever you have to say will just have to wait. I'm sure it can't be
that
important.'

    Anne
closed her eyes and sighed. 'Hilda, be so good as to tell the kitchens I will
take a warm posset in my chamber. When Osborn returns, tell him I have taken a
chill on the road and will not be joining him in the Great Hall this evening'

    'But
m'lady . . .' Hilda protested.

    'Please,
Hilda, go quickly, for I fear I shall be ill if I don't eat at once.'

    Hilda's
indignation at being excluded was forgotten in her concern for Lady Anne's
health and, convinced that only a warm posset would save her dear mistress from
certain death, she sped from the room without another word.

    Anne
leaned forward and grasped Raffe's shoulder as he knelt before her. 'Make haste
then, Raffaele, if it really is important.'

    Raffe
glanced at the heavy oak door to check it was fastened, then back at Anne.

    'While
you were away, m'lady, a boy came with a message for you. He brought a sign. It
was the pilgrim badge of St Katherine, her wheel.'

    Anne's
eyes opened wide in alarm. 'Did
he ...
did he speak of me?'

    'He
said the message was for you alone, but if Osborn had caught him -'

    'But
he didn't?' Anne asked in alarm. 'The boy is safe?'

    'He
is safe.'

    'I
must get word to tell him I am returned.' Anne half rose from her chair as if
she was going to dash out through the gates.

    Raffe
took a deep breath. He wasn't sure how she was going to respond to having her
private messages intercepted.

    'I
convinced the boy to give me the message.'

    'He
was given strict instructions to tell no one,
no one,
except me,' Anne
blazed. Despite her exhaustion her eyes flashed with the old fire that had once
made even her husband quail. 'And you had no right to intercept a private
message for me. Just because you were my son's friend does not give you leave
to —'

    Raffe's
temper snapped. 'It's as well I did, otherwise that poor priest would still be
shivering out there on the marshes. Did you expect him to starve until you
returned?'

    'A
priest?' Anne was all concern now. 'What's happened to him? Who was he?'

    'The
Bishop of Ely's chaplain. He was hiding out on the marshes in fear of his life.
I arranged his passage to France. He'll be safe ashore by now, or nearly. But
the question is, m'lady, why did he send word to you? What game of madness are
you playing? Don't you realize there are some who would count it treason to aid
those fleeing from the king? Osborn is one of John's most loyal men. If he had
the slightest suspicion of what you are about, he wouldn't hesitate to hand you
over to the king. And I have reason to believe that treason is already
suspected here.'

    Anne
winced. For several minutes she said nothing. Then finally she reached towards
him and clasped one of his hands in both of hers.

    'I am
no traitor, Raffaele, but I must do this, don't you see? There are priests and
innocent people being hunted down by John's men. If I can help to save them,
help God's faithful servants reach safety, then Christ and the Holy Virgin will
surely have mercy on my son's soul. It is my penance for Gerard, do you see?
The only one I can make for him. I failed my child in his life. I must not fail
him in his death.'

    Her
expression was that of an earnest little girl pleading for a parent to make
everything all right. Had she been of lowly birth, Raffe might have taken her
in his arms and hugged her simply to comfort her, so lost and desperate did she
sound, but he could not embrace the Lady Anne.

    'M'lady,'
he said gently, 'before the priest left for France he came here to the manor
and anointed the body of your son for death.'

    Tears
of joy sprang into her eyes and she gripped his fingers hard. 'Tell me it is
the truth. Swear it is so. You would not lie to me about that, would you?'

    'It
is the truth, I swear,' Raffe said solemnly. He tried to meet her gaze
steadily, but he couldn't. He could feel her eyes boring into him, trying to
read his face. Raffe knew he could more easily withstand the torturer's knife
than the pain of her stare. But what in all truth could he tell her?

    The
priest had begun to anoint her son, but would God bless such a sacrament when
it had been forced from his servant by threats? Raffe could not be sure that
extreme unction had even been completed, for the priest could hardly have been
trusted to continue after Raffe had been forced to slam down the lid of the
pit. Even if he hadn't fainted straight away, he was more likely to have cursed
Gerard than blessed him.

    Raffe
silently cursed himself. What had he been thinking of? The priest was right,
what good would it do anointing a corpse so much decayed? And yet, the bones of
the saints still had power to heal, didn't they? Even though the bones were dry
and crumbling to dust, people still kissed them and begged them for a blessing.

    But
Gerard was no saint. No perfume of sanctity wafted from his tomb. A priest
would no doubt tell him that the unnaturally rapid decay was proof that he had
died in mortal sin. And the rotting remains that lay in that box, the putrid
liquid, the foul stench, that was not Gerard; it was not the man he loved and
called friend.

    As if
she could read his thoughts, Anne whispered, 'My son, how did he look? Did he
seem at peace?'

    Raffe
frowned, trying desperately to frame an answer that would not hurt her more. He
nodded without meeting her gaze.

    'Thank
you,' she whispered, but Raffe wasn't sure if she was thanking him for his
reassurance or for offering her the gentle lie.

    'That
girl, Elena, who carries my son's sin, is she safe . . . have you heard news of
her?'

    'I
believe she is safe . . . for now,' Raffe added. He could hardly tell her that
Elena might not remain so once Osborn returned, without revealing where she
was.

    Anne
gave a weary smile. 'I am glad of it. I know that we did what had to be done to
save my son's soul from torment, but still I cannot help feeling guilty that we
deceived an innocent girl. I would not wish to see her come to any harm.'

    Raffe
winced. What would Anne think if she knew that Elena, whom they had both risked
their liberty to protect from Osborn, might after all be a cold-blooded
murderess?

    Shouts
and bellows rose from the courtyard below, followed at once by the clatter of
hooves and barking of dogs. Osborn had returned. Raffe struggled to his feet.

    'I
should not be found talking to you alone. Osborn might suspect us of plotting
against him. But m'lady, promise me this, you must not get involved in giving
any more aid to the king's enemies. It's too dangerous, especially with Osborn
here. Neither your birth nor your sex would spare you if you were charged with
treason. John has not even shown mercy to his own kinsmen, and in truth it
seems that the more noble they are born the more cruelty he devises for them.
Promise me you will do no more.'

    But
Raffe never heard her reply, if indeed she made one, for Osborn was yelling his
name as he ascended the staircase to the Great Hall. In a couple of strides
Raffe had crossed the room and was out of the door. As it closed behind him,
Lady Anne pressed a hand to her mouth and began to weep.

    Elena
had lain awake long into the night. She could not stop thinking about Finch.
She had never before worried about what a customer was doing to any of the boys
or women. On the contrary, ever since she had arrived, her only prayer had
been,
Let them do it to the others, but not to me. Holy Virgin, don't let
them do it to me.
And always there was that great unknotting of her stomach
when she knew the last customer had left and no one would send for her that
night.

    She
was growing accustomed to the pattern of night noises now. First came the sound
of women coaxing the men across the courtyard to the rooms, the odd giggle and
squeal as men already in the mood for fun would pinch a backside or try to
snatch a kiss. Then would follow several hours of muffled laughter, shrieks and
moans from the chambers, giving way again to voices and footsteps recrossing
the yard: the men's words now slurred with drink or fatigue; the girls'
giggling now more forced; the final pinches, slaps and kisses. And then, as
each of the women bade farewell to the last of her customers for the night, the
door of the sleeping chamber would open and close repeatedly as the women and
boys drifted in, yawning, falling asleep almost as soon as they lay down on the
rustling straw pallets. Finally a great safe blanket of darkness would settle
down upon the brothel and the torture of waiting would be ended for another
night. Usually Elena would sigh with relief and curl up into sleep, pausing
only to pray that God would keep her little son and her beloved Athan safe, and
that she would see them again soon.
Tomorrow, let Athan come for me
tomorrow,
she'd whisper fervently.