The Gallows Curse (5 page)

    She
drained the beaker and rose, dropping a half-bob. 'Thank you, m'lady.'

    It
was as if Lady Anne had been holding her breath, for she answered with a great
sigh and sank into a chair, gripping the sides so tightly that the knuckles on
her hands turned white.

    "You've
done well . . . but I am weary. This insufferable heat ... go home now and come
back tomorrow at Prime. My maid, Hilda, will show you your duties.'

    Master
Raffaele nodded and led Elena out of the chamber as far as the set of steps on
the outside of the building leading from the hall down into the courtyard. She
looked up at him anxiously, trying to judge if her sudden dismissal had been a
sign of displeasure.

    You
did well,' he echoed. But as she turned to go, he grasped her shoulder, pulling
her back round to face him again.

    'If
ever you have need of me . . .' He hesitated. 'I am . . . fond of you, Elena. I
would protect you as my own sister or daughter, should you ever find yourself
in need of such care.'

    There
was such a hungry expression in his eyes that Elena felt a shiver of fear.
Young girls sense when an older man desires them, far more readily than if it
is a boy of their own age. And where love is not returned, which it seldom is,
such girls cruelly mock the poor man. But it was not in Elena's nature to mock,
and so she did the only other thing she could, she convinced herself it was not
so. She lowered her gaze, wriggling out from under his hand even as she
stammered her thanks. She did not look back as she ran lightly down the stone
steps, even though she was sure he was watching her.

    As
soon as she was out of sight, fear turned to anger at herself for being afraid.
How dare they test her to see if her table manners were good enough to wait on
them? What did they think, that the villagers troughed their food from the
floor like a pack of hounds? As if she'd ever have need of Master Raffaele as
father or brother! She'd managed for years without either and besides, if she
needed help, she had Athan now.

    Athan!
She must find him and tell him the news. Her indignation rapidly turned to excitement
and she hugged herself in delight. She had been chosen to serve her ladyship.
That would surely mean money and gifts; Lady Anne had already mentioned a new
kirtle. She'd heard that maids were given all kinds of things by their wealthy
mistresses — dainty food, gloves, trinkets and even purses of money when they
married. Of course Athan would wed her without any of that; what village lad
expected a dowry from his bride? But if it was offered, just think what they
could buy with it. What they had done last night already seemed blessed by God.
Any thoughts of unease vanished as she raced like a small child across the
courtyard and down the track, bubbling over with the joy and excitement of the
day.

    Raffe
stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Elena as she ran out through the
gate, lifting her skirts high like a little girl. Her long thick plaits,
bouncing against her tiny waist, flamed red-gold in the bright sunlight. She
was by no means the most beautiful woman Raffe had ever seen. Most men would
have thought her gawky and homely compared to the raven-haired succubi who had
been the ruin of many a godly knight in the Holy Land, but Elena possessed
something those women had never had, not even as children. It was an air of
pure innocence, an expression of guilelessness in those periwinkle-blue eyes
that seemed to swear on her immortal soul that she was incapable of betraying
any man.

    Raffe
set a goblet of hot milky posset, well laced with strong wine, on the small
table next to Lady Anne. She was slumped sideways in the high-backed chair, her
eyes closed, her forehead resting in her hand, but Raffe knew she wasn't
sleeping. She would not permit herself to sleep tonight.

    'You
should drink this, m'lady.'

    Steam
rose from the goblet, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of cloves,
cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg. Raffe's stomach growled rebelliously, but food
would have to wait.

    He
crossed to the chest from which Elena had eaten and carefully removed the
flagon, trencher and beaker that still lay on top. Then he pulled off the white
cloth covering the chest, steeling himself before he opened it. The heavy lid
swung back with a creak.

    Raffe
stood looking down at the corpse hunched inside the chest. The body lay curled
up on its side, the arms wrapped across its chest. A putrid stench was already
rising from it, though Sir Gerard was barely a day dead. Fortunately it was not
yet strong enough to penetrate the thick oak wood, but in this heat they could
not delay burying him much longer. As if to confirm this, the flies buzzing
among the rafters descended like a flock of miniature doves. Crawling over the
face of the corpse, they refused this time to be deterred by the mere flapping
of a hand.

    'You
must make the announcement of your son's death tonight, m'lady, in the hall.
Tell them we have already washed and prepared the body, so that no one examines
it.'

    'No!'
Anne wailed, 'I need more time.'

    Raffe
turned away, unable to bear the anguish on her face, but he could not afford to
spare her feelings.

    'He
must be buried tomorrow, m'lady. Leave it another day and the body will start
to bloat in the heat. I'll give orders that they're to work through the night
to prepare the coffin and the grave.'

    Anne
raised her head. 'Where?' she demanded savagely. 'Where am I to bury my son?
With the church locked, he cannot be laid in the family vault. What would you
have me do, bury him under the midden?'

    'The
prison chamber beneath the undercroft. I went to examine it this morning.'

    'The
undercroft!' Anne blazed angrily. You think I want my son dumped among the
stinking bundles of dried fish and barrels of pickled pork?'

    Raffe
slammed his great fist against the wall. 'God's teeth, woman, do you think that
I. . .' he bellowed, but with a great effort managed to stop himself before he
finished his utterance.

    The
wars had taught him that the men thrown into the hastily dug mass graves were
the lucky ones. At least their humiliation was over. The severed heads staring
sightless from the ramparts and the rotting corpses of mutilated men dangling
from the walls soon taught you that even the meanest burial affords a dignity
that is beyond price.

    Raffe
took a deep breath and tried to speak gently. 'That part of the prison chamber
shall be walled up after the coffin is placed there. I'll do it myself. Then
Sir Gerard may lay undisturbed until the Interdict is lifted and the coffin can
be interred in the church.'

    Lady
Anne's head sank again into her hand.

    'Why
. . . why was he taken now?' she whispered.

    Raffe
turned his face away. Hadn't he screamed that very question into the hell-black
heavens all night long, and received no more answer than she had?

    'All
those months and years when my son was away fighting in the Holy Lands and in
Aquitaine I was driven to my knees in prayer a dozen times a day for him. I
felt guilty if I laughed or even slept, imagining that Gerard was lying
mortally wounded on a battlefield, or being tortured by the barbarous Saracens,
or even drowning in the roaring seas, his ship torn apart on the savage rocks
of the French coast. And when you and Gerard finally came home, and Gerard
swore to me on his knees that he would go to war no more, you cannot imagine
the joy and relief I felt. My son would live to see me buried, as it should be.

    'What
did I do wrong? Did I not show enough gratitude for his safe return? Did I
neglect my prayers? Is God punishing me for my presumptuousness in daring to
believe that my son was safe? Why has He taken him now?'

    Raffe
struggled to force words from his own tightened throat. 'At least you know how
your son died and where he will be buried. Many mothers in England would give
all they have to know that much.'

    'Do
you really think I need to be reminded of that?' Anne said bitterly. 'My own
husband lies rotting in a mass grave in Acre. I know I should be grateful to
have my son's corpse to grieve over. But it is no comfort. My husband died
under the Cross in the Holy Wars, with all his sins absolved, but Gerard...'

    Raffe
turned back to the open chest. He pulled at the corpse, bending low so that he
could heave the body over his broad shoulder, then staggered across the room
and deposited him on the wooden table, carefully easing the head down on to the
boards so that it did not thump on the wood. He crossed the arms over the body,
and slid a large crucifix between the waxen fingers. Now that rigor had worn
off, the face looked at peace, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from
him. Their plan had surely worked; here was proof of it.

    It
had been more than a week since Sir Gerard had fallen ill of a fever. For days
he had been racked with vomiting and the flux. He'd writhed in agony from the
violent pains in his gut and his belly was so distended that it seemed the skin
would burst open like rotten fruit if anyone so much as touched it. It was as
if a demon had crawled inside him and was tearing his entrails apart from
within.

    For
days Lady Anne had sat by his bedside, not daring to move, for the physician
had warned her that her son could be taken from her at any hour. The worst of
it was Gerard had known he was dying. Each time he was roused from his delirium
he had grasped his mother's arm, begging for them to bring a priest. 'I must
have . . . absolution ... I must. . . confess.'

    Raffe
had turned away, slamming his fist against the stone wall in frustration. How
far off was the nearest priest — four days, a week? Men had been sent in every
direction to find one. But the servants who returned all told the same story.
Church after church was boarded up and locked, the priests banished or fled
before they could be seized by the king's men.

    God's
teeth, why hadn't Gerard died on the battlefield along with the thousands of
others whose bones were even now bleaching under the burning desert sun?
Priests were not needed there. The Pope had sworn that anyone who died fighting
under the Holy Cross would die with all his sins absolved. Yet even so, every
man in that army had prayed each dawn that they would still be alive to see the
sunset over

    Acre,
and at every sunset they begged their God that they might live to see another
dawn. Be careful what you pray for, Gerard had once told him. It was a lesson
they both should have heeded.

    Gerard
had vomited, blood pouring from his mouth, the twisting muscles of his stomach
screaming in protest. He lay back on the bed, shivering and sweating with the
effort. 'There's ... no priest coming, is there?' he gasped, gritting his teeth
as the pain welled up again. 'Raffe . . . you can't let me die in my sin. We
swore to each other . . .'

    Anne
clasped her son's hand to her face, her tears wetting his skin. 'My son,
there's no man more honourable than you. No man who has ever made his mother
more proud of her son. You've lived a pure life, fought in the Holy Wars. Those
few venial sins you may have committed since must surely be outweighed by that.
I promise you that I will pray day and night for your soul, and when the
Interdict is lifted, which it must be soon, then we will have Masses said for
—'

    Gerard
seized her wrist. 'Prayers will not be enough . . . I have to confess ... we
did a terrible thing... Raffe knows ... I cannot die with it upon me. I shall
be carried straight to hell.' His eyes rolled back in his head as if he no
longer had control over any part of his body.

    Raffe
lumbered across to his friend's side. Clumsily he knelt beside him, seizing his
other hand.

    'Open
your eyes, man! You can't sleep yet.' He shook Gerard, trying to force him to
stay in this world, as you would pummel a drunk to keep him awake. Raffe wanted
to scream at him —
If you die there will be only me to carry it. You can't
leave me alone with this.
But although the words were written in his eyes,
he dared not utter them aloud.

    It
was like holding on to the hand of a man who was hanging over the side of a
cliff. Raffe could feel the life slipping away, as if the dangling man's
fingers were sliding inexorably out of his grasp. This was his dearest friend,
the man who had rescued him from the abject shame and misery of
a
mutilated life, the master who had raised him to companion and steward. They
had protected each other in battle so often that they had long since forgotten
who was in whose debt. And that night, a night that for ever haunted both of
them, had bound them together with chains forged from a horror that was
stronger than any affinity of family blood.