The Gallows Curse (50 page)

    Elena
stared again at the long open cuts on his arms. She had been clawed by her
mother's tabby cat a few times when playing with it as a child and recognized
the parallel marks, though nothing as frightful as the marks on the boy. The
boy's flesh had been ripped open, yet deep though the cuts were, surely a beast
of that size would have ripped his arm off, not merely torn the skin. And his
face was unmarked.

    She
reached out again and stroked the little head once more. 'Finch, please tell me
what he did. You say he didn't let the cat off the chain, then how did it hurt
you?'

    He
raised his head and stared at her, his face was blotched from crying and his
nose was running. His breath came in thick, hiccupping sobs.

    'The
man, he was the cat
. . .
he pulled off his shirt and tied a pelt around
his waist. He was muttering.
You will feel the strength,
over and over.
His eyes went strange . . . like he was staring at something that wasn't there.
Then . . . then he started changing, turning into a beast, 'cept it wasn't a
beast like those ones.' He gestured to the paintings on the walls. 'He was
...
he was a werecat. He could stand like a man, but he wasn't a man, he
was a huge cat with great long claws. And he wasn't chained, he leapt at me. He
had hair on his hands, thick hair, and his eyes were deep and mad like demons'.
He
...
caught me and I couldn't get away. I couldn't get away . . .'
Finch broke off in a shuddering moan of fear.

    Elena,
shaking as much as the boy, drew the child to her and folded him in her arms,
burying his face in her shoulder. He didn't resist, but clung to her, sobbing
and trembling. They sat together like that for a long time, before the boy's
breathing finally calmed. At last he let her wash him, wincing in pain as the
cloth touched the cuts, but making no sound. She rubbed almond oil and honey in
the cuts to soothe them and help them heal, then coaxed him to drink the poppy-
laced wine.

    She
pulled the pallet off the bed and dragged it into the far corner. Then they
both lay down on it, she with her body curled protectively round the boy's, he
holding tight to her arm wrapped across his small chest.

    She
could feel him relaxing as the wine and poppy syrup took hold.

    Just
as she thought he was asleep, he murmured, 'The werecat was asking about you.'

    Elena's
body recoiled as if she had been struck. 'What. . . what did he ask?' she said,
trying to keep the fear from her voice.

    'Your
name,' Finch murmured drowsily. 'I told him it were Holly. I had to tell him,
he made me.' He started to shake again and Elena stroked his head. 'Of course
you had to, it doesn't matter. But did he say anything else? Did he say
anything about me?'

    She
could feel the child drooping in her arms, but she needed him to stay awake and
answer her.

    'Think,
Finch, I know it's hard, but please, it's important, what else did he say about
me?'

    There
was such a long silence that Elena was sure Finch was sleeping, then he
muttered. 'Said next time
...
he was going to take you.'

    
Marigold
— called also the
Jackanapes-on-horseback, Summer's bride
or
Husbandman's dyall
for the flowers follow the sun faithfully. For this
reason maids weave it into their bridal garlands to keep their husbands
constant. And if any maid would make a lover faithful, she should dig up the
earth from his footprint and put it in a pot and therein plant her marigold
seeds.

    The
flowers are eaten in possets and puddings. The flower- head rubbed on a sting
will soothe the pain. The seeds crushed into white wine will cure or ward off
agues and all manner of fevers. Mixed with hog's grease and turpentine, and
rubbed upon the breast, it succours the heart in a fever.

    If a
mortal gazes into the flower at dawn it shall preserve him from contagion all
day, and if he smells the flower, it shall banish the evil humours from him.
Eaten before all other food is taken, it will cure the melancholy spirits and
shall comfort those who sorrow.

    Mortals
regard the marigold as a symbol of cruelty in love, and of pain. And mortals
must have pain, as a fish must have water. For mortals it is not enough that
others should inflict it upon them, but they strive to inflict it on
themselves.

    The
Mandrake
's
Herbal

    'Hugh,
for God's sake stop exciting those brutes,' Osborn snapped irritably. 'Or I'll
have them banished to kennels with the rest of the hounds.' He pulled the glass
ball that magnified the light of the candle closer and bent his head once more
over the rolls of parchment and ledgers scattered on the table before him.

    Hugh
was sprawled in the casement seat of the solar, feeding choice pieces of
roasted meat to his two favourite hounds. They were drooling and yapping
excitedly as he held the juicy morsel high up out of their reach. When he
finally tossed the piece of meat the length of the solar the hounds bounded
after it, skidding on the silk rugs and leaping to catch it before it fell. The
loser came racing back to Hugh, his claws clattering on the wooden floor, and
sat there hopefully gazing up at him again.

    For a
moment Hugh considered defying his brother, but one glance at Osborn's face
told him his brother was in such a foul mood that if crossed, he'd probably
order Hugh's dogs to be butchered and fed to the rest of the pack. Hugh laid
the pewter dish of meat, bread and gravy down on the floor and watched the two
dogs lick it clean.

    He
wandered across to the table and selected a fat mutton chop. God's blood, he
craved meat. He could never seem to get enough of it these days. Thank heaven,
the churches were closed. You were still supposed to abstain from meat on
Fridays and the dozens of Holy Days in the year, but with no priest to wag his
finger, Hugh didn't even make a pretence at obeying this rule. He licked the
grease from his fingers. Time enough to do penance for that when the priests
returned, and when they did, it would take a cathedral full of them a whole
month to hear his confession.

    For a
start there was what he'd done with that boy in the whorehouse. It had
disgusted and excited him at the same time. He had never felt so alive, so
powerful. He had never desired a boy before, and the thought of it revolted
him, even though he ached to repeat it. Even the hunt, which once had excited
him, now seemed dull and insipid, like drinking milk- whey after a good rich
wine. He gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the stirrings in his groin which
the mere memory of that night aroused.

    With
a deliberate effort at concentration, he strolled across to Osborn and flicked
one of the scrolls of parchment. 'This from King John? I saw the messenger
arrive. Is it about Raoul's murder?'

    His
brother shook his head irritably. 'John wants money, a loan, he says, for the
building and equipping of a warship. He's asking all his loyal lords to finance
the building of new ships to increase the fleet. But where am I to get this
kind of money? Half the merchants from Europe have ceased coming to England to
buy wool, because of the Interdict. The Church tells them it's forbidden for
good Christians to trade with those who are excommunicated; besides, they don't
want to get on the wrong side of Philip. The prices of wool have dropped so
much I can hardly give it away.'

    'Then
refuse John the loan,' Hugh said casually, spearing another chop.

    Osborn
slammed his fist down on to the table. 'How can I refuse the king after he
granted me this manor?' He glowered at Hugh. 'You always were a complete
numbskull in these matters. It's as well I was born the elder. You'd have lost
all our father's lands and property within the year if you'd had charge of
them, and probably your head too.' He raked his fingers through his beard.
'I'll just have to borrow from the Jews. No doubt they'll demand extortionate
interest.'

    'But
the Jews are the king's property,' Hugh reminded him. 'He decides what interest
they should charge. In fact I doubt you could lift any juicy piecrust anywhere
in this land without finding John's thumb in it somewhere.'

    Osborn
eyes narrowed. 'Guard your tongue, little brother. If the king got to hear
those words, you would lose it.'

    Hugh
waved the chop-bone at the room. 'There's no one to hear us and I am not such a
numbskull,
brother, as to speak it outside. Anyway, what surety is the king
offering for this loan?'

    'He
promises to grant me, and the others who support him in this, wealthy estates
taken from the rebel barons, when he defeats Philip,' Osborn said morosely.

    
'If
he defeats Philip! You hoped for such things before when you hunted down
the rebels for John after he captured the castle of Montauban, and all you
managed to persuade John to give you for your trouble was this piss-poor manor.
You should have demanded more. Our father would have done.'

    Osborn
threw back his chair and leapt up. Without warning, he struck Hugh hard across
his cheek with the back of his hand.

    Hugh
reeled back, grunting in pain, and his hand reached for his dagger before he
even realized what he was doing. It was only with supreme effort that he
stopped himself drawing it. He turned away, breathing hard and seething with
fury.

    After
a moment he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. 'Forgive me, little brother. I am
weary. I should not. . .'

    You
should not have done what, brother? Hugh thought savagely. Hit me? Treated me
like a child and fool for years? Kept me penniless like a base-born villein?

    Hugh
painted a smile on his face and turned back to Osborn with a respectful incline
of his head. 'I'm the one who should ask forgiveness of you, brother. I spoke
foolishly. As you say, I am a numbskull.'

    It
took every grain of self-control he could muster to utter those words in
anything approaching a civil tone. But Osborn did not appear to hear the
crackle of ice in his voice and merely nodded as if he thought all was mended
between them.

    Fearful
of letting his rage explode, Hugh rapidly searched for a diversion. 'I'm
surprised that John made no mention of Raoul.'

    Osborn
sank down again at the table, without looking at him. 'I have not told him
yet.' He held up a hand as if to forestall a protest. 'I thought it wisest not
to do so until Raoul's killer has been apprehended. John sent Raoul here to
look for a traitor, and His Majesty might take it ill if one of his men came to
harm while under my protection. Besides, John has too many cares just now to
burden him with another. Time enough to tell him once I've got Raoul's killer
by the heels. I'll go to Norwich myself and kick that feckless sheriff into
action.'

    Hugh
felt as if God and all the saints of heaven were beaming down on him. The band
of fur around his waist seemed to tighten and throb against his skin, even as
he felt that shudder of pleasure rising between his legs.

    'No,
brother, no, you have enough to concern you over this matter of raising the
money for John. Let me go to Norwich. As you say, I am useless when it comes to
tending to estate matters. But I can be of service to you in Norwich. Let me
go.' He watched Osborn's face eagerly, willing him to agree.

    Osborn
hesitated. 'There is something you should know. Raoul was in Norwich not on
John's service, but mine. I'd heard that my runaway villein had taken refuge
there. I sent Raoul to see if he could find her. This traitor, whoever he is,
may have seized the opportunity to follow him and killed him for fear of
discovery, or else someone killed him to stop him finding the girl. But either
way, little brother, I caution you to take great care.'