The Gallows Curse (55 page)

    Raffe
picked up the torch and threaded his way back up between the beasts' cages.
They too stared at him as the flame passed them, and they watched him as the
darkness ebbed back behind him. Raffe felt their glowing eyes on his spine, but
he did not turn around. As he mounted the steps, the darkness obliterated any
trace of his presence as the tide washes footsteps from the sand.

    But
it wasn't until the very last ghost of light had vanished from the cellar that
the man in the cage finally whispered, 'I do forgive you, Raffaele, because I
know you will never forgive yourself.'

    But
only the great black cat heard him utter a word.

    
Seagulls
— To kill a gull is to murder a man, for gulls that hover restlessly over
the waves are the souls of drowned men. A gull which flies unerringly in a
straight line follows a corpse that drifts beneath the waves. It is the unquiet
spirit of that mortal, which cannot abandon the body that once was its home.

    When
sailors or fishermen die they are transformed into gulls, for the wind and the
waves have captured their souls and they cannot leave the sea. The mortals took
from the sea while they lived and now in their death they must pay for what
they took. It is a devil's bargain.

    If a
gull should strike the casement of a house, a member of that household out at
sea is in mortal peril.

    When
seagulls fly inland, a storm is brewing out at sea. But if they fly out to sea
or rest upon the sand of the shore, the weather is set to be fair.

    Mortals
fear to look a seagull in the eye, for if they do the gull will know them and
remember them. And should that mortal then ever venture to swim in the sea or
fall from a ship into the waves, they will be at the mercy of that gull. It
will peck out their eyes and leave them blinded and helpless to their fate.

    For
like the sea itself, gulls show no mercy to mortals who are foolish enough to
venture into their kingdom.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    Raffe
stepped from the boat on to the island that was Yarmouth. He slid a coin into
the palm of the boatman, who appraised it carefully before hiding it among his
clothes. Shivering in the grey dawn light, he picked his way along the slippery
wooden jetty that jutted out into Breydon Water, where the three great rivers
surged into the salt water of the estuary. The gravel beneath Raffe's feet sparkled
with silver fish scales. They were everywhere, dried and blowing in the wind,
heaping in tiny transparent drifts like snow against the buildings.

    He
made for the Rows stretched out on either side of him, a hundred or so alleys
running parallel to one another down to the open sea. He chose one at random
and edged down it; the passage was so narrow that in places he could have
touched the walls on either side. An open sewer ran down the middle, like the
vein on the back of a shrimp, but the sharp salt breeze funnelling through it
mercifully blew away much of the stench of excrement and rotting food, leaving
only the overpowering smell of fish which clung to the tarred wood of the
buildings like a second skin.

    Many
of the dwellings also served as shops or workshops, their goods spilling out
into the narrow street to make space for the day's work in the tiny rooms.
Dotted between the tiny wooden houses were small courtyards where he glimpsed
women cooking over open fires, weaving creels or pounding linen in their wash
tubs. Their fingers never once paused in their labour, nor did their tongues
cease from chattering to their neighbours, but their sharp eyes missed nothing.
Raffe kept a firm hand on his purse as he was jostled backwards and forwards,
for ports were notorious for the rogues they attracted.

    He
breathed easier when he finally burst from the end of the Row and found himself
on the seashore. There was no less activity here. Everywhere as far as the eye
could see along the sand, men were busy making or repairing boats, or striding
past with baskets of fish, or unloading bales, kegs and boxes on the precarious
wooden jetties that jutted out into the waves. And beyond them in the grey sea,
the great sailing ships rolled at anchor, while tiny shoreboats plied back and
forth among them like shoals of sardines among whales.

    Raffe
tramped half the length of the beach looking for the
Dragon's Breath
,
but it was impossible to pick out one vessel among all the ships out there. He
enquired of a few of the men, but each shook his head, too many boats coming
and going.

    'Toll
house.' One fisherman jerked his head towards the far end of the shore. 'They
keep tallies of all ships, so as they can collect the toll.'

    Raffe
found the wooden building easily enough, but finding someone to speak to was
another matter. He made his way up the outside steps to a square room, crammed
with small tables and crowded with merchants and ships' captains shouting and
waving rolls of parchments heavy with wax seals. Eventually, Raffe managed to
force his way through the throng and by sheer dint of grabbing hold of a man
bodily, managed to get his attention.

    'Can
you tell me if the
Dragon's Breath
has put in here?'

    The
harassed-looking clerk gave a squeak of laughter at the sound of Raffe's
high-pitched voice, but quickly straightened his face and wearily gestured
towards a great stack of parchments on his table, rolling his eyes. Raffe
slipped a silver coin into his palm.

    'Came
in yesterday,' he muttered. 'Dealt with her myself. Wine, spices mostly, some
timber, not good quality. Ivory, five bales of furs, wolf and bear, no sable
and —'

    'Where's
her shoreboat?' Raffe interrupted impatiently. The clerk huffled a little,
clearly insulted that his feat of memory was not being given the admiration it
deserved. His hand slid again over the table, but Raffe was not about to part
with another coin. He'd not forgotten or forgiven that laughter.

    He
leaned across the table, pushing his face into the clerk's. 'I said, where is
it?'

    The
clerk glowered at him, but seeing that Raffe wasn't going to move away, he
gestured back in the direction he'd come. 'Crew'll be in the Silver Treasure,
up Shrieking Row.'

    It
took Raffe a while to find the Row for the names were known only to the local
townsfolk. Finally one old fishwife grudgingly directed him to Shrieking Row
and, once there, Raffe quickly spotted the Silver Treasure by the carved
herring above the door, together with the few twigs of a dried bush that
proclaimed it as an alehouse.

    It
was still early morning, so most men were hard at their labours, but those who
had no pressing business to attend to sat in the small yard to the side of the
house, pouring ale down their throats from blackened leather beakers as if they
hadn't slaked their thirst for a week. From the stench of them, Raffe took them
to be fishermen. He ignored them and peered into the tiny room beside the
courtyard. Three men sat on benches around a narrow table, talking in low
voices and evidently haggling over some deal. The only other furniture in the
room was a rickety ladder leading through a trapdoor to the attic above.

    As
Raffe slid in through the open doorway, blocking out the light, the men looked
up sharply and, just as swiftly, a hand covered some object lying on the table
and swept it from sight, but not before Raffe had glimpsed the wine-red flash
of a ruby.

    'I'm
looking for the crew of the
Dragon's Breath.''

    'You
have business with them?' one of the men asked in a thick Spanish accent.

    'I've
come to take delivery of some cargo.'

    The
man's mouth shrugged, as if to say he would need a good deal more than that
before he revealed anything.

    The
sunken-cheeked alewife came in from the yard, rubbing her hands on a filthy old
scrap of ship's sail tied around her waist to protect her skirts. 'More ale,
masters?'

    All
three heads swivelled in Raffe's direction. He knew what was required of him.

    'Bring
a large flagon and another beaker.'

    'As
you please,' the woman said without the flicker of a smile. Raffe wondered if
any emotion ever crossed her sallow face. All the life and colour in her eyes
seemed to have been bleached out by sun and sea, leaving them with only the
faintest tinge of faded blue, like watered-down milk.

    One
of the men slid his buttocks a few inches down the bench and Raffe took that as
an invitation to join them at the rough table which was blackened with old tar,
having been assembled from bits of old ships' timbers and driftwood.

    After
the alewife had slopped a brimming flagon of ale down between them and drifted
back outside, Raffe poured the ale into the men's beakers and tried again.

    'The
cargo I've to collect is a live one.'

    They
regarded him steadily, their faces tanned almost to the colour of the beakers,
betraying nothing. Raffe wondered if they could even understand him.

    He
delved into his scrip and laid a tin emblem of St Katherine's wheel on the
rough table.

    All
three men regarded it for some time in silence, then the leader picked it up
and returned it to Raffe. 'This cargo, where does it come from?'

    'Spinolarei
in Bruges.' It was what Talbot had told him to say, though Raffe doubted his
visitor had ever set foot on that particular quayside.

    The
sailor nodded.

    'Can
you take me out to him?' Raffe asked, taking this nod to be the only sign of
acknowledgement he was going to get.

    'No,
no!' the sailor said with unexpected vehemence. Then he seemed to realize some
kind of explanation was called for. 'Captain does not want strangers on ship.
But I fetch him. You have money?'

    Raffe
pulled out a leather purse and unfastened the drawstring, tipping the contents
into his hand.

    The
sailor spat contemptuously on to the floor.

    'Not
enough. We have others to pay. Much expense. I need more.'

    Raffe
had expected they would, but none the less he made a show of arguing that was
all he would pay, until finally, seeing that the sailor would not budge, he
reached under his shirt and pulled out the gold ring which dangled from a
leather thong about his neck. Without removing the thong he leaned forward so
that the sailor could examine the intricate gold knot that held in place a
single lustrous pearl beneath. It had been Gerard's ring and his father's
before that. It was on this ring, the hour Gerard died, that Raffe had sworn
his oath that he would not let him carry his sins to the grave.

    On
the day that Lady Anne had drawn it from the hand of her dead son and given it
to him, Raffe had believed that he would never part with it, but now . . . now
he could not bear to keep it. He knew it for what it was: tainted, bloody, like
the withered hand of a thief. And if it would buy Lady Anne's protection and
keep the priest from betraying her, then giving it away would be an act of
cleansing, an absolution for what he done. He could almost convince himself
that the ring had been given into his hands for this very purpose.

    The
sailor peered at the finely wrought design. Then he beckoned, indicating that
Raffe should hand it over.