The Gallows Curse (57 page)

    Raffe
cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to get this Frenchman to Norwich and
off his hands as quickly as possible. He'd arranged to lodge the man in the
north of the city among the tanners, who could be counted upon to keep their
own counsel, for they loathed the sheriff as much as he despised them. And the
knowledge that this part of the city was just about the most unpleasant and
noxious a place as you could lodge any man was, for Raffe, an added bonus. But
he knew there would be no way off the island tonight, not in this wind. And if
he was forced to spend the night with this spy, the isle of Yarmouth was the
best refuge they could hope to find themselves in if they wanted to avoid
John's men.

    Two
years or so back, King John had made Yarmouth a Charter town, not from a sudden
rush of generosity, of course, but as a way of raising more gold for his
coffers, for the townspeople had to pay him fifty-five pounds a year for the
privilege, far more than he could shake out of them in taxes. But it meant they
administered the king's justice now and collected the tolls, so officially
there were none of John's officers here. Raffe was certain, of course, that
John would have men in the town who were paid to send regular reports to him,
for he'd trust no one in Yarmouth, not with all the foreign ships coming to
trade. But if John's men had found out about this Frenchman, they could no more
get a message off the island tonight than Raffe could. So as long as the storm
raged they were safe. After that, all he could do was pray.

    Raffe
arranged the pallets on either side of the banked- down fire and lay down on
one fully clothed. It crackled as he shifted his weight. It was a sailor's
pallet, fashioned from bits of old sailcloth patched together and stuffed with
feathers. The cloth had been repeatedly rubbed with wax and tallow to
waterproof it. Twine was bound around each corner to form handholds, so it
could be used as a float if the ship floundered.

    The
Frenchman, whose face was now a little less pale, swivelled round on his bench
to face Raffe.

    'What
are you doing? Why are we not leaving?'

    You
heard the alewife; no boat will put to sea this night. There is no other way
off the island. We have to stay until morning.'

    The
stranger had turned pale again. 'I cannot stay here. I must get to Norwich. If
your soldiers find me . . .'

    Raffe
propped himself up on his elbow, seething with resentment against this
snivelling little wretch. The slightness of the man's build might have fitted
him to a cloistered life, but he had a restlessness about him that would never
be contained in a monastery. His gaze was constantly flicking round the room,
never meeting your eyes for quite long enough.

    He
looked every inch like one of the scavengers who swarmed around great men,
scrawny, hungry, feral cats waiting their chance to dart in and snatch a piece
of wealth and glory.

    'Be
grateful for the storm,' Raffe said sourly. 'At least you won't be looking over
your shoulder tonight. Neither John's men nor any other will be prowling the
island on a night like this. It'll be a different story when you get to
Norwich. You'll have to sleep with a knife in your hand there, that's if you
dare risk sleeping at all.'

    Raffe
had no intention of making the man feel at ease. If he could add to his
discomfort, he would.

    
'If
we reach Norwich,' the man said. 'The Frenchmen on the
Santa Katarina,
they did not, I think.'

    Raffe's
head jerked up. 'What do you know of that ship?'

    The
Frenchman shrugged. 'That an ambush was waiting for her. It is rumoured there
was a man on board called Faramond. He was well known in France for his
services to Philip. You know of him?' The man kept his voice low, glancing up
at the trapdoor.

    'I
know of nothing save that every passenger was lost,' Raffe said.

    But
Raffe knew the name of Faramond only too well. Elena had repeated it when she
had spoken of the conversation she'd overheard in the manor. It was this
Faramond Hugh had come to meet the night the
Santa Katarina
burned. That
louse Hugh had fought for John once, and been rewarded well for it too, but he
thought nothing of betraying him to the French.

    There
was silence for a moment, then the Frenchman persisted, You are sure Faramond
did not make land?'

    'Tell
me about him,' Raffe said. 'Friend of yours, was he?'

    'I
did not have the pleasure of meeting him myself, though he was known to me. But
if he was betrayed, how am I to know I will not be also? These boatmen you
hired, you trust them? They are loyal to our cause?'

    'I
don't work for your cause!' Raffe blazed. 'I am doing this only because I must.
As for the boatmen, they're loyal to gold. And that's the only loyalty you can
count on in most men these days.'

    'And
what of these men I am sent to meet?' the Frenchman asked quietly.

    'I
told you, I know no one,' Raffe said.

    It
was all he could do to stop himself adding that if he did, they would already
be in irons. But he was supposed to be helping this little piece of French
shit. Lady Anne's life and his own depended on delivering him safely to
Norwich. Raffe had to disguise his loathing for another few hours at least.

    Raffe
glanced over at the little Frenchman. 'I don't even know your name. What would
you have me call you —
spy?
In spite of his resolve Raffe couldn't help
himself loading the word with the disgust he felt.

    The
bench creaked as the Frenchman shifted his weight. 'Martin,' he said without
any sign that he had taken offence at the word.

    Raffe
hesitated. Could he ask this Frenchman directly if he was coming to meet Hugh?
If he admitted to it, then it would be the proof Raffe needed that Hugh really
was the traitor. But if Hugh found out Raffe was asking about him, before Raffe
was able to act on the information, he could easily turn the tables on him. No
one would take the word of a man like Raffe over that of a nobleman. Besides,
Hugh had already been to the brothel once; what if he did remember where he'd
seen Elena before and realized she was the girl who had been listening outside
that room the night he talked of Faramond? One word that he was suspected might
be all it would take to convince Hugh that Elena was a threat to his life and
had to be silenced. Raffe couldn't risk that.

    The
Frenchman's gaze darted once more round the room as if he was trying to
memorize all the doors and windows in case of attack. Finally, ignoring the
empty pallet, he drew his legs up on to the bench and settled himself in the
corner, prepared to sit out the night. He made no attempt to extinguish the oil
lamp, so finally Raffe was forced to rise once more and blow it out, leaving
only the faint ruby-red glow of the damped-down fire to give any shape to the
tiny room.

    Outside
the little alehouse in Yarmouth, the thunder of the sea grew louder. The narrow
Row funnelled the sound from the beach, so that it seemed as if the waves were
breaking against the little house itself. The wind dashed sand and stone
against its wooden walls, shaking the shutters like a child in a tantrum
demanding to be allowed in. Still hunched in the corner of the bench, Martin
didn't stir. Raffe, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself, finally
drifted into a restless sleep.

    He
wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he was jerked awake by something crashing
against the wooden wall of the house. The roar of the wind and waves seemed
even louder than before, but Raffe could have sworn he heard something else
outside, a high-pitched cry, like the shrieking of gulls. But gulls didn't fly
at night.

    The
room was in complete darkness. Even the glow of the fire had vanished. Raffe
reached out his hand to adjust the cloak that covered him, and stifled a cry as
he felt an icy wetness beneath his fingers. He tried to struggle up from the
pallet and promptly slipped sideways with a splash. The floor was awash with
water. It wasn't deep, just two or three inches at the most, but it had
trickled into the fire pit, extinguishing the embers. He could smell the wet,
acrid smoke.

    Raffe
splashed through the freezing water, cursing vehemently as he blundered into
the table and scraped his shins against a bench. He groped along the wall until
he felt the edge of the casement and unfastened the shutter of the tiny square
window. The wind almost tore the thick wood from his hand. At first he couldn't
make sense of what he saw. The ground outside was writhing as if the earth
itself was unravelling. Then something black reared up, crashing into white
foam inches from his face. The Row was deep in water, waves were being driven
up the street, between the houses. The sea was surging in.

    Almost
blinded by the stinging spray, Raffe struggled to close the shutter, but as he
fought with the wind, he became aware of something else. There were figures
moving along the Row in the black water. It was so dark that it was hard to
make out what they were, but he saw a hand pale against the oily water, a face
half turned towards him made blurry by his watering eyes. Fishermen trying to
reach their homes? Men trying to rescue the stranded? Raffe didn't know, but it
was madness to be out there in this storm. How any man could stand against that
surge was beyond his understanding.

    He
finally managed to slam the shutter against the wind. He groped for one of the
benches and swung himself on to it, pulling up his legs as the Frenchman had
done. His soaking feet were numb with cold. The water didn't seem to be rising
too quickly. The heavy tarred door was doing its job well, but water was
seeping in from somewhere, probably up through the floor itself, or else oozing
through cracks between the tarred planks of the walls.

    The
timbers of the house creaked and groaned as the waves surged past it. Raffe
found himself wondering how much it could withstand. If it started to collapse,
it would go very quickly. They'd be crushed by the timbers. Would it be safer
to be outside with those men? Were they fleeing collapsed homes? The walls
trembled as the wind beat itself against them, shrieking with frustration and
fury, as if the demons in hell were hurling themselves at the house.

    Then
he heard it, a fist beating on the thick wooden door. The sound was muffled,
but there was no mistaking someone was knocking.

    'Let
me in. For pity's sake, let me in!'

    The
anguish in the voice was so terrible that Raffe found himself swinging his legs
down before he remembered the alewife's instruction not to open the door to
anyone. He pulled his legs up again.

    The
hammering came again. 'Let me in! Merciful heaven, I'm drowning. I'm drowning!'

    Raffe
tried to ignore it. There were other voices out there, raised above the wind,
all begging and whimpering. He knew they were struggling in that freezing
water, clinging on to anything they could grasp, desperate not to be dragged
back into the raging sea.

    'Let
me in. I've been betrayed. You must let me in. They tried to kill me.'

    Raffe
glanced up at the ceiling. Was the alewife lying awake up there listening to
the cries? Could she hear them above the wind?

    The
voice outside rose higher, shrieking desperately to make itself heard. 'Have
mercy on me. I'm so cold, so very cold. I cannot bear it. For pity's sake,
don't leave me out here in the dark.'

    The
fist hammered frantically against the door. The man outside was sobbing,
screaming. Raffe could stand it no longer. He struggled to his feet, splashing
across the room, and with numb hands tried to trace where the bracing beam was
positioned in its brackets. He began to wriggle it loose, and had almost
succeeded when he felt an ice-cold hand grasp his.

    'No,
no!' Martin shrieked at him. 'What are you doing? You must not open it.'

    Raffe
shrugged the hand off. 'Can't you hear him? A man is in trouble out there. We
can't leave him to die.'

    'Who?
Who would be wandering abroad on such a night? I can hear nothing except the
wind and water. If you open that door, the water will pour in and we will all
drown, maybe even the house will fall.'

    The
voice outside rose again in a shriek for help, the pleas so tormented that
Raffe felt as if a fist was twisting his guts.

    'Can't
you hear that?' Raffe shouted. He pushed Martin aside and began again to
wrestle with the beam.

    'It
is just the storm you can hear,' Martin said. 'Things banging in the wind.'

    Raffe
could not believe that Martin was pretending not to hear the man pleading for
his life outside. That snivelling little wretch was such a coward, he was
willing to let a man drown just inches away from where he stood and do nothing.
Raffe fought with the beam and almost had it clear when a fist hit him so hard
in the diaphragm that he doubled up, gasping and struggling to draw breath. He
sank to his knees in the water, his hands clenching and unclenching, and he
tried desperately to force air into his lungs, then finally, with a burst of
effort that felt like an explosion inside him, he drew breath. He knelt there
in the icy water wheezing painfully as he heard Martin forcing the beam back
into place.