The Gallows Curse (58 page)

    Raffe
was still on all fours in the water gasping for breath when he felt Martin's
legs against his thigh and the cold, sharp prick of a dagger in his back.

    'Reach
slowly and give me your knife,' Martin ordered.

    Raffe
reluctantly did as he was told. In his younger days, he could have disarmed the
man in a trice, but he had a feeling that Martin, for all his weasel build,
knew how to defend himself better than most.

    'Now
you will sit over there on that bench. And if you go near to the door again, I
will kill you.'

    The
man's tone was suddenly cold and hard. There was a calm resolve in it which
left Raffe in little doubt that he meant it.

    They
sat there opposite each other on the benches until daybreak, listening to the
storm rampaging through the streets. Neither spoke again. The voice outside
finally fell silent and the howling of the wind now seemed hollow and empty as
if all life had vanished from the world.

    Towards
dawn, the storm died down and, despite the cold and his wet clothes, Raffe must
have drifted off into some kind of sleep for he woke to the sound of the ladder
creaking as the alewife descended into the room. A pale, milky light filled the
room. The shutter stood open and Martin was peering out into the Row.

    'The
water, it has gone,' he said, turning to the alewife.

    'Aye,
well, it would. Sea goes back to its bed right enough, soon as the wind dies
down.' She heaved the beam from the door and flung it open. Without even
bothering to look out, she picked up a birch besom and began sweeping
vigorously, shooing the black muddy water along the floor towards the open
door.

    'You'll
be off then.' It was more a statement than a question.

    She
reminded Raffe of his own mother. She could never wait for the men to leave the
house each morning. She regarded men and children as something to be shaken out
with the dust, beaten out, if needs be.

    Martin
extended Raffe's knife to him, offering the hilt with his clawed hand. There
was no embarrassment or apology, merely the curt return of it as you might hand
over an object someone had accidentally dropped.

    Raffe
took the knife and at the same time grabbed Martin's arm with his other hand,
pulling the little Frenchman in towards him.

    'You
try that again,' Raffe snarled, 'and you'll find my knife in your ribs instead
of in your hand.'

    'I
hope,' Martin said levelly, 'that it will not be necessary to
try that
again.'

    The
alewife's besom nudged pointedly round their feet, compelling them to move
towards the door and then leap swiftly out of it, as she swept a wave of filthy
water towards them.

    Outside,
the small courtyard was a wreck. Although most of the water had indeed drained
down the sloping Rows back into the sea, puddles still filled the smallest
hollow. The tables and benches in the yard were smashed again into the pieces
of driftwood from which they had been crafted, and lay in a heap against the
far wall covered in wet sand. Barrels were stranded on their sides, bound fast
in bright green seaweed. Dead fish stared up glassy-eyed from the sand or
flopped desperately in the brackish puddles. Starfish, still twitching the tip
of an arm, were strewn among lumps of tar, pieces of rope, broken flagons and a
single rosy apple.

    A
movement drew Raffe's attention and as he watched, a large crab crawled out
sideways from under a tangled piece of net and scuttled for safety towards the
wood pile, holding a piece of something white in its raised claw. Now that the
crab had drawn his attention, Raffe could see that there was something large
and pale buried under the old net. He couldn't make out what it was. mostly
from idle curiosity he bent down and tried to disentangle the net, which had
been so long in the sea it was covered with slime and goose barnacle shells.
But the net was caught fast. As he pulled, something flopped out of the tangle
on to the wet sand. It was the tattered sleeve of a garment, bleached of any
colour, but it was not that which made Raffe drop the net hastily. Poking out
from the end of the sleeve were the bones of a hand.

    It
took a whole breath before Raffe realized he was staring at a human corpse, or
rather the upper half of one. Whoever the poor bastard was, he had been in the
sea for a long time. Most of the face was eaten away and what little flesh
remained clinging to the bones of his hands and chest was feathery and
bone-white. A cluster of black winkles had adhered themselves to one of the rib
bones and purple bladderwrack dangled from the bones of his neck.

    There
was a cry behind him and Raffe turned to see the alewife standing in the
doorway, her birch besom fallen to the ground and both hands pressed across her
mouth. A neighbour passing in the Row heard the cry and rushed over to her.

    'Whatever
is it?' the neighbour cooed soothingly, then, following the wild stare of the
alewife, she gasped. She crossed herself several times before throwing her arms
around the alewife. She tried to pull her inside, but the stricken woman
wouldn't budge.

    'It's
my man, my Peter.'

    The
neighbour pressed her own hand over the alewife's mouth.

    'Hush
now, would you drown your own husband? There's been no word his ship's come to
any harm. He'll be walking in that door bold as you like one of these days. And
you'll be giving him a right mithering afore he's even got his boots off.'

    But
the alewife shook her head. 'I knew he was gone that day the cormorant sat on
the roof of our house from dawn to dusk. They always come to warn that a ship's
foundered. It knew Peter was lost. It knew and came to tell me.'

    The
neighbour tried to pull her inside again. 'They found another corpse this
morning. I've seen that one and that's not your Peter either. Dead always come
back from the sea in their own time. But not your Peter, sweeting. Your Peter's
not dead.'

    The
alewife shook her head. 'I know it's him come back to me. I heard him last
night in the storm begging for me to let him in. Said he was cold, so cold. You
heard him, didn't you, master, you heard my dead husband knocking at the door?'

    She
raised her head and looked straight at Raffe, though her pale eyes had no sight
in them, only an endless streaming tide.

    Apples
— If fruit and flower appear on the same branch it is an omen of death. For the
Celts believe that in Paradise the hills are covered with apple trees that bear
fruit and flowers together.

    When
plucking the fruit, some apples must always be left on the tree for the faerie
folk and the spirits of the grove.

    On
Twelfth Night, all in the village must assemble at dusk bringing with them
their iron pots and tools and choose one apple tree to stand for all. And to
that tree all present must drink its health in cider and pour cider over the
roots and hang bread soaked in cider in the branches. The lowest twigs are
dipped in cider and men must bow down three times and rise staggering as if
they bear a heavy sack of apples on their backs. Then must all the villagers
bang their iron tools together to make as much noise as they can, to awaken the
spirits of the tree, so that they will stir the trees to life and bring a good
harvest.

    Apples
cure melancholia and eating an apple at midnight on All Hallows Eve will guard
against colds for a year. At Samhain each unwed mortal standing around the fire
whirls an apple on a piece of string. Whoever's apple falls first shall be
married within the year, but the one whose apple falls last shall die unwed. If
a maid would know if her lover is true, she should lay apple pips around the
fire; if the pips burst with a pop her lover is faithful, but if they shrivel
and burn silently her lover is deceiving her.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    Lanterns
were being hung all around the brothel garden, though it was not yet noon.
Garlands of late flowers were being sprinkled hourly with cold water from the
well to keep them fresh, but their perfume was fighting a losing battle against
the spices and herbs of the pastries, honeyed fruits, roasting geese, baked
meats and syllabubs, which were being stirred, basted and dressed in the
kitchens. Low tables had been set ready beside the seats and turf banks, and
later, as it grew dark, they would be groaning with food and wine.

    Ma
had hired extra cooks for the day, for the older women were needed to strew
fresh herbs among the rushes, drape cloths artfully over the dark corners to
give an illusion of privacy where there was none, and above all to help the
girls dress. It was the glorious feast of Michaelmas and Ma Margot was
determined not to be outdone in her celebrations. She stood back, hands on
hips, gazing up with satisfaction at the centrepiece she had commissioned for
her garden. It was a wooden life-sized statue of a standing naked woman with
angel wings. One hand was cupped invitingly around her plump painted breast and
the other pressed coyly between her open legs.

    Even
Elena found it impossible not to be caught up in the merriment of the women
around her. She had been busy all morning hanging fruits from the trees and
bushes where any might pluck them. Red cherries hung in bunches from the birch
tree, apricots grew from rose bushes and dozens of rosy apples ripened on the
willow tree in the very centre of the garden, as was only fitting in such a
garden of delights.

    Luce
beamed at her as she passed her with an armful of newly aired clothes, blood-red
for the devils and diaphanous white gowns made to resemble angels' raiment with
tiny wings fashioned from real swans' feathers.

    'You
chosen what you're wearing tonight, Holly?'

    Elena's
stomach lurched. A cloud had passed over the sun.

    'But
I'm not. . . entertaining.'

    Luce
gave her the sort of half-puzzled, half-amused look that adults reserve for
small children who've said something ridiculous.

    'Course
you are. Every woman and boy will be at the festivities, even the older women
join in. You wait, tonight there'll be more men in here than weevils in a sack
of grain. They come from miles around. A few girls get bedded, but mostly it's
just flirting, dancing and getting drunk, like any regular saint's day.

    'Ma
reckons it brings in the new customers, specially the young lads too shy to
come aknocking on the door. Lets them see there's nothing to be afeared of.
They can pick a girl that takes their fancy, have a quick fumble and a few
kisses. It whets their appetite, see, and that's not the only thing it wets, if
you get my drift.' Luce giggled. 'They'll go home with only one thing on their
minds — when can they come back and give it to her properly? She knows her
business, does Ma.'

    'But
Ma said I was only to serve the special customers.'

    'Everyone's
special tonight, besides, like I say, you don't have to do anything except
flirt. You can do that, can't you? And if one of them tries to go a bit too far
and you don't fancy it, just give him a playful slap or tell him you're going to
fetch some wine and then go and talk to someone else. Mind you, you want to be
careful, that can make some of them keener than if you let them have their
grope and get it over with.'

    Seeing
the anxious expression on Elena's face, she added, 'Look, just keep pouring the
wine and cider down them; a few glasses of that and they'll not be able to get
it up, much less find where to put it if they do. You ever watched a drunk try
to get his finger in a latch-hole? Come on, choose your costume soon else the best
ones will be gone.'