The Gallows Curse (67 page)

    
Cabbage
— will strengthen the sight of those whose eyes are weak and ease the pain of
those with gout. The juice of the cabbage in wine will aid those bitten by
vipers. If the leaves are boiled in honey and eaten, they may relieve a
hoarseness of the throat and help those who are falling into a consumption.

    Mortals
who would know their future must pull up the whole plant with their left hand
upon the midnight hour. The quantity of soil that clings to the roots shall be
the measure of their future wealth.

    When
the cabbage is harvested, a cross must be cut in the stalk that remains in the
ground, so that it shall be protected from the Devil and bring forth new
shoots. Likewise, a cross must be cut in the stalk of the plant before it is
cooked, so that evil spirits may not hide among the folds of the leaves and so
be swallowed by the eater and take possession of him.

    For
it is the nature of evil to hide where mortals least think to find it.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    Another
roar and a crash echoed out of the Great Hall and the servants in the courtyard
glanced uneasily at one another. They moved hurriedly about their tasks, hardly
daring to speak to one another, except for hastily whispered news of the latest
outburst of Osborn's temper. Few dared to linger in the courtyard, still less
in the Great Hall, unless they were forced to. Scullions and pages drew lots
with straws to select the unfortunate lad who would next answer a summons for
wine or meat, for those that did thought themselves lucky if they escaped with
only the dish tipped over their heads or the flagon cracked across their
skulls. Even Osborn's own men found excuses to be attending to their horses or
falcons.

    Osborn
had been in a seething rage ever since he had learned of Hugh's murder the
evening before. But if he had shed any tears over his brother's death, no one
had seen them.

    A
messenger from Norwich had arrived just as the sun was setting. He had ridden
swiftly ahead of the trundling ox-wagon which conveyed the lead coffin, to
prepare Osborn and the manor for the sad burden they were shortly to receive.
The messenger, though young, was well accustomed to being the bearer of
unwelcome tidings and had delivered the news in what he thought to be suitably
gravid and sympathetic tones. In his experience, after initial disbelief,
whilst the women of a household would shriek, sob or even swoon, a grieving
brother or father would usually bow his head in sorrow, or mutter a prayer, or
just sit in shock and silence.

    But
Osborn did none of these things. Instead he sprang up and with a great bellow
of rage had thrown over the heavy oak table, so that it crashed down from the
dais. Only the messenger's adroit leap backwards had prevented the table edge
from severing his toes. Osborn strode towards him and, grabbing the front of
his tunic, demanded how, when and above all by
whom
this outrage had
been committed. The quaking messenger could answer the first two questions
easily enough, but as to the third, as he explained, no one had any idea,
though the sheriff was even now looking for the culprit and would not rest
until. . . But Osborn did not wait to find out when the sheriff would rest. He
flung the messenger aside and, calling for his horse, rode out to meet the
ox-wagon as it rumbled its slow, melancholy pace towards the manor.

    The
messenger started to run after Osborn. He had been given firm instructions to
ask for the cost of transporting the body and the coffin, for lead coffins did
not come cheap, and the sheriff was in no mind to dip into his own coffers. But
even the hapless messenger could see that Osborn's wrath was more to be feared
than the sheriffs. In the end Raffe took pity on the young man and paid him
from the manor chests, though he did not add in the hefty bribe that the
sheriff had hoped for to sweeten the long hours he would have to spend trying
to find the killer.

    The
coffin, still sealed, now lay in the undercroft of the manor. In due course,
when frost hardened the roads, it would be transported back to Hugh's
birthplace in the south of England, but the tracks were sodden and muddy after
the storm, and would become more so as autumn rolled on. This was no time to be
transporting such a heavy load, and in any case Osborn had only one concern
just now, to lay hands on Hugh's murderer and personally see to it that the
wretch suffered all the agonies of hell, before he was dispatched there for
eternity.

    Osborn
intended to set out for Norwich as soon as he could make ready. He had made it
abundantly plain he had no faith in the sheriff being able to find a rabbit in
a warren, never mind a murderer. So he would take charge of the search himself.

    Grooms
had been dispatched to check that the horses' shoes were firm and their feet
sound. Scullions and maids were stuffing parcels of food and wine into the
horse-packs, fumbling clumsily with the straps in their haste to have the tasks
done and be safely out of sight before Osborn appeared. They glanced anxiously
at Raffe as he ascended the steps of the Great Hall, but he waved them back to
work, trying to reassure them. He knew there would be a collective sigh of
relief from the whole manor as soon as Osborn's retinue clattered out of sight,
but it would be nothing compared to the relief he'd feel.

    He
took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door, a young maid almost butting
him in the stomach as she raced from the Great Hall, tears filling her eyes and
with dark red finger marks on her pale cheek. A pewter beaker came flying
towards the girl's head, which Raffe deftly caught before it could hit her. One
of Osborn's men, evidently the hurler of the beaker, scowled at Raffe. Osborn
was venting his rage on his retinue and they were taking their humiliation out
on the servants. The servants were yelling at the underservants and so it would
continue down the chain to the lowliest little scullion whose only relief for
his misery would be to find some tree to kick. Raffe suddenly thought again of
that night when Gerard had found him punching the olive tree, and smiled.

    'Think
it funny, do you?' Osborn's man said. 'You'll not be laughing for long. He
wants you.' The man jerked his thumb towards the private chambers.

    Raffe
tried to keep his face expressionless as he pushed through the curtain that
hung over the entrance to the room. Osborn was pacing up and down, while around
him small travelling chests lay open and his manservant scurried between them,
packing linen, Osborn's favourite goblet and even packets of herbs and flasks
of cordials. Osborn plainly trusted no one and was even taking his own cook
with him as well as his pander, for fear of poison.

    Osborn
wheeled round to face Raffe.

    'You
took your time. Now listen well, Master Raffaele, you will see to it that my
brother's coffin has a constant guard on it day and night. I've heard of
thieves making off with the lead coffins that lie above ground to sell for
their value, and dumping the bodies in ditches.'

    'Only
those coffins left to lie outside the sealed church doors because of the
Interdict,' Raffe said. 'No one would dare to —'

    'They
dared to murder him, a nobleman,' Osborn thundered. 'Why would they not dare to
desecrate his body? You will do as I say. And if I see so much as a mark on it
when I return, that shows someone has tried to tamper with it, I'll personally
mark your hide so deep you'll carry it to your own grave, do you understand?'

    'It
will be guarded,' Raffe said grimly.

    'If I
have not returned before the next Quarter Day, you will see to the collecting
of the rents and dues and you will bring them to me in Norwich as soon as you
have them. There will be people to pay. Some men require a good deal of
persuasion to loosen their tongues and unfortunately sometimes that must take
the form of gold. Besides, I know that sheriff of theirs. Even with my boot up
his arse, he'll not bother to do his duty thoroughly unless his palm is well
greased.'

    Thinking
of the messenger's comments the night before, Raffe couldn't help thinking it
would take a barrel load of grease to cover the sheriff's greedy palm.

    'How
long will you be away, m'lord?' Raffe asked the question with uncustomary
deference for he knew the whole manor would ask him just as soon as Osborn had
gone. They would all be praying it would be weeks or even months, though
miracles like that were seldom granted.

    'I'll
be away just as long as it takes me to find my brother's killer, so stay alert,
Master Raffaele, because I shall be riding back here when you least expect it.'

    He
grasped Raffe's shoulder, his cold grey eyes boring deep into Raffe's own. 'If
I discover even the flimsiest shred of proof that someone close to this manor
had a hand in Hugh's death, that man will find himself begging and screaming
for death long,
long
before it is granted to him.'

    Raffe
met his gaze calmly. 'Your brother had a talent for making enemies. You'll not
lack for suspects in Norwich. Any man who ever had the misfortune to exchange a
word with Hugh will have had good reason to have killed him.'

    Raffe
heard the horrified gasp from Osborn's manservant, but he did not brace himself
for a blow. Hugh would have lashed out instantly and viciously, but Osborn's
revenge was always planned and something he liked to savour.

    His
eyes as he stared into Raffe's own were as hard as granite pebbles.

    'My
brother was watching you, that much he confided in me. There was something
about you he didn't trust, something he was on the point of proving, and when I
find out what it was, I give you my oath, Master Raffaele, you will wish your
head was even now rotting on a Saracen's spike, rather than that you had lived
to fall foul of me.'

    'Perhaps,'
Raffe said levelly, 'you should have been watching your brother.'

    'What
do you mean by that?' Osborn demanded.

    Raffe
hesitated. 'I simply meant, m'lord, that had your brother been better guarded,
he might not have been murdered.'

    Raffe
was certain in his own mind that Hugh was a traitor. But it would be impossible
to prove without revealing what Elena had overheard, and even if he tried,
Osborn would never listen to him, not in the mood he was in now. His brother's
treachery was something Osborn would have to discover for himself.

    The
two men continued to stare at each other, neither willing to break his gaze
first, but the manservant was unable to bear the tension. He hurried forward to
assure his lord the travelling chests were now prepared. And Osborn at once
snapped into action, bellowing for his retinue to prepare to leave at once,
whether or not they were ready.

    Raffe
stood at the gate, watching the horses thunder out of sight around the bend,
their hocks already splattered with mud.

    Walter,
the old gatekeeper, watched the last hoof disappear, then spat copiously on the
track.

    'They
ride like that in this mud and one of them beasts is going to break its leg and
its rider's neck.'

    'Let's
hope it's Lord Osborn's neck,' a boy's voice muttered behind Raffe, but he did
not turn round to admonish the lad. He was certain every servant in the manor
was making the same wish, as he certainly was.

    He
clapped Walter on the back. 'What say you to some mulled ale? I think we can
all breathe easy now, at least for a week, but you'd best tether one of the
hounds near Hugh's coffin, just to stop anyone going near it. It's not that I
think anyone might come in here to steal the lead, but I'm not so certain they
wouldn't take the body. A corpse with a heart as poisonous as that would be a
fair prize to those who dabble in the black arts.'

    'Aye,
if I knew the man who'd killed the bastard, I'd embrace him and name him my own
son, that I would. But God have mercy on the man who did drive that dagger in,
whoever he was, for if Osborn finds the poor devil, it's certain he'll show him
none.'

    Walter
shivered and, with a last look down the track just to reassure himself Osborn
was really gone, stomped off towards the kitchens in search of his ale.

    Raffe
was about to follow him when he heard a long, low whistle. He spun round and
saw the unmistakable outline of Talbot's bowed legs next to a clump of birch on
the far side of the track.

    He
hurried across and, without pausing in his stride, drew Talbot behind the trees
and towards the edge of the deep ditch. Only a few dead leaves still clung to
the branches, which hardly afforded them cover, but at least they were out of
earshot.