The Gallows Curse (7 page)

    So
the fragments of precious time she and Athan had been able to spend together
had been snatched in barns and byres or in the dark corners behind the manor.
They clung to each other, drinking in the smell of each other's skins and the
heat of their bodies, alternating fierce kisses with whispered conversations.
But all the time they were constantly on the alert for the sound of approaching
feet and the ribald taunts of the other servants that would follow if they were
discovered alone together.

    When
they did meet, they spoke mostly of the baby. To hear Athan talk you'd think no
man had ever accomplished such a miracle before. It was all Elena could do to
stop him crowing his prowess to everyone in the village.

    'It's
only been four months. Wait just a few more weeks,' Elena had begged him, 'till
we've a bit more put by.'

    The
tiring maid she replaced had been sent packing the moment Lady Anne discovered
she was with child. Elena had no illusions about being kept on once the news
got out and she had no wish to return to the fields in her condition, not in
the winter freeze.

    'Besides,
there's your mam to think of,' Elena had reminded him.

    Athan
had flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. 'She's always wanted a grand-bairn
. . . She'll be happy as a fishmonger's cat when it's born,' he added, though
it sounded more like a desperate prayer than a certain belief.

    'Aye,
she'll want the bairn all right,' Elena said, 'but not with me as its mam.'

    The
whole village knew that Joan regarded any woman under the age of seventy who so
much as looked at her son as a wicked temptress hell-bent on snatching her
boy's affections from her, and any girl who did succeed in ensnaring him would
earn Joan's undying enmity.

    Athan
grimaced. 'I know Mam's tongue is a mite on the sharp side, but she doesn't
mean it, and when she sees you with our bairn in your arms ...' He trailed off
— even he couldn't finish that lie. 'Anyway, who cares what Mam wants?' He
pulled Elena close to him. 'I want you, that's all that matters.'

    Elena
wriggled her thin body closer against his chest and felt the same shiver of
bubbles run up her spine as it always did when he held her. The muscles on his
shoulders and arms were as strong as an ox's from his work in the fields, but
she had never known anything except gentleness in his arms. Some girls might
giggle about his coarse, sandy hair that constantly stuck up like the feathers
of a hedge sparrow after a fight, and some might think that his nose was far
too flat and squat to make him handsome, but Elena saw none of these
imperfections. She wanted nothing more than the bairn she carried to be a
miniature of Athan in every way.

    Athan
had seen the sense in keeping the pregnancy quiet in the end, but even so he'd
come close to blurting it out to the other lads more than once, and as soon as
the twelve days of Christmas were upon them and Athan was doing the rounds of
the village with all the other mummers, swilling down cider, mulled ale and
wassail at every croft, Elena had no doubt that the secret would soon be out.
Besides, how many more months could she keep her swelling belly concealed?

    She
saw again the baby in her dream, the baby that would not keep quiet. Suddenly
she shivered. She felt cold now, bitterly cold.

    Although
it was late afternoon, patches of frost from the night before still rimmed the
corners of the courtyard and the water on the horse trough was beginning to
freeze over again. A young scullion ambled towards the bakehouse, dragging a
basket of turfs behind him. He started violently as a voice roared out from a
doorway.

    'Pick
it up, you lazy little toe rag; don't drag it. If you rip the bottom out of
that basket, I'll flay the skin off your arse to match it.'

    The
terrified boy, trying to bow his head respectfully and at the same time hoist
the basket on to his shoulder, only succeeded in tipping the basket over and
spilling half the turfs on the ground. He cringed as Raffe
lumbered
towards him, but the towering man bent down and collected the turfs, then
hoisted the basket on to the lad's shoulder before sending him off with a
gentle cuff and an amused shake of his head.

    Aware
of a movement behind him, Raffe turned to see Elena, muffled in a heavy
travelling cloak against the cold, picking her way across the slippery cobbles.

    'Going
far, Elena?' He glanced up at the pale sun that was already touching the tops
of the trees. 'It'll be dark soon.'

    Her
cheeks flushed scarlet in the cold air. There was something about that first
look she gave him whenever he called out to her, the innocent upward flash of
her blue eyes, the soft mouth half-opening to reply, her arms thrust forward
like those of a child waiting to be embraced. He longed to keep that moment
frozen for eternity. Then it was gone and the girl was stammering and staring
at the ground as she always did, but it did not displease him. It was how a
modest young girl should behave with a man old enough to be her father.

    'I
have to run an errand.'

    'For
Lady Anne? Surely one of the page boys could . . .'

    He
stopped, seeing the anxious glance she darted up at the casement of the great
chamber. No, Lady Anne had not sent her.

    'You're
going to see your mother.'

    The
girl hesitated, then nodded.

    Raffe
smiled indulgently. For all the comfort the manor could offer them, at heart
these village girls would sooner be hack in their squalid little cottages,
living squashed together like hens in a basket bound for market. They missed
their families and they were always running back to see them whenever they
could sneak away.

    'Wait
there,' he commanded, striding towards the kitchen. He returned carrying a
string threaded with dried apricots, fragrant as rose petals. You can't go to
see your mother empty- handed.'

    
For the second time, she lifted her head and met his eyes,
murmuring her thanks, but there was more than blushing gratitude in her eyes.
What was it? Guilt? Fear?

    She
lowered her head, but he caught and raised her chin, tilting back her face so
that she was forced to look at him. His eyes were hard.

    'You
swear to me, girl, it is your mother you go to see, you are not running to meet
some man?'

    'No
... I swear I'm not . . . not a man.'

    He
held her face for a few moments, then, satisfied, relaxed his grip, his fingers
gliding gently over her throat as he let her go.

    'Don't
stay long. Be sure and be back before dark — that track isn't safe for a young
girl alone. Besides, you must return before Lady Anne starts calling for you.
It doesn't do to anger her.'

    She
nodded, and he watched her hurry through the wicket gate in the great door.
Maybe he should have offered to go with her, just to see her safely there. He
shook his head, reminding himself that she'd been roaming these tracks all her
life. She knew how to take care of herself, more's the pity. He'd have given
anything in this world to see those blue eyes pleading for his protection. He
felt a familiar ache in his throat! He knew it was foolish to think about her
in that way, it could only cause him pain, and yet however firmly he was
determined to shut her out of his thoughts, he had only to see her for his
resolve to vanish like a single drop of water falling into a roaring fire.

    Raffe
was half-way up the stone staircase leading to the Great Hall when he heard the
rumble on the track beyond the walls. It was not the rattle of a trundling
ox-cart or an ambling flock of sheep, it was the sound of armed horsemen riding
swiftly. That always signified trouble. There came the clatter of iron
horseshoes on stone and the whinnying of horses being sharply reined in. Raffe
was already bounding back down the steps when a thunderous hammering sounded at
the huge wooden door. The manor's hounds all began barking and howling together.

    Walter,
the gateman, alerted by the sound of the riders, had opened the small grill set
into the iron-bossed door to enquire of their business, and whatever reply he
received made him race to wrench the great doors open. He scarcely had time to
get them wide enough before five mounted men trotted into the courtyard.
Walter, bellowing for the stable lads, ran forward to take the reins which the
leading rider tossed to him as he swung from the saddle.

    The
horse pawed the ground nervously, rolling its eyes back. Raffe at once saw the
cause of its restlessness. Something was tied behind the beast, being dragged
along the ground. For a moment he thought it was a pair of poles with a bundle
fastened between them, such as might be used to carry a bale of dried fish or
hay. But as the beast shifted sideways, pulling the bundle over the ground,
Raffe saw the smear of scarlet blood on the white frosted cobbles.

    It
was not a bundle of stock-fish. It was a man, tied by his wrists to a long rope
fastened to a horse's tail, or rather, what is left of a man after he has been
dragged face-down over a frozen stony track. What few clothes the poor wretch
had been wearing clung in shreds to his battered limbs. Every inch of visible
skin had been grazed and ripped, till his flesh resembled a slab of fresh raw
meat on a butcher's block.

    Old
Walter stared down at the seemingly lifeless man, his toothless mouth gaping
wide in horror, then he looked helplessly up at Raffe, silently asking what he
should do. Raffe gestured to Walter to back away. Until they knew the men's
business it was prudent not to interfere. Most likely the man was a wolf's
head, an outlaw or a murderer, and had been captured by these men who were
taking his body to a sheriff to claim the bounty. Whoever the man had been, he
was beyond help now.

    The
stranger who had dismounted first strolled towards the steps of the Great Hall,
beating the dust of a long hard ride from his dark blue tabard. He came to a
halt at the front of the steps and stood squarely, gazing up at Raffe. Raffe
descended the last few steps with caution, his gaze, like any trained
soldier's, assessing not the man's face but the position of his hands relative
to the hilt of the sword slung about his waist. But the man's fingers were not
creeping towards his blade, nor to the knife dangling from his belt. Instead,
the stranger was pulling off his gold-trimmed leather gloves, slowly and
casually, like a man standing at his own fireside.

    He
was not as tall as Raffe — few men were — but what he lacked in height, he made
up for in the broadness of his frame, strong square shoulders, and a bull's
neck, thick and corded from years of wielding the massive weight of a sword and
jousting lance. A razor-straight scar pulled at the side of his mouth, carving
a fat white line through the clipped, grizzled beard, grown in a futile effort
to hide it.

    The
memory is slower than the eye, but Raffe felt a convulsion of loathing shudder
through his frame even before his mind could put a name to the face before him.
The man had gained weight since Raffe had last seen him, and lost what little
hair had still clung to his pate, but there could be no forgetting the
expression of mockery in those cold grey eyes, as pale as slug slime against
the sun-ravaged skin.

    'Osborn
of Roxham. My lord.'

    A bow
or, at the very least, an incline of the head should have accompanied these
words — it was only courtesy after all to any visitor of rank - but Raffe's
back had locked rigid.

    'What
brings you to our hall, m'lord? If you've come to call upon my master, I fear
you are too late. Have you not heard —'

    'That
Gerard is dead. Yes, indeed I have. God rest his soul. A useful man in a fight,
so I recall.'

    Raffe's
lack of deference, which might have enraged another man, seemed only to amuse
Osborn. His beard twitched as if he was trying to conceal a smile beneath it.
He turned as two younger men strolled across to join him.

    'Raffaele,
you remember my little brother, Hugh. And Raoul here has newly joined my
company.'

    Raffe's
jaw clenched so hard that it was a miracle his teeth didn't shatter. He barely
glanced at Raoul for his whole attention was fixed on Osborn's brother.

    Hugh
curdy nodded his head at Raffe, somehow managing to invest the gesture with
utter contempt. But Raffe's back remained obstinately rigid.

    Hugh
was slightly built, a hand's length shorter than his brother, and clean-shaven.
Unlike Osborn, he still boasted a full head of crow-black hair. There was no
disputing that women, on the whole, found Hugh handsome. His features were
altogether finer than his brother's, as if he had been painstakingly carved by
a master craftsman. In contrast, Osborn's face appeared to have been roughly
hewn by an incompetent apprentice. A man seeing them apart would not have
noticed the family resemblance, but put them together and there was no
mistaking the fraternal bond. For Hugh seemed to have made a study of his elder
brother's mannerisms and wore them self-consciously like a little boy walking
in hand-me- down shoes.