The Gallows Curse (77 page)

    The
narrow gully sloped gently downwards so that with only a small effort Raffe
found himself sliding backwards towards the river. His fingers and toes were
numb with cold, his body convulsed with shivering. He couldn't see where he was
going, it was still too dark, but just another yard or so and he would be safe
in the water.

    He
stifled a cry as his head connected with something hard and he felt himself
being yanked upright by the back of his cloak into a sitting position.

    'Thinking
of leaving us, were you, traitor?'

    A
soldier was standing behind him in the gully. Raffe tried to grab his legs and
pull them from under him, but before he could, hands reached down from the
ground above to grasp his arms. Two men hauled Raffe upwards, dragging him over
the edge of the gully and sending him sprawling, face down, across the wiry
marsh grass. Raffe looked up. Six or seven men stared down at him.

    The
soldiers parted as a small, slight figure pushed through them. And Raffe found
himself gazing up into the face of Martin, who grinned as broadly as if he was
greeting an old friend:

    'You
look like that corpse we saw in Yarmouth. Or you soon will, Master Raffaele. I
understand they have a very special death planned for you. High treason, that
is the charge, I believe. Osborn himself is waiting to question you. He insists
on doing it personally and from what he tells me he is much looking forward to
it. There may unfortunately be a short delay before he can attend to you. So
you'll have to amuse yourself listening to the screams of your fellow traitors
in the castle dungeons. Osborn has unfortunately been wounded, did you know
that? But thanks be to God, the blow glanced off a rib, so the physicians say
he will recover well. He should be fit enough to attend to you personally in a
week or so, though I fear he will still be in some pain when he questions you,
which I am told by those who know him does not improve his temper.'

    Raffe
did not need to be told what Osborn would do. He had a healthy fear of the pain
of torture, as much as any normal man, but it was not that which filled him
with horror now. It was knowing that Osborn would be enjoying every twist of
his muscles, would be studying his face for every spasm of agony, and watching
him die with that same cold amusement with which he had watched Athan hanged.
Above all, Raffe knew that Osborn's laughter would be the last sound on earth
he would ever hear and it would pursue him into hell. Raffe had not gone
through all this to become a prisoner of that man now.

    Martin
turned to the soldiers. 'Bring him and make sure he does not escape you. But
treat him gently. Lord Osborn wants him unharmed and in a good state to talk.'

    Raffe
forced himself to go limp. He offered no resistance while two of the men pulled
him to his knees, as though he had already accepted defeat. Then, just as his
feet were firmly planted on the ground, he swung his great fist at the face of
the nearest man, catching hold of the man's sword arm with his other hand. The
soldier reeled backwards, crashing into the fellow beside him. It was only a
momentary stagger, but it was enough to allow Raffe to grab his sword. Raffe
held it out before him, sweeping the blade in a wide circle towards the other
men.

    Swift
as a weasel, Martin slipped behind the soldiers. 'Disarm him, you fools, but
don't kill him. Osborn wants him alive.'

    It
had been some time since Raffe had wielded a sword and this was not a good one.
The balance was wrong and it was shorter than any he was accustomed to, but his
long arms made up for that. He whirled around and lunged at one of the men in
the circle. His opponent, taken off guard, stumbled backwards, but quickly
recovered himself.

    Raffe
fought fast and furiously. He was used to fighting at close quarters and though
it was still barely light, the flash of the rising sun on the whirling blades
around him gave him warning enough to fend them off. He cut this way and that,
beating them back with a manic fury born of desperation. One man reeled away
with blood pouring from a slash on his face, another dropped his blade with a
scream as Raffe's sword slashed down across his arm.

    Raffe
pushed forward until there was a gap in the circle of men just large enough for
him to see the river glinting with shimmering gold lights as the sun caught it.
With a roar he leapt through the circle towards it. He was within three strides
of the water when he felt a white-hot pain slash into his back. He fell to his
knees and tried to crawl forward, but his arms gave way beneath him and he
crashed to the ground. He almost screamed in agony as hands seized him and
roughly turned him over.

    His
back felt hot. For a moment or two he was grateful for the sudden comforting
warmth, though he couldn't think what it was, until he realized it was his own
blood pooling beneath him.

    You
fuck-wits, I told you not to hurt him. Have you any
idea
what you've done? Do you know what Osborn will do to you when he finds out?'

    Martin
was kneeling beside him, slapping his face, trying to make him open his eyes.
But he was suddenly very tired now. All he wanted to do was sleep. It was
becoming harder to breathe, as if someone was holding a wet cloth to his face.
He couldn't feel his legs. He knew he was dying and he was glad of it. It is
not granted to many men to choose the hour of their own death. Osborn would not
get the satisfaction of watching him die.

    Raffe
gave a cry of agony and pressed his hands to his chest. He felt as if someone
had put his fist inside his chest and was clenching his heart. His eyes
squeezed shut as he fought with all his strength to fight down the pain. There
was something else, something he must do. He must stay awake long enough. There
was only one way he could make atonement now, only one way to protect those he
had wronged. It was the living who mattered, not the dead. The living should
not suffer for those who are beyond life.

    He
opened his eyes and looked up into Martin's face. 'My confession. I want... to
confess,' he whispered.

    Martin
leaned closer, his face alive with excitement. 'That's it, you must confess for
the sake of your soul. You are dying and must tell me the truth now. It's the
last chance to save yourself from the fires of eternal damnation.'

    'No
time . . .'

    'Give
me names,' Martin urged. 'Just names, that's all you need to say. I will do the
rest. Speak.'

    
'Confiteor
Deo omnipotenti
... I confess ... before you and Almighty God, that I. . .'

    Raffe
stared up into the sky. It was growing darker. That wasn't right. It was
morning, surely he had seen the dawn? He remembered the red glow like blood, a
long, thin trail of blood running across the whole world.

    Martin
was shaking him. 'What did you do? What do you confess? Tell me!'

    'I
confess that I murdered . . . Raoul and Hugh. But you tell John this ... it is
Osborn of Roxham who is the traitor. He is working . . . for Philip of France
... it was Osborn that. .. your French spy was to meet. As a dying man I swear
by the Cross of the Crusaders that it is the truth. Tell John that... and tell
Osborn on the scaffold . . . that he knows his brother's murderer. Tell him I
did it for Gerard, for the monk and for a Saracen's child. Tell Osborn that as
you execute him... let it be the last thing he hears . . . for I swear with my
dying breath that I killed his brother, Hugh ... I swear it on my immortal
soul. . .'

    
Bread
— Mortals make a cross in the dough before it is set to rise, to redeem it from
Satan and guard it from the evil eye. No loaf must be cut with a knife while
another is baking in the oven, else the new loaf will spoil. If a loaf is
placed upside down on a table, a ship will founder or the breadwinner of the
household will fall sick. Likewise, it must always be cut from only one end,
else the devil will fly over the house.

    Whooping
cough may be cured if a piece of bread is wrapped and buried in the earth for
three days then eaten. A loaf baked on Good Friday and kept in the home will
guard that house from fire and vermin, and all who dwell in it from evil
spirits. A Good Friday loaf or hot cross bun, if dried and crumbled into water,
will cure all fluxes of the bowel.

    To
take, unbidden, the last piece of bread from a platter will bring misfortune,
but to eat the last slice if it is offered will bring wealth or a spouse to the
one who receives it.

    At
the harvest of the grain, the spirit of the corn resides in the last sheaf cut.
From this sheaf a loaf is baked in the form of a human figure or sheaf of wheat
and borne to the harvest-home feast with great reverence. All who have taken
part in the harvest will together break and eat of this loaf which is the body
of the corn spirit, and so ensure that the spirit of the field is not lost and
will return to bring a good harvest in the years that follow. For the spirits
must always find a home in which to reside and if they are not welcomed in,
they will enter at will and possess any creature they choose.

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    The
harsh honking of a flock of wild geese woke Elena with a start. She couldn't
remember where she was at first. Wisps of the straw she was lying on were
sticking to her face and arms. Her back felt unpleasantly damp and cold. She
was lying on a narrow wooden hayloft looking down into the tiny room of a
cottage. Stacked about her were fishing and fowling nets, wooden tools and
sacks of beans, nuts and bulrush roots, with just a small space left on the
boards where the children could sleep.

    A
cold light, pale as whey, was flowing in through the open door below her, and
the smell of peat smoke and boiled fish told her that someone was already
outside, cooking. She turned her head to see a little tow-headed boy of about
three years asleep beside her, his thumb in his mouth, his pale eyelids
trembling as he dreamed. Elena's back did feel very wet. She touched the damp
place with her fingers and smelled them. The little boy had evidently peed on
her in the night. But Elena only smiled fondly and eased herself gently from
the straw, trying not to wake the child.

    She
pulled her kirtle on over her wet shift and, still plucking the straw from her
hair, clambered down the few rungs of the wooden ladder and wandered outside.
The river glittered in the pale morning sun, grumbling to itself like an
elderly maid as it combed the dark green water weeds beneath into a fan of
rippling hair.

    A
woman squatted on the ground, slicing through the fat black body of an eel and
throwing the pieces into the simmering pot. She nodded at Elena, but didn't
smile. Her two older children, who sat huddled together on the ground, regarded
Elena with wide green eyes, but, just like their mother, their faces registered
no expression. It was a chill morning. The blue smoke of the peat fire rose
vertically into the primrose light and a white mist hovered over the bend in
the river.

    The
woman handed Elena a steaming wooden bowl of eel meat and a piece of flat ravel
bread, baked over the embers of the fire. Both were offered without comment.
Finding nothing else to sit on, Elena knelt on the damp ground.

    The
woman and her children ate in silence. They drank the liquid from their bowls
and used their fingers to scoop the lumps of eel and herbs into their mouths.
Elena smiled as she saw the little girl surreptitiously slide the bitter stewed
herbs on to the grass and only pop the pieces of eel into her mouth. The boy in
contrast shovelled everything into his mouth with a ravenous appetite. Elena
wondered how her own son fed. Was his belly filled this morning or was he
crying with hunger?