The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  'Patience, Madron, you'll just have to wait for it to brew, isn't that what you always taught me?'

  Her mother spat angrily into the rushes. Gytha smiled and slowly stirred the pot, letting the rich aroma of the woodcock waft across to the hungry old woman. She had her own ways of tormenting her Madron.

  Three Days before the Full Moon,

  December 1210

  Salt — When a man eats of another man's salt, their souls are bound together and they are sworn to protect one another. When an oath is sworn on salt, if it proves false, the oath- taker will surely die. A prayer made near salt will be answered.

  If mortals move to another dwelling they must leave behind a little bread and salt else bad luck will follow them and ruin come to the new occupants. If salt is spilled, it must not be gathered up, but the spiller must throw a pinch of it three times over his shoulder. But he should beware lest he throw it between himself and another, for salt which falls between two mortals is a sign that they will quarrel bitterly.

  Salt is sprinkled in the cradle of an unbaptized infant to keep it safe from the faerie folk, and is placed on the body of the newly dead to guard the body from being possessed by a demon and the departing soul from being snatched by the Devil before the rites of burial.

  Salt and water stirred three times and sprinkled over an object that has brought ill-luck will lift the curse from it, but if a mortal would curse land or a tree or beast that is fertile and render it barren, he should throw salt upon it as he utters the spell.

  Salt can bless and salt can curse, for salt is salt until it falls into the hands of mortals.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  A Whisper

  'Just give me the name of one of the men!' Hugh demanded. 'Then I promise I will end this.'

  'Can't. . . master. I swear on my life. . . I've told you everything. She's called . . . Santa Katarina, that's all I know,' the man sobbed.

  'Which isn't enough,' Hugh snapped. 'I'm beginning to think you've invented this tale, just to save your miserable little neck.'

  Hugh shivered in the icy wind cutting across the marshes. He was beginning to get bored with this. The light was rapidly fading from the sky and his belly was growling with hunger.

  The man struggled to push himself up on to his hands and knees. 'It's true, every word of it. . . the French ship . . . everything.'

  He screamed as Hugh's groom brought his whip down again on his bruised and bloodied back. Hugh's horse reared and snorted in alarm, pulling against the rein which tethered him to a nearby tree. Hugh took a few paces towards it, murmuring softy. He stroked the beast's neck gently, soothing it until it had calmed. The smell of fresh blood always makes young horses nervous until they become battle-hardened.

  He and Osborn were enjoying the hospitality of a neighbouring landowner for a few days. That is to say, Osborn was enjoying it, but Hugh was bored witless by the unctuous little toad and his even duller wife who were so anxious to welcome their new neighbours they insisted on showing them every single hog and byre on their wretched little estate.

  Hugh, mercifully escaping for a few hours with the excuse of exercising his new horse, had seen a man with a sack over his shoulder running along the edge of the marshes. More for sport than from any real suspicion of wrongdoing, Hugh had ridden the fellow down. But the sack, once opened, revealed two pewter platters. Not the kind of thing any marsh- man could afford to own. Hugh had threatened to drag him before a sheriff, but the man had started pleading for mercy, saying that he had information that was worth far more than the platters. Hugh had allowed him to talk, but the wretch had stuttered to a halt just when his story was getting interesting.

  Hugh surveyed him with disgust. The man was lying on the sodden ground, panting like a dog. His nose and mouth were already so swollen that he was gasping to breathe. The groom glanced over at Hugh, plainly uncertain if he should continue.

  Hugh gestured impatiently. 'Don't just stand there, you idiot, make him talk.'

  The groom brought the whip down again, this time using the sturdy wooden handle. Again and again he struck the man about the head. Hugh, half distracted by what he'd heard, wasn't really paying attention to what the groom was doing, until he realized that the marsh-man had stopped screaming, stopped groaning, in fact, stopped doing anything at all.

  Hugh kicked the body, but it didn't stir.

  He rounded on the groom. 'You clumsy cod-wit, have you no idea how to question a man? One thing's for certain, I'll get no more from him now.'

  'Maybe,' the groom said nervously, 'he knew no more to tell.'

  Hugh scowled. The question was — did he believe what little the man had told him? If this marsh-man was speaking the truth, then it might prove to be the very opportunity Hugh had been seeking. But if it was the truth, he would be involving himself in a deadly game. He needed to discover more.

  He beckoned to the groom, but when he approached, Hugh seized him by his throat and pushed him up against the tree.

  'I will deal with the matter myself, and if you utter one word of what this man said to anyone, anyone at all, I shall personally rip your tongue out and feed it to my hounds. Do you understand?'

  The groom nodded vigorously as best he could with Hugh's hand about his neck. Hugh dropped him.

  The groom swallowed hard, tenderly massaging his throat. 'And what. . . what should I do with him, my lord?'

  Hugh unloosed his horse's reins and swung himself into the saddle. 'Roll the body into one of the bog pools, of course, what the devil do you think they were created for?'

  Day of the Full Moon,

  December 1210

  Chicory — Mortals who carry this plant believe it will render them invisible to enemies and to evil spirits, and thieves swear that if it is held against a lock it will open any door or strongbox.

  But chiefly it is used as an aphrodisiac to arouse a reluctant lover. Though do not think that it can be plucked from the ground by mortal hand. It must be dug up with a stag's horn or a disc of gold, such as resembles the warmth and fertility of the sun. To work its powers, the plant must be gathered on the days of St Peter and St James, but mortals must take heed for if the one who cuts the chicory should utter a single word as he digs he will die upon the instant.

  A man must learn to keep silent if he desires life.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  White Milk

  The candles lighting the solar guttered in the draught, sending long shadows gliding across the deserted room. Elena hurried down the length of the solar to the door of Lady Anne's bedchamber at the far end. She was praying that Athan had received her message. They wouldn't have long; she just hoped that it would be long enough.

  First, though, she had to retrieve the mandrake from where she had hidden it beneath the linen in her little chest. This might be her only chance to use it. And she had to do it this evening. She had to finish the dream. She couldn't face another night of hearing that infant's wails in her dream, that awful sick sensation of dread which made her heart race and her stomach turn sour. A fear that was nameless and faceless was a thousand times worse than the demons and beasts that leered from the tower of the church. If she could just see the end of her nightmare, then maybe it would cease to torment her.

  She grasped the iron ring on the door of the bedchamber and was just about to turn it, when she froze. Voices were coming from behind the wooden partition that separated the Lady Anne's bedchamber from the solar. Frustration and something bordering on panic welled up in her. She'd been so sure the little room would be empty.

  Lady Anne and Hilda were both occupied in the Great Hall. Lord Osborn had returned from visiting a neighbouring estate, together with his brother and a dozen men. Not that Elena had yet seen any of them. As soon as the messenger had arrived to warn the manor to make preparations for his immediate arrival, Lady Anne had sent all the young girls to the kitchens or on errands to the village to keep them out of the way of Osborn's men. And it was just as well, judg
ing by the shouts and gales of laughter coming from the hall below. The men were in such a boisterous mood that their voices almost drowned out the clatter of dishes, swords and spurs and even the barking of their favourite hounds which fought and snarled around their masters' feet. The men were settling themselves in for a night of eating and hard drinking by the roaring fire.

  So who could be in the bedchamber at this time? She knew Hilda would never leave her mistress alone in the Great Hall. She'd be flapping around Lady Anne like a mother partridge protecting its brood, despite her own fear of the raucous men. In any case it was a man's voice she could hear behind the partition. Servants trying to avoid waiting on Osborn and his men? Elena pressed her ear to the wood.

  'And this Faramond will be aboard?'

  'He will,' a second man replied. 'He's best, so they say. None more experienced nor skilful in the service of France. He can take a city with his tongue, even before a single sword's been raised.'

  Elena didn't recognize either of the voices, but she knew they weren't servants. No one from Gastmere spoke like that.

  'And you're sure of the place they will land?'

  'Land, no,' the second voice said. 'But it will be an easy matter to arrange for you to meet with Faramond. Once the Santa Katarina sails up the channel from the North Sea and around the island of Yarmouth into Breydon Water there're a hundred little inlets cutting in across the marsh, all of them hidden from the view of a man standing even a few feet away. The marsh-dwellers know them like the faces of their own children. As soon as those Frenchmen are off the ship and in the coracles, they'll be able to get clean away. They can go to ground anywhere.

  'No,' he continued, 'the only danger for our friends lies in sailing through the channel between Yarmouth and Gorleston, but come spring those waters will be thick with ships bringing in cargoes and men too. What's one among so many? If you want to hide a bone, put it in a charnel house.'

  'Why not land at Yarmouth? Now that it is a free port, King John no longer has a garrison there.'

  'But he does have spies in the town. More so now that it's no longer under his rule. He wouldn't trust the Virgin Mary herself if she came from Yarmouth.' He gave a snort of mirthless laughter. 'The ship will moor in the town eventually, pay its tolls and let the Yarmouth men examine its trade cargo, but it will have discharged its real cargo long before it sails into harbour.'

  'We can trust this informant, you're sure?' the first voice asked anxiously.

  'He fought in the Holy Land with us. He's more than a brother to me and we believe in the same cause, with good reason, as you well know. He hates the whole Devil's brood of the Angevins even more than you do and won't rest till he sees that bastard John's murderous head on a pike. Besides, you cannot know a man for so many years without becoming privy to a few secrets that he would not want spread abroad. It never hurts to remind one's friends of that from time to time, don't you find?'

  'Are you threatening me? Because if you are I swear I'll cut your treacherous tongue from your mouth!' There was a loud crash as if a chair had been violently kicked over on to the wooden floor. The noise startled Elena and she jerked back, hitting her elbow against the iron ring on the door, and she cried out in pain before she could stop herself.

  At once she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying towards the door. She turned and fled across the candlelit solar.

  She had just reached the tapestry that concealed the entrance when she heard the door of the bedchamber flung open.

  A voice behind her bellowed, "Wait! You there, what's your name? Come here!'

  But Elena did not stop or even turn her head to see who was calling her. She slipped behind the tapestry and stumbled as fast as she could down the spiral staircase as if the Devil himself was flying after her.

  She fled across the darkened courtyard towards the kitchens, narrowly avoiding knocking a laden dish out of a scullion's arms, though she did not escape his curses. The kitchens resembled a wasps' nest that had been kicked open. Men and women were screaming and bellowing at one another as they ran back and forth, basting, stirring, pouring and slicing. Sweat poured down the faces of the boys turning the spits on the great fires on which whole carcasses of fowls and beasts roasted, their skins bubbling and spitting as the juices ran from them.

  Elena wriggled her way to the back and pretended to busy herself arranging lampreys in a pie dish, while darting anxious glances towards the open door, but whoever it was who had called out to her from the chamber had either given up the chase or lost her before she reached the kitchens, for no one but the servants hurried in or out.

  Though she was still fearful of encountering the man in the courtyard, Elena dared hide no longer. If Athan couldn't find her, he might leave believing that she couldn't get away after all, and she had to meet him tonight. Something . . . something in her head with the persistence of a wailing infant was demanding it must be tonight.

  She scurried across towards the barn, pulling back hastily into the shadows as she glimpsed a man caught momentarily in the light from one of the blazing torches on the wall of the courtyard. But he was hurrying out towards the manor gate and did not so much as glance in her direction. He looked like a friar from his robes, the sort that wandered from village to village begging. Elena wondered fleetingly how much alms a friar could have hoped to have begged from Osborn's drunken men. He'd probably been thrown out with a kick instead of a coin. As soon as he was occupied with old Walter, the gatekeeper, she made for the barn and slipped inside.

  'Elena?'

  Athan lifted the lantern high, throwing an oily yellow light about the barn as Elena hurried towards him.

  'Hold it low, Athan, do you want the whole manor to see? You shouldn't have brought a light.'

  'Don't care if they do, we're doing nowt wrong,' Athan muttered, but he lowered the lantern all the same.

  Elena slipped her hand into his and led him towards some wool bales in the furthest corner. The field hands had deliberately stacked the bales proud of the wall to create a space behind it, large enough for a man to bed a maid in secret, two at once if he could find any lasses willing, and there were always a few who enjoyed such games. But there were no sounds of giggling coming from behind the wool bales now, all the servants were occupied with dinner in the Great Hall, either eating, cooking or serving it, so Elena prayed that she and Athan would be left undisturbed for an hour at least.

  Safe behind the bales, Elena slipped her arms around Athan's waist and held her mouth up to be kissed. He bent and kissed her with such a hungry passion, it was as if they had not laid eyes on each other for years. Elena felt the same shiver of pleasure race through her body as the very first time they had kissed over a year ago at the Michaelmas Fair.

  Athan gently fingered one of the flame-red curls of I Plena's hair. 'Mam knows about the bairn.'

  Elena stiffened.

  Athan added hastily, 'But you needn't fret, she knows to say nowt in case the rumour gets back to the manor.'

  'Is she . . . pleased?'

  He gave her a wan smile. 'Course she is, course. Why wouldn't she be? Proud as a May Queen. It's her grandson in there.' He cupped his broad hand gently over Elena's belly. 'Or granddaughter,' he added quickly.

  Elena wanted to believe him, but Athan was a hopeless liar. It was one of the many things she loved about him.

  Outside in the yard there was a crash and clattering followed by a stream of oaths. One of the scullions had likely dropped one of the great platters down the stone steps. She hoped for the sake of his skin it was empty. But it reminded Elena they didn't have much rime.

  She snuggled closer into Athan's chest, revelling in the earthy tang of his skin. If she could get back up to the chamber straight away after they'd made love, she could feed the mandrake there. In many ways that might turn out better than if she succeeded in bringing it to the barn. Athan might have seen the bundle and become curious. She didn't want to tell him about the dream, not yet, not until she knew what it me
ant.

  Athan held her face and kissed her tenderly again for such a long time it seemed as if his lips refused to be parted from hers, but his hands did not slide down to her buttocks to pull her closer, nor did he try to stroke her breasts as he had done when they were first stepping out together. It was as if he was suddenly afraid to touch her body.

  Elena faltered. This wasn't going at all as she had planned. She'd thought this would be easy. When they were courting, she was the one who'd pushed him away when his hands wandered too freely. And even when they finally made love, she had only to respond to his caresses. She'd never had to arouse him before and she realized she had little idea how go about it. Athan had been her first and her only lover.

  She pressed her body tighter against him, conscious of the swelling bump of her belly pushing between them. As if he felt it too, he drew away from her. A shiver of doubt made her tremble.