What could he tell her? Should he tell her the truth, that being declared a free woman would by itself solve little? Unless she could also prove her innocence she might never be able to leave. He crossed over to her and stood looking down at her. He gently caressed her cheek with his thumb as a father might soothe his little daughter.
'You must accept that you must stay here for a year at least. But much may change in a year; who knows, this cunning woman of yours might turn up again with the child. But,' he added firmly, 'you will have to work for your keep.'
'I do work,' she told him. 'I clean and tidy and do all that is asked.'
Raffe sat down in the chair opposite her again, fixing her with a grim expression. 'That is not what Ma means by work. It merely pays for the food you eat, not for the risks she is running in keeping you here. She needs you to start earning money.'
He stared down at his hands, unwilling to look into her wide blue eyes. Once, in the Holy Land, he had witnessed the Saracens tie a man by his arms and legs to four rearing Arab stallions. The stallions, simultaneously struck by their riders, had galloped off in opposite directions, ripping the shrieking victim to pieces between them. He felt as if the same was happening to his own being. Part of him wanted to make her suffer for betraying him with Athan; for refusing to trust him; for that look of revulsion he could see in her eyes whenever she looked at him. He wanted to make her the whore she was, dirty, humiliated, to have men look at her and despise her, as she looked at him.
Yet the thought of another man pawing her, laying his sweaty body against that smooth flesh, was more than he could bear. Even now he wanted more than anything to protect her, to have her come running to him for love and comfort. He wanted to keep her pure and untouched, as he could pretend to himself she was, now that Athan was dead. He and Elena were bound together by bonds stronger than any wedding vow — why couldn't she feel that?
He swallowed and tried to keep his voice level and businesslike. You will not be expected to serve the ordinary customers, that much I have made plain to Ma Margot. But when she gets a special customer from time to time, you will attend to him.'
'Attend to? What. . . does that mean? What will I have to do?' Her voice trembled.
'Ma Margot and the gentleman himself no doubt will tell you what is required each time. All men are different in their appetites.'
'Appetites,' she repeated dully.
Was she deliberately trying to be stupid? Did he have to spell it out for her?
'Don't play the innocent with me, girl,' Raffe snapped. You've borne a child, so you can't pretend that you don't know what goes on between a man and a woman. Or are you now claiming it was a virgin birth and then your bastard miraculously ascended into heaven? Is that why we can't find him?'
Before Raffe had time to realize what she intended, Elena slapped him hard across his face, her cheeks blazing scarlet in fury. Raffe gaped at her, stunned. It was the second time that afternoon he had allowed a woman to take him unawares and assault him. Had he lost all his soldier's instincts? Ma Margot he knew of old and should have expected her to defend herself, but no villein had ever dared to strike him before, especially not a woman.
It took him a moment or two to realize Elena was shouting at him, her eyes flashing and her fists clenched in fury. 'I may not be freeborn, but I am not a whore. I will not sleep with any man except Athan. He is my husband in all but name. He knows I didn't murder his son and he will wait for me until I can prove it to the world. I won't betray him. I won't!'
Raffe caught hold of her wrist and dragged her towards him; grabbing her face in his other hand, he tilted it up towards him, lowering his mouth close to hers. She screwed up her eyes and tried to wriggle away as if she thought he was trying to kiss her.
Raffe tightened his grip and spoke with exaggerated slowness, to force her to listen. 'You will do exactly what Ma Margot asks of you, all that she asks of you. And you will do it with a smile on your pretty little face, because if she can't get her money one way, she'll get it another. You refuse and she'll hand you straight to Osborn and claim that bounty. Osborn will hang you and this time there will be no escape. And I know Osborn of old — before he hangs you, he will make you suffer in ways you cannot begin to imagine. The fact that you are Athan's betrothed won't stop him using you in any way he pleases, in fact that knowledge will only add to his pleasure.'
'But Athan,' she moaned faintly.
'Athan is already in the arms of another! Trust me — Athan is not waiting for you!'
He felt her go limp in his hands and lowered her down on to the bench. She sat there, her body trembling, but she did not cry as he expected and he grudgingly admired her for that.
'My cousin Isabel? Athan's with Isabel, isn't he?' she said, staring up at him.
Raffe didn't answer. She seemed to take that as confirmation. Was silence a lie? Perhaps it was the worst kind of lie, Raffe thought, and by God he was guilty of enough silences in his lifetime.
Elena stared at a fly that was dashing itself aimlessly against the wall. 'Isabel won't last long with Joan around; she's always called her a slut. She'll soon send her packing'
'You're not listening to me,' Raffe yelled at her. 'He will not be there waiting for you. Stop playing the little fool and make up your mind to do as you are told, because make no mistake, you have to do this, and it'll go a lot easier with you if you do it willingly.'
Elena was shaking so violently, Raffe thought her body would break into pieces. He knelt down in front of her, gently taking her cold hands in his.
'Look, all Ma wants is for you to be pleasant to a rich merchant or ship's captain once in a while. Is that really so hard? Can it be worse than being raped or tortured by that bastard Osborn? At least you'll be alive. And believe me, nothing on this earth is worth as much as life itself, not your virtue, not your pride, not even your love for Athan. If you die unshriven, strangling to death on the end of a rope, there will be nothing except endless misery and torment spread out before you for all eternity. Whatever happens, you must cling fast to life with both hands, no matter what it costs you. You must stay alive for me, Elena. I need you to live.'
The Night of the Full Moon,
August 1211
Roses — If mortals dream of a red rose, they shall be granted the love their hearts yearn for, but if they should dream of a white rose, it is a bad omen, for they will know only sorrow in love. If a maid would bring back a faithless lover, let her pluck three roses on Midsummer's Eve. The first she must bury beneath a yew tree, the second in a new grave and the third place under her head when she sleeps. After the third night she shall burn the rose to ashes. Thus her lover will be tormented by thoughts of her and will know no rest until he has returned to her.
If a maid desires to find her true love she must pluck a rosebud on Midsummer's Day and lay it in some secret place till Christmas Day, then if it still be bright and fragrant, she must wear it and her true lover will pluck it from her, but if it has shrivelled and turned brown, she must beware her life, for it is an evil omen.
White roses signify silence, for Cupid gave a sacred rose to Harpocrates, the god of silence, so that he would not reveal the amorous secrets of Venus, Cupid's mother. Thus noblemen carve or paint a rose on the ceiling above the table where they dine, or hang a white rose from the beams where they meet to show that nothing which is spoken in that place must be revealed. So mortals speak of sub rosa or 'under the rose', when they desire to hold their discourse in secret. But mortals beware, we mandrakes see all and will reveal all in time, for the rose has no power to stop our ears or our mouths. At the end of days we will break the silence of gods and mortals alike, for were we not birthed in a scream?
The Mandrake's Herbal
The Summoning
'It is time,' Madron said.
Her milky eyes swivelled towards Gytha as if she could see her in the darkness and beyond her into her very thoughts.
Gytha shifted uncomfortably on her bed of bra
cken, trying to ignore her mother. Once this business was done, they'd have to move on, and Gytha was happy here. She'd no wish to go traipsing into the city. She hated it. People staring at you suspiciously as if you were going to thieve from them, that's when they weren't trying to rob you themselves. You couldn't breathe, all those people jostling and shouting. You couldn't hear anything above the foolish clamour of their voices, not even your own thoughts.
'Take me outside.' Madron's tone was more querulous than usual.
Gytha sighed and struggled to her feet. It was a warm night. She needed no shawl over her coarse, threadbare kirtle. She bent over her mother and the old lady put an arm around her neck. Gytha scooped her up in her arms and, ducking low, carried her out of the bothy. Madron was as light as a bag of fish bones, but the thin arm locked around Gytha's neck had a grip as hard as ice in winter.
Gytha placed her gently in the centre of the clearing. The old woman's head lifted, turning her face towards the bright moon, as if she was seeking its coldness.
She pinched Gytha's arm. 'Fetch my bones and my blackthorn rod.'
Gytha returned once more to the bothy and fetched the objects, laying them in her mother's lap. This summoning would require greater magic than a thorn apple, for they had nothing of his which they could use against him.
The air was still and heavy in the forest. The trees were shaggy with leaves. They encircled the glade like great dumb trolls silently watching the stars glittering above: the Bear and the Swan, and the great arching bridge of stars over which the souls of the dead travelled. The Milky Way, Gerard once told her she must call it, but he would know it for its real name now, for his soul had walked that path. She had seen it.
Madron was squatting in the glade. Her hair glowed silver in the moonlight, her skin was turned to pearl. She had drawn a circle around herself in the leaf mould with the tip of the blackthorn rod. Then around the circle she had made four marks. A stranger might not have recognized the crude symbols, but Gytha knew them well, for her mother had taught them to her when she was still in her cradle: a serpent for the earth, a fish for the water, a bird for the air and a salamander for fire. The moonlight poured into the scratches in the earth, filling them with molten silver. Madron could not see them, but Gytha knew she could feel them just as well as she could feel her own hands.
Madron fumbled in the bag and drew out one slender bone, only as long as a woman's hand. She placed it before her, then from her sleeve withdrew a small posy of herbs, bound together by a scarlet thread — periwinkle, orpine, vervain, monkshood and deadly nightshade. She laid the bundle across the bone, so that it made a slanted cross.
Finally she turned her sightless eyes towards Gytha, extending her hand.
'Come, you must stand inside the circle, else you'll not be safe.'
Gytha stepped over the mark scratched in the floor of the forest, careful not to break the circle. Then she crouched behind her mother and waited.
The old woman threw back her head and lifted her face to the moon. She began to chant, ancient words long since forgotten by the world, words that women had taught their daughters since first the owl flew and the wolf hunted her prey. The hairs on Gytha's neck prickled.
Madron's chanting died away and silence flooded back into the moonlit grove, a silence as solid and lucent as glass. A cloud drew across the moon, plunging the clearing into darkness. The forest held its breath.
Then the ground around them began to tremble, shaking as if a thousand horses were charging by. As the cloud peeled back from the moon, Gytha could see something rising in front of them just beyond the circle. A wisp of mist was uncurling from the ground, pushing up the earth around it, like the first shoot of a plant. Then the column of mist burst out of the black earth with a thin wail like a newborn baby's cry. It whirled around and around, and as it turned there came a low moaning in the forest as if an icy winter wind was wandering among the branches of the trees, but the trees were quite still. The moaning grew into a shriek, rising higher and higher till the very darkness was vibrating with the pain of it. Then, just as suddenly, the shrieking stopped.
A naked infant stood in front of them, its body so thin the ribs stood out like the timbers of a wrecked ship. The lips were drawn back to reveal the toothless bones of its jaws, its empty eye sockets were as dark as black fire.
Madron turned her sightless eyes towards her daughter. 'Has he come? Do you see him?'
Gytha could not wrench her gaze from the little corpse in front of her.
'He is here, Madron, the babe is here,' she whispered.
The old woman lifted the bone and the bundle of herbs together and pointed them at the creature.
'Spirit, I command you to fetch Hugh of Roxham. Bring him here to us.'
The little corpse hopped towards her, the clawed fingers of its left arm scrabbling uselessly in the air, as if it was trying to snatch at something. Its right leg was missing.
'I command you,' Madron repeated. 'Fetch Hugh of Roxham. You will bring him here. You will bring him!'
The creature took another step towards her, reaching for the bone, but it drew back as if burned as it touched the air above the circle. 'Give me, give me! It's mine. Mine!'
Madron lifted her head, pronouncing the words for the third time. 'I command you by the bone of your body, bring us Hugh of Roxham. Go, go now. Ka!'
As she pronounced the last word the corpse shuddered violently; it slumped down to the ground and for a moment Gytha thought it was going to disappear back into the earth. But as she watched, its ashen, waxy skin began to bubble all over, as if maggots were crawling out of it, covering it from its skull to its feet. The skin was erupting into soft white feathers. The child lifted its head, and in the dark empty hollows of its eyes were two black glistening pearls. Two long wings unfurled on either side of its body and as they beat, the pale creature rose silently into the air. The barn owl hovered above them for a moment, its wings outstretched against the moon, then it turned and glided away over the dark mass of the trees.
Madron slumped back, exhausted. She turned her head to Gytha. 'It is done. Carry me back inside. You know what to do when he comes.'
Gytha bent to lift her mother up. 'You're sure he will come, Madron?'
'He will come. Sooner or later, he will be drawn to us.'
Gytha laid her mother in the bothy and wandered back out beneath the trees, bathed silver in the moonlight. From under her shift, where it nestled between her breasts, she withdrew the wizened apple and plucked another thorn. Was it a waste? Should she simply wait patiently for Madron's spell to work? Her sixth sense told her that another little twist of the apple was needed. Something all of her own. She laid the thorn carefully in the embers of the supper fire. A shiver of pleasure stroked her spine as a tiny flame danced in the darkness. She watched it burn; she loved to watch them burn.
Raoul, yawning and trying to ease his aching shoulders, stumbled across the courtyard towards the steps leading to the Great Hall. The light from the burning torches on the walls flickered across the uneven cobbles of the courtyard, making it hard to see where he was putting his feet. God's bones, but he was tired and stiff! His backside was bruised and his thighs raw from a day in the saddle. He was starving too, but he wasn't sure if he could even manage to stay awake long enough to eat.
He heard a clattering on the stairs, and lifted his head in time to see Osborn striding down them. Raoul groaned to himself. He knew he'd have to see Osborn tonight to deliver the message, but he had hoped to get at least a goblet or two of wine inside him before he was forced to speak. His throat was as dry as old leather from the dust on the roads.
Osborn confronted him at the bottom of the stairs. 'And how fares the king?'
Raoul massaged his parched throat. 'In health His Majesty is as fit as a man half his age and has twice the energy. In temper . . .' Raoul winced at the memory.
The king's violent rages were legendary, and Raoul had felt the full force of the royal displeasur
e, having been forced to admit to John that he had so far failed to discover the identity of anyone engaged in aiding England's enemies. It was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. The king's fury had only been slightly tempered when his latest mistress, a sweet, sympathetic girl who had smiled coyly at Raoul, reminded the king that the Santa Katarina had been prevented from landing her cargo thanks entirely to the brave and loyal Raoul.
It had not been thanks to Raoul at all. He'd never heard of the ship or its French cargo until he arrived back at court and he'd no idea who had alerted the king's men, but he certainly wasn't going to contradict the rumour. It was the only thing that was preventing the full measure of the king's anger from descending on his head.
Raoul sighed. He wasn't suited to this business of skulking around trying to uncover traitors and spies. All he'd ever wanted was a comfortable position at court and the only thing he had any desire to uncover was the breasts of a lovely young girl, someone like the king's mistress. Now she had a body just begging to be ravished.
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