The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  Raffe grinned. He might have known that Talbot would find out somehow that the man was a priest. To be honest, if it had just been the priest's life at stake, Raffe wouldn't have much cared whether he reached France or not, but there was always the danger that if he was captured he might start talking. Raffe knew that they'd merely have to show that little runt the hot irons for the priest to start spilling every name in his head, even proclaiming the Blessed Virgin Mary a co-conspirator if he thought it would spare him pain.

  'Maybe not as good as you think,' Talbot said. 'I get the feeling for some reason he took against you, the ungrateful bastard. Thing is,' Talbot leaned in closer, dropping his voice even lower, 'there's another package to be delivered and our friend insists he wants you to take charge of it personally.'

  Raffe frowned. 'Speak plainer, man.'

  Talbot glanced around the shadowy room. Everyone appeared deeply engrossed in their own muted conversations; all the same, he was taking no chances. He tapped Raffe on the arm and gestured with his head towards the door, Raffe rose and, slipping a more than generous payment for the scarcely touched eel pie to the serving woman, he left the inn and wandered out beyond the cottages to a small, open wooden shelter where the fowlers stored their nets and wicker tunnels for driving the ducks. The air was sharp after the fug of the inn, and even the stench of rotting vegetation and mud smelled clean compared to the fishy stench of the burning seabirds.

  Raffe perched on an upturned keg in the darkness, listening to the gurgle of the black waters and the rustling of the reeds. Then he heard soft footsteps behind him. Talbot slipped into the shelter and squatted close to Raffe, facing in the opposite direction, so that he could watch the door of the inn.

  You wanted me to speak plain,' Talbot said, keeping his voice so low that Raffe had to lean in to hear him. 'Word from the priest is that a messenger from France needs safe passage for a meeting at Norwich.'

  'With whom?' Raffe asked.

  Talbot shrugged. 'Not likely to give us names, is he? But if this envoy is on France's business you can safely wager it won't be John's friends he wants to meet.'

  'I'll not do it!' Raffe burst out angrily.

  Talbot gripped his arm. 'Keep your voice down,' he whispered.

  He glanced anxiously about him, but Raffe was too angry to stay silent though he did lower his voice.

  'Much as I'd gladly see that devil John hanging from the highest gallows in the land, I'll not betray my country to the French. You think I want Philip on the throne? This is England and I'd no more see it under France's heel than I would be slave to the Saracens.'

  'But it isn't your country, is it?' Talbot said quietly. Your mam wasn't squatting on English soil when she gave birth to you, nor her dam, nor hers afore that. What allegiance can a man have for any land save the one that drank his mother's blood when he was born?'

  The truth of what he said hit Raffe like an unexpected blow from a fist. For so many years, even before he set foot on it, he had thought of this land as his own. It was Gerard's home and he had pledged life and limb to Gerard, and therefore to his lord's land and lineage. All through those years as they'd travelled and fought for King Richard, then John, the men had sat around the camp fires in the evening talking of home, of their favourite inns and serving wenches, of familiar hunting forests and grey stone manors, the trees they had climbed and the meadows in the shires where they had played as boys.

  And Raffe had almost come to believe that their memories were his own. Like them, he too spoke longingly of the comforts of home. And the home he meant was England. He belonged here. It was the only place where he had ever been allowed to think he belonged. And any idea that others might still consider him a foreigner had long since vanished from his head. Talbot's challenge stung him as smartly as a splinter driven under his fingernail.

  'I took an oath to Gerard and I am still bound by that. He would never betray his country, any more than I can betray him.'

  Aye, well, there's the problem, see?' Talbot muttered.

  'No, I don't see,' Raffe said coldly.

  'Word is that if the envoy doesn't complete his mission safely, other messages can be sent from France to Osborn or even the king himself, explaining how you and others he could name have helped those fleeing from John.' Talbot spat disgustedly into the darkness. 'I always knew priests were devious bastards, but you'd have thought at least they'd not turn on those who've helped 'em.'

  Raffe felt the blood drain from his face. He knew exactly why the priest would be willing to see him hanged or worse. The little weasel had plainly not forgotten, much less forgiven, being trapped with Gerard's corpse. Raffe had little doubt the priest would carry out his threat. What was to prevent him?

  But Raffe didn't have to stay and wait for John's men to come for him. Talbot had arranged passage on a ship for the priest — why couldn't he arrange it for Raffe? Not to France, of course, nor any of the lands where John still held sway, but there were other countries. He could go anywhere, just walk away from this. What was to keep him here?

  Talbot suddenly gripped Raffe's shoulder. 'Priest said there were others who'd helped. What did he mean? Who did you talk about?'

  Even though it was too dark to read the gatekeeper's expression, Raffe could feel the powerful fingers digging into him, and knew exactly what he was asking.

  'Upon my life, I swear he knows nothing of you.'

  'Then who?' Talbot demanded.

  Raffe tried to think. 'I suppose the marsh-boy who delivered him to the boatmen, and the boatmen themselves . . . but he'll not know their names.'

  'You sure there was no one else?' Talbot growled. 'He said others he could name'

  Raffe suddenly knew with sickening clarity who the priest meant. When he was in hiding, the priest had sent the boy to find not him but the Lady Anne. The priest had to know her identity, and that was why he was so certain his threat would work. If Raffe fled, she would be left behind to face the wrath of Osborn and John.

  There was no way out of this. Raffe couldn't smuggle Anne out of the country in secret. Such a flight would mean travelling at night, climbing on to ships in the dark, even hiding in the bilges until they were safely clear of the coast. A young woman might have managed it, but not her, even if she consented to do it. He'd seen how exhausted the journey from her cousin's home had left her; she would never survive a voyage as a fugitive. And if she did, what would become of her in a foreign land? He could take any menial job to put food in his belly, living rough in the open if he had to, he'd done it before, but he couldn't expect a woman of noble birth to end her days in some peasant's hut in a foreign field.

  He could sense Talbot studying him, waiting for a reply, but he was not going to give him the name he was looking for.

  'Even if I do what they ask, what's to stop the priest betraying us . . . me anyway?'

  Talbot shifted his weight, 'Nowt,' he said bluntly. 'But you'd have information to trade, once you find out who it is the envoy has come to see. If it's that bastard Hugh, then you'd have your proof and could name him without needing to drag Elena into this. You'd be able to buy your way out of a deal of trouble, maybe buy a pardon for the lass too, with a traitor's name to parley with. It's a gamble, to be sure, but seems to me you've a simple choice: cast your dice or accept a certainty — a dead certainty.'

  Raffe knew Talbot would give anything to see Hugh tried as a traitor. He'd always wanted to get even with him ever since the man had tried to hang him at Acre. All the same, he had a point. If he could prove Hugh a traitor without Elena having to repeat what she'd overheard, he'd not only keep her alive, she might be able to return to Gastmere.

  The inn door opened and Talbot drew back into the shadows. 'I'd best be on my way. Word is ship's to weigh anchor seaward side of the isle of Yarmouth. They learned their lesson with the Santa Katarina, so they'll not risk running the ship into Breydon Water. Too easy to get trapped there. But Yarmouth's a free port, so there's none of John's men stationed in it
, leastways not officially. I'll get word to you when ship's been sighted.'

  'But what. . .' Raffe began, then realized he was speaking to the empty air. Talbot had vanished.

  Raffe sat on the keg, staring out over the whispering marshes. The black bogs seemed to suck all the light from the stars and moon. The stinking, bottomless mud gurgled continuously like the stomach of a great beast digesting its prey. Here and there unearthly shrieks rang out from the tall reeds, but he knew of old that there was no living soul out there, only the tormented restless spirits who wandered the marshes.

  But it isn't your country, is it? What did it matter if he betrayed England? What did it really matter? He owed this land no loyalty. It was Gerard's home, not his. Talbot had said he had a choice, a simple choice, he'd called it: betray Gerard's beloved country to the French or let Gerard's own mother be taken and executed as a traitor.

  Once, as a little boy, he had knelt in the great abbey church and fervently prayed before the hot, bright candles for the life of his father. Now in the darkness he sank again to his knees among the stinking fishing nets and prayed once more with all his soul.

  Gerard, forgive me. Forgive me for what I am about to do.

  1Oth Day after the New Moon,

  September 1211

  Mice — are particularly efficacious when stewed, roasted, baked or fried, to strengthen sickly children, cure them of colds, fits, the pox and fevers, or prevent them from wetting the bed. If a mortal has a persistent cough, let him hang a bag of live mice about his neck and the cough will travel to the mice. When they are all dead the patient will be cured.

  Mouse teeth are often worn as charms. Ailing cattle may be given water in which teeth or bones of mice have been laid. When the milk teeth of a child fall out they must be placed in a mouse hole so that the child's new teeth will be as small, white and sharp as a mouse's.

  If a mouse squeaks in the chamber of one who is sick, the person will die. Likewise, if a mouse should run across a living person, he is doomed, for the spirits of man often appear in the likeness of a mouse. If the mouse should be red, the spirit is pure, but if black the spirit is steeped in sin.

  If a mortal sleeps, a mouse may be seen running from his open mouth, and that is his spirit which leaves the body to travel through the dream world. But take heed, if you should move that man from his place while he sleeps, or wake him before his mouse-spirit has returned, that man will wake, but it will be as if he is dead, unable to talk to the living. He will wander senseless like a corpse and after some days or months he will die.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  The Freedom of the Lark

  Talbot grasped Raffe's arm and led him through the door to Ma's staircase. But instead of mounting the stairs, Talbot opened a small door tucked in behind them. In all the years he had been coming here, Raffe had never noticed the door before. In the dark recess of the stairwell, it was nigh on invisible.

  Talbot led the way into a tiny cell. A shaft of early morning light streamed in through a slit in the stones, high up on the wall, revealing the low, narrow bed and a banded wooden chest which occupied most of the narrow space. From the clothes strewn across the bed, Raffe guessed this must be where Talbot himself slept, close enough to the main door to reach it quickly should he be summoned in the night.

  Talbot turned to face Raffe. 'It's well you've come, saves me a journey. The ship carrying your cargo has been sighted off the coast. Dragon's Breath, she's called. They reckon she'll put in at Yarmouth tomorrow on the evening tide. Her crew'll not be allowed ashore till the day after her cargo's been inspected and tolls have been paid. You'd best meet them then.'

  'But if they inspect the cargo . . .' Raffe protested.

  Talbot waved his hand dismissively. Yarmouth folk aren't interested in men, only goods they can tax. They'll not look twice at the passengers, not unless John's men get wind of it, of course.'

  At the mention of the king, anger welled up in Raffe again. 'I won't do it. I won't meet this man. I can't give aid to England's enemies.'

  Talbot's fist shot out and grabbed the front of his tabard. You bloody will, you old bullock. That priest meant what he said about spilling all. He's nothing to lose and a great deal of favour and money to gain. You might not have told him about my role in this, but there's no knowing what he might have learned on board the ship. Besides, I want Hugh's head on a pike, and this French Skegg might just be able to give us the proof we need to see him die as a traitor. If not. . .' His eyes flicked up to the beams above and he lowered his voice to a whisper, 'no matter what her upstairs says, I'll use that lass of yours to nail him, even it does see her hanged for Raoul's murder into the bargain.'

  Talbot wasn't a man to make idle threats. Raffe's friendship with him went deep, but was it as deep as Talbot's hatred of Hugh? Besides, Talbot's warning was sufficient to remind him of what else lay at stake if the priest chose to talk. The one name he could be certain the priest did know, besides his own, was Lady Anne's, and he couldn't risk him uttering that. Raffe nodded weakly.

  Talbot let go of his tabard and gave him a friendly punch on the arm. 'That's more like it. Now, give the boatman this.'

  He grabbed Raffe's hand and tipped a small tin emblem of St Katherine into Raffe's palm, just like the one the priest had sent to Lady Anne.

  'He'll ask you where the cargo comes from. You're to tell him Spinolarei in Bruges. He's expecting that answer and he'll know you're the right man and not one of John's spies.'

  Raffe was aware that Bruges, eager to keep the lucrative trade with England, was known to favour England against France, so no suspicions would be aroused should anyone chance to overhear the remark.

  You got money?' Talbot asked. The man's been paid already but he'll expect more. They always do, the greedy bastards.'

  'And you do it for love, I suppose,' Raffe said sourly.

  Talbot grinned, but was instantly serious again. 'Be there, Raffe, for all our sakes, especially that lass of yours. I'd hate to see her pretty little neck stretching on a rope.'

  Elena cautiously opened the door and eased herself into the small chamber. Master Raffaele was standing at the casement, staring up at the white clouds drifting across the brothel garden. The bright morning light washed his face, rubbing away, just for a moment or two, the wrinkles and sagging fat around his jaw.

  Catching sight of him in profile, Elena glimpsed the ghost of the beauty that had once made her mother see an angel in him, but then, just as rapidly, it vanished, leaving behind only the wreck of flesh, the awkward, ungainly proportions of the too long limbs and the massive buttocks. Elena gave a little shudder.

  'Master Raffaele . . .' She shuffled uneasily, not knowing whether he had heard her. Had he finally come to take her away? Why wouldn't he look at her? She meant to wait for him to speak, she really did, but the silence in that room was too much to bear.

  'My Athan, is he well? Have you seen him? And my mam —'

  'They told me about Raoul,' Raffaele cut in.

  'I didn't do it, I swear.' Sweat burst out on Elena's forehead. 'I couldn't have . . .'

  'But Talbot says you knew how he had died before you were told. That's not easily explained away. Elena, tell me the truth. For once in your life trust me. If Raoul hurt you, if he ... if he forced himself on you, I wouldn't blame you for killing him. It would be natural that you wanted him dead, honourable even, but I must know the truth.'

  Elena's hands were clenched so tightly it hurt. She didn't want to talk about it, especially to him, but she knew Raffaele would go on questioning her until she did.

  'I hated him for what he did. I hated him touching me. He was revolting. I felt sick. And if I could have killed him then to stop him, I would have, believe me, I would have done it gladly, but I couldn't. He was too strong.'

  She swallowed the hard lump that had risen in her throat, trying to think how to explain it so that Raffaele would understand.

  'Afterwards ... after he'd gone I fell asleep. I
dreamed I'd killed him, but it was only a dream, just a dream. I couldn't have done it. I've thought about it over and over again. I don't remember walking through the streets. It must have been a dream.'

  'Like the dream you had about your son?' Raffaele snapped. 'Curious, isn't it, how you dream and deaths always follow? There are those who might say that is worse than murder; they might call it witchcraft.'

  Elena gaped at his back. He couldn't be saying this. 'But my son isn't dead. I told you ... I told you that Gytha took my son. I thought you believed me. That's why you helped me, wasn't it, because you knew I was innocent?'

  'I don't know what I believe any more!'

  Raffaele gripped the edge of the casement so hard that Elena thought he was going to tear it apart with his bare hands. For several moments he stood there, his head bowed, his knuckles white. Then he seemed to regain control of himself.