The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  Raffe pulled out a leather purse and unfastened the drawstring, tipping the contents into his hand.

  The sailor spat contemptuously on to the floor.

  'Not enough. We have others to pay. Much expense. I need more.'

  Raffe had expected they would, but none the less he made a show of arguing that was all he would pay, until finally, seeing that the sailor would not budge, he reached under his shirt and pulled out the gold ring which dangled from a leather thong about his neck. Without removing the thong he leaned forward so that the sailor could examine the intricate gold knot that held in place a single lustrous pearl beneath. It had been Gerard's ring and his father's before that. It was on this ring, the hour Gerard died, that Raffe had sworn his oath that he would not let him carry his sins to the grave.

  On the day that Lady Anne had drawn it from the hand of her dead son and given it to him, Raffe had believed that he would never part with it, but now . . . now he could not bear to keep it. He knew it for what it was: tainted, bloody, like the withered hand of a thief. And if it would buy Lady Anne's protection and keep the priest from betraying her, then giving it away would be an act of cleansing, an absolution for what he done. He could almost convince himself that the ring had been given into his hands for this very purpose.

  The sailor peered at the finely wrought design. Then he beckoned, indicating that Raffe should hand it over.

  'No, no, my friend, I am not that stupid. You bring the cargo, then I pay you.'

  The sailor glowered at him, then bent his head to his companions, muttering Softly. But even had they shouted their conversation across the room, it would scarcely have mattered, for Raffe couldn't understand them.

  Finally the man straightened up. "We take the ring now. Then you give us the purse when we bring your cargo.'

  Raffe hesitated. He could see that they were not the kind of men who would be prepared to leave with nothing, and the ring was easier to identify than coins if they tried to double-cross him.

  Raffe pulled the leather thong over his neck. The sailor swiftly examined the ring once more. Clearly he had learned not to trust any man. Then he looped the thong over his own head, dropping the ring down inside his shirt even as he strode to the door.

  'Tonight I bring him here. But I do not wait. You are here, good. If not, your cargo it sinks to the bottom of the sea, you understand?' He returned a few paces to Raffe, staring him in the face. 'Tonight you give me the purse, no argument. You try to cheat me, and the crabs they have a good breakfast.'

  The sailor spat on the palm of his hand and extended it to Raffe. He did likewise and they shook, their fingers gripping each other's with equal force. The transaction was sealed and there was no going back on it.

  She gingerly pushes open the door of the courtyard, alert for an ambush. The sun is burning down, bleaching the stones a dazzling white, and for a moment she is blinded, unable to see anything. Then she hears the sound of fast, rapid breathing. Three girls are crouching in the corner of the tiny yard, pressed into a sliver of dark shadow, their arms wrapped around one another, their heads buried into one another's chests, so that they seem to be a single ball of limbs. Flies crawl everywhere in thick black waves, over the weeds as dry as parchment, over the dusty ewers, over the backs of the girls. As they hear the sound of footsteps behind them one of the girls begins to whimper, but they do not move.

  Elena is thirsty and running with sweat. She is weary to the bone. She just wants to get this over with, get it finished. She strides to the corner and grabs an arm at random, trying to prise the little knot of bodies apart. But the others cling to their sister with surprising strength, considering how skeletally thin they are. Elena is almost afraid that if she pulls too hard, the bone of this slender arm will snap off in her fist. But pull she must. She seizes the girl round the waist and drags her out. The two remaining sisters snap together, clinging to one another more fiercely than before.

  The girl struggles, but soon her arms are bound behind her. She stands sobbing and helpless. She is trying to mumble something. Is it a plea for mercy or a fervent prayer? Elena cannot tell. But whatever she is saying is repeatedly broken each time a new scream echoes through the street outside. Some screams continue on and on, like the wind howling. Others are cut abruptly short, severed in mid-cry. Although Elena longs for the screams to stop, her heart jolts with pain each time they do.

  Elena has pulled a second sister out from the corner and is tying her wrists. This one does not even try to resist. She is numb; her eyes glazed and lifeless as if she is already dead.

  But as Elena binds the two sisters together, one behind the other, the third girl suddenly springs up from the corner. Before Elena can stop her she is running for the stone steps that lead up from the yard. Elena tries to make a grab for the hem of her skirts, but the cloth slips through her fingers. The young girl bounds up the stairs in her bare feet. At the top she turns and lifts her face up to the golden sunlight. Then she closes her eyes and jumps. She crashes down on to the flags of the courtyard, and lies there, her legs twisted at grotesque angles. A trickle of scarlet blood runs from her head, and meanders slowly over the white stones. The flies are already crawling towards her.

  But the fall was not high enough. She is still alive, still twitching. Her bones are broken, but her brown eyes are wide open and crazed with pain. Her two sisters stare at her aghast, then as one they begin to scream. She looks at them, her mouth opening wordlessly, her eyes pleading desperately for help. They struggle to cross to her, but they are tethered and cannot even reach out their hands to hold hers.

  Elena watches the tears running down their faces. It shouldn't matter. She shouldn't care. She's seen the tears on hundreds of faces today, young and old. The sisters' fate will be the same as all the others'. Minutes, hours, what difference can it make in the end? By the time the sun sets today they will see nothing, feel nothing any more. For what seems like eternity she stares at the flies swarming over the trickle of blood. Then she crosses swiftly to the girl on the ground and cups her left hand over the pleading brown eyes. With her right hand she pulls out her dagger and plunges it into the girl's heart.

  The clouds had been building all day, and now great purple walls of them were towering over the lead-grey sea. The wind was howling and white waves charged towards the land, rearing up and crashing down on to the shore, sucking up great mouthfuls of sand to be spewed out again as the tide rose higher and higher up the beach. The gulls had long since deserted the island of Yarmouth and fled inland, shrieking doom like witches in the sky.

  Men were dragging the smaller craft out of the water and pulling them as far up the shore as they could. Others were sculling the bigger boats which could not be beached out into the deeper water. Once the boats were safely anchored and the ropes tethered to the shore to ensure they couldn't twist side-on in the wind, the men dived into the waves, hauling themselves by the mooring ropes back to the beach.

  The wind funnelled between the Rows, moaning like the damned in hell, and sending the dried silver fish scales whirling in the air, stinging the faces of the men as they hurried back to their homes. Fish oil lamps began to flicker in the upper rooms and the tiny wooden houses hunkered down and braced themselves for what the night might bring.

  Raffe trudged back to the Silver Treasure. The wind was too sharp now for anyone to be loitering in the yard and the brazier had been extinguished. The little ale room too was empty save for a solitary old man with red-rimmed eyes, who sat hunched in the corner over his leather beaker.

  He raised his watery eyes as Raffe struggled to close the door against the wind.

  'Dead are coming,' the old man pronounced solemnly.

  Raffe nodded without understanding. The door opened and the alewife brought in a small flagon and a beaker. She banged them down in front of Raffe and waited, hand on hip, for the coin. Her face was as expressionless as before. She crossed to the old man to refill his empty beaker.

  'Last one, the
n it's home with you. Your daughter'll be wanting to bar the door afore the wind takes it.'

  'Where's he going?' the old man asked. They both turned to stare at Raffe from their hollow, sea-bleached eyes.

  The woman shrugged. 'He's to wait,' she said, as if she knew all about Raffe's business.

  Outside the skies darkened and the wind rattled any loose pieces of wood or reed-thatch it could find, like a naughty child testing to see if it could be yanked off. Raffe walked over to the door. He opened it a crack, holding it tightly against the wind. The Row was deserted. Here and there in the dim pools of yellow light cast by the oil lamps in the casements he could see small pieces of gravel being hurled up the alley by the wind, and in the far distance at the end of the Row, he glimpsed flashes of white foam on the tar-dark water.

  Raffe was torn with indecision. Part of him was sure they would not come tonight. Surely no one would want to commit their lives to a little craft in these seas? Yet he dared not leave, for he had little doubt they were capable of carrying out their threat if they came and he wasn't waiting.

  Forcing the door closed again, he slumped back down on the bench. The old man drained the last of his ale and hopped to the door, leaning heavily on a crutch.

  'Be sure and give the sea back her dues, afore she comes to take them,' he muttered.

  The door had scarcely shut behind him again when it flew open with bang. The sailor from the Dragon's Breath stood in the doorway, wiping his spray-wetted face on his sleeve and peering into the dimly lit room. He saw Raffe and grunted, pushing a man in through the door in front of him.

  Your cargo,' the sailor said, without any greeting. 'My purse.'

  He held out his open hand. The skin on his palm was thicker than the hide on a man's heel, but across it and between the fingers were deep raw cracks from the cold and the salt which would never heal, not until he settled ashore. And that was not likely to be anytime soon, for when a man's got salt water in his blood and a sea wind in his lungs, neither wife nor land can keep him from the waves.

  Raffe ignored the outstretched hand and regarded the newcomer. He was short and slight, made to seem smaller by the muscular sailor standing beside him. His cloak was still pulled tightly around him and his face had a sallow, greenish tinge of one who is about to vomit. He swayed slightly on his feet. Then, stumbling towards a bench, he sank on to it.

  The sailor was still holding out his hand, but Raffe gestured impatiently for him to wait. The Frenchman was leaning on the table, holding his head as though it would roll off his neck if he didn't hold it in place. He had a clerk's hand with thin fingers and swollen knuckles, as if he'd spent many hours writing in the cold, but his left hand was twisted and scaly like a bird's claw, though he could plainly use it to grasp, albeit clumsily.

  'How do I know this is the man?' Raffe demanded, still regarding the Frenchman.

  Without raising his head the man opened his tunic; the badge of St Katherine was pinned inside.

  The sailor clapped a heavy hand on Raffe's shoulder and spun him round. 'You give me the purse now! Storm is coming'

  To lend weight to his words, there was a roar and a clatter as a violent gust of wind dashed a handful of gravel against the wooden wall of the alehouse. Raffe slid the purse across to the sailor. He opened it, counting the coins, then he slipped it into his shirt. At the door he turned, grinning, showing a large gap in the front teeth, and gestured towards the hunched man.

  'He thinks he escapes the sea. He don't like her. But the sea, she still wants to play with him. Women are like that, no? When you tire of them, that's when they want to make love to you.'

  As the sailor struggled to close the door, the alewife ducked in under his arm, carrying a small sacking bundle. She set it on the table and unwrapped it, displaying some coarse dark bread and two small cooked herring.

  'We can't stay to eat,' Raffe explained. 'We have to leave straight away to get to the mainland. I have a boat waiting.'

  The woman ignored him and crossed to the door and, lifting a stout beam of wood, set it in the iron brackets across the door to brace it shut.

  Raffe started forward. 'No, you don't understand, we have to leave.'

  The woman turned to him, her hands on her hips, her body square in the doorway.

  'There'll be no man willing to take you ashore tonight, tide's running in fast against the rivers. That wind'll push it hard in, but rivers'll only be pushed so far, then they'll come roaring back. You'd best stay here tonight, less you want to play with the sea, like the sailor said.'

  She climbed the rickety ladder to the upper chamber and, moments later, two long thick pallets tumbled through the trapdoor and fell in a heap on the floor below. The woman leaned forward and squinted down at Raffe through the hatch.

  'Mind you don't open that door again tonight till it's light, no matter who begs to come in. There's some foreigners would cut your throat just for a parcel of herring heads.'

  She glowered at them both, as if she suspected the pair of them were in league with a band of murderers. Then she heaved the ladder upwards till it disappeared through the hole in the ceiling and the trapdoor fell down with a loud clatter. Raffe heard a beam of wood being drawn over the trap to brace it firmly shut.

  Raffe cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to get this Frenchman to Norwich and off his hands as quickly as possible. He'd arranged to lodge the man in the north of the city among the tanners, who could be counted upon to keep their own counsel, for they loathed the sheriff as much as he despised them. And the knowledge that this part of the city was just about the most unpleasant and noxious a place as you could lodge any man was, for Raffe, an added bonus. But he knew there would be no way off the island tonight, not in this wind. And if he was forced to spend the night with this spy, the isle of Yarmouth was the best refuge they could hope to find themselves in if they wanted to avoid John's men.

  Two years or so back, King John had made Yarmouth a Charter town, not from a sudden rush of generosity, of course, but as a way of raising more gold for his coffers, for the townspeople had to pay him fifty-five pounds a year for the privilege, far more than he could shake out of them in taxes. But it meant they administered the king's justice now and collected the tolls, so officially there were none of John's officers here. Raffe was certain, of course, that John would have men in the town who were paid to send regular reports to him, for he'd trust no one in Yarmouth, not with all the foreign ships coming to trade. But if John's men had found out about this Frenchman, they could no more get a message off the island tonight than Raffe could. So as long as the storm raged they were safe. After that, all he could do was pray.

  Raffe arranged the pallets on either side of the banked- down fire and lay down on one fully clothed. It crackled as he shifted his weight. It was a sailor's pallet, fashioned from bits of old sailcloth patched together and stuffed with feathers. The cloth had been repeatedly rubbed with wax and tallow to waterproof it. Twine was bound around each corner to form handholds, so it could be used as a float if the ship floundered.

  The Frenchman, whose face was now a little less pale, swivelled round on his bench to face Raffe.

  'What are you doing? Why are we not leaving?'

  You heard the alewife; no boat will put to sea this night. There is no other way off the island. We have to stay until morning.'

  The stranger had turned pale again. 'I cannot stay here. I must get to Norwich. If your soldiers find me . . .'

  Raffe propped himself up on his elbow, seething with resentment against this snivelling little wretch. The slightness of the man's build might have fitted him to a cloistered life, but he had a restlessness about him that would never be contained in a monastery. His gaze was constantly flicking round the room, never meeting your eyes for quite long enough.

  He looked every inch like one of the scavengers who swarmed around great men, scrawny, hungry, feral cats waiting their chance to dart in and snatch a piece of wealth and glory.

 
'Be grateful for the storm,' Raffe said sourly. 'At least you won't be looking over your shoulder tonight. Neither John's men nor any other will be prowling the island on a night like this. It'll be a different story when you get to Norwich. You'll have to sleep with a knife in your hand there, that's if you dare risk sleeping at all.'

  Raffe had no intention of making the man feel at ease. If he could add to his discomfort, he would.

  'If we reach Norwich,' the man said. 'The Frenchmen on the Santa Katarina, they did not, I think.'

  Raffe's head jerked up. 'What do you know of that ship?'

  The Frenchman shrugged. 'That an ambush was waiting for her. It is rumoured there was a man on board called Faramond. He was well known in France for his services to Philip. You know of him?' The man kept his voice low, glancing up at the trapdoor.

  'I know of nothing save that every passenger was lost,' Raffe said.