The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  'But I wasn't hanged. He was angry. Maybe . . . maybe in the morning he would have shown me mercy. Perhaps he just meant to frighten me to test whether I was telling the truth. And if I can show him my son, prove to him that I didn't kill him, then he will believe I am telling the truth about Raoul and Hugh too.'

  Gytha clamped her hands on either side of Elena's face, forcing her to look up at her. You think Osborn would have shown you mercy, do you, lass? Like the mercy he showed Athan, when he discovered you'd escaped?'

  A cold bubble of fear shot upwards through Elena's spine. 'What. . . what did he do to Athan?'

  Gytha's face was impassive.

  'What?' said Elena, frantically. This time it was she who was trying to force Gytha to look at her. 'Tell me, what did he do? Did he beat him? Fine him? What?'

  'Osborn hanged him,' Gytha said quietly.

  'No.' Elena's legs gave way beneath her and she crumpled to the floor. 'No, no, he can't have. Athan is at home waiting for me. I know he is. Raffaele would have told me ... he would have told me. Athan can't be . . . dead. He can't. . .'

  Gytha crouched down. 'Osborn hanged him in place of you, because he thought Athan had helped you to escape. He was your lover, after all. Athan denied it, but Osborn wouldn't listen. Do you still think he will listen to you, lass? Osborn murdered Athan, an innocent man. Can you really tell me you don't want to kill that devil for what he did?'

  Elena's teeth were chattering uncontrollably, but she was too shocked to cry. She still couldn't take it in. It had been so long since she'd seen Athan. All this time she'd been imagining what he was doing each day, who he was with. Every morning she'd looked up at the little square of sunshine or rain or cloud above the courtyard, thinking that soon that cloud would drift across

  Athan, or that rain would fall on him. It had almost been a way of touching him. She'd pictured him scrubbing the sweat from his face with a twist of hay, or sitting at the fireside plugging his leaking boots with wisps of sheep's wool, or shovelling down his pottage as if he'd been starved for a week. She could see him turning towards her with a bashful grin as she called out his name. In her head he was still doing all these things, and being told he was dead couldn't stop her seeing him alive.

  Elena didn't even notice that Gytha had crossed the room and was standing by the door.

  'Kill him, lass, and the debt will be paid. You'll have your son safe. But if you fail, remember what Madron told you that day you came to me. Yadua has other powers, powers she can turn against those who do not pay the price for her. Fulfil my grandmother's curse and destroy Warren's son, else by the power of Yadua, her curse will fall upon your own son. And that I swear. Ka!'

  Elena didn't know how long she crouched there on the floor of Ma's chamber. At times her thoughts flashed so quickly through her head, she couldn't make sense of them, then they were drifting down around her like the seeds from a dandelion, blowing away when she tried to grasp them. Athan was dead . . . no, he was still waiting for her. All these months she had been praying for him, thinking about him, so he couldn't be dead ... he was lying in the cold earth, decaying, his flesh was rotting, his cornflower-blue eyes eaten away . . . No, no they couldn't be because she'd seen them laughing at her as she ran towards him.

  It was easier to imagine her own baby dead, because she'd seen that in her head, but not Athan. She'd seen the other men dead too, and now Gytha wanted her to kill Osborn. She could picture him too in her head, bored, impatient, ordering her hanging as if he was ordering a cook to wring a chicken's neck. A huge man, a powerful man, who could knock a soldier down with a sideways glance.

  'You made your mind up, my darling?'

  Ma was sitting on the serpent's throne, peering down at her. A dozen ruby eyes stared out unblinking from her crow- black hair.

  'She speaks sense,' that friend of yours. There'll be no convincing Osborn his brother was killed by the dog-fighters. It's him or you, my darling.'

  Elena stumbled to her feet. They were so numb from where she'd been kneeling that she almost tumbled into Ma's arms.

  'But I can't. I can't kill a man. I couldn't kill anything'

  'But you have. You can't cod me. When you're in your right mind you're as soft as rabbit fur. But if you hate something enough, you can kill as ruthlessly as any soldier. Think about how much you hated Hugh for what he did to you and Finch. You loathed him. You thought he deserved to die, and you saw to it he did. You made sure Hugh could do to no other lad what he'd done to Finch. And Finch wasn't even your flesh and blood.'

  'But I don't remember doing it.' Elena collapsed on to her knees again, her head pressed against Ma's legs.

  Ma gently stroked her hair. That's a good thing, my darling, the best way,' she murmured. 'Means when your blood is up, you're not yourself and you've the strength of ten. If you can kill one brother so easily, why not the other? You going to let Osborn live after what he did to your Athan? Are you going to sit back and wait for him to do the same to you? And what of your little one, if Osborn has you executed, who's going to take care of him? Do you want him to grow up like Finch to live in a place like this, where other Hughs will use your son as he did that boy? Because there's one thing I'd wager this brothel against, my darling, that friend of yours is never going to tell you where she's hidden your baby till she knows for certain Osborn's dead.'

  The wall inside Elena which had held firm for so many months finally burst apart and she howled in grief and fear.

  Elena woke to the sound of murmuring voices. At first she thought she was back in the girls' sleeping chamber, but then she realized that she was lying on a fur. She wasn't down in the chamber beneath the trapdoor though. A faint light was filtering in from behind a heavy drape in front of her and she knew that she must be behind the curtain in Ma's upper chamber. The last thing she remembered was Ma giving her a beaker of heavy wine that for all its sweetness still had a curious bitter aftertaste. She licked her parched lips; she could still taste it now. Her head throbbed and she knew it had been laced with poppy syrup. She must have fallen asleep at once.

  She lay where Ma had placed her, unable to summon the will to move. She felt dismembered, as if her limbs were no longer joined to her body but had been dropped carelessly beside her. Thoughts swam in and out of her head, but they didn't stay. Gytha had been here. Athan was dead. Her baby was alive. Osborn ... what was it about Osborn?

  The voices behind the curtain floated towards her, joining the darting shoal of words in her head. A chair scraped against the floorboards.

  'She'll never do it, not Osborn,' a man's voice said. 'She's too afraid of him.'

  'She will, if she's frightened enough of the consequences if she doesn't.' That was Ma's voice. 'There's her child to think of. That cunning woman threatened to curse the boy. Make no mistake, that's no idle threat. I've seen the mandrake that girl's got in her bundle. Felt it. It's real, trust me, that's no bryony root. I've known some powerful charms in my time, but the mandrake's stronger than all of them put together. Most spells only have power in this life, but a mandrake's born at the same instant a man dies. That means its curse can follow you through the gates of death itself and into the life beyond. I'd not go against it, not for a whole kingdom and every lusty man in it.'

  'You could throw the lass out,' Talbot growled. 'She'd take the curse with her and then we'd be done with it. She rides an ill wind, that one.'

  'Maybe it's you I ought to throw out,' Ma snapped. 'Those fights of yours have knocked the wits clean out of you, if indeed you ever had any. Hugh's dead. You got the revenge that you wanted for him trying to hang you, so now you think we've no further use for the girl. Don't you understand, we need the girl to kill Osborn? That cunning woman was right, any commoner arrested for Hugh's murder will more than likely be charged with treason for killing nobility. You given half a thought to what that will mean for us? If Osborn thinks that one of my girls murdered his brother, you think he's not going to hold me responsible? And if he comes for me,
then you'll hang too, my darling. I'll make quite sure of that.'

  There was a violent scraping back of a chair as if someone had sprung to their feet.

  'You try to take me down, you old witch, and I'll take your eyes out long afore the hangman gets his hands on that scrawny chicken's neck of yours.'

  If Ma was impressed by the threat, she did not betray it. Her voice was as unruffled as ever. 'If Osborn dies it'll be up to Raffe, as Osborn's steward, and the sheriff to make report of it to the king. Neither of them is exactly going to shed any tears over Osborn, are they? And the Bullock's going to make damn sure that no one suspects the girl. If they have to find a pigeon to truss up for hangman they need look no further than that Frenchman Raffe brought to Norwich. He can be blamed for anything, especially murder. John won't need any persuading that the French have a hand in this. From what I've heard, if a bean gives him the bellyache he swears it was a French one.'

  'But if the lass fails?' Talbot protested.

  'She can't. She's got the mandrake. By rights that girl should be dead a dozen times over, but she has a charmed life. She just needs convincing that she's killed before. But you'll have to help her,' Ma continued. 'You needn't scowl like that, my darling; I'm not asking you to kill him. The racket you'd make doing it, we may as well put up a tent and charge the crowd a penny to watch. Subtlety was never your strong point and this one must be dispatched quietly. But we need to make it easy for the girl. You'll have to keep a watch on Osborn when he arrives here, you and that gang of street urchins of yours, for I'm certain that cunning woman is right, he will come to Norwich. And when he does, we need to find a way to get him alone for long enough for the girl to do her work. You can surely manage that much at least.'

  Talbot growled. 'If you ask me, it'd be easier to stuff the pair of them down that hole in the cellar, Osborn and the girl, save ourselves a deal of bother. I should never have hauled her out of there, but that's me, too tender-hearted for me own good.'

  Six Days after the Full Moon,

  October 1211

  Cabbage — will strengthen the sight of those whose eyes are weak and ease the pain of those with gout. The juice of the cabbage in wine will aid those bitten by vipers. If the leaves are boiled in honey and eaten, they may relieve a hoarseness of the throat and help those who are falling into a consumption.

  Mortals who would know their future must pull up the whole plant with their left hand upon the midnight hour. The quantity of soil that clings to the roots shall be the measure of their future wealth.

  When the cabbage is harvested, a cross must be cut in the stalk that remains in the ground, so that it shall be protected from the Devil and bring forth new shoots. Likewise, a cross must be cut in the stalk of the plant before it is cooked, so that evil spirits may not hide among the folds of the leaves and so be swallowed by the eater and take possession of him.

  For it is the nature of evil to hide where mortals least think to find it.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  The Ring

  Another roar and a crash echoed out of the Great Hall and the servants in the courtyard glanced uneasily at one another. They moved hurriedly about their tasks, hardly daring to speak to one another, except for hastily whispered news of the latest outburst of Osborn's temper. Few dared to linger in the courtyard, still less in the Great Hall, unless they were forced to. Scullions and pages drew lots with straws to select the unfortunate lad who would next answer a summons for wine or meat, for those that did thought themselves lucky if they escaped with only the dish tipped over their heads or the flagon cracked across their skulls. Even Osborn's own men found excuses to be attending to their horses or falcons.

  Osborn had been in a seething rage ever since he had learned of Hugh's murder the evening before. But if he had shed any tears over his brother's death, no one had seen them.

  A messenger from Norwich had arrived just as the sun was setting. He had ridden swiftly ahead of the trundling ox-wagon which conveyed the lead coffin, to prepare Osborn and the manor for the sad burden they were shortly to receive. The messenger, though young, was well accustomed to being the bearer of unwelcome tidings and had delivered the news in what he thought to be suitably gravid and sympathetic tones. In his experience, after initial disbelief, whilst the women of a household would shriek, sob or even swoon, a grieving brother or father would usually bow his head in sorrow, or mutter a prayer, or just sit in shock and silence.

  But Osborn did none of these things. Instead he sprang up and with a great bellow of rage had thrown over the heavy oak table, so that it crashed down from the dais. Only the messenger's adroit leap backwards had prevented the table edge from severing his toes. Osborn strode towards him and, grabbing the front of his tunic, demanded how, when and above all by whom this outrage had been committed. The quaking messenger could answer the first two questions easily enough, but as to the third, as he explained, no one had any idea, though the sheriff was even now looking for the culprit and would not rest until. . . But Osborn did not wait to find out when the sheriff would rest. He flung the messenger aside and, calling for his horse, rode out to meet the ox-wagon as it rumbled its slow, melancholy pace towards the manor.

  The messenger started to run after Osborn. He had been given firm instructions to ask for the cost of transporting the body and the coffin, for lead coffins did not come cheap, and the sheriff was in no mind to dip into his own coffers. But even the hapless messenger could see that Osborn's wrath was more to be feared than the sheriffs. In the end Raffe took pity on the young man and paid him from the manor chests, though he did not add in the hefty bribe that the sheriff had hoped for to sweeten the long hours he would have to spend trying to find the killer.

  The coffin, still sealed, now lay in the undercroft of the manor. In due course, when frost hardened the roads, it would be transported back to Hugh's birthplace in the south of England, but the tracks were sodden and muddy after the storm, and would become more so as autumn rolled on. This was no time to be transporting such a heavy load, and in any case Osborn had only one concern just now, to lay hands on Hugh's murderer and personally see to it that the wretch suffered all the agonies of hell, before he was dispatched there for eternity.

  Osborn intended to set out for Norwich as soon as he could make ready. He had made it abundantly plain he had no faith in the sheriff being able to find a rabbit in a warren, never mind a murderer. So he would take charge of the search himself.

  Grooms had been dispatched to check that the horses' shoes were firm and their feet sound. Scullions and maids were stuffing parcels of food and wine into the horse-packs, fumbling clumsily with the straps in their haste to have the tasks done and be safely out of sight before Osborn appeared. They glanced anxiously at Raffe as he ascended the steps of the Great Hall, but he waved them back to work, trying to reassure them. He knew there would be a collective sigh of relief from the whole manor as soon as Osborn's retinue clattered out of sight, but it would be nothing compared to the relief he'd feel.

  He took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door, a young maid almost butting him in the stomach as she raced from the Great Hall, tears filling her eyes and with dark red finger marks on her pale cheek. A pewter beaker came flying towards the girl's head, which Raffe deftly caught before it could hit her. One of Osborn's men, evidently the hurler of the beaker, scowled at Raffe. Osborn was venting his rage on his retinue and they were taking their humiliation out on the servants. The servants were yelling at the underservants and so it would continue down the chain to the lowliest little scullion whose only relief for his misery would be to find some tree to kick. Raffe suddenly thought again of that night when Gerard had found him punching the olive tree, and smiled.

  'Think it funny, do you?' Osborn's man said. 'You'll not be laughing for long. He wants you.' The man jerked his thumb towards the private chambers.

  Raffe tried to keep his face expressionless as he pushed through the curtain that hung over the entrance to the room
. Osborn was pacing up and down, while around him small travelling chests lay open and his manservant scurried between them, packing linen, Osborn's favourite goblet and even packets of herbs and flasks of cordials. Osborn plainly trusted no one and was even taking his own cook with him as well as his pander, for fear of poison.

  Osborn wheeled round to face Raffe.

  'You took your time. Now listen well, Master Raffaele, you will see to it that my brother's coffin has a constant guard on it day and night. I've heard of thieves making off with the lead coffins that lie above ground to sell for their value, and dumping the bodies in ditches.'

  'Only those coffins left to lie outside the sealed church doors because of the Interdict,' Raffe said. 'No one would dare to —'

  'They dared to murder him, a nobleman,' Osborn thundered. 'Why would they not dare to desecrate his body? You will do as I say. And if I see so much as a mark on it when I return, that shows someone has tried to tamper with it, I'll personally mark your hide so deep you'll carry it to your own grave, do you understand?'