The Gallows Curse Page 10

  But like a good sharp slap, the cold water had done its work; it had brought Raffe to his senses. Elena was gone now and that was for the good. He might glimpse her from time to time in the village, but she would not be living under his nose, for ever reminding him of what he couldn't possess; and in a few years, after she'd borne more brats, when her figure had thickened and the children and her husband had cut wrinkles into her face, why, he'd probably not even recognize her, much less want her.

  Trying in vain to convince himself that he no longer cared, Raffe strode fiercely back towards the manor, the moon obstinately keeping pace above him, lighting his path and mocking his attempts to smash her. With every stride Raffe took away from Elena, he tried to make the picture of her in his head more bloated, aged and unlovely. He painted her red hair grey. He gave her sagging breasts and a huge mole, and then pulled out even her grey hair, making her as bald as an egg, but still he couldn't wipe the girl from his mind.

  Mortals are fools to a man: they believe that if only they can convince themselves of anything they will make it so, but they can never quite convince themselves enough.

  Day of the New Moon,

  April 1211

  Yew - Mortals do not sit in its shade, nor place their beehives near it, lest the bees make poisoned honey. Nor do they drink from a bowl of its wood.

  For those who would use a yew sprig in magic, the sprig must be not owned, bought or begged, but stolen in secret from a graveyard. If a maid would dream of her future husband, she must sleep with the stolen sprig under her pillow. If a mortal loses anything which is dear to him, he must hold a branch of yew before him as he walks and the yew will lead him to that which he seeks. When it is close upon the thing that is lost, the yew branch will wriggle in his hand as if he held a serpent.

  For in the wood of the yew the spirits of the earth, both malicious and benevolent, may be bound fast and imprisoned for a hundred years.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  The Quickening

  The tiny room is crowded with pots, baskets and dyed linen strips hanging from the rafters. She impatiently tears down the cloth and kicks the boxes aside. She is looking for a cradle, but there isn't one. She is determined to find the child. How dare they try to keep it hidden from her? The wail grows louder. The source is only inches away, but still she can't see it, nothing but a stack of baskets covered with cloths like those hanging all around. As she stares, one of the baskets trembles. Did they really think such a foolish hiding place would conceal the brat? She jerks the cloth from the basket.

  The infant blinks up at her in the sudden light, but it hasn't got the sense to stay quiet. It's messed itself. It lies wallowing in its own stench and excrement. Its face screws up and it bawls. It doesn't even look human, an animal, vermin, a stinking demon from the foul filth of hell. She seizes its ankles and jerks it up out of the basket; for a moment the child dangles from her fist, wriggling and writhing like a fish dragged from the river, then, as if it is a fish, she swings it violently, dashing its head against the stone wall. The silence is instant.

  She stands quite still, watching the great splash of scarlet blood running down the white wall. The baby hangs limply from her hands, its eyes and mouth wide open, frozen. Then she notices for the first time that the baby's eyes are blue, deep and lucent as the waters of the ocean. They are the eyes of an angel.

  Elena arched her back, trying to ease the ache of it, but her belly was so heavy she almost toppled backwards off the keg on which she squatted and had to press her hand on the wall of the dairy to steady herself.

  The land was too wet from a week of heavy rain for any good to come from working in the fields, so Marion had rounded up some of the women to help with the work in the dairy. For most of the year the three dairymaids could milk the cows, feed the calves and piglets, and make butter and cheese. But now, with all the calves being weaned and the cows in full milk, extra hands were sorely needed.

  Elena's belly was too big even to allow her to grasp the paddle of the butter churn at the right angle, and her ankles were too swollen for her to stand on them all day, so she was left to sit and fill the stomach bag of a newly killed bull-calf with water infused with boiled blackthorn and herbs to produce the rennet needed for cheese-making. It was greasy, messy work and her skirts were already soaked, but she made no complaint.

  There was an indignant wail in the doorway and Joan, Athan's mother, marched in, struggling to hold the black dairy cat in her arms. The cat knew from experience what was coming and was trying to claw his way to freedom, but Joan had a firm grip on the scruff of his neck. One of the dairymaids grabbed the poor creature's tail and, parting the fur, searched for white hairs beneath the black. She took hold of a pinchful of hairs and yanked them out. The cat screeched. With a frantic wriggle it leapt out of Joan's arms and raced out of the dairy as if the hounds of hell were in pursuit.

  The dairymaid circled the room, dropping three white hairs from the black cat's tail in each of the shallow stone troughs in which the milk had been left to separate. As every woman knew, the cat's hairs would help the cream to rise and counter any mischief evil spirits might have wrought. And it was well they did, for Gastmere abounded in evil-wishers, both spirit and human, just waiting for a chance to cause trouble.

  'Has the fire been salted yet?' the dairymaid asked Joan, winking at the other women. They exchanged sly grins. She already knew the answer and was only asking to tease Joan.

  Joan's chin tilted up with evident pride. 'Of course, I always do it first thing, before any other work is begun, else nothing will go right. You needn't fret that anything'll go amiss while I'm here.'

  According to Joan, no one, not even the dairymaids, knew better than her the charms which would keep witches from spoiling the cheese or preventing the butter coming. And no one was more diligent in ensuring that such precautions were taken. As Elena had discovered, living under the same roof as her mother-in-law for these past four months, Joan had every reason to fear the evil eye, for there wasn't a man, woman or child in Gastmere who hadn't smarted under the lash of her tongue and cursed her under their breath.

  Elena saw her mother-in-law casting her sharp little eyes about the dairy, and tried to shrink back out of sight, but with a belly as great as hers it was impossible to make herself invisible. Joan spotted her and pushed through the women towards her. Her lips were pursed as tight as the cat's arse- hole before she even reached Elena.

  Shrinking from whatever spiteful remark she knew was already in Joan's mouth, Elena's grip faltered and the greasy calf's stomach slipped out of her swollen fingers and plunged to the floor, where all the liquid gushed out over her shoes. Elena tried to struggle off the keg to retrieve it, but Joan snatched it up.

  'Such a wicked waste! The stomach can only be filled six times afore its juice is too weak to use. And you've already lost the first and strongest filling through your clumsiness.'

  Marion took the stomach from Joan's hand and deftly poured more blackthorn water into it.

  'Stop mithering the poor lass, Joan. There's no harm done, bag's not even been put to soak yet.' She winked at Elena, who smiled gratefully.

  Joan's face flushed with indignation.

  But Marion ignored her. 'How goes it, lass? You bearing up? Not long to go now, I'm thinking. Last weeks are always the worst, but it'll be worth it when you hold your own babe in your arms. You'll be cursing your Athan to Norwich and back when the pains are on you, but the moment they put that bairn to your breast you'll not remember a thing about sore backs or birth pains, isn't that so, girls?'

  The other women smiled, murmuring their agreement.

  'But you make the most of these last weeks, lass,' Marion said. 'Once the bairn comes, that'll be the end of a good night's sleep for years to come, 'cause even when they're weaned, they'll still keep you awake worrying about them.'

  'My poor son hasn't had a good night's sleep since that girl moved in with us,' Joan snapped, still smarting from Mario
n's intervention.

  Marion raised her eyebrows, grinning. 'Is that right? Keeping his pike well oiled are you, lass? Good for you.'

  'No she is not!' Joan spluttered furiously. 'In her condition, I'd never allow it. I know my duty to protect my grandchild, even if its own mother doesn't. No, it's her dreams keeping us all awake. Night after night, moaning in her sleep. I've scarcely been able to close my eyes these past months. It's a miracle I've not been driven to my grave.'

  'Bad dreams, is it, lass?' Marion asked sympathetically. 'Every woman gets those, 'specially with the first one.'

  'Not like hers,' Joan said tardy. 'Same dream over and over she gets, or so she says. She hears her baby crying and goes to pick him up, only he won't stop so she dashes his brains out.'

  Several women gasped and spat three times on their forefingers to ward off the evil that might follow such words, and even Marion looked troubled.

  For a moment no one spoke, then Marion said with a forced cheerfulness, 'I used to dream I'd put the baby down in the field and when I came back he'd turned into a mushroom, with eyes and a mouth bawling fit to bust. Put me in mind of the lad's father, dead spit of him, now I think on it.'

  Several of the women chuckled. Every one of Marion's brood had a different father, but none of them ever stayed around long enough to discover they had offspring.

  'I dreamed I dropped mine in the wash pool,' one of the other women said. 'Sometimes I wish I had. Might have knocked some sense into the little brat.'

  The women murmured their heartfelt agreement. Her son was the torment of the village. His mother wore herself out with scolding him, but if anyone ever went to her cottage to complain about him, she stood up for him more fiercely than any sow-badger defending her cubs.

  Marion nudged Joan with her elbow. 'You had dreams too when you were carrying your Athan. I remember you telling me. Didn't you dream you baked your babe into a pie thinking it to be a hare?'

  The women exchanged sly grins and Joan flushed. 'Maybe I did, but I've never harmed so much as a hair on my dear boy's head.'

  That wasn't entirely true and the whole of Gastmere knew it. Athan could still painfully recall the sting of his mother's switch which she had wielded vigorously on numerous occasions, whenever she fancied he was in danger of turning out like his feckless father.

  'There, you see,' Marion said, patting Elena's shoulder heartily, 'every woman has these strange fancies when they're with child, and nothing comes of it.'

  Elena smiled wanly, and tried to look reassured, but she was grateful when one of the maids called out that the milk was ready for churning. At once all the women set about their tasks and soon the steady slap-slap of the churn paddles filled the small building.

  When Elena had confided her fears to Athan, he too had agreed that the dream signified nothing, although later when they were alone he had whispered to Elena that perhaps his mother had been right after all and they should not have made love in her condition. No doubt that was what was causing the night terrors. But Elena was not convinced by any of the women's tales. She had never in her life dreamed anything that seemed so real to her.

  Ever since the first night she had used the mandrake and seen the end of the dream, she had tried repeatedly to dream it again, praying each night that it would end differently this time. She had become obsessed by the dream. Even in daylight she could think of little else. Days began to drag by as she waited impatiently for the night to come again. She was terrified by the dream yet, like someone with a sore tooth who can't leave it alone, she convinced herself she had to try again, and again. This time, this night it would be different. Once more, just once more, and it would surely change, it had to.

  Even if she had not been pregnant, Elena could never have brought herself to make love to Athan with his mother in the same room, but neither could she persuade Athan to make love to her in the barns or fields, after she revealed her nightmare. However, she quickly came to learn that no matter how faithful men are when they are awake, they are helpless in their sleep. That wanton temptress, the night-hag Lilith, came often to Athan and seduced him in his dreams, so that Elena would waken to find the milk seed she needed was already spilling from him. She had learned how to steal a few drops, gently catching them on her fingers so as not to wake him, and slipping out of bed whilst Athan and his mother were still snoring in unison.

  Day after day she fed the mandrake, and night after night she was rewarded with the same dream until she knew beyond any doubt or reasoning that she would murder the baby she was carrying in her belly, though how or why she did not understand. Perhaps she would do it in a moment of madness or hatred or revulsion, for she felt all those things in her dreams. But one thing she knew for certain, whatever Marion, Athan or Joan said, she would not be able to stop herself. There was nothing she could do. She would kill her own son, because she had already seen herself do it.

  Raoul was feeling distinctly uneasy. Osborn had retired to the solar with Hugh and dismissed all his men, save Raoul, to talk, it seemed, about the manor. At least, that was how the conversation had started, but Raoul had spent enough time at court to know that just as a viper may lie hidden in a basket of roses, so the most innocent remark can conceal a deadly trap.

  Osborn leaned back in the carved chair which creaked in protest at his weight.

  'Do you really imagine I want to spend days kicking my heels in this midden? Why do you think John gave me Gastmere? It wasn't for my own amusement. He knows half the barons in the land are plotting rebellion against him and he wants the land in the hands of loyal men he can trust, strong men who can put down any sign of discontent.'

  Raoul still couldn't see where this conversation was leading. To cover his confusion, he rose and refilled his goblet from the flagon on the side table. He glanced towards the casement of the solar where Hugh was standing gazing morosely out at the rain which was falling harder than ever. Even though he had his back to Raoul, it was plain from his hunched shoulders that he was sulking. Hugh considered a day without hunting or hawking was a day completely wasted. Raoul hadn't known either of the brothers long, but he'd spent enough time with Hugh to realize that hunting was the only thing that filled his head, whether he was awake or asleep.

  Osborn's eyes narrowed. 'John gave me this land, because I am one of the few men he trusts, so the question is, Raoul, what does John think to gain by sending you here?'

  Raoul flinched. So that was it. Osborn wasn't stupid, far from it, and he'd been long enough in the service of kings to know that when a monarch invites you to take one of his courtiers into your service, it isn't to teach him table manners.

  There was little to be gained by lying to Osborn, not that Raoul wasn't a master of fabrication. You didn't claw your way up to becoming one of the king's favourites without learning a few useful skills. But he suspected Osborn had already half guessed the truth and he couldn't afford to alienate him by letting him think he was being treated as a fool.

  Raoul wandered back to the long table and sat down on one of the benches opposite Osborn.

  'You know that ever since the Interdict was pronounced the Pope has made no secret of the fact that he was backing the cause of Philip of France against John?'

  'The Pope has no right to try to impose his cardinal on an English Church!' Osborn snapped. 'Now he thinks to plot with England's enemies.'

  Yes, yes.' Raoul waved a long, elegant hand. 'But the Pope argues that John is Philip's vassal and John did wage war against Philip in Aquitaine.'

  'Aquitaine belongs to John; it was his mother's land. We fought to take back what was stolen from England.' Osborn swung forward in his chair and glared at Raoul. But Raoul had faced worst tempers than Osborn's.

  'No one doubts your loyalty, my lord,' he said calmly. 'But every day John is receiving reports that England is swarming with Philip's spies who are reporting back on where and how he might best land his army. Now John has learned Philip is planning to send agents provocateurs to stir up
the population to fight for him when he does land, as well as envoys who will try to persuade the rebel English barons to side with France.'

  'Does John think I would side with France, after all I did for him in Aquitaine?' Osborn burst out furiously. He leapt from his chair and paced up and down the room. 'It was my skill and experience that helped him capture the castle at Montauban. It was me who ordered the escaping rebels to be hunted down before they could join forces with Philip's men.'

  'I can swear to that,' Hugh said, turning back from the window, having at last been distracted from the rain. 'I served with my brother and I can assure you there was not a rebel left alive when we were done. We even rooted out those who'd gone to ground in the monastery, and then burned the monastery to ashes as a lesson to teach all of Aquitaine what happens to men who rebel against their lord. It was my brother who gave the orders and taught John's subjects the duty they owed to their king. There's not a man more loyal to John than Osborn.'