The Gallows Curse (13 page)

    She
shook her head and Raffe lifted her to her feet. She stood swaying unsteadily
for a moment. Raffe realized she was shivering. In the vastness of the darkness
that surrounded them the tiny figure looked more fragile than ever. Her eyes,
round and bright as the moon, glittered in the torchlight as she glanced
fearfully up at him.

    Placing
the torch into her hands for a moment, he unfastened his cloak and wrapped it
around her. Then, taking back the torch, he clasped her frog-cold hand in his
own. She stiffened, trying to pull away, and instantly his anger came surging
back.

    'Stop
that prudish nonsense! You're as bad as that old hag Hilda, thinking every man
wants to ravish you. It's slippery. You've already fallen once, next time you
might not be so lucky. But if you want to take that risk in your condition, go
ahead.'

    He
turned away and started off again, but he had not taken more than a couple of
strides before he felt a small arm burrow into the crook of his own. His anger
dissolved in an instant. He drew Elena close and they walked on, slowly this
time. He felt a surge of unexpected joy as he sucked in the closeness of her
and knew for the first time the warmth of her small body pressed into his. He
could feel the movement of her slender ribcage against his arm, the bones so
delicate that a man might snap them with his fingers. Her sweet breath hovered
in a veil of white mist as she panted in the icy air.

    They
were the only two people awake in the world, one tiny ship of frosted light
floating through an empty black ocean. A faint breeze rippled through the
branches of birch and willow and through the long-dead reeds in the ditch, making
them sing like soft waves breaking on sand. From a great way off came the
yelping scream of a vixen. Elena shivered and pressed tighter into him.

    Looking
down at the top of that small head hidden beneath her hood, Raffe knew the
overwhelming desire of a father or a lover to protect something so small and
innocent. But he was neither of these things to her and she wasn't innocent. He
had not forced himself on her as other men in his position would have done. He
had kept her pure and unsullied, though it had taken every grain of
self-control he possessed when she was there under the same roof constantly,
clay and night. He had not touched her, but she had soiled herself anyway.
Though he told himself he had been ridiculous to imagine she'd never take a man
to her bed, all the same he felt like a child who'd been carefully saving a
sweetmeat to savour, only to have it snatched from his hand and gobbled up by
another.

    'When?'
he demanded so furiously that Elena jumped violently, almost slipping again.

    Raffe
steadied her and tried to control his voice, 'When did you get with child?'

    'I .
. . don't know.'

    'Don't
lie to me! You were a virgin when you came to Lady Anne's service, you told her
so yourself. So it must have been after you started working in the manor that
you started slipping off to the barn. How long did you wait — days, weeks? And
was it just this
Athan
or did you have a stable of sweating field
hands?'

    He'd
made her confess the name to Lady Anne, but it almost choked him to utter it.

    She
stopped and stared earnestly up at him, a look of astonishment on her face as
if she couldn't believe anyone would accuse her of such a thing. 'It was just
Athan ... I've never been with anyone else and I never will, not even . . . not
even if Athan said he didn't want me any more. I love him more than anything
else in my life. I'm glad his son is in my belly, no matter what you or Hilda
or Lady Anne think. I want this bairn! I want it, do you hear, because it's
his
baby!'

    
She turned her head away, but Raffe could hear the tears in
her voice, and he knew they were tears of indignation and fury, not remorse.
They walked on in silence.

    Elena
struggled to keep pace with Master Raffaele, but she refused to beg him to slow
down. She was so exhausted after the night's events that she couldn't even
decide if she was devastated or relieved to be leaving the manor. She would be
with Athan every day now, lying in his arms every night as she had longed to
do. There was no question of returning to her mother's cottage. Now that she
was carrying his bairn, she was, in the eyes of the villagers at least, Athan's
wife, and a wife always moved into her husband's home to care for him and his
kin. Her stomach lurched as she realized that meant she would be at the beck
and call of Athan's mother, Joan, who made that sour-faced Hilda seem as kindly
as a fairy godmother by comparison. But now that she was carrying Joan's
grandson, surely the woman would soften towards her?

    Elena
glanced up at Master Raffaele. His face was turned away from her, staring ahead
down the darkened road. There was no mistaking his anger, it pulsated from him,
and yet she didn't understand why he was so furious with her. Unable to
comprehend it, she tried to convince herself that his foul mood had nothing to
do with her. As Lady Anne had said, with Lord Osborn taking over the manor,
they had far more to worry about than the fate of a village girl.

    She
had been so anxious about Athan and then being caught by Hilda that the whole
incident in Lady Anne's bedchamber earlier that evening had simply vanished
from her head. But now she realized, with a little guilt, that perhaps she
should have told Lady Anne what she'd heard. She had understood little of what
had been said, except one thing whoever the men in that chamber were, they were
helping the king's enemies.

    The
villagers in Gastmere mocked their lords and rulers unmercifully behind their
backs. They found ways to creep around the law when they could. They might hide
a piglet or two, or a few chickens to avoid paying the tithes, or spirit away
the odd fleece at shearing time before it reached the manor's barn. It was fair
sport to hoodwink your masters provided you didn't get caught. But treason,
that went far beyond a game. Treason meant torture and certain death in this
world, and an eternal damnation in the next, for even Christ would never
forgive the blasphemy of the subject who rebelled against God's own anointed
king.

    And
to Elena such harsh punishment seemed only just, for though she had no idea
what the cause of the quarrel was between England and France, like every man,
woman and child in England, she'd heard the rumours that the hated French were
threatening to invade and, if they succeeded, would rampage through the
countryside burning the villages, raping the women and slaughtering the
children. Any Englishman who helped the French must be as wicked as they were.

    Elena
glanced up at Raffaele's stony profile and swallowed hard.

    'Master
Raffaele,' she whispered.

    He
didn't give any indication he had heard her. She raised her voice a little.

    'I
heard two men talking in Lady's Anne's chamber this evening. She wasn't there
and I'd gone to fetch ... I thought the room would be empty. I heard men's
voices coming from inside. I didn't mean to listen.'

    Raffe
turned to look at her, frowning. 'In Lady Anne's chamber? Were they trying to
steal from her? You should have called me at once if there were strangers in
the manor.'

    'No,'
Elena said hastily. 'They weren't thieves. At least, I don't think they were;
they were just talking. But... it was about a ship, a French ship . . . coming
here bringing men.'

    Master
Raffaele abruptly stopped and whirled to face her. 'Are you sure? Tell me
everything. Tell me exactly what you heard.'

    Elena
told him all she could recall of the conversation she had heard. She knew her
account was garbled and he had to prompt her many times to get the whole story,
but she could remember all the names they had mentioned. She had always been
good at that.

    Finally,
Raffaele asked, 'These men, would you recognize them?'

    Elena
shook her head. 'I could only hear their voices. But they didn't talk like
Gastmere men. I think maybe ... they came with Lord Osborn.'

    'And
you are sure they didn't know they were being overheard?'

    Despite
the bitter cold, Elena felt her cheeks grow hot. 'I don't know ... I bumped
into the door afore I ran off. They must have heard the thump, because one of
them opened the door and called after me. But I didn't dare to turn round to
see who he was.'

    Raffaele
grabbed her shoulders, almost lifting her off her feet. His face was creased
with alarm. 'Are you saying that these men saw you?'

    Elena
flinched, trying to pull away from him. 'He couldn't have seen my face, but he
might have seen my back. Will he ... do you think they'll come after me?'

    The
thought had not occurred to her before. She glanced fearfully back up the road
towards the manor. When the man had not pursued her out into the courtyard, she
assumed that he had thought her not worth bothering with. But now, when she saw
the fear on Master Raffaele's face, she realized that what she had overheard
could put her in grave danger.

    Raffaele
relaxed his grip on her shoulders and awkwardly tried to pat her arm as if she
was a child. 'They didn't see your face, that's good, but it is as well you
left tonight. Sooner or later they would have run into you if you'd stayed in
the manor, and if they'd recognized your kirtle or your ...' He briefly touched
her red curls.

    Elena
was shivering and not just from the biting cold.

    'Come
now,' Raffaele said in a more gentle tone than he had used all evening, 'I must
get you inside before you freeze to death.'

    Raffe
did not trust himself to speak again until they reached the door of Athan's
cottage. The village of Gastmere was silent, even the dogs were too deeply
asleep or too cold to bother to bark at the footsteps crunching on the frozen
mud. Here and there a few thin slivers of light from rush candles slid out
between the shutters or cracks in the doors, but most had long been
extinguished.

    Elena
hesitated before the door. 'Will you come in for a warm, Master Raffaele, afore
you go?'

    He
backed away, bringing his hand up across his face as if to shield himself. It
was more than he could bear to see that virile young man take Elena in his
arms, to glimpse the bed where tonight they might. . .

    'Elena,
remember, I am still your friend. If you need help, if you need anything, come
to me.'

    The
words blurted out of his mouth before he could stop them. He strode rapidly
away, not even turning round to watch her enter the house.

    His
head was throbbing as if he had been repeatedly punched. He couldn't separate
the hundred different thoughts that were darting through his brain - Osborn,
the baby and now the French. If Elena was correct, then at least one, if not
two, of the men who even now lay sleeping in the manor was a traitor to the
throne of England, helping to smuggle spies into the country and laying the
ground for Philip's invading army.

    There
were many in England who had reason to hate John, and would see a French king
on the throne just to spite him, especially if it led to their advancement. God
knows, Raffe had no love for John. But to betray England, Gerard's homeland, to
an invading army, that was treachery he couldn't stomach.

    Besides,
no servants in the manor would have the wit or passion to plot against the
throne, so one of the men at least must be from Osborn's retinue, for how else
would he have got inside the manor and known the bedchamber was empty?

    Elena
said that they had talked of fighting in the Holy Land. Raffe tried to cast his
mind back. Who in Osborn's retinue now had been with him in the Holy Land?

    He
and Gerard had not travelled there with Osborn, though Gerard's father had
sailed with him, together with the bulk of King Richard's army. By the time
Raffe and Gerard had caught up with them, the siege of Acre was already well
under way. The Christian army had surrounded the walled city, trying to free it
from the Saracens. Saladin, the great Saracen leader, was camped beyond the
Christians, attacking them as they attacked the city, and trying to lift the
siege.

    Richard's
army were hurling rocks at the ramparts from great siege catapults and slings.
The defenders were throwing down lime and fire-filled pots on to the Christian
army. You couldn't even recognize a man from his chevron or emblem, for
everything was covered with a thick, choking dust. It was chaos; half the time
you couldn't see the man fighting next to you for the smoke and sand blowing in
the wind. Any one of the men riding now with Osborn could have been with him in
that hell that was the Holy Land.