The Gallows Curse (46 page)

    The
Mandrake's Herbal

    Gytha
wandered back towards the bothy, her wicker basket full of nettles, wild onions
and sorrel. Two fat trout lay nestled under the cool of the leaves. She had
coaxed those from the stream with nothing but her fingers for a hook and her
cunning as the bait. She could have caught more, but she knew that if you took
more than you needed for that day, the river would not let you take from her
again. In the same way, she was careful always to eat from the tail to the head
lest she make the fish turn away from her, and careful to collect up every tiny
bone and return them to the stream, so that the fish might be reborn. That was
the way of it. Learn the laws of the forest, marsh and stream, learn the ways
of the beast, fowl and fish, and food would always come to you.

    Gytha
scuffed her bare feet in the warm, crumbling leaf litter, and breathed in the
hot summer breeze, fragranced with the rich fruit of decaying leaves and the
bitter tang of the white-headed cow parsley. Beech, oak and elm stretched out
their long limbs above her as she paddled through the drops of green light
filtering through the sun-soaked canopy.

    She
would be sorry to leave this forest when the time came to move, but they would have
to leave soon anyway. They would need to find warmer shelter and build up food
stores before winter. For she knew from experience how quickly the warm, sultry
days could turn to rain and killing cold. Still, perhaps they would be back in
their own cottage before then. Madron seemed sure that before the year was
dead, Yadua would have finished her work. Gytha wasn't convinced. She had been
born into the waiting. It was the only state she had ever known, and she
couldn't imagine what would replace it.

    Madron
was sitting outside the bothy where Gytha had left her, nestled comfortably
among the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, like a tattered old crow on its
nest. Her twisted hands were turning the heap of yellowed bones in her lap, but
her sightless eyes were already turned in Gytha's direction as her daughter
emerged from the trees.

    'Yadua
has been fed,' she announced triumphantly as Gytha came into the clearing. She
licked her wrinkled lips, as if she herself had tasted the red milk.

    'And?'
Gytha asked. She did not doubt the truth of what the old woman said for a
moment. There was and always had been a bond, stronger than mother and child,
between Yadua and Madron. Even now, when the mandrake was miles away, Madron
could always tell when it stirred to life, perhaps because of the way she had
acquired it. But Gytha could tell by the excitement in the old woman's voice
that this time there was something more.

    Madron
pronounced her words slowly, as if she didn't want to part with them too soon.
'I scattered the bones and when the spirits led me to pluck one, I found a
butterfly had settled on it and would not be dislodged.'

    'A
butterfly ... on a dry bone? That means there's been a death.'

    The
old woman nodded in satisfaction.

    Gytha
laid her basket down and hurried forward. She knelt in front of her mother,
staring at the bones in the old woman's lap.

    'Which
. . . which bone was it, can you remember?'

    The
old woman snorted. 'I'm blind, not doting. I know my bones.'

    She
folded her lips tight and turned her face away. Gytha knew that expression of
old: it meant that Madron would refuse to tell her any more until she had been
appeased. Angry with herself and the stubborn old besom in equal measure, Gytha
returned to the basket and set about cleaning the fish without another word.
Two could play that game.

    Madron
sniffed. 'Fish for dinner?'

    'For
my
dinner.'

    The
old woman cocked her head on one side. You wouldn't let me starve.'

    'Wouldn't
I?'

    'I
could put a hex on you that you'd never undo,' the old woman raged. 'I could
bring a cooked fish alive in your throat even as you swallow it to choke you to
death. You still don't know the half of what I know, girl, and you never will.
You don't have the skill or patience to master it. Haven't had to learn it to
survive, not like me, and that's your trouble.'

    'Do
your worst!' Gytha stuck the tip of her knife into the trout's belly and sliced
it open savagely. 'But just you think on this: if I'm dead, who's going to catch
your next fish or rabbit, or even fetch you a bite of nettles?'

    Neither
spoke for a long time. Then Madron said grudgingly, 'It were the bone of a
dog.'

    It
was on the tip of Gytha's tongue to ask if the old woman was sure, but she knew
Madron would not make a mistake, not with her bones. She sighed in
disappointment.

    'Nothing
to wail about, girl,' Madron said. You must give it time. The shadow of the fox
is running, just like you said, hard on the heels of the bairn. She is doing
well, our little Elena. She is calling them to her one by one, though she
doesn't know it. Like flies to a corpse they will be drawn to her. Be patient.
Can't rush the stretching of a new bow, else it will snap and all that work'll
be wasted. Tonight you must pluck another thorn from the apple. Then we wait
and watch.'

    Gytha
poured a little water into her wooden bowl, and dropped the bloody fish guts
into it, watching as they wriggled like eels in the swirling water before
settling.

    Once,
Gerard had sat cross-legged opposite her, staring into the bowl with such
concentration that anyone watching might think he knew how to read the
entrails. He didn't. He relied on her, trusted her. And she had never betrayed
him. She had simply told him the truth. That's what he asked for, that's what
she'd given.

    'Your
father is walking into mortal danger. He wants you to help him. He needs you.'

    She
had given her lover what all men wanted; she had revealed to him the future,
knowing that he would not be able to resist acting upon that knowledge, and in
doing so he would damn himself. Men always did. They couldn't help it. And no
power in heaven or earth could punish him for the hurt he had done to her, as
effectively as that single gift. Tell a man his future and he will destroy his
own soul. It was the consummation, the pinnacle, the perfection of vengeance.

    
She
pauses at the foot of the narrow stone spiral staircase. It is dark, so dark
she cannot even see her own hand, let alone the hand of another who might be
creeping towards her. The clash of swords, the clatter of metal on stone, the
shouts and screams of dying men echo from the vaulted ceiling and down the long
narrow passages, the sound is twisted, distorted. It might be above her; it
might be below her; it might be in her head.

    She
cranes her neck trying to peer up the stairs. The flicker of a pale yellow
light, fragile as a moth's wing, glows high above her, but she cannot see the
source. A candle on the wall? A lantern in a man's hand? These staircases were
built to be defended. A right-handed man could strike down on anyone trying to
fight his way up the stairs, but his opponent's blows would be impeded by the
wall. A man must learn to strike with both hands, if he wants to survive.

    She
waits, listening. Is someone also waiting out of sight on those stairs,
listening for the sound of her footsteps? She hears breathing, but it is so
cold here, entombed in these thick walls, that it might be the sound of her own
breath rasping. Is this the place where she will die, struck down in this
darkness, her blood pouring out on to these icy stones?

    She
tries to fight down her terror. She can wait no longer. She must move. She
transfers her blade to her left hand and eases herself slowly up the steps,
bracing herself against the wall in case someone should lunge down at her. The
light gathers in strength as she walks towards it, but still she cannot see
where it is coming from. Cautiously she winds her way up and up, until the
light bursts full upon her.

    She
is staring into a tiny open chamber, not much bigger than a recess in the wall.
A man in monk's robes kneels with his back to her. In front of him is a table
on which stands a carved and painted figure of the Virgin Mary holding the
infant Jesus in her arms. The child's hands are outstretched as if begging to
be plucked from his mother's grasp. Three slender candles burn around the base
of the figure. Encircled by their trembling flames, the painted scarlet mouth
of the Virgin smiles as if she knows what is about to happen, and it amuses
her.

    The
monk lifts his head like a hound scenting the breeze. He seems to realise he is
not alone. He scrambles up, turning towards her with a look of terror. She puts
her finger to her lips, warning him not to cry out. She takes a pace backwards
down the stairs. She means to leave him unharmed. She will not hurt him, not a
holy monk. But the terrified monk seizes the heavy wooden statue in both hands.
Holding it over his head, he charges towards her with a shriek. The sleeves of
his robes fall back and she sees the muscles bulging in his arms, bracing
themselves to strike.

    She
knows she must protect herself. She knows she must strike first, but he is a
monk. She cannot harm a man in holy orders. The grinning face of the Virgin
hurtles down towards her head. Instinct takes over. She thrusts her blade up
towards the monk, meaning only to warn him to stay his hand. But even as she
does so she sees a shadow looming up behind him. The monk's arms freeze in the
act of striking. He arches backwards with an agonised cry as the point of a
sword emerges from his chest. He falls to his knees, pitching forward straight
on to her blade. The Virgin and Child fly from his hand and shatter against the
cold stone wall. As he falls, the draught of his robes instantly extinguishes
the flames of the three candles, as if the devil himself has snuffed them out.

    She
is standing in utter darkness. She can see nothing. But she feels hot liquid on
her hands, and she knows the holy blood of a monk is dripping from her fingers
on to the sacred stones.

    Elena
woke with a cry and sat bolt upright, breathing so rapidly that she felt as if
she'd been running. The blood pounded in her temples. Her body was slippery
with sweat and the cover of the thin straw pallet was as wet as if she had
thrown water over it. It took a few minutes for her to calm herself and try to
rid her mind of the images in her head.

    The
heat inside the sleeping chamber was suffocating. She hadn't been able to get
cool all day. Now that the sun had begun to dip behind the buildings and the
shadows were lengthening, it would have been cooler to sit in the garden, but
she hardly dared leave the sleeping chamber any more. She was terrified that
the bailiff and his men would return and walk in on her as she sat outside,
before she had time to prepare herself. She knew that if the bailiff asked her
anything she would give herself away in a word.

    Luce
had dyed her hair and eyebrows with a paste containing walnut juice to darken
them. Ma's orders. It was a pity, Ma had told her with a sigh, for men liked
copper-heads and would pay more. Elena couldn't get used to the sight of
herself with black hair. It made her face look paler than ever and she felt as
if she was staring back at a stranger whenever she glimpsed herself in one of
the silver mirrors the girls shared. She wondered if Athan would even recognize
her, much less think her pretty now.

    The
door opened and Luce stuck her head round it, searching the beds. 'Here, Holly,
I need you.'

    'A
man?' Elena's stomach lurched.

    'No
need to look like a calf that's seen the butcher's knife. The man's not for
you, it's a boy he wants. Come on, hurry up. Ma will kill me if the boy isn't
ready.'

    Elena
scarcely had time to pull her shoes on before Luce was tugging her out of the
door and towards one of the upstairs chambers.

    'It's
Finch,' Luce grumbled. 'He won't get dressed. And he won't let me dress him
neither. If I try to touch him he goes rigid and starts shrieking. If I fetch
Ma or Talbot they'll take a switch to him, but he trusts you. I thought you
could persuade him.'

    'You're
dressing Finch for this man?' Elena grabbed her arm. 'No, not him, please,
Luce. He's so little. You can't make him do it. Send one of the other boys.'

    'Ma's
orders. She's chosen Finch.' She smiled ruefully. 'You know how it is, Holly.
He has to work, same as the rest of us.'

    Luce
marched along a passage with Elena scuttling behind her. Then, opening a heavy
wooden door, she pulled Elena inside.