The Gallows Curse (8 page)

    Now
the same barely suppressed smile hovered on Hugh's face. 'If it isn't the
gelding, and now without a rider. We shall have to take steps to rectify that.'

    Raffe
fought to keep his temper. He'd been made to learn early in life that bridling
at insults from men of higher rank was not worth a bloody back or the
humiliation that went with it.

    Osborn
plucked at his beard. 'I hope you're not suggesting I should ride him, little
brother. School him to the leading rein I will most certainly do, mount him
never.'

    Both
Hugh and Raoul laughed, but Osborn's lips merely dickered in a smile.

    Raffe
had only ever heard Osborn laugh once, but the sound of that laughter had been
seared into his soul, burning more fiercely than any executioner's
branding-iron. He remembered every detail of that night at Acre. When he closed
his eyes, he could still hear it, taste it, smell it.

    It
had been a blistering day and the darkness had brought little relief from the
heat which still shimmered up from the sun-baked rocks. The air was thick with
the stench of rank goat's meat spit-roasted over fires of dried dung. The foot-
soldiers sprawled on the ground with their mouths hanging open, trying to suck
in enough air to breathe. They were too weary to stamp on the scavenging
cockroaches, or brush away clouds of mosquitoes gorging on bodies slippery with
sweat. Some had fallen asleep as they ate, pieces of flat bread still gripped
in their hands.

    It
was the silence that Raffe remembered most keenly. For once, there had been no
buzzing of gossip or banter across the camp, no shouts of triumph or angry
curses as men diced for spoils. Even the horses were too sapped by the heat to
flick the insects away with a toss of their heads. The silver stars hung
motionless as drowned herring in the black sea above his head.

    Raffe
had been watching them through the open flap of the tent: Osborn, seated at a
low table, Hugh leaning across him for a flagon of wine, Gerard facing them,
making his report. Three thousand dead. Gerard was trying to hold himself
upright in the chair; trying to stop his hands from shaking as they clenched
around the stem of a goblet; trying not to vomit again, though he had retched
so many times since his return to camp there was surely nothing left in his
stomach. Illuminated from within by the flickering red torchlight, the tent
glowed like the pit of hell in the darkness binding the shadows of the men in
ropes of flame.

    Gerard
was murmuring so quietly that Osborn and Hugh had to lean forward to hear him.
A question, an answer, another question, another weary response. Raffe could
not hear what was being said, but he didn't have to, he knew. He'd been there.
The questioning continued, but then without warning Osborn laughed, a deep
belly-rumble of mirth, slapping his hand on the flimsy table so hard that it
almost collapsed beneath the blow. Gerard leapt to his feet, his hand darting
to his knife. The blade flashed in the torchlight. Just as swiftly Osborn
ducked, bringing his arm up to shield himself, but it was Hugh who had saved
his brother's life, grabbing Gerard's wrist and twisting it until the knife
clattered on to the table. For a moment none of the men moved. Gerard stared
down in horror at the knife, unable to believe how close he had come to murder.
Then, gabbling incoherent pleas for pardon, he staggered from the tent and ran
out into the night.

    As if
his exit had been a signal, the howling began as first one starving dog threw
back its head, then another and another until the whole valley was echoing with
the raw, wretched grief of them. It was as if every poor beast in the world was
screaming out against what they had witnessed that day.

    Even
now as he stood there on the steps of an English manor hundreds of miles from
that place and thousands of hours from that night, Raffe realized for the first
time that it was not the order which had been issued that he could not forgive,
nor even what they had been forced to do, it was that single bellow of
laughter. Raffe would never forgive Osborn for that.

    Osborn's
leather gloves flicked hard across Raffe's chest. 'Come now, Master Raffaele,
must I start breaking in my new mule so soon? Don't keep us standing here with
our tongues lolling to our knees, show me to the Great Hall, and bring us wine,
and quickly, but the good wine, mind.'

    Osborn
already had his foot on the steps, when an anguished wail from old Walter, the
gatekeeper, made him turn.

    'Sir!
Sir! Please, m'lord, I know this man ...'

    All
the horses had been led into the stables, except the one Osborn had ridden. A
terrified-looking stable lad held the reins of the horse, trying to prevent the
powerful beast from dragging the still-tethered body across the yard. Walter
was kneeling on the ground, cradling the man's bloodied head. Walter had turned
him over and the man was staring up into the pale pink sky, moaning and
shivering uncontrollably.

    Raffe
strode over to him.

    Walter
lifted his head, his rheumy eyes moist with tears. 'It's one of the crofter's
lads, from backend of Gastmere. He's hurt bad.'

    Raffe
spun round to face Osborn. This is no outlaw. You've seized the wrong man. Any
one in these parts will swear to that.'

    Osborn's
eyes narrowed. You've known me long enough, Master Raffaele to know that I do
not make mistakes. I caught this thief with a brace of rabbits from this
manor's warren. He was poaching and he didn't even trouble to lie about it.'

    The
tall, whip-thin man Osborn had referred to as Raoul waved a languid hand in the
direction of the injured lad. 'Amazing stamina, these country-born villeins.
Ran behind the horse for far longer than I'd have wagered any man could before
he fell and had to be dragged. I warrant Hugh would have swapped him for one of
his own hunting hounds, if the knave's nose had been as keen as his speed.'

    Raffe
could contain his temper no longer. Ignoring Raoul, he thundered at Osborn,
'What gives you the right to punish a villein from this manor? If...
if
a
man steals rabbits from a manor's warren, then that is no one's business but
the lord of that manor's. And if he needs to be punished, then it is up to the
lord of the manor or his steward to dispense justice.'

    Osborn
and his brother, Hugh, glanced at each other, exchanging satisfied smiles.

    'Exactly
so, Master Raffaele,' Osborn said quietly. 'But perhaps, in the pleasure of
becoming reacquainted, I omitted to mention that King John has seen fit to give
this manor into my care. I am the lord of this manor now. So I will be
dispensing justice here from now on.'

    Every
muscle in Raffe's body seemed to have been paralysed. Even his lungs had forgotten
how to breathe.

    Triumph
shone in Osborn's pale grey eyes. 'What, Master Raffaele, no obeisance for your
new master? We will certainly have to work on those manners of yours.'
He
raised his voice loudly enough for the whole courtyard to hear. 'Cut that piece
of dung loose, but let him lie in the yard all night as a warning to others. No
one is to tend him.'

    Hugh,
frowning, laid a hand on his brother's sleeve. 'There will be a hard frost come
dawn. The man will die if he's left out here. Not an auspicious beginning to
your rule here, Osborn. Perhaps in order to win the loyalty of the servants —'

    Osborn's
eyes were as cold as the North Sea. 'I have no intention of winning the loyalty
of servants, little brother, fear, that is what commands loyalty and obedience
and that is why the man will be left exactly as I have commanded.' Osborn
feigned a punch at his brother's chin. 'Stick with me, little brother, I'll
show you how to rule men. Have I not always taught you well?'

    Hugh
smiled and inclined his head respectfully, 'I am what you have made me,
brother.'

    Osborn
beamed at him with evident pride. Then, wrapping his arms round the shoulders
of both Hugh and Raoul, he turned them towards the stairs.

    'Come
now, let's eat, that ride's given me the appetite of a dozen men.'

    Raffe,
trembling with rage, watched the three of them mount the stairs together. It
was all he could do to stop himself charging after them and hurling them back
down the steps. He strode back towards old Walter who was still cradling the
crofter's lad.

    'Never
mind what Osborn says, go fetch a bier and we'll get him inside.'

    Walter
shook his head. 'Too late, Master Raffaele, lad's dead. And I reckon he's the
lucky one, for if that bastard's really to be lord here, then God have mercy on
the rest of us, especially our poor Lady Anne.'

    The
cunning woman's cottage was the last in the village, tucked among the trees,
built hard against an old oak. In fact, you might say that the ancient tree was
her cottage, for a great branch of the living tree came right through the
thatch and formed the beam which supported the roof. Like Gytha herself, the
cottage half belonged to the village and half to the forest.

    It
was a fair stride from any of the neighbouring crofts, for though land was
scarce people were reluctant to build too close to her. Healer she may have
been, but what might happen, the villagers asked themselves, if you
accidentally crossed a woman like that? Supposing your chickens wandered into
her toft and uprooted her seedlings, or your children broke her pots in a game
of football? An ordinary villager might get angry and demand compensation, or
might even break your own pots in revenge. But there was no way of knowing what
dark magic a cunning woman might weave if she took against you and gave you the
evil eye.

    Although
they were wary of her, that still didn't stop the villagers hastening to her
door when they or their cattle fell sick, or they wanted a charm to protect
their crops. Elena had been to Gytha's croft several times over the years. Her
mother had taken her there as a baby when she'd fallen ill with the quinsy and
later with agues and fevers. A neighbour had carried her as a child with a deep
stab wound to her thigh when she had fallen on the prongs of a dung drag. If
such a wound had festered, Elena might easily have lost her leg or even her
life, as many a strapping man had done.

    But
Gytha had dressed the cut with herbs and then she had taken a rosy apple and
thrust twelve thorns into it to draw the poison from the wound. And it had
worked; the deep wound had healed without festering, though Elena still bore a
silvery-white scar in the shape of a rosebud on her hip. A sign of hope and
promise, everyone said. What better omen of future love and happiness could any
young girl be blessed with?

    Now
Gytha sat sideways to Elena on a low stool, trying to catch the last of the
fading winter light from the open doorway as she picked over a bowl of beans.
She was a tall, lithe woman, with hair as dark as a raven's wing and slate-blue
eyes, colder than steel in winter. Her mother occupied the single bed in the
corner of the cottage which was heaped with blankets and threadbare cloaks
piled over her against the cold.

    The
old woman, once a great healer herself, sat upright in the bed, her blue eyes
now milky with blindness. She mumbled constantly to herself, her twisted
fingers fumbling with a heap of bleached white bones in her lap, the vertebrae
of cats, foxes and sheep mostly, though some in the village whispered that
there were little children's bones among the pile. All the same, they pitied
the poor old woman for her infirmity. Gytha and her mother had cures for every
ailment a man could suffer, so the villagers said, but they had no cure for old
age.

    Gytha
tossed a handful of beans into the pot bubbling on the fire in the centre of
the earth floor. 'So how does this dream of yours end?'

    'I
pick the baby up . . .' Elena faltered, twisting a handful of her thick russet
kirtle.

    Gytha
glanced sharply over at her. 'And then?'

    'That's
all. Then I wake up.' Elena watched the orange • flames running lightly over
the branch on the fire. She could feel Gytha's eyes on her, but she was afraid
to meet her gaze in case Gytha read something in her face, something Elena did
not want to hear uttered aloud.

    'So
in this dream you hear a bairn cry and you pick it up.' She snorted in
disbelief. 'If that really were all, lass, you'd not have come to me.'

    Gytha
laid aside the bowl of beans and crossed to where Elena sat and pulled her to
her feet. Before Elena could stop her, she was pressing Elena's belly.

    'Thought
as much. Three or four moons gone, I reckon. Was well timed. Green mist babies
are born small, but they thrive better. Does that lad of yours know his seed's
sprouting?'