The Gallows Curse

Retribution



Raffaele grasped Elena's arm so hard she thought he would snap the bone. He tugged her towards the open metal grill in the floor of the undercroft beneath the Great Hall.

'Down there,' he ordered, indicating the rickety wooden ladder which plunged into the dark pit below. Raffaele held up his lantern to illuminate the first rungs. Although the sun had not yet set, in the far corner of the undercroft behind the kegs and barrels it was already dark. Elena peered down. The pit was twice as deep as a man's height. The bailiff stood at the bottom, staring up at her, holding up a short iron chain which was fastened at one end to the wall, while from the other end of the chain dangled an open iron collar. The flame from his lantern flickered across the beaten earth floor covered with dirty straw, and over the stone walls green and slimy from the damp. A stench of decay rose up on the cold, wet air that seemed to come from an open grave. Elena shuddered, trying to pull away.

'No, please don't put me down there, please, I beg you.' She turned desperately to Raffaele. 'You could chain me up here in the cellar.'

'And have you rescued?' Raffaele said harshly. 'You choose, you can either climb down that ladder yourself or I'll throw you down, and I can promise you lying there with broken bones will be a thousand times worse.'

Raffaele was holding her so close to the edge that she knew the slightest flexing of his arm would send her crashing down. The violent way he had dragged her from the Great Hall left her in no doubt that he was angry enough to do it. In the Hall he had seemed to be on her side, the only one who believed her. She couldn't understand why he had turned against her. Did he too now believe what Joan had said?

Shakily Elena climbed down the ladder and offered no resistance when the bailiff pushed her against the wall and bolted the iron collar around her neck.

'You'll be in good company down here.' The bailiff inclined his head towards a rough stone wall on one side of the cell. 'Sir Gerard's mouldering behind there. You'd best make friends with his corpse; you'll soon be one yourself.'

He tugged hard on the chain, to test the fastening, jerking the collar so that it bruised her throat, almost choking her. 'Not that you'll be resting in some fancy leaded coffin. Osborn'll have your body hanged in a gibbet cage till you've rotted away to bones, then they'll pound them to pieces and toss them in the marsh. And good riddance too, that's what I say. Nowt more evil creature on this earth than a woman who murders her own innocent bairn; 'gainst all nature, that is.'

Satisfied the chain was secure, he picked up his lantern and started up the ladder.

As the shadows rose up from the floor around her, Elena cried out, 'Leave me the light, for pity's sake.'

The bailiff paused at the top of the ladder and laughed. 'What do you need a light for, girl, there's nowt to see, save the rats and old Gerard's ghost when he comes for you.'

Raffaele's fist struck as swiftly as a viper's fangs, catching the bailiff on the side of the head and almost sending him crashing back into the pit.

'Sir Gerard to you, you son of a whore. And don't ever let me hear you speak of his ghost in front of her ladyship.'

But the next minute Raffaele was reaching out his hand and hauling the stunned bailiff up on to the floor of the cellar as if he was his closest friend.

'Come on, man, there's a flagon of wine waiting for us in the Hall. Leave this murdering witch to the rats. With any luck, they'll finish her and spare us the trouble of a hanging'

The two men hauled the ladder up through the hatch. The iron grill slammed shut and Elena saw the glow of their lantern light grow fainter as they walked away. At least they hadn't closed the wooden trapdoor on top of it; she couldn't bear to think of being sealed in as if she was in ... a coffin.

She was to die. She knew it and yet such a thing didn't seem possible. She couldn't make herself grasp the reality of it. In a few brief hours she would be dead, sent to the next world, and then what? Torment and torture without any end, like those pictures on the church wall of men and women being forced into the flames, boiling helplessly in cauldrons, their limbs hacked off or pierced with knives. She found herself retching in fear. No, no, she couldn't think of it, she mustn't think.

She crouched on the damp, mouldy straw in the corner of the tiny cell. Even had she not been chained to the wall, she would have crouched against it, too terrified to let go of the solidness of it and drown in the nothingness beyond. She had never known darkness so thick, so complete, as if she had been blinded.

She strained, trying to hear any rustling in the straw, but she could hear nothing except her own heart pounding. She tried desperately not to think of the corpse lying no more than a foot away, behind the loose rocks. Would she hear the coffin lid grate open?

Only yesterday she was stirring Athan's supper over their fire and now she was here, and they meant to hang her. They couldn't. It wasn't possible. She was innocent. Didn't they understand she'd given her child away to keep him safe? They must believe her. Gytha would return before morning. She'd tell them the baby was alive. Gytha must come back and tell them. She must.

Elena drew her legs up to her chin, wrapping her arms tightly about them and resting her head on the wall behind. Suddenly aware of the burning throbbing of her breasts, bursting with the milk her son would never drink, she tried to ease them, but they hurt so much she could hardly bear to touch them. She was so tired. She had not slept at all last night and all she wanted to do now was to sink into the oblivion of sleep, but if she did, then her last few hours of life would be gone and the morning would come instantly before she had time to prepare herself. If she could stay awake she could somehow stretch out those hours and give Gytha time to return.

She must pray. She must say the words that would save her from the fires of hell. But she couldn't remember what the dying were supposed to say. Maybe she'd never known. It had been three years since the churches had been open for services and she couldn't recall any of the words the priests had recited. She always said her prayers, of course, for things that no priest would ever pray — Make Athan love me. But those were her words, not the right words, not the Latin words, and she knew only the magic words of the priests had the power to save a person from hell.

Holy Virgin, Holy Mother, save me. But Mary was a mother, a good mother. She hadn't dreamt of killing her son. Was the Holy Virgin as disgusted with her as her own mam was? Would she refuse to listen because Elena was in her heart a murderer? To think about doing something, the village priest had once told her, was as wicked as actually doing it. It was the same sin. She had murdered her baby, because she had thought about murdering him, over and over again. She was guilty.





She holds the baby dangling from her hands, like a dead rabbit. The scarlet blood from his head is dripping down on to a piece of white cloth. The fat drops of blood spread out on the cloth, merging into one another, until the white is lost entirely. Now the cloth is as red as hawthorn berries, as if it had always been red. Her rage has slowly trickled away with the dripping blood and now she is staring at the tiny corpse, unable to believe what she has done. Not believing that she has done it. She knows she must have done it. She knows she wanted to. She was consumed by hatred, burning up with the desire to smash, to hurt, to destroy. But she doesn't remember killing him.

All she knows is that she is holding the dead infant and she is alone. Her legs give way and she falls to her knees, the baby drops from her grasp on to the bloody cloth. She turns and vomits. Shakily she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, and when she turns back, the baby is lying there, looking up at her with wide blue eyes which do not blink. His soft lips are parted as if he has opened them to suckle, but no breath comes from them.

She hadn't meant to hurt him. That's all she can think. She hadn't meant to do it. She hears a creaking, a door opening behind her. She whirls round.





The iron ring caught her hard across the throat as she moved, jerking her awake with a cry of pain. Something was creaking open, something was grating towards her. She heard the sound of rasping breath. Elena sensed something moving beside her — the wall, the stones, were they being pushed outward? Was Gerard's corpse . . . ? She screamed.

'Be quiet, girl, do you want to wake the whole manor?' a boy's voice whispered from the dark.

Then came the faint glow of a lantern muffled beneath a cloak and she realized the wooden ladder was sliding down towards her. Minutes later the wood groaned under the weight of a heavy man descending cautiously into the pit.

Raffaele set the lantern down and reached out towards her. She was certain he was going to hurt her, probably rape her. She kicked and pushed him, struggling away from his long fingers until she was choking on the iron collar. She tried to scream again, but his hand clamped hard across her mouth. . 'Stop struggling, you little idiot,' Raffaele whispered. 'What are you kicking me for? Can't you see I've come to help you? But there isn't much time. They'll come for you at dawn and you must be long gone by then. We have to hurry. Now, will you promise to stay quiet?'

She nodded and he slowly withdrew his hand from her mouth and reached for a key in his scrip. Clumsily he tried to unlock the collar. Cursing her, he thrust the lantern into her hand. 'Here, hold it up so that I can see, and stay still.'

Dumbly she did as she was bid and moments later he was climbing the ladder and ordering her to follow. He helped her over the edge of the pit, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the darkened undercroft, weaving through the barrels and past the cart until they reached the archway leading into the courtyard. There he paused, peering out.

It could not be too far off dawn now, for torches intended to illuminate the courtyard were almost burnt away. Raffaele had timed it well. Crushing her between himself and the wall, he hurried her round the edge of the courtyard until they reached the huge bossed gate. The shutter on the window of the tiny gate lodge lay open, and from inside came the sound of pig-heavy snores.

Raffaele bent close to Elena. 'Here, take your scrip and your cloak, you'll need them. As soon as I open the door, you run. Run for the ditch on the other side of the track. Hide and wait for me there. Don't move, understand?'

He pushed her into position next to the opening of the small wicket gate set into the large, imposing manor gate. As carefully as he could, he eased up the beam and pulled the door towards him, but not quietly enough. A hound leapt up, barking furiously, straining at its chain. There was a grunt and a curse, as inside the gatehouse old Walter struggled off his cot. All at once every hound in the manor took up the cry of the guard dogs. Raffaele pushed Elena through the gate and slammed it behind her.

Elena picked up her skirts and ran stumbling and tripping across the grass over the cart-rutted track and towards the ditch on the other side. She could hear shouts and barks from behind the manor wall. Desperately she tried to look for some hiding place, but between the manor and the ditch there was only a line of slender birch trees and bushes that would not hide a rabbit, never mind a woman. She crouched behind them praying the darkness would cover what the trees would not.

Every sense was screaming at her to run, but he'd said to wait. She must wait, but for how long? Why didn't he come? It would soon be dawn and as soon as the light began to creep over the marshes, she'd have no hope of escape. She must go now before it was too late.

She tensed herself and stepped out from behind the trees, but instantly drew back again as the huge manor door swung open. Raffaele strode through, but he was not alone. Four men stumbled out after him, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and hard on their heels came two more who held the leashes of two pairs of hounds. The dogs were almost choking themselves on their collars as they strained forward, sniffing excitedly at the ground. The hounds were searching for her scent. Almost vomiting with fear, Elena looped the leather strap of her scrip over her neck and scrambled towards the ditch behind her. She dropped into it, trying to smother a cry as the cold water rose to her thighs. She crouched down till she was neck-deep in the stinking water and huddled into the reeds.

'Over here!' the gatekeeper shouted.

Elena could hear the hounds snuffling and barking above her. A few yards away a duck, unnerved by the dogs, flapped in fright along the surface of the ditch.

'Keep those hounds on the leash, damn you!' Raffaele yelled.

'But they've found something,' Walter protested.

'Water rats, that's all. I told you, I saw the thief head off towards the village. Now you take those mangy hounds and track him down. And if you come back without him, by God's teeth, I'll flay the hide off you myself for leaving that gate unfastened.'

'It was secure. I checked it myself, like always,' poor Walter protested. 'I swear by my right hand, I didn't leave it unbarred.'

'Find him,' Raffaele roared, 'or I'll keep you to your oath and take your hand, and the same goes for each and every one of you idle bastards.'

The men did not need telling twice; pulling their reluctant hounds away from the ditch, they set off hastily in the direction of the village, with Raffaele's curses and threats chasing them till they were out of hearing.

When the sound of the barking had died away, Raffaele came to the edge of the ditch and softly called out to Elena.

She struggled to clamber out, holding up her hand for him to help her. But instead of pulling her out, he took off his boots, tied them by the laces around his neck, and slipped into the ditch beside her. He hauled her towards him, but she was so numb with cold and fear she could hardly stand.

'I've friends waiting for us where the ditch meets the river, but they'll not wait past first light. We have to hurry,' he added, looking anxiously towards the marshes. 'Best keep to the ditch. They think the gate was opened by the thief, but if someone thinks to check the prisoner hole and they find it empty, they'll send the hounds after you. With luck the water'll throw them off the scent. Come on, we must be well away before they realize you're gone.'

Elena shivered and tried to wade forward, but her feet had sunk deep into thick mud at the bottom of the ditch and her long skirts were dragging her back. 'I can't,' she moaned.

'You'd rather face the hangman's noose? You'll be a long time dancing on that rope for I doubt even your own mother would pull on your legs to end your suffering.' He slipped an arm around her and tugged her forward, saying more gently, 'Just to the end of the ditch, then you'll be safe.'

They waded up through the tar-black water, their feet sucked back at every step by the mud. Every now and then waterfowl would fly out of the reeds and go splashing and squawking up the ditch. Something large, soft and wet washed against Elena's legs, and she clung more tightly to Raffaele, trying to console herself that whatever creature it was, at least it wasn't moving.

Suddenly Raffaele stopped and pulled her down until they were crouching among the reeds. The wind carried the distant baying of hounds towards them.

'Damn them!' Raffaele cursed. 'I think they're doubling back, or else Osborn's sent out more of his hounds.'

They crouched, hardly daring to breathe. Were the dogs getting closer or was it the wind playing tricks? Elena gave a yelp as something scurried out of the reeds and across her head, its sharp claws digging into her face; she wildly beat it off and it fell into the water with a splash. She could hear a heart pounding, but she wasn't sure if it was her own or Raffaele's.

He glanced up at the lightening sky. 'We daren't wait. If the boatmen leave before we reach them, you and I are both dead.'

All caution abandoned, he splashed through the water as fast as the sucking mud permitted, dragging Elena with him.

Light was ghosting across the marshes, pale as buttermilk. Ahead of them they could hear the river thrashing between its banks. And, as if eager to join its bigger sister, the water around them in the ditch suddenly quickened its pace and began to buffet against the backs of their legs.

Raffaele pulled Elena towards the bank, almost flinging her against it. 'Out quickly. If you're tipped into the river, you may be swept away.'

Elena, her hands numb with cold, fought to drag her heavy sodden skirts out of the water and crawl up the bank. Her legs were trembling and she collapsed on to the top of the bank, trying to gain her breath, but Raffaele would not let her rest. Hauling her upright, he pulled her, crashing through the bushes and trees, towards the river. They burst out on to the bank and gazed wildly around. Light was just touching the far edge of the river. Already a dazzling orange rind was edging into the pale sky. The river was empty save for three swans floating serenely towards them on the glittering water.

'God's teeth, where's that blasted boat? I told them to meet me here.'

Elena caught Raffaele's arm and pointed to the bend upstream in the river, where she could just make out the shape of a long, flat craft slowly sculling away from them.

Raffaele started forward, and putting his fingers in his mouth gave three shrill whistles, but the boat had already vanished round the bend of the river. He groaned. 'I'll kill them if I ever get my hands on them, they swore . . .'

The deep, resonant baying of the hounds sounded once more through the silent dawn; they seemed to be getting closer. Elena glanced fearfully behind her, shivering in her wet clothes.

'You must go back. If you're missing they'll know it was you that released me. I can run.'

'By now Osborn will have ordered you brought up for your execution and they'll have already discovered you've gone.' Raffaele raked his fingers agitatedly through his hair. 'He'll send his men out searching for you on horseback. You'll never outrun them. We must —'

He was interrupted by a low whistle and glancing up saw the boat being sculled back towards them by two men, their faces half hidden under their hoods.

Raffaele crossed himself. 'The Holy Virgin be praised.'

As soon as the boat pulled alongside, Raffaele bundled Elena on board. He tossed a small leather purse to the elder of the two men whose face was tanned and as wrinkled as oak bark.

'Half the money you were promised. You deliver her unharmed to the house we agreed and as soon as word reaches me they've got her safe you'll get the rest.'

The man spat into the water and gave a toothless grin. 'They'll keep her snug and safe all right.'

There was something in that mocking tone that frightened Elena. In all her anxiety to get away, it had not occurred to her to ask Raffaele where he was sending her.

She half clambered back out of the boat. 'Where are they taking me?'

The men in the boat exchanged grins, but Raffaele ignored them, pushing Elena gently back in.

'To a friend of mine at Norwich, Mother Margot. She'll take you into her house. No one will think to look for you there.'

Elena breathed out in relief. Mother Margot, she would be the prioress of a nunnery. The boatman was right, she would be safe there. No one could search a nunnery, could they? She had always been a little afraid of nuns with their austere habits and even grimmer expressions, but if they could save her from Osborn and the noose .... she glanced up at the rising sun and shuddered. If Raffaele hadn't rescued her, by now she would already be strangling on a rope. Her fingers massaged her throat.

'Master Raffaele, I'll work, do anything. I'll repay the money somehow.' She touched his hand and gazed up at him with a grateful smile.

Far from being pleased, his expression suddenly changed to one of anger. 'I don't care about the money, but I told you that first day I brought you to Lady Anne that if you needed a friend you were to come to me. You should have told me about the child. I would have helped you. It didn't need to come to this. We are bound to each other, you and I. You should have trusted me, Elena.'

'But you have helped me more than I could ask. I —'

The boatman suddenly jerked upright. 'Horses coming this way, moving fast.' Before Elena realized what was happening the boatman had pushed her down flat in the bottom of the boat and was pulling a heavy, evil-smelling sail cloth over her.

'I'll come to you soon, Elena,' Raffaele whispered.

The men grunted as they dug their sculls into the water. Elena felt the craft inching slowly into the centre of the river. For a moment or two it hung there, then the boat gathered pace and slid quietly away into the dawn.





Walter was not at his post in the manor gatehouse when Raffe squelched into the courtyard, and as soon as he caught sight of the group of men standing beneath the undercroft, he knew why. He hesitated, trying to decide what stance he should adopt. Anger? Surprise? But he didn't get the chance to resolve anything for at that moment Osborn spotted him.

'Aah, here is Master Raffaele now. Perhaps he might shed some light on this matter.' He stared down at Raffe's sodden, muddy clothes. 'Have you been taking a bath, Master Raffaele? In the town it is customary to remove your clothes and use clean water, but perhaps you are more accustomed to bathing with the pigs in Gastmere. Or have you been doing more to those hapless sows than simply wallowing with them?'

It was a measure of the tension in the courtyard that no one laughed.

Raffe ignored the barb. 'I was searching the ditches for the thief, in case he was hiding from the hounds there. So, have you caught the rogue?'

Osborn took a pace forward, his ash-grey eyes narrowing as he searched Raffe's face. Raffe returned his stare without flinching.

'The girl that was to be hanged,' Osborn said dangerously quietly. 'She appears to have vanished. The bailiff swears he locked her in the neck iron, removed the ladder from the pit and fastened the grid above her. He says you were witness to this.'

Raffe glanced over at the bailiff's frightened face. 'It is as he says, and then we went to the kitchens together for a mug of ale.'

'If that is so,' Osborn said, 'someone came during the night and released her. She could not have escaped from the iron or that pit unaided. But if it was in the night, how did she get out of the courtyard without our faithful watchman hearing her?'

It was Walter's turn to look fearful, as well he might. A watchman who allows a prisoner to walk unchallenged through his gates could hardly expect to escape without punishment.

Walter twisted his hood nervously in his hand. 'Girl must have slipped out when I opened the gates for the men to give chase to the thief. I swear not a flea could have escaped afore that, 'cause my hounds —'

'Ah yes, this mysterious vanishing thief who appears to have stolen . . . what was it? Ah yes, precisely nothing. It was you who raised the alarm, was it not, Master Raffaele? What exactly did you see?'

Raffe didn't hesitate. This much he had already rehearsed in his head. 'I saw someone coming round the back of the kitchen, but his face was in shadows. At first I thought him to be a servant, but as soon as he saw me, he ran for the gate, so I knew it was someone with no business at the manor. But it wasn't the girl, of that I'm certain, the figure was too tall and broad for that.'

And what made you think —' Osborn began, but he was interrupted by shrieks and bellows from the track outside.

Several of the manor's burlier servants tumbled through the open gate. They were dragging a man and a woman between them, but they were having difficulty holding the man, who was wriggling like an eel.

Raffe's heart gave a sickening lurch. Blessed Holy Virgin, let it not be Elena or the boatman.

But as the servants gave the man a violent shove forwards, Raffe saw that their prisoner was Athan who, despite his hands being lashed behind him, was putting up a furious struggle.

The two servants behind were having an easier time of it, for their captive was putting up no resistance at all. Cecily, Elena's mother, was shuffling meekly between them, her head hanging so low it seemed that if they released her she would instantly burrow into the earth and hide from the shame of it all. But neither Athan nor Cecily was responsible for the noise. All the shrieks and wails were emanating from a third figure, Athan's mother, Joan, who was scurrying behind the servants and taking every opportunity to slap, bite and kick the men holding her son.

Osborn gestured to the ground and the two prisoners were forced to their knees in the muck of the courtyard. It had the effect of immediately silencing everyone, even Joan, who stood fish-eyed behind the group, her fists pressed to her mouth, gazing at Osborn.

He took his time, pacing back and forth in front of Athan and Cecily, staring hard into their faces until both were visibly trembling. Finally he spoke.

'Elena has run away from the manor. As villeins I trust

I need not remind you how serious an offence that is in itself, but if that were not bad enough, she is a convicted murderer and under sentence of death.'

Osborn continued to pace back and forth between Athan and Cecily. As you well know, anyone, anyone who assists a convicted felon to escape puts themselves under the same sentence as the prisoner they try to aid. Nevertheless, last night someone was foolish enough to help a murderer escape justice.'

As if his words were a child's counting game, on the word justice Osborn halted abruptly in front of Athan and, without warning, seized a handful of the kneeling man's hair, yanking his head upwards. You, as the girl's lover, are the obvious suspect.'

Athan's normally rosy face was ashen. 'On my life I swear I didn't, my lord. Remember .. . remember it was us, me and my mam, who told you that Elena had done away with my son. What cause would I have to rescue her?'

Osborn pulled Athan's head back so far, Raffe thought he might snap the lad's neck. 'Don't tell me what I remember as if I'm in my dotage, boy. What I remember is that you told me nothing at all. It was your mother who did all the talking yesterday. You were besotted with this girl. I'll always love you, wasn't that what you swore —'

Joan could contain herself no longer. 'My lad thought that harlot as wicked as I did. It was his own dear bairn that evil woman murdered. Poor lad's beside himself with grief. It's as certain as a stone wall to a blind man that he'd not lift a finger to help that murdering slut. Besides,' she added with an angry lift of her chin, 'he was at home with me all night, never left the cottage till daybreak.'

Osborn snorted. You can't really imagine that I would take the word of a doting mother as proof of her son's whereabouts? You'd no doubt swear your son could spin straw into gold, if you thought it to his advantage.' But despite his words, Osborn let Athan's head drop.

He took a pace towards Cecily, standing so close to the kneeling woman that his crotch was pushing into her face.

'I take it you are the girl's mother. It was you, was it not, who screamed when sentence was pronounced yesterday, the only villager who raised any protest to her hanging? A mother would do anything to save her own daughter, wouldn't she?'

Cecily raised a tearstained face. 'I couldn't believe my own bairn . . . my own flesh and blood would do such a wicked thing. I'd . . . heard her speak of this . . . dream, same as Joan, but it's well known pregnant women are often tormented in their sleep by demons who are jealous of the babes they carry. I never thought she'd really . . .'

'So you helped her escape,' Osborn said quietly. 'That was foolish, extremely foolish, but then all women are fools for their children.'

'I didn't, my lord. I swear I didn't!' Cecily wailed. 'No woman wants to see her own bairn hang, but what could I have done to prevent it? Even if I'd had the courage to help her, how would I have got the key to unlock the pit or her irons?'

There was an instant buzzing among the servants. Osborn held up his hands for silence.

'Your daughter admitted that she was in the habit of consulting a cunning woman. Doubtless you did the same and managed to release your daughter by witchcraft.'

Cecily moaned and swayed as if she was about to faint. 'No, no!'

Raffe, with a sick feeling of dread, knew exactly where this line of questioning could end. Desperate to stop it, he broke in.

'M'lord, the cunning women have gone from the village. Wasn't it their very absence that helped to convict the girl in the first place? So where would Cecily have got help to conjure such a powerful sorcery that would have made locks fly open without a key?'

Osborn took a step back from the sobbing woman; the expression on his coarse features was one approaching triumph.

'So, Master Raffaele, you are minded to pit wits with me, are you? If you are so certain that this is not witchcraft, then we must resume our search for mortal hands. So tell me this, who obtained the key to release the girl? Consider your answer carefully, Master Raffaele. For I promise you there shall be a hanging today, if not of the girl, then of her accomplice.'

Raffe swallowed hard, realizing too late what he'd said. He stared into those mocking grey eyes, trying to discover if Osborn already knew the truth and this whole exercise had just been a mummers' play designed to display Osborn's power and his own humiliation.

Raffe had never lied in his life to avoid just punishment, but to let Osborn hang him like a pickpocket, to have Osborn's laughter be the last thing he ever heard — he would not submit to that. And what of Elena? Osborn would surely try to extract her whereabouts from him before he hanged him. Raffe could bear pain better than most men — over the years he'd learned that the mind could force the body to fight almost anything — but Osborn was capable of inflicting hurt far beyond the imagination of most men.

Raffe, acutely conscious that Osborn was waiting, opened his mouth without the faintest idea what he intended to say, but before he could say anything, a voice behind him interrupted.

'I released the girl, Lord Osborn.'

Raffe spun round to see Lady Anne, composed but pale, her hands clasped across her stomach. 'I believed your sentence to be unjust. I know all the families of this manor — for years they were in my care and charge. Elena was my personal maid for a short time and I could not stand by and see her punished for something I am certain she did not do.'

For a moment Osborn just gaped at her, the colour rising in his face. "Your maid?' Osborn crossed towards her in three swift strides, thrusting his bearded face into hers. Your son is no longer master here, I am, and by God, I will teach you what that means.'

Anne regarded him calmly. 'Even you cannot have a noblewoman hanged on your whim, Lord Osborn.'

'No, but I will make you wish I could. You were very close to your son, weren't you, m'lady? How would you like to be even closer? Let's see if a month chained in the pit next to his rotting corpse will tame you. You won't look much like a noblewoman when you get out of there, that I promise you.'

Anne blanched visibly, swaying backwards. You wouldn't dare,' she blazed, but the quaver in her voice betrayed her fear.

Osborn's mouth curved in a humourless smile. You think not?' He turned to the servants. 'Take her to the pit.'

But no one moved. They all stood frozen, staring at him, shock on every face.

'No.' Raffe stepped hastily between Anne and Osborn. 'She did not release the girl. I —'

'He's right, m'lord,' a timid voice broke in.

Hilda was hovering by her mistress's side, her arm thrust out in front of Anne as if she thought she could simply flap away any man who approached.

'My mistress was sound asleep in bed all night.'

'No, Hilda!' Anne protested, but for once her faithful maid ignored her.

'Lady Anne was so upset about the girl, I knew she'd never rest, so I added a few drops of poppy juice to her posset. She wouldn't have been able to stir from her bed, never mind help that wicked girl. I knew that girl was trouble, taking advantage of poor Lady Anne's trusting nature. Evil, that's what she was.'

Anne gave a shuddering sigh. 'Hilda is confused, I didn't...' she began, but all the words seemed to have drained out of her. She swayed alarmingly and had to clutch Hilda's arm to stop herself falling.

Osborn spun around to face Raffe, his eyes flashing with rage.

'So!' he bellowed. 'It seems we come full circle. Who released the girl? As steward you are responsible for the conduct and discipline of my villeins, therefore you will decide. The girl's lover or her mother, which one will hang in her place? You may choose.'

Cecily, Athan and Joan all let out a shriek of anguish. Their horrified faces turned towards Raffe. For a moment he was too stunned to speak.

'No! No, you can't ask me to choose. You have no proof that either of them did it.'

'In that case I have no alternative but to hold Lady Anne responsible. After all, she did confess and her maid is doubtless lying out of a misguided sense of loyalty. Perhaps I should reward that loyalty by allowing her to join her mistress in the pit.'

Hilda whimpered in protest, but Osborn ignored her.

'Come now, Master Raffaele, do you really think a woman of Lady Anne's delicate breeding would survive a month in the dark, chained up in the cold and damp, with only bread and water to sustain her? I've seen men driven mad in half that time left alone in the dark. And next to her poor son's corpse too. What a torment that would be for a doting mother.'

Raffe's gaze flicked to Anne's face. She held her head defiantly high, but he saw the tremble of her mouth and the lines around her tired eyes. She would go into that pit with dignity if she had to, but they both knew she would not come out alive.

'So I repeat, Master Raffaele, it is your choice. Lover or mother, which shall I hang?'

In the courtyard none of the servants moved. The wind stirred their clothes, as if they were rags on stone statues. Athan's face was almost green, as if he was about to vomit. His eyes were closed and his lips moved frantically as he mumbled what sounded like a prayer. Cecily was crouching on the ground, her arms cradling her head, rocking backwards and forwards. Joan was twisting the cloth of her skirts, and gabbling frantic pleas for mercy. But she was sobbing so hard, it was impossible to tell if she was begging Raffe, Osborn or the Almighty to spare her precious son.

All the servants' eyes were fastened upon Raffe, but he couldn't look at anyone. He stared up. A flock of starlings, like a pillar of smoke, spun across the pale blue sky towards the marshes. Raffe knew what Gerard would have done, he'd have confessed in an instant. He'd never let someone else die for him, but then Gerard was of noble blood and would never have had to face the gallows. Raffe could not bear to lose his life to Osborn, to die ridiculed and disgraced. He had lived his whole life in humiliation until Gerard had found him, and he would not die in shame now, not after all he had been through. And who would protect Lady Anne and Elena? He couldn't leave them undefended to Osborn's mercy. He had a duty to stay alive for them.

If that spineless oaf, Athan, had ever stood up to his mother and defended Elena as he should have done, then none of them would be in this position. Elena would be safe and all would be well. That wretch had seduced her, fathered a child by her, and then hadn't had the guts to try to save the mother of his own son from the gallows. Athan hadn't rescued Elena, but by God's blood, he should have done! Elena adored him, yet Athan would have stood next to his witch of a mother and watched the woman he claimed to love hanged before his eyes. Any bastard who did that deserved to die.

Raffe whipped around to face Osborn. Athan! Hang him.'

'Not my son!' Joan screamed. 'You can't. Take her. Take Cecily. It's her daughter who's the murderer. She's to blame. She is Elena's mother, so it's her fault if the girl turned bad. Not my boy! Not my innocent little bairn!' She fell on her son, trying to cradle him as if she could protect him.

Osborn watched them, a look of triumph on his face. 'A wise choice, Master Raffaele, we'll have you broken to the bridle yet.'

He spun on his heels, pointing at the men holding Athan. 'String him up at once, and let's be done with this before some fool tries to rescue him.'

The men dragged Athan over to a thick metal hook that hung from the curved vault of the undercroft beneath the Great Hall. A stout rope already dangled from the hook with a noose at one end. Athan shrank from it, cowering and whimpering.

With a howl of anguish, Joan threw herself on the ground at Osborn's feet, clinging to his legs, begging and pleading. Osborn gazed down at her for a moment, then, as if she was a stray dog peeing on his leg, he kicked her away.

Yesterday you were happy enough to see another woman's child hanged, so this is only justice, is it not? Perhaps you and the rest of the villagers will learn it is wiser to settle your petty squabbles among yourselves and not waste the time of great men.'

A bench had been placed beneath the noose, but Athan had collapsed on the floor, vomiting with fear. They tried to make him clamber up on to the bench, but he couldn't or wouldn't stand. In the end two men were forced to lift him bodily on to it and stand either side of him, holding him upright between them as the third placed the noose around his neck and drew the rope tight.

Athan's face was contorted in terror. He seemed to be mouthing something but no one knew if it was a plea or a prayer. All eyes turned to Osborn.

'What are you waiting for?' snapped Osborn. 'I said hang him at once.'

The two men holding Athan jumped down as the third kicked the bench from under him. He kicked and thrashed in agony, his eyes bulging, his face turning purple.

'Help him,' Joan screamed, 'help my boy.' She tried to reach him, but two servants held her back.

'Leave him,' Osborn ordered. 'Let him dance. It will be a salutary lesson to others. No one's to touch him till nightfall.'

Raffe, casting a furious glance at Osborn, ran towards the strangling lad and seized both legs in an iron grip. He pulled violently downwards. instantly the jerking stopped. Athan's head lolled to one side in the noose. The eyes glazed and fixed. It was all over. Only Joan's sobbing broke the silence.

Raffe walked slowly through the crowd of silent servants without looking at anyone. As he passed, Osborn seized Raffe's arm and yanked him round to face him.

'You'll pay dearly for that,' Osborn growled. 'And if I ever find a way to prove that you had a hand in that girl's disappearance, by God, I'll make you wish it was you who had hanged this day, not him.'

Raffe tore himself out of Osborn's grasp, his face expressionless, and continued walking towards the gate.

Behind him he heard Osborn yelling, You needn't think this death wipes out the girl's punishment. I won't rest until she's dragged back here at a horse's tail. I'll find her, Master Raffaele, sooner or later I'll find her, you can be sure of that.'