The Gallows Curse

The Stew



A wisp of lilac smoke filtered up through the bright green leaves of the great beech tree, dissolving before it could touch the pale dawn sky. Beneath the branches, Gytha turned the wizened apple in her hand, counting the thorns pressed into the flesh: eena, deena, dina, das, catiler, weena, winna, was, eena, deena. The counting was to strengthen the power of the fetch, but Gytha knew exactly how many thorns she had used — one to bring the girl, and one for the babe, and now to set them spinning. She plucked the third thorn and dropped it on to a stone in the glowering embers of the fire. It lay for a moment before suddenly blazing into a single flame. Then almost before she could draw breath it had vanished, leaving a tiny mound of ash in the shape of a little grey fox. Gytha smiled to herself as she blew the ash into the wind.

She added a few sticks to the fire and rocked back on her heels, gazing up at the canopy above. The sunlight trickled down through the branches, illuminating the tiny cobweb of veins in every tender new leaf. It was a good time of year to be living outdoors. She'd missed this.

Gytha sensed a movement behind her, but she didn't bother to turn her head. She knew a lad had been hovering out of sight in the forest since first light, trying to pluck up the courage to approach the clearing.

At last the boy cleared his throat. 'There's this lass.'

He added no further explanation, as if he thought those three words were more than enough for anyone to expect of him. He continued to study her intently as she mended the fire, as though he thought there was dark magic in the way she laid the wood or blew upon the embers.

'Can you do it?' he finally blurted out.

'Course she can,' Madron said.

The boy spun round as if an arrow had struck him.

'Who was that?' he asked, looking fearfully about him. 'Was it a spirit?'

'An evil old spirit,' Gytha muttered.

Then, seeing the boy's terrified expression, she relented and gestured towards a little bothy woven from branches and last year's bracken, half hidden under the trees.

'Just the old besom in there. She's blind. She'll not hurt you.'

The boy took several steps backwards, not at all convinced by this assurance.

He was one of the sons of the charcoal makers who lived most of the year deep in the forest, tending their fires night and day. Every inch of visible skin was grimed with smoke and burnt wood, and his clothes were many layers of mud- coloured rags. He was a tall, angular creature, thin as a sapling that has shot up too fast. His blond hair bushed out wildly from beneath his cap, grazing his shoulders. He fidgeted restlessly like a child, but the sparse growth on his lip and chin suggested he might be older than he looked.

Gytha sighed. 'So, this girl you're in love with, when did you last see her?'

With another fearful glance at the bothy, the lad wrenched his attention back to Gytha.

'At Michaelmas, at the Herring Fair on the isle of Yarmouth. M'father took us there to sell the charcoal to the ships. M'father and brothers sent me to buy us some supper first day and there she was, walking up the length of the sand selling oysters from a great pannier on her back. I went back the next day, and the next, to buy oysters, twice sometimes, till m'brothers said they were sick of the sight of them, but then I went just to stand and watch her. She was ... like a queen, her hair ... it was sparkling all over like she was wearing jewels. When I told her, she said they were fish scales blown there by the wind, and she laughed and these two little dimples —'

'Did you tell her you loved her?' Gytha interrupted, knowing from experience that love-lorn youths can easily talk to a woman about their sweethearts all day, given any encouragement.

The boy hung his head and scuffed the deep leaf litter miserably with his bare toe.

'You didn't.' Gytha said.

'But this year when we go back I'll do it. I will this time, only. . . what if she's fallen for another afore I can tell her. . .'

'Then you'll need something to make her fall out of love with him and fall in love with you.'

'Can you give me something that'll make it happen?' the lad asked eagerly.

'I'll need something of hers to use in the charm. Do you have anything that she's touched or worn? A lock of this wondrous hair of hers? A scrap of ribbon?'

The lad hesitated, then reached into his shirt and pulled out half an oyster shell that dangled round his neck from a bit of twine.

'She opened this herself and poured the oyster into her own mouth. Then she threw the shell away. But I picked it up and kept it,' he said, touching the flaking shell as reverently as a holy relic.

Gytha was sure he was blushing beneath the grime. She pressed her lips tightly together to keep from grinning. Men, like dogs, hate to be laughed at. She held out her hand.

'If she's eaten from it, that'll do fine. Come back at sunset for the charm.'

Gytha knew that the affair was as doomed as the salmon and the swallow who fell in love. The lad was a creature of the forest; the girl belonged to the sea, so where would they build their nest? But the young foolishly believe love can overcome all obstacles.

'You'll not lose the shell?' the lad asked anxiously.

'I'll guard it like pearls.'

The boy carefully placed the oyster shell in her hand and bounded off.

Gytha turned the shell over in her hand, caressing the smooth iridescent lining. She tilted it to the sun, watching the silver, blue and pinks flash across its shining surface like minnows in the brook.

'You going to use the same charm as you used on Sir Gerard?' Madron called out. 'It'll not last. I told you to use Yadua then, but you wouldn't listen.'

Gytha rose angrily and crossed to the bothy, glaring down at the old woman who lay inside, propped up on a bed of dried bracken.

'I told you, I used no charm on him. He wanted me. He would have taken me as his wife, had it not been for his mother.'

Madron wheezed with laughter. She turned milk-blind eyes towards Gytha, sensing exactly where she was standing.

'He was happy enough to bed you, lass, but a man of his blood doesn't wed a cunning woman, not even a free-born one, less he's witched. I warned you, it'd take more of a snare than your spread legs to catch a stag like him.'

You never wanted me to have him,' Gytha spat at her. 'Afraid I'd leave you to rot alone in your cottage with no one to cook and tend to you.'

'You were too old to be mooning around like a love-sick maid. Besides, you were quick enough to get your own back when Lady Anne stopped him coming near you.'

Gytha's head whipped up. 'I only spoke the truth.'

You did that all right, but did the truth need to be spoken?'

Gytha turned away, striding out through the trees with little idea of where she was going except to get far away from Madron's words. But she knew she could never do that. Madron had used those same words twenty years ago and they had burrowed deep inside Gytha like a tapeworm and would not release their grip.

Gerard had loved her once. She was certain of that. She had been his first love, older than him by six years, but what did age matter, they told each other. She had led him in his first tentative fumblings, their bodies pressed close together in the warm damp grass on a hot summer's evening.

But after a few meetings it had been him who'd taken her with a frenzied wonderment, as she helped him discover every secret pleasure of her body and of his. When they rolled from each other exhausted and utterly satisfied, they had lain there staring up at the stars through the trees. He had taught her names for the constellations, names that were foreign and strange, that he'd learned from books: Virgo, Leo and Scorpio. She had taught him her names, handed down for generations, familiar, comforting names: The Path of the Dead, the Plough, the Swan. And they listened to the owl calling to its mate, the nightjar and the vixen screaming, until he took her in his arms again and they heard nothing and saw nothing but the fire in each other's hearts.

After his mother found out, he did not come to her for many weeks. When he finally appeared, Gytha had been overjoyed to see him, adoring him the more for defying his mother. She'd come running towards him and flung her arms about him, kissing his neck. But he had held her by the shoulders, thrusting her away from him.

'I cannot. I came only to tell you that I am to be wed as soon as my father returns from the Holy Wars. I thought you should know. I was betrothed when I was a child.'

'Betrothed?' she repeated, stunned. 'All this time you were whispering your love for me, you were promised to another woman?'

He'd had the grace to look uncomfortable. 'I barely know the girl. We haven't met since we were little children. I thought you would realize all men in my position .. . Besides, you knew we had no future together, it was just a pleasant way to pass the time.'

'Pleasant!' she shrieked at him.

He'd tried to stop her raging torrent of words with his fingers, but she bit them, hard enough to draw blood. He swore, clamping his hand under his armpit. He said other things, words that were meant to soothe and mollify. But she did not hear any of them. She did not want to hear any of them.

After he left, she had raged and cried, planning spells and poisons, curses and love charms in equal measure, but in the end she had done none of those things.

Madron was right, she could have bound him to her with Yadua. She could have witched him so deeply he would have married her in defiance of a whole army of mothers. But what use is it to win a man by magic? What joy is there to lie in his arms realizing that he only holds you because he has no choice, and knows not what he is doing? What contentment is there to wake every morning wondering if this will be the day when the enchantment fails, and that when he opens his eyes and looks at you, you will see only hatred in them?

No, Gytha couldn't soothe her pain like that. In the cold grey dawn, after many sleepless nights, she could think of only one thing to avenge the hurt she felt. It would not bring him back to her, but it would punish him far more cruelly than any earthly power could devise. For as Madron had always taught her — the taste of revenge is far sweeter than love.





Luce led Elena towards the first of the entertaining rooms, as she called them. She flung the door of the chamber open and set about pushing wide the shutters to let in the early morning light.

You'd best start in here. Straighten the covers, see the oil lamps are filled and wicks trimmed ready. Then rake over the rushes on the floor and strew some fresh herbs in them. Ma likes the place kept sweet. You'll find the lamp oil and sacks of strewing herbs in the stores across the yard.'

The room, which last night had been filled with grunts of pleasure, this morning was empty and silent save for the gentle snores of a couple lying at the far end. They slept on, tangled in each other, naked except for a cloak which barely covered the girl's buttocks as she lay with one leg thrown across her client's groin.

Unlike the chamber where Elena had spent the night, this hall had low partitions dividing the pallets from each other, not for privacy, for they were open at one end to the narrow walkway between them, but to keep out the worst of the winter draughts and prevent the more vigorous of the customers from accidentally striking their neighbours or rolling on them as they flailed about in the throes of passion.

Luce sank down on the nearest cot and curled up, yawning.

'Best make a start, Holly.'

Elena moved awkwardly in the overlarge kirtle which Luce had lent her and began to smooth the covers in the first of the stalls. She was almost grateful for the work, for it was an everyday task, something any woman might do in her own croft. But this was not her own cottage, and as she bent she caught the strong, salt-sweet smell of stains on the covers and the thick stench of sweat, overlaid with musky perfumed oils. She recoiled, her hands trembling. Would a stranger force her down among these smells, these stains, till her hair reeked of them as Luce's did?

Attempting to calm herself, Elena looked around, trying to find something that did not shriek at her of what went on in this room. Nailed to the wall near the door she noticed a long board divided into squares in each of which there seemed to be a painting of sorts. Curiosity drew her closer and for a moment she stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing, then, flushing scarlet, she turned away. She heard Luce chuckling. The girl slithered off the bed and, putting her arm around Elena's shoulder, turned her firmly round to face the board again.

'That's what's on offer, see.'

Each of the little squares depicted a crudely painted figure of two or sometimes three people in various strange positions. Elena was not unacquainted with sex; after all, she had grown up surrounded by all of nature's fecundity. Before she could even put names to the beasts, she had seen cocks fluttering on the backs of hens, rams tupping ewes, stallions covering mares and even other stallions. She'd giggled at lads and lasses rolling together in the pasture. It had seemed but a natural expression of life, the grunts and groans and squeals of its daily renewal.

In the cottages or even the Great Hall, most of these human couplings were little more than animal copulations, rapid, furtively hidden beneath blankets, the noise suppressed for fear of disturbing children, parents or some short-tempered bed-fellow. They required no thought or imagination beyond the basic urge to relieve the burning of nature's honest lust. But as Elena was about to discover, the human mind, if left unoccupied, can create such strange fancies as have never entered the head of a cockerel or dog.

Luce nodded towards the board. 'We get many foreigners coming here, sailors, merchants and the like. We don't always understand what they want, so they can just point at that. Mind you, we have to use the board with some of the local lads too. They only have to step in here for every word they ever learned since they were weaned to vanish from their poor little heads and they start to babble like babies.' She smiled fondly. 'One lad I had the other day, couldn't even remember whether he was asking for a woman or a boy.'

'A boy?'

Luce waved a hand towards the wall. 'Boys work in the chamber next door. Some of the men in here don't like to see a man with a boy, puts 'em off. Funny, that,' she added, almost to herself, 'how what sends one man into ecstasy sends another to vomit.'

'I thought those boys were the sons of the women.'

Luce snorted. 'They're somebody's sons all right. There's many a mother or father has sold their sons to work in here. But they don't belong to us, though some of the women in here are more mothers to them than their own have ever been.'

Elena closed her eyes as a sudden pain slashed through her head. What had become of her own son? What had Gytha done with him? Was he really being cared for somewhere safe, or had she sold him? Would he end up in a place like this? For a moment she was almost glad she was here, as if that would be enough to appease heaven and spare her son from such a place. She wanted to believe that whatever happened to her meant it could not happen to him. But deep down she knew that wasn't true. A woman and her child could easily be slaughtered together — they often were — but she clung to the thought all the same: I'm doing this to protect him.

Why do mortals think that suffering is a coin with which they can buy justice or salvation? We mandrakes learn wisdom from our fathers: life is a steal if you are a talented thief, and if you are not, then you may suffer all you please but it will buy you nothing but pain.

Elena could not prevent her face from screwing up into an expression of disgust as she glanced once more at the pictures on the board. She looked at Luce, trying to imagine which of these things she did.

Luce saw her expression and her face darkened. 'You needn't sneer at us. You're in here too, aren't you?'

'But I couldn't do that!' Elena said.

You'd be surprised at what you can do when you have to, and if you bend a little, kitten, you might even get to enjoy it.'

Elena felt her face burning, knowing that Luce had realized exactly what she was thinking. But she still couldn't bring herself to imagine doing such things with strangers. She couldn't and she wouldn't. She was married in all but name. She wasn't like Luce. She would never be like Luce.

But she wouldn't have to be. Raffaele would come soon, maybe he'd even come today, and take her somewhere safe. She wasn't staying here. She didn't live here, not like the other girls. Today or tomorrow Raffaele would come for her.

Trying to avert her gaze from the mesmerizing pictures on the board, Elena threw herself into the cleaning and tidying, trying hard to focus on smoothing, straightening, tossing, turning, strewing, all those chores which back in Gastmere she had impatiently prayed to have done and over, but to which she now clung as fiercely as a beggar grasps his only coin.

Luce saw her fearful expression ease and smiled to herself. She had seen enough bubs enter Ma's gates to know that all they needed was time. Let her get accustomed to it gradually, she thought. So she did not tell Elena that these plain rooms, these anonymous rooms, were just public rooms meant for the poorer classes: the penniless journeymen and the pimple- faced virgin apprentices; the sailors and peddlers who wanted ale, meat and a woman in that order; and the minor clerics whose long hours spent freezing their bollocks off through dreary Latin services gave rise to fantasies so ungodly that they dared not confess them to any but a whore. But there were other rooms, secret rooms, of which, as yet, Elena knew nothing, but she would learn. Oh yes, in time she would learn, as all mortals must, that every soul has its own dark and hidden chambers.





7th Day after the New Moon,

July 1211



Vervain — an ancient magical herb, which the druids revere almost as much as mistletoe. Christians say it was used to staunch Christ's wounds on the Cross and therefore it is used to sprinkle holy water. It is said to avert evil, and stop bleeding. Nevertheless, witches and warlocks use it often in their spells as a love charm, and if a thief should make a cut on his hand and press the leaf to it, he shall have the power to open locks.

If a mortal suffers from a tumour he should cut a vervain root in half and hang a portion round his neck whilst the other is dried over a fire. As the root withers in the heat, so shall the tumour wither away. But the mortal must make certain to keep the withered root safe, for if an enemy or malicious spirit wishes him harm, he may steal the root and drop it into water and as the root swells again so shall the tumour.

Mortals believe that if they put vervain in the water they bathe in they shall have knowledge of the future and obtain their heart's desire.

But know this, those who pluck the herb must do so only at certain phases of the moon. They must recite charms and must leave honeycomb in the place where they gathered it to make restitution for the violence done to the earth in taking such a sacred herb. Payment must always be made for everything wrested from the earth, for if it is not offered then it will be forcibly taken.

The Mandrake's Herbal





Little Finch



Even before Raffe had taken a pace into Ma's chamber, his head was reeling from the soporific heat and the heavy scents of the musky oils Ma Margot rubbed into her glossy black hair. Although the sun was blazing down outside, the shutters on the window were, as always, tightly shut. The room was illuminated by thick candles impaled on spikes on the wall. Beneath the spikes dripping wax grew up on the floor and walls like layers of sallow fungus on a decaying tree, becoming fatter and more twisted with each passing day.

A flagon of wine and two goblets were laid on the table along with trenchers of cold meats, roasted fowl, cheese and figs. Raffe guessed that Ma Margot had been warned of his coming even before he'd swung down from the saddle in her stable yard. With a flick of her beringed fingers, Ma indicated the empty chair and Raffe sank into it, facing her across the narrow table.

Ma's chair was higher than Raffe's, with a set of wooden steps in front so that the tiny woman could climb up into it, though Raffe knew she always made a point of being seated before Talbot showed him into her presence.

In truth chair was too humble a word for such a piece of furniture. Some might have called it a throne, for its back and arms were carved to resemble serpents, painted in yellow, black and with touches of gold. The protruding red tongues of the vipers were hinged on wire threads and they flickered up and down at the slightest movement of the chair's occupant. The eyes of the snakes were inlaid with chips of emerald glass. At least Raffe supposed they must be glass for surely not even Ma Margot could afford real emeralds. The green eyes of the serpents glinted in the trembling candlelight, so that their gaze seemed to be fastened upon the victim in the opposite chair, giving Raffe the uneasy impression that at any time they might dart forward and strike.

Ma Margot pushed a flagon of wine towards him and Raffe poured the dark ruby liquid into his goblet.

'You've come to see your little pigeon?'

Raffe started violently, spilling a few drops of the wine, and Ma Margot's lips twitched in a smile.

'Is she ... in good health?' Raffe said, avoiding the question.

Ma shrugged. 'Had a touch of milk fever the first week, but she's over that now. Strong girl, but then these field girls usually are. She works hard enough, I'll give her that. No! Don't fret yourself,' Ma raised a stubby hand to forestall the question he was about to ask, 'she's only been put to cleaning and the like, no customers, not till we knew what you had planned for her.'

Ma glanced slyly at him and, removing a long jewelled pin from her coiled black hair, began scraping at the dirt encrusted under her pointed nails.

'Thing is, I can't keep the girl here indefinitely if all she's to do is cleaning. I've women aplenty who are past their prime and don't get so many customers now, so they'll gladly do a bit of cleaning rather than be thrown out on the streets. They've served me loyally over the years and I'll not see them put out for a newcomer. This girl of yours, she'll have to start bringing some money in, and more than pennies at that. I'm taking a huge risk, hiding a fugitive here when Osborn's got a fat bounty on her head.'

Ma Margot pulled a wooden trencher towards her and stabbed her hairpin into the tiny carcass of a roasted songbird. She lifted it daintily to her lips. Her sharp teeth crunched through the bones as she devoured it whole.

'If any of my customers should recognize her . . .'

'Why should they?' Raffe demanded. 'She's never been out of her village before and the villagers who come here to market can't afford your prices.'

Ma smiled serenely at him and gestured at the food spread out between them. 'We give our customers what they want and they pay for it. There are plenty of cheap stews in Norwich where you can have a whore for the price of a beaker of ale, but you may end up with a few surprises you didn't pay for.'

Raffe knew it was true; whatever else you could say about Ma Margot's, no man ever got his purse stolen as he lay sleeping, or woke up to find himself being sold as a slave to the pirates.

Ma leaned back in her nest of serpents and regarded him shrewdly. 'So what will we do with her, Master Raffe? There's a number of customers have asked for her already, for she is quite striking with that red hair of hers. You know what some men say, flames on top mean there's a blazing fire below, and a few customers would pay good money to quench it for her.'

Raffe was on his feet in an instant. 'Shut your filthy mouth!' His hand shot out to grab Ma's throat, but he'd forgotten about the long gold pin in her hand. He yelped as the point was rammed with unerring accuracy into his palm.

'Manners, Master Raffe,' Ma said, watching with evident satisfaction as he sucked at the blood flowering in his hand. 'Here, sit down. Take more wine and some meats for your belly. All men act with too much haste when they're hungry.'

Still smarting with rage and pain, Raffe reluctantly resumed his seat, and Ma waited as he ripped the meat savagely from a roasted duck and stuffed it into his mouth. He continued to eat in stony silence until, finally replete, he pushed the trencher away.

'Now,' Ma said, 'let's talk business.'

Her tone was so calm and matter of fact, Raffe might have believed he'd imagined the violent exchange, if his hand hadn't still been throbbing from the pin stab.

You sent the girl here knowing what my business was, so you must have had your reasons, Master Raffe. For if her safety was all that concerned you, she'd be in Flanders by now, but that would have put her right out of your reach, wouldn't it?'

'That's not true. I thought of nothing else but her safety. That was precisely why I didn't attempt to send her abroad. We might have had to wait for days to find a ship that would take her from these shores, and Osborn would have had a watch put on the harbours within hours.'

Ma threw back her head and cackled with laughter. 'Don't try to cod me. We both know Talbot could smuggle a whole whorehouse of girls on board a ship if you paid him to.'

Raffe's face flushed with anger. 'How is the villein who's never been further than the manor's field supposed to fend for herself in a foreign land? She'd have died a beggar on the streets in a month, or worse.'

'Milking a cow or tending a field is the same the world over. We both know she'd have found work easily enough, so don't let's waste words.' Ma was no longer smiling and her eyes had taken on a glittering hardness.

'You want her here within your grasp. But if she stays here, she must earn her keep. I can fill Elena's bed a dozen times over with girls who'll gladly do whatever I ask for a roof over their heads and a full belly.'

'You owe me,' Raffe snapped. 'If it wasn't for me, your brother would have hanged in the Holy Land and you'd never have come to know him. I swore to you I'd never tell him who you were and I kept my word so far, because we both know that if Talbot ever found out you and he were kin, he'd start thinking he was master here. He'd want a share of the profits, and a great deal more than a share.'

Ma smiled, though her eyes remained cold and hard. 'I won't deny the old ape is useful. But you and I both know I've more than repaid that debt to you these past twenty years. A life for a life I've given you and I owe you nothing more. So if your girl can't turn a good profit for me, she's out.'

Ma leaned forward and plucked a fig from the trencher, but her gaze was fixed unblinkingly on Raffe's as if she wanted to make sure he understood every word she was about to say.

'Our parents died when I was still a babe in arms. Talbot was almost ten years old then, and, as he's told you, my father had already given him to a ship's captain in payment for a debt. My uncle and his wife took me in, thinking to make use of me as a servant as soon as I could lift a broom. But when they saw I'd never grow like other women, they sold me to the first man that would pay a fat purse to bed a freak. Some men are like that, you know, want to try one of every kind of woman there is, just like some men faced with a banquet won't rest till they've sampled every dish. The more exotic and bizarre, the better it suits their tastes — dwarfs like me, women without arms or legs, giants, Jewesses, Moors, albinos. Some men think if a woman looks different, she'll taste different between his thighs.'

Ma clenched her fist so tightly that the juice from the fig in her hand ran down her arm. 'I was lucky, if you can call it that — the man who bought me had money, and so did his friends. I wasn't a fool. I saw I'd got two choices: resist them and know that they'd rape me anyway, or go willingly with a smile on my face and screw every penny I could from them by giving them all they wanted and things they hadn't even dreamt of.

'Ever since I was twelve years old, I've survived and grown rich by giving men what they desire, even if they haven't got the guts to admit what they want to their own confessors. I learned to know men better than they know themselves, so believe me when I say, a man doesn't put his prize chicken into a den of foxes unless he thinks that hen is really a fox. So whether you know it or not, Master Raffe, you brought this girl here to a whorehouse because that's what you believe her to be.'

Raffe leaned forward on to the table, his head in his hands, trying to master the feelings raging through him. He felt as if he was trapped between two charging armies. Every instinct in him wanted to keep Elena safe, pure, unsullied, just as she had been that day he bound her to him over the body of Gerard.

Yet she had betrayed him with Athan. He could imagine every detail of it. He had done so many times, some furtive sweaty groping in a stinking byre or stable. And if she spread her legs for that gormless youth, who's to say there hadn't been others? Even that, he persuaded himself, he could have forgiven her, if she had only trusted him. Why couldn't she have brought the baby to him if she wanted to be rid of it? He had offered her, stupid little girl, a base-born villein, his love and protection and she wouldn't even condescend to take that much from him.

He knew he only had to toss Ma a few coins and Elena would be his to do with as he pleased, for as long as he pleased. That was all the old hag wanted - money. But even now, even after all he'd risked for Elena, he couldn't do it. He couldn't bear to see her mouth curl in disgust when she saw him naked, the ridicule in her eyes, the mockery pouring from those full lips. He could not force himself on her, knowing how much she would hate him for it.

A smile of satisfaction hovered around Ma's mouth. She pushed the wine flagon invitingly towards him. 'Now, Master Raffe, let me tell you what I have in mind for the girl.'





Few gentlemen came to Ma's house in the early afternoon, for most were seeing to their own businesses. The women took advantage of the quiet time to sleep, wash and mend their linen, or primp in readiness for the early evening customers. But Elena, once her cleaning tasks were done, always spent the afternoon in the courtyard garden. Mostly she just wandered among the vervain and germander, lavender and bergamot, letting her skirts brush the bushes to release the scents. Often she would pull a weed or clip off a dying bloom to encourage more to blossom. It wasn't part of her duties, but she missed the fields and the forests of her village in a way she had never dreamed possible.

When she had been a field hand, back before that day when Master Raffaele had summoned her from threshing, she'd done her fair share of complaining about the back- breaking work of hoeing and planting, reaping and gathering. But she had not understood until now how much freedom she'd had to stop and stare up at the wide open skies, the ships of white clouds drifting through the blue sea above and the ragged flocks of rooks wheeling around the swaying trees. In all directions the land had rolled out away from her, shaded with every hue of brown and green growing paler and paler in the far distance until finally the colours dissolved into the ocean of sky. But in here she could see no further than the high walls of the courtyard and the square of blue cut out above her head, like a piece of cloth laid ready to be crimped and sewn and bound.

Back in Gastmere, she had been able to escape on solitary walks to pick blackberries or gather firewood, and find the space to be silent, listening to the piping of a blackbird or the wind creeping through the rushes. But here she was surrounded by women day and night, chattering, laughing, snoring. For all that she missed the land, there was one thing she longed for more than any of that. It was Athan. It was those precious moments when they'd walked hand in hand under the great dome of glittering stars, when there seemed no one else in the whole world save the two of them. Who was he walking under the stars with now? Tears pricked her eyes. Why hadn't Athan tried to find her? Did he even care what had happened to her?

She must have been muttering aloud, because a frightened little face peered round from behind a raised turf seat that was covered over with fragrant purple flowering thyme and wild marjoram. Then it disappeared at once. Elena tiptoed around to the back of the seat and saw a small boy sitting on the grass behind it, his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

He glanced up briefly, then lowered his head again, as if by not looking at her he could make himself invisible.

'Hiding?' Elena asked with a smile, but the boy didn't answer.

Despite the heat, the other young boys were kicking a ball of woven withies boisterously back and forth between them on the gravel path. The still air rang with their shouts of triumph and groans as one side or the other scored a point over their fellows.

Elena settled herself down on the turf bench, revelling in the cloud of perfume that momentarily enveloped her from the sweet crushed marjoram and thyme. But the little hunched figure didn't move. She reached down and gently fingered the unruly mop of ash-blond curls. His hair was as silky and baby- fine as her own little bairn's. The boy flinched away.

'Don't you want to play football or won't they let you join in?'

He made no sign that he'd heard her. She peered down at the soft rosy cheek, which was all she could see of his face.

'I'm El . . . Holly.' She still couldn't get used to the name and the other girls often had to yell it three or four times before she realized they were addressing her.

The boy slowly raised his head. A stab of pain went through her as she looked at the child. He was beautiful, with cornflower-blue eyes and long golden lashes. His flawless, milky complexion was marred only by a small silvery scar above one brow. But it wasn't his face which pained her, it was the expression in his large eyes, frozen, dead, as if his mind was completely cut off from the world. Though he looked like an angel, all she could think of was the tales she had heard of corpses risen from their graves who walk without recognizing anyone or anything.

'Do you have a name?' she asked him gently.

For a few moments the boy stared right through her, as though she was the ghost of the garden. Then he opened his hand and studied it as if the answer might be written there.

'F . . . in . . . ch,' he said, striking the palm of his hand with the other one on each syllable, as if the name had been beaten into him, sound by sound.

'Finch, like the bird, that's a good name.' Elena smiled encouragingly. 'Have you been here a long time, Finch?'

His face was expressionless. The question of time seemed incomprehensible to him.

She'd never noticed the child before, but perhaps he kept himself hidden away. She wondered how old he was — seven, eight? It was hard to tell, he was very small, but his fingers were long and thin, almost like a youth's hands. What would her own son look like when he was this age? Softly she began to sing as if she still held her own bairn in her arms.



Lavender's green, diddle diddle, Lavender's blue

You must love me, diddle diddle, 'cause I love you.



She felt a slight pressure on her leg and, glancing down, saw that the child was tentatively leaning his head against her. As if he was indeed a little bird that might take flight at the slightest movement, Elena sat quite still and continued to sing.



Call up your maids, diddle diddle, set them to work

Some to make hay, diddle diddle, some to the rock.



Finch snuggled closer, pressing his face against her legs.



Let the birds sing, diddle diddle, let the lambs play,

We shall be safe, diddle diddle, deep in the hay.



She stopped singing and for a while the two of them sat quite still, Elena on the seat of thyme, little Finch on the ground, both sunk deep in their own thoughts, not hearing the shouts of the children playing or the bees humming among the roses.

Elena shivered as a white cloud drifted across the sun, casting the garden into shade.

'You want to see a secret?' Finch suddenly asked, sitting up.

'Of course,' Elena said, smiling at him indulgently. 'Is it a treasure you have?'

She knew from her own childhood that all children have secret treasures — a blown thrush's egg, a river-polished pebble that shines like a ruby, a sharp black dragon's tooth — all carefully hidden from adult eyes.

Finch shook his head. "Tisn't my secret. Come, I'll show you. But you mustn't tell.' He took her hand in his own warm little paw and made to drag her.

'There you are, kitten. I've been looking everywhere for you, I have.'

At once the little hand withdrew from hers as Elena wheeled round to see Luce sauntering towards her across the garden. She looked down to say something to Finch, but the boy had vanished.

'Ma sent me to say you've got a visitor, someone you'll be right glad to see.'

A bubble of joy shot up through Elena and her face broke into a beaming smile. 'Athan, is it Athan? Where is he?'





Raffe paced impatiently about the small chamber and finally settled himself awkwardly in a high-backed wooden chair. The room was sparsely furnished. A broad bed occupied one corner, mercifully for this meeting concealed behind heavy but somewhat threadbare drapes. A long, low bench was positioned in another corner and in the third was a tall wooden frame with leather straps hanging from it. Raffe eyed it with disgust. He could guess what implements lay hidden behind the hangings around the bed, but he'd seen too many men's backs laid open to the bone with the lash to find flogging a pleasurable game.

He gazed hopelessly around the room. On that day he'd chosen Elena from the circle of threshing girls to eat that little piece of bread and salt, how could he have foreseen that it would lead her here? If Raffe had chosen a different girl from the circle, would the outcome have been the same? Ever since he was a child, he had wondered whether you could ever really choose, or if something had already chosen you.

When Raffe was just six years old, his father's scythe had hit a stone hidden among the grass. That was all. That was all it took to change the whole course of Raffe's life, just an ordinary lump of stone in the wrong place. The scythe blade bounced off the stone and cut deep into his father's leg. The wound had festered and Raffe's mother was terrified that her husband would die.

A neighbour swore that St Gregory would surely save the poor man, if Raffe's mother would only seek his help. So his mother decided to make a pilgrimage to the abbey which housed a finger bone of the saint and offer the necklace of amber she'd been given on her wedding day, to secure the saint's aid. Raffe, she insisted, must go too, to pray for his father's life.

Raffe and his mother had set off before the sun had even risen above the hills. They arrived at the abbey church in the cool of the evening, just as the service of Vespers was beginning, and climbed the great white steps to join the throng of worshippers in the public part of the church. As Raffe entered that great building his thirst and belly-rumbling hunger vanished. His mouth fell open and he stood rooted to the spot in the doorway, unable to tear his gaze from the spectacle before him.

The tiny village church at home, where he sang in the little choir, was painted with scenes of brightly coloured angels and saints wandering through familiar fields and hovering over cottages exactly like his own. But here the towering walls and pillars were emblazoned with scenes of heaven and hell, of Creation and the Last Judgment. Angelic faces peered down at him from the great dome, and God Himself surveyed the whole church from his golden throne, his dark almond eyes staring directly into Raffe's own.

Raffe was too busy staring around him to notice the choir singing the psalms, until they began to sing the Magnificat. He had never heard such voices before in his own village choir, so much sweeter, higher and resonant than any boy's. Ignoring his mother as she frantically hissed at him to come back, Raffe pushed through the standing congregation until he was at the front. Still he could see nothing because of the carved screen. So he stooped down and crawled forward, edging around it until he could stare up at the beings making the sound.

He saw monks and novices kneeling in prayer, but this unearthly music was not coming from those plain creatures. He twisted his head around and then he saw them standing together. Some of them were mere youths, the others were men who might have been as old as his father, but they were smooth-cheeked, without a trace of beard. And the notes that were pouring from them sent shivers of awe and delight running up and down Raffe's spine.

He crouched there in the shadows, listening. Finally, when the service was ended and the monks had gone, the small group of beardless singers, laughing and chattering, began to amble out through a narrow door of their own. Raffe gaped up at them, shaking his head like a dog with sore ears, for he couldn't believe that girls' voices were coming from men's bodies.

As Raffe watched the girl-men saunter from the church, the last one turned and seemed to be staring right at the dark corner where Raffe was hidden, and then he smiled and winked. Only a demon could have the power to see him in his hiding place. Terrified, little Raffe scrambled to his feet and fled down the church yelling for his mother, not caring that the few people remaining all turned to stare as he tore past them.

His mother was deep in conversation with one of the priests, and she turned in horror and shame at her son's sacrilege in such a holy place.

The priest stared down, frowning. 'Is this the boy?'

'Yes, Father, but I swear he is usually so well behaved. He's never before . . .'

But the priest silenced her with a wave of his hand. He grasped Raffe's chin, turning his face towards the candlelight. Whatever he saw in it seemed to satisfy him. He ran his fingers over Raffe's throat and down his chest, back, belly and groin. The priest pressed him hard between his legs. Raffe squirmed and tried to wriggle away, but his mother held him firmly.

Finally the priest straightened up. 'Promising, definitely promising,' he said to Raffe's mother, who beamed back at him.

The priest looked down at Raffe once more. 'Now, boy, kneel and make your prayers for your father's recovery to health. See you pray in earnest, for God knows if you are not paying attention and praying with all your might. Little boys who displease God go straight to hell; you know that, don't you? But St Gregory will listen to the prayers of children if they are pure and without sin.'

Raffe's mother pushed him down on to his knees, before a mass of tiny burning candles. The heat from them was so fierce that Raffe felt as if his own face would melt like the wax which ran down from them.

'You heard, son, pray hard for your father. He is depending on you.'

If they are pure and without sin. The whole weight of his father's sickness seemed to be crushing down on Raffe's tiny shoulders. All his guilty sins began dancing round him in the candlelight, tiny imps of flame, mocking and jeering. The stolen peaches; the lie about working when he was really climbing trees; the torn shirt he'd tried to hide; the countless nights he'd sworn he'd said his prayers when he hadn't. As he knelt there, each and every one of those wickednesses was leaping around him, rolling their eyes and thumbing their noses at him.

Little Raffe was certain that when they reached home the next day, his father would be dead. His mother's precious amber necklace that even now dangled beneath the saint's reliquary would have been sacrificed in vain. St Gregory had refused to listen because Raffe had sinned. God would kill his father to punish him. His mother would sob. His family would starve and all of it, all the misery in the whole world, would be his fault.

But his father did not die. In fact, he made a full recovery and little Raffe almost cried in his relief that his sinful state would not, after all, be revealed to the whole village.

He thought he had escaped God's punishment, but he hadn't. Two years later, the whole family retraced their steps to the abbey church. And it wasn't until that day when they handed Raffe over to the priest that he learned that, just like his mother's amber necklace, he had been part of her deal with God: her son for her husband's life. Only then was he told how mortal men could conjure those soaring angelic voices. And only on that morning, standing there in the abbey, did he finally realize why it was they had mutilated him.

The door was flung open and Elena burst through it in a flood of sunlight. Her copper hair gleamed in the light and there was such an expression of eagerness and joy on her face that Raffe almost started up and ran towards her. But as she caught sight of him, she stumbled backwards, the light instantly snuffed out in her eyes. After the briefest of moments, she tried to smile, but he knew it was courtesy, nothing more. That smile hurt him more deeply than he could ever acknowledge.

She looked much better than the last time he'd seen her when he'd thrust her wet and bedraggled into the boat. As well as cleaner, she was if anything a little plumper, as well she might be, for the food Ma provided for the girls was far more rich and plentiful than the diet of coarse bread, beans and herbs Elena was used to. The fear and misery which had been etched into her face the night he had rescued her had faded so that now once again she looked much younger than her sixteen years.

Her red hair, instead of hanging in braids, was rolled and pinned at the nape of her neck, though like the other girls in the stew, she wore no net or veil to cover it. Her dress was different too. Gone was the plain, drab homespun kirtle; instead she wore a faded but finely woven green kirtle falling to mid-calf and revealing the white hem of the linen smock beneath. The low, V-shaped neckline was tightly fastened with a cheap pewter pin. Where had she got that from? Not from Ma, that was certain. If Ma Margot had her way, that pin would be unfastened and the swelling of her breasts tantalizingly displayed, like fruit on a monger's stall.

Who had Elena been expecting to find waiting for her in the chamber? Who had that look of delight been for? His question was answered the moment she began speaking.

'Have you seen Athan? Is he well? Does he know where I am? Did he try to find me, when he learned I'd escaped?' She babbled like an excited child, not waiting for any answers. 'It was only Joan who thought I'd hurt my bairn. I know deep down Athan didn't; he was just too frightened to say so in front of her. He refused to speak against me at the trial, which proves he knew I was telling the truth. He knows I've never lied to him.'

Her face was bright and eager once more as she spoke Athan's name. Raffe could see the hope in her eyes and something more, something that made his guts knot hard inside him. There is no mistaking when a woman is in love. Raffe had seen it in others before, though never with himself as the object of that soft, longing look. Elena was still in love with that oaf Athan even now, even after the spineless numbskull had let his mother denounce her to that bastard Osborn. Even that betrayal had not brought Elena to her senses.

For a moment Raffe came close to breaking his resolve and telling Elena the truth — Your precious Athan is dead, hanged in place of you. In his head, Raffe watched that eager little face crumple, the tears well in her eyes, imagined her throwing herself into his arms, sobbing and clinging to him for comfort. But as he looked again at her face, he knew not even the knowledge of Athan's death would cleanse away her love for the boy. It would only bring despair and guilt, and Raffe had borne too much guilt in his own life to let her suffer that.

He stood up, turning away from her, and stared out of the open door into the sun-washed garden. 'I have come to tell you that you must start to earn your keep here. Ma Margot is a charitable woman, but she can't afford to keep you here unless you work.'

'But I thought you were coming to take me away from here?' He could hear the bewilderment in her voice.

Raffe slammed the door shut and rounded on her in exasperation. 'And where exactly did you imagine I was going to take you? You are a runaway villein and a convicted murderer. Yes, I know you protest your innocence, but in the eyes of the law you are a condemned woman. Unless you're going to tell me you've found this cunning woman and she can produce your child to clear your name?'

Elena hung her head miserably.

'I thought not,' Raffe said. 'Osborn has put a bounty on you. Declared you a fugitive from justice, a wolf's head. Any man in England has the right to kill you on the spot and claim the reward for your body. And believe me, there's not a man out there who wouldn't hesitate to do it for the size of purse Osborn is offering. Who do you think is going to take you in and hide you?'

'I thought... a nunnery,' Elena murmured weakly.

'Have you forgotten the whole of England lies under Interdict? Where would we find a priest to seal your vows? Where would you get the dowry to be admitted as a nun? If you couldn't be admitted to holy orders, you'd be nothing more than a lay servant and the nunnery would not be able to protect you. They'd have to hand you over to Osborn.'

Only when he saw her trembling did he realize how terrified she was.

He took a deep breath and tried to speak more softly. 'You must remain here for a year and a day; if you can do that undiscovered, you can be declared a free woman instead of a villein and . . .' He paused awkwardly.

What could he tell her? Should he tell her the truth, that being declared a free woman would by itself solve little? Unless she could also prove her innocence she might never be able to leave. He crossed over to her and stood looking down at her. He gently caressed her cheek with his thumb as a father might soothe his little daughter.

'You must accept that you must stay here for a year at least. But much may change in a year; who knows, this cunning woman of yours might turn up again with the child. But,' he added firmly, 'you will have to work for your keep.'

'I do work,' she told him. 'I clean and tidy and do all that is asked.'

Raffe sat down in the chair opposite her again, fixing her with a grim expression. 'That is not what Ma means by work. It merely pays for the food you eat, not for the risks she is running in keeping you here. She needs you to start earning money.'

He stared down at his hands, unwilling to look into her wide blue eyes. Once, in the Holy Land, he had witnessed the Saracens tie a man by his arms and legs to four rearing Arab stallions. The stallions, simultaneously struck by their riders, had galloped off in opposite directions, ripping the shrieking victim to pieces between them. He felt as if the same was happening to his own being. Part of him wanted to make her suffer for betraying him with Athan; for refusing to trust him; for that look of revulsion he could see in her eyes whenever she looked at him. He wanted to make her the whore she was, dirty, humiliated, to have men look at her and despise her, as she looked at him.

Yet the thought of another man pawing her, laying his sweaty body against that smooth flesh, was more than he could bear. Even now he wanted more than anything to protect her, to have her come running to him for love and comfort. He wanted to keep her pure and untouched, as he could pretend to himself she was, now that Athan was dead. He and Elena were bound together by bonds stronger than any wedding vow — why couldn't she feel that?

He swallowed and tried to keep his voice level and businesslike. You will not be expected to serve the ordinary customers, that much I have made plain to Ma Margot. But when she gets a special customer from time to time, you will attend to him.'

'Attend to? What. . . does that mean? What will I have to do?' Her voice trembled.

'Ma Margot and the gentleman himself no doubt will tell you what is required each time. All men are different in their appetites.'

'Appetites,' she repeated dully.

Was she deliberately trying to be stupid? Did he have to spell it out for her?

'Don't play the innocent with me, girl,' Raffe snapped. You've borne a child, so you can't pretend that you don't know what goes on between a man and a woman. Or are you now claiming it was a virgin birth and then your bastard miraculously ascended into heaven? Is that why we can't find him?'

Before Raffe had time to realize what she intended, Elena slapped him hard across his face, her cheeks blazing scarlet in fury. Raffe gaped at her, stunned. It was the second time that afternoon he had allowed a woman to take him unawares and assault him. Had he lost all his soldier's instincts? Ma Margot he knew of old and should have expected her to defend herself, but no villein had ever dared to strike him before, especially not a woman.

It took him a moment or two to realize Elena was shouting at him, her eyes flashing and her fists clenched in fury. 'I may not be freeborn, but I am not a whore. I will not sleep with any man except Athan. He is my husband in all but name. He knows I didn't murder his son and he will wait for me until I can prove it to the world. I won't betray him. I won't!'

Raffe caught hold of her wrist and dragged her towards him; grabbing her face in his other hand, he tilted it up towards him, lowering his mouth close to hers. She screwed up her eyes and tried to wriggle away as if she thought he was trying to kiss her.

Raffe tightened his grip and spoke with exaggerated slowness, to force her to listen. 'You will do exactly what Ma Margot asks of you, all that she asks of you. And you will do it with a smile on your pretty little face, because if she can't get her money one way, she'll get it another. You refuse and she'll hand you straight to Osborn and claim that bounty. Osborn will hang you and this time there will be no escape. And I know Osborn of old — before he hangs you, he will make you suffer in ways you cannot begin to imagine. The fact that you are Athan's betrothed won't stop him using you in any way he pleases, in fact that knowledge will only add to his pleasure.'

'But Athan,' she moaned faintly.

'Athan is already in the arms of another! Trust me — Athan is not waiting for you!'

He felt her go limp in his hands and lowered her down on to the bench. She sat there, her body trembling, but she did not cry as he expected and he grudgingly admired her for that.

'My cousin Isabel? Athan's with Isabel, isn't he?' she said, staring up at him.

Raffe didn't answer. She seemed to take that as confirmation. Was silence a lie? Perhaps it was the worst kind of lie, Raffe thought, and by God he was guilty of enough silences in his lifetime.

Elena stared at a fly that was dashing itself aimlessly against the wall. 'Isabel won't last long with Joan around; she's always called her a slut. She'll soon send her packing'

'You're not listening to me,' Raffe yelled at her. 'He will not be there waiting for you. Stop playing the little fool and make up your mind to do as you are told, because make no mistake, you have to do this, and it'll go a lot easier with you if you do it willingly.'

Elena was shaking so violently, Raffe thought her body would break into pieces. He knelt down in front of her, gently taking her cold hands in his.

'Look, all Ma wants is for you to be pleasant to a rich merchant or ship's captain once in a while. Is that really so hard? Can it be worse than being raped or tortured by that bastard Osborn? At least you'll be alive. And believe me, nothing on this earth is worth as much as life itself, not your virtue, not your pride, not even your love for Athan. If you die unshriven, strangling to death on the end of a rope, there will be nothing except endless misery and torment spread out before you for all eternity. Whatever happens, you must cling fast to life with both hands, no matter what it costs you. You must stay alive for me, Elena. I need you to live.'