The Gallows Curse

The Night of the Full Moon,

August 1211



Roses — If mortals dream of a red rose, they shall be granted the love their hearts yearn for, but if they should dream of a white rose, it is a bad omen, for they will know only sorrow in love. If a maid would bring back a faithless lover, let her pluck three roses on Midsummer's Eve. The first she must bury beneath a yew tree, the second in a new grave and the third place under her head when she sleeps. After the third night she shall burn the rose to ashes. Thus her lover will be tormented by thoughts of her and will know no rest until he has returned to her.

If a maid desires to find her true love she must pluck a rosebud on Midsummer's Day and lay it in some secret place till Christmas Day, then if it still be bright and fragrant, she must wear it and her true lover will pluck it from her, but if it has shrivelled and turned brown, she must beware her life, for it is an evil omen.

White roses signify silence, for Cupid gave a sacred rose to Harpocrates, the god of silence, so that he would not reveal the amorous secrets of Venus, Cupid's mother. Thus noblemen carve or paint a rose on the ceiling above the table where they dine, or hang a white rose from the beams where they meet to show that nothing which is spoken in that place must be revealed. So mortals speak of sub rosa or 'under the rose', when they desire to hold their discourse in secret. But mortals beware, we mandrakes see all and will reveal all in time, for the rose has no power to stop our ears or our mouths. At the end of days we will break the silence of gods and mortals alike, for were we not birthed in a scream?

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Summoning



'It is time,' Madron said.

Her milky eyes swivelled towards Gytha as if she could see her in the darkness and beyond her into her very thoughts.

Gytha shifted uncomfortably on her bed of bracken, trying to ignore her mother. Once this business was done, they'd have to move on, and Gytha was happy here. She'd no wish to go traipsing into the city. She hated it. People staring at you suspiciously as if you were going to thieve from them, that's when they weren't trying to rob you themselves. You couldn't breathe, all those people jostling and shouting. You couldn't hear anything above the foolish clamour of their voices, not even your own thoughts.

'Take me outside.' Madron's tone was more querulous than usual.

Gytha sighed and struggled to her feet. It was a warm night. She needed no shawl over her coarse, threadbare kirtle. She bent over her mother and the old lady put an arm around her neck. Gytha scooped her up in her arms and, ducking low, carried her out of the bothy. Madron was as light as a bag of fish bones, but the thin arm locked around Gytha's neck had a grip as hard as ice in winter.

Gytha placed her gently in the centre of the clearing. The old woman's head lifted, turning her face towards the bright moon, as if she was seeking its coldness.

She pinched Gytha's arm. 'Fetch my bones and my blackthorn rod.'

Gytha returned once more to the bothy and fetched the objects, laying them in her mother's lap. This summoning would require greater magic than a thorn apple, for they had nothing of his which they could use against him.

The air was still and heavy in the forest. The trees were shaggy with leaves. They encircled the glade like great dumb trolls silently watching the stars glittering above: the Bear and the Swan, and the great arching bridge of stars over which the souls of the dead travelled. The Milky Way, Gerard once told her she must call it, but he would know it for its real name now, for his soul had walked that path. She had seen it.

Madron was squatting in the glade. Her hair glowed silver in the moonlight, her skin was turned to pearl. She had drawn a circle around herself in the leaf mould with the tip of the blackthorn rod. Then around the circle she had made four marks. A stranger might not have recognized the crude symbols, but Gytha knew them well, for her mother had taught them to her when she was still in her cradle: a serpent for the earth, a fish for the water, a bird for the air and a salamander for fire. The moonlight poured into the scratches in the earth, filling them with molten silver. Madron could not see them, but Gytha knew she could feel them just as well as she could feel her own hands.

Madron fumbled in the bag and drew out one slender bone, only as long as a woman's hand. She placed it before her, then from her sleeve withdrew a small posy of herbs, bound together by a scarlet thread — periwinkle, orpine, vervain, monkshood and deadly nightshade. She laid the bundle across the bone, so that it made a slanted cross.

Finally she turned her sightless eyes towards Gytha, extending her hand.

'Come, you must stand inside the circle, else you'll not be safe.'

Gytha stepped over the mark scratched in the floor of the forest, careful not to break the circle. Then she crouched behind her mother and waited.

The old woman threw back her head and lifted her face to the moon. She began to chant, ancient words long since forgotten by the world, words that women had taught their daughters since first the owl flew and the wolf hunted her prey. The hairs on Gytha's neck prickled.

Madron's chanting died away and silence flooded back into the moonlit grove, a silence as solid and lucent as glass. A cloud drew across the moon, plunging the clearing into darkness. The forest held its breath.

Then the ground around them began to tremble, shaking as if a thousand horses were charging by. As the cloud peeled back from the moon, Gytha could see something rising in front of them just beyond the circle. A wisp of mist was uncurling from the ground, pushing up the earth around it, like the first shoot of a plant. Then the column of mist burst out of the black earth with a thin wail like a newborn baby's cry. It whirled around and around, and as it turned there came a low moaning in the forest as if an icy winter wind was wandering among the branches of the trees, but the trees were quite still. The moaning grew into a shriek, rising higher and higher till the very darkness was vibrating with the pain of it. Then, just as suddenly, the shrieking stopped.

A naked infant stood in front of them, its body so thin the ribs stood out like the timbers of a wrecked ship. The lips were drawn back to reveal the toothless bones of its jaws, its empty eye sockets were as dark as black fire.

Madron turned her sightless eyes towards her daughter. 'Has he come? Do you see him?'

Gytha could not wrench her gaze from the little corpse in front of her.

'He is here, Madron, the babe is here,' she whispered.

The old woman lifted the bone and the bundle of herbs together and pointed them at the creature.

'Spirit, I command you to fetch Hugh of Roxham. Bring him here to us.'

The little corpse hopped towards her, the clawed fingers of its left arm scrabbling uselessly in the air, as if it was trying to snatch at something. Its right leg was missing.

'I command you,' Madron repeated. 'Fetch Hugh of Roxham. You will bring him here. You will bring him!'

The creature took another step towards her, reaching for the bone, but it drew back as if burned as it touched the air above the circle. 'Give me, give me! It's mine. Mine!'

Madron lifted her head, pronouncing the words for the third time. 'I command you by the bone of your body, bring us Hugh of Roxham. Go, go now. Ka!'

As she pronounced the last word the corpse shuddered violently; it slumped down to the ground and for a moment Gytha thought it was going to disappear back into the earth. But as she watched, its ashen, waxy skin began to bubble all over, as if maggots were crawling out of it, covering it from its skull to its feet. The skin was erupting into soft white feathers. The child lifted its head, and in the dark empty hollows of its eyes were two black glistening pearls. Two long wings unfurled on either side of its body and as they beat, the pale creature rose silently into the air. The barn owl hovered above them for a moment, its wings outstretched against the moon, then it turned and glided away over the dark mass of the trees.

Madron slumped back, exhausted. She turned her head to Gytha. 'It is done. Carry me back inside. You know what to do when he comes.'

Gytha bent to lift her mother up. 'You're sure he will come, Madron?'

'He will come. Sooner or later, he will be drawn to us.'

Gytha laid her mother in the bothy and wandered back out beneath the trees, bathed silver in the moonlight. From under her shift, where it nestled between her breasts, she withdrew the wizened apple and plucked another thorn. Was it a waste? Should she simply wait patiently for Madron's spell to work? Her sixth sense told her that another little twist of the apple was needed. Something all of her own. She laid the thorn carefully in the embers of the supper fire. A shiver of pleasure stroked her spine as a tiny flame danced in the darkness. She watched it burn; she loved to watch them burn.

Raoul, yawning and trying to ease his aching shoulders, stumbled across the courtyard towards the steps leading to the Great Hall. The light from the burning torches on the walls flickered across the uneven cobbles of the courtyard, making it hard to see where he was putting his feet. God's bones, but he was tired and stiff! His backside was bruised and his thighs raw from a day in the saddle. He was starving too, but he wasn't sure if he could even manage to stay awake long enough to eat.

He heard a clattering on the stairs, and lifted his head in time to see Osborn striding down them. Raoul groaned to himself. He knew he'd have to see Osborn tonight to deliver the message, but he had hoped to get at least a goblet or two of wine inside him before he was forced to speak. His throat was as dry as old leather from the dust on the roads.

Osborn confronted him at the bottom of the stairs. 'And how fares the king?'

Raoul massaged his parched throat. 'In health His Majesty is as fit as a man half his age and has twice the energy. In temper . . .' Raoul winced at the memory.

The king's violent rages were legendary, and Raoul had felt the full force of the royal displeasure, having been forced to admit to John that he had so far failed to discover the identity of anyone engaged in aiding England's enemies. It was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. The king's fury had only been slightly tempered when his latest mistress, a sweet, sympathetic girl who had smiled coyly at Raoul, reminded the king that the Santa Katarina had been prevented from landing her cargo thanks entirely to the brave and loyal Raoul.

It had not been thanks to Raoul at all. He'd never heard of the ship or its French cargo until he arrived back at court and he'd no idea who had alerted the king's men, but he certainly wasn't going to contradict the rumour. It was the only thing that was preventing the full measure of the king's anger from descending on his head.

Raoul sighed. He wasn't suited to this business of skulking around trying to uncover traitors and spies. All he'd ever wanted was a comfortable position at court and the only thing he had any desire to uncover was the breasts of a lovely young girl, someone like the king's mistress. Now she had a body just begging to be ravished.

He was jerked out of his daydream by Osborn. 'Speak, man, what did the king say?'

Raoul fumbled in his scrip for a roll of parchment bearing a heavy wax seal. 'His Majesty instructs me to give you this, but I know what it says, there are similar messages going out across England. John's called a council of the lords known to be loyal to him. He intends to draw up plans if Philip should attempt to land. You and your brother, and the other commanders who are experienced in the field of battle are instructed to attend. He expects you in three days' time.'

'God's teeth!' Osborn swore vehemently, his fists clenched.

He must have seen the startled expression on Raoul's face for he added quickly, 'I am, of course, honoured to wait upon the king in this matter. But I have just this day learned of something I had hoped to attend to personally.'

Osborn gnawed at his lip for a moment, then his face brightened. 'John has not commanded you to attend?'

Raoul tried to suppress a shudder. He was in no hurry to return to the king's presence in his present mood. 'I've never seen battle, unlike you. I would be of little use to His Majesty.'

'Then you may do me a service instead.' Osborn glanced around the darkened courtyard. There were only a few candles still burning in the casements for most of the manor's inhabitants were already asleep. Nevertheless, he drew Raoul away from the steps and into a corner of the courtyard as far as possible from any doors or windows.

'I received word from the sheriff in Norwich this afternoon. One of his men has heard a rumour that my runaway villein was taken to Norwich by boat when she escaped from here and is still in the city somewhere. I want you to go to Norwich first thing tomorrow and see if you can track her down.'

Every aching muscle and bone in Raoul's body screamed out in protest at the thought of another day in the saddle. 'My lord, surely the sheriff can order his men to search for her?'

'The man is a lazy, incompetent numbskull whose only interest is in filling his personal coffers. He says red-headed girls are as common as bird shit in Norwich, and he doesn't have the men to spare to go banging on every door of the city. So you'll have to do it. I'd go myself, but the king . . .'

'But I've never laid eyes on the girl,' Raoul protested. 'How am I to find her, if the sheriff's men can't?'

'The man who brought the news says he heard talk of it in an inn. The Adam and Eve, he called it. It's a place frequented by all the knaves, rogues and cutpurses in Norwich, or so he says. Take lodgings there. Drink with them. Flirt with their whores. Buy the customers whatever disgusting muck they throw down their poxy throats to get them drunk, so they'll talk freely. I don't care what you have to do, just find that girl. I'll not have any villein on this manor think they can defy me and live.'

Raoul's face brightened a little. Drinking and whoring, now that was something he was good at. A week or two in Norwich maybe wouldn't be so bad after all. And if he couldn't find this girl, he could always tell Osborn she'd been seen boarding a cart or a boat out of the city.

Raoul was still smiling to himself as he mounted the steps to his bed, picturing the slender, lithe body of the king's mistress, so deliciously young and helpless. Yes, he deserved a little treat and if the wenches in Norwich were half as enticing as the king's whore, this was one task he might actually enjoy.





1st Day after the Full Moon,

August 1211



Fox — There are some mortal families which are descended from foxes, and if someone in that family is about to die, many foxes will gather near the house. A mortal who is bitten by a fox will live only seven years more.

He who would find courage must wear a fox's tongue to make him bold. He who would be cured of a swollen leg must carry a fox's tooth. The liver of a fox washed in wine and dried will sooth a cough. If a mortal has a thorn embedded in him, he should lay a fox's tongue on it through the hours of darkness and when dawn breaks the thorn will be drawn out. The ashes of a fox drunk in wine will cure a mortal of complaints of the liver. Bathing in the water in which a fox has been boiled will ease the pain of gout, and if a bald man rubs his pate with fox fat, his hair will be restored.

Witches may take the form of foxes and often when the fox is chased it will seem to vanish and the huntsmen will find only an old woman standing there.

For though its corpse heals men, the living fox is to be feared, for it is the symbol of the Devil, and if a fox should pass a mortal on the track, it is a dark omen that a terrible event shall follow.

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Cage



Osborn's scrawny little clerk looked like a helpless, naked baby bird behind the great wooden table which had been pulled into the centre of the manor courtyard. The sallow- faced man nervously shuffled ledgers and parchments from one side of the table to the other, then began counting the freshly cut quills in his pot, as if the exact number was of vital importance. Osborn, irritated, rapped on the table with the handle of his riding whip to get the little man's attention.

'I want every rent paid in full today, no excuses. If they cannot pay they leave the crofts or workshops this same day. Likewise their field strips, any man who cannot pay for land he is renting will have it ploughed up.'

The clerk opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the thunder gathering on Osborn's brows, thought better of it and nodded vigorously enough to show that he wouldn't dream of disagreeing. Raffe too stood silent. A few weeks before he would have tried to argue with Osborn, but he'd learned that only made the man more savage in his dealings. Better to say nothing and simply ignore the instructions. He could manage to hide the odd late payment, that's if the little scrivener could be trusted to keep his mouth shut and not go squealing to his master. But Raffe was confident that he could persuade the clerk, once Osborn was safely out of the way.

As if he could hear Raffe's thoughts, Osborn turned to him. 'See to it that you send men round the village to remind people it is Lammas.'

'I doubt there's a newborn babe in the village who doesn't know what day it is today. The crofters have been counting the days down till they can drive their stock to common pasture on the hay meadows, for some of the beasts are skin and bones and the grass is so parched there's nothing left for them to graze.'

'Then they should learn to make better provision for them,' Osborn said. 'But just you make sure that in their eagerness to get their beasts out to graze they don't forget their first duty is to me. I am leaving this morning with my brother to wait upon the king's pleasure, and in my absence you will ensure that every last penny is collected in. I will hold you accountable for any sum that is missing. So you'd better see to it that every man turns out with what he owes, and if there are any too sick or feeble to come in person, I expect you to go to their crofts and fetch it.'

He searched Raffe's face, looking for the slightest flicker of rebellion, but Raffe concentrated on keeping his expression impassive.

'Did you hear what I said, Master Raffaele?'

Raffe allowed himself a dangerously insolent pause, before saying calmly, 'Yes, m'lord, I heard you.'

The whip twitched in Osborn's hand. Raffe saw the warning but unlike the clerk, he did not flinch. He was thankful Lady Anne was away visiting a sick cousin, for she would certainly have tried to intervene on the villagers' behalf, and Osborn had still not forgiven her for challenging him over Elena and Athan. She could not afford to make him angry again.

Osborn, after another furious scowl at Raffe, bellowed to the gateman, 'Stop gawping like a halfwit, man. Stir yourself and open the gates.'

Walter, who had been standing with his hand ready on the beam for almost an hour waiting for his lord's signal, jerked into action and lifted the great beam off the brackets and flung the gates wide.

If Osborn had been hoping for a throng of eager villagers waiting to pay their dues, he was sadly disappointed. A couple of old men hobbled up to the table and began counting out their pennies with a painful slowness as their gnarled, swollen hands fumbled in worn purses. Osborn waited with growing impatience as his clerk re-counted the old men's pennies with equal slowness, terrified of making an error while his master was watching. Finally, Osborn turned on his heel and strode back to the stairs leading to the Great Hall, flogging each step with his whip as he climbed them.

Though the villagers were noticeably absent, there was no lack of activity in the courtyard. Osborn's men and servants scurried back and forth loading the small travelling chests and making ready Osborn's favourite hawks and Hugh's hounds for the journey, for who knew how long the king would keep his lords kicking their heels at court? Raffe reluctantly crossed towards the Great Hall. It was one of his many duties to see that nothing was lacking and to chivvy slow or clumsy servants, a duty he was increasingly coming to loathe when the brothers were in residence. He could barely disguise his delight at the news that Osborn and Hugh were leaving. He prayed the king would detain them for weeks, or even months, but that was probably too much to ask.

Raffe stopped as he caught sight of a young lad he didn't recognize mounting the steps before him. He stood out immediately from the other boys in the manor.

'You there, come down here,' Raffe ordered.

The lad turned and obediently retraced the few steps. He was barefooted, dressed in a pair of mildewed leather breeches with a curious smooth eel-skin cap stuck so firmly to his head that it looked as if he had a bald black pate.

'Marsh-man, aren't you?' Raffe said. 'What's your business here?'

'Come to see her ladyship.'

'The Lady Anne? And what makes you think you can just walk in here and expect a noble lady to see you?'

The boy scowled, thrusting out his lower lip. 'Weren't my idea to come, he said I'd to bring her a message.'

Raffe caught the boy by his arm and dragged him into the shadows beneath the undercroft.

'Now, who sent you and what's the message?' Raffe demanded.

The boy jutted his chin out obstinately. 'He said I wasn't tell no one 'cept her.'

'Lady Anne is away from the manor visiting her sick cousin. She'll not be back for three or four days.' Raffe's eyes flicked up to the Hall above. 'Listen to me, boy. The man up there, Lord Osborn, is dangerous, and there's no love lost between him and Lady Anne. If he discovers she's hiding something from him, her life will not be worth living. Now, tell me what you were supposed to tell her and I'll see she learns of it the instant she returns.'

Anxiety creased the boy's forehead. He gazed from Raffe to the stairs and back again, evidently trying to weigh up who to trust.

'It'll be too late by then. He said he must get word from her tonight.'

'Who, boy, who told you this?' Raffe urged.

The boy cocked his head on one side like a raven and looked slyly up at Raffe. 'He said she'd give me a silver penny for the message.'

Raffe seized the boy's jerkin and shook him impatiently. 'I'll give you a clip round the ear if you don't tell me, which is nothing to what Lord Osborn will do to you if he finds you here. He'll flay your hide to the bone to get the truth out of you.'

The boy's eyes widened in alarm. He tried to wrest his arm from Raffe's grip, but with little success. 'I'll tell you, master.' His eyes darted round the courtyard, fearful of being overheard. 'There's a man hiding on the marshes. Says he must get a boat to France afore he's discovered. Said he was told the Lady Anne would help him.'

'Who is this man?'

'He never said his name.' The boy's expression suddenly changed. 'I nearly forgot, he said I was to give her this.'

The lad fumbled for something under his shirt and thrust it into Raffe's hand.

It was a tin emblem in the form of a wheel, the symbol of St Katherine. Raffe's heart suddenly began to thump in his chest. This man on the marsh, could he be a French spy? Had one of them escaped the fire after all? But how had he come to know of Lady Anne and be so convinced she would help him? Her own husband and her son had fought for England. She would never betray her own country to the French, not her, Raffe would have wagered his life on it. So what on earth was she mixed up in?

The boy held his hand out, anxious, but plainly determined not to leave without his promised penny.

Raffe fished in the small leather purse that hung on his belt. The boy's eyes gleamed as he saw the silver penny in Raffe's hand.

'You came by boat.'

'Coracle,' the lad answered, not taking his eyes from the coin.

Raffe gnawed at his lip; a boy's coracle would not hold the two of them, especially not when one of them was Raffe's size.

'There's a place upstream where the river splits in two around an islet. You know it?'

The lad nodded.

'This silver penny is yours if you meet me there next to the water meadow at sundown. Wait at the back of the islet, the shrubs on it will hide you from the track. There'll be another silver penny for you if you guide me safely to this man and home again.'

The boy nodded reluctantly, gazing longingly at the silver as Raffe dropped it back in his leather purse. Raffe saw his disappointment and hesitated. Would he wait? It was much to ask of a young lad to be so patient for so many hours, and despite the promise of coins, he might easily get bored and leave. On the other hand, if he gave him the penny now, he might simply vanish anyway.

'Stay here,' Raffe instructed.

Raffe swiftly crossed to the kitchens, thankful that those inside were too preoccupied stirring and sweating over the fires to take any notice of him. He grabbed some bread, onions and a couple of fat mutton chops and, wrapping them hastily in a bit of sacking, returned to the boy.

Raffe thrust the parcel into his hands. 'To keep you from hunger while you wait. I'll bring more when I come tonight.'

The lad peered inside the sack and his mouth widened in a huge frog grin. 'Thanks, master!'

He was still grinning when he ran out through the gates.





The morning was half gone and still Elena didn't move from the turf seat in the garden. She crushed the leaves of the thyme and marjoram over and over, trying to fill her head with the scent, but almost as soon as she smelt it, it seemed to vanish again. It was like trying to hold a fistful of mist. She knew she should go back and finish tidying the women's chamber, but she couldn't.

The stench of sweat, the thick, sticky stains and the images of what they did in those stalls rose up in her throat until they choked her and she had to run outside to vomit over and over in the corner of the yard. She could not lie down in those stalls. She couldn't lie there and let a man climb on top of her, his wet lips on hers, his fingers probing and touching. Every morning as light crept too soon through the shutters, her first thought was, would it be today? Not today, Holy Virgin, I beg you, don't let them make me do it today.

She'd barely slept these last few nights since Raffe's visit and when she had closed her eyes, images whirled in her head: Athan in the arms of another woman; men pawing at her own body; Osborn walking towards her holding out a noose in his hands. And over and over a drumbeat of words pounded in her head: a year and a day, a year and a day!

She gave a convulsive sob and tore again at the herbs where she sat.

'Did a man hurt you?' a voice whispered. She jumped. Finch was crouching close beside her. She hadn't even noticed him.

She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.

Finch pulled at some grass blades. 'They hurt boys sometimes.'

'You, have they hurt you?' Elena's own self-absorbed misery vanished instantly in her concern for him.

Finch didn't answer, but continued tearing at the grass. Then he looked up. 'I could show you that secret now.'

She tried to smile. 'Not now, maybe another time.'

He touched the back of her hand lightly with his grubby finger. 'Please,' he begged. You'll not be sad then.'

She was about to refuse again, when she saw the pleading in his bright blue eyes. She was too tired even to think up a reason to refuse. Besides, it would delay the moment when she had to return to that chamber. She allowed herself to be pulled by the small boy, as a carthorse allows a puny human to guide it.

Finch led the way across the garden to the chamber where the little boys entertained their customers. Elena shuddered as she entered, and averted her eyes from the stalls, but the room was deserted, for it was too early for customers to come knocking. Finch stopped at one of the stalls, pushing his hand under the straw pallet and pulling out a small stick. At first Elena thought that was his secret treasure, and though she could see nothing special about it, was about to play along with whatever he was pretending it to be, when the boy set off again.

'Come on,' he urged. 'It's this way.'

Meekly she followed the tousled blond head until they reached the back of the room, where a great wooden pillar was set against one side of the wall. Finch tugged her into the alcove behind it. Even though she had cleaned this room before, Elena had never noticed that there was a low doorway behind the pillar, set at an angle which made it impossible to see from the rest of the room.

The boy glanced back to make certain they were alone, then he slid his fingers across the door until he found a small hole on one side. Now Elena understood the reason for the stick, for he wiggled it into the hole and she heard a latch being lifted on the other side. The boy slid in as soon as the door swung open, pulling Elena with him in such haste that she barely had time to duck to avoid hitting her head on the low archway.

She found herself standing at the top of wide curved steps leading downwards. A terrible stench wafted up from below, that instantly made her eyes sting and water. It was the stench of a midden — shit, urine, rotting meat and something else she couldn't quite recognize.

A single torch burned on the wall half-way down.

'Come on,' Finch whispered.

Seeing Elena hesitate, he slipped his little warm hand into hers. 'Don't be afeared. I'll look after you.'

Every instinct was telling Elena to back out as quickly as she could, but she firmly told herself that if a little boy was bold enough to go down those steps, there couldn't be anything much to fear at the bottom.

Elena pressed her hand to the wall to steady herself as they descended. The rough stones were dripping with water. They passed beneath the flames of the torch and at last she felt solid ground beneath her feet. They were in a long, low chamber that curved away to the left. The flames from the torch on the stairs barely illuminated the first few yards. The flagged floor tilted slightly towards a hole in the floor on one side of the chamber steps, more than big enough for a man to climb through, and the moisture from the walls ran in little rivulets towards it, falling in a pattern of loud, resonant drips into the dark maw below.

But it was not the sound of the dripping that captured Elena's attention. She could hear something moving beyond the curve of the cellar wall, as if someone was shuffling through straw.

'Is there someone here?' she whispered to Finch.

She was answered by a low, deep-throated growl coming from somewhere ahead. She started back, but Finch was quicker.

He darted past her and back up the stairs and, for a moment, Elena feared this was a trick, and he had lured her down to lock her in, but moments later he returned with a lit rush candle in his hand, carefully shielding the dim light from the draught of his movement with his other hand. He walked a few paces around the curve of the wall and held up the pitifully feeble light.

'Look there.'

The light did not penetrate far, but something caught it. Two great glowing spots blazed out in the darkness and, with an icy rush of fear, Elena realized they were a pair of eyes. The deep-throated growl rumbled again, echoing through the chamber, only to be answered by a snarl from somewhere deeper in the shadows.

Elena gasped in horror and tried to run towards the stairs. She slipped on the slimy wet flags and, tumbling over, landed in a heap. She scrambled to her feet, trying to catch the boy's hand and pull him up the stairs, but Finch resisted.

'But you haven't seen them properly yet. It's all right; they can't harm you. They're in cages. See?'

He edged forward and Elena, her legs trembling, followed him, her hand gripping the small boy's shoulder ready to pull him back out of harm's way. Finch swung the flame to his left. A stout iron cage was set against the oozing wall and inside a large creature was padding back and forth in the small space. The floor of the cage was littered with large gnawed bones and, by the stench of it, a good deal of dung.

Elena moved closer, trying to make out the grey shape in the smoking light of the rush candle. It turned its head towards her and snarled, baring its sharp white teeth. Elena had seen such a beast only once before in her life, and then it was dangling lifeless from a hunter's pole. As a child she'd been disappointed, for the dead creature had looked not much more fearful than a large dog, but now, as she saw the living beast and watched the muscles rippling in its shoulder, smelt its hot breath and felt the amber glow of its eyes fix on hers, she understood for the first time why men shuddered at the mention of a wolf.

Without warning the wolf hurled itself at the iron bars. Elena stumbled backwards into something hard. She felt something snatch at her skirts and whipped round, almost falling again as she found herself staring into a second cage. She had never seen anything like it before. The creature reared up roaring, its massive paws clawing at bars inches from her face. The great head of the beast was surrounded by a mane of yellowish-brown fur. A long, black-tipped tail lashed angrily back and forth. Elena ran from between the two cages and flung herself back against the wall of the cellar, her heart pounding in her ears.

'What is that beast?'

'That is a lion,' a voice answered, but it wasn't Finch's.

The tiny figure of Ma Margot was standing at the foot of the stairs. She held a lantern in her hand. In the light shining up from below her face became a grinning skull.

With a cry, Finch dropped the rush candle on the floor and rushed to hide behind Elena, clinging to her skirts.

'You're wise to hide from me, Finch,' Ma said sternly. You have not been given permission to come here.'

The boy gave a little whimper. Elena slid her arm behind her and held his hand.

'It's not the child's fault. I'm to blame. I made him bring me.' She tried to sound defiant, but her breathing was still ragged from the shock of seeing the creatures.

Ma smiled, as if she didn't believe a word. 'You want to be careful down here.'

She pointed to the great dark hole in the sloping cellar floor. 'Bottomless, that well is. They say the merchant who built this place thought his young bride was spending too much time with her confessor. He reasoned she couldn't have that many past sins to tell, so she must be committing new ones and he knew it wasn't with him. So he caught the young priest and brought him down here to do a little confessing of his own.

'He lowered the priest into the hole, to loosen his tongue, but when he came back a few hours later and hauled up the rope the merchant found it had snapped in two. The merchant's wife was beside herself when she heard the priest had drowned and threw herself down the hole after him. At least, that's what the merchant told everyone, which, like he said, proves they were guilty. But who's to say for sure, for their bones are still down there.'

Elena shuddered and Finch pressed himself into her skirts more tightly.

Ma watched them, a slight smile of satisfaction flitting across her mouth. 'I prefer it that no one comes here, for I would hate my poor creatures to be teased or goaded. But since you are here already you may as well see them.'

She raised the lantern and Elena saw that in her other hand she carried a basket. As she approached the wolf's cage, his snarls changed to excited little yelps. Ma handed the basket to Elena. Elena, thinking it light, having seen Ma carry it easily with no effort, staggered under the unexpected weight of it.

Ma pulled out a raw and bloody shank of mutton from the basket and tossed it over the top of the bars. The wolf seized it and dragged it off to the far corner of the little cage, where it began to gnaw at the bone.

Ma turned around to the lion whose pacing had become even more excited. It rubbed its shaggy head against the bars and Ma stroked the rough mane before tossing a haunch to it too. The great cat lay down with the meat between its paws, licking the flesh with a great rasping tongue.

'That is a lion?' Elena whispered. 'But I've seen lions on banners and they don't look like that.'

'The golden lion, no doubt, King Richard's standard.' Ma chuckled. 'Men have a way of making the creatures they fear into gods. They put them on pillars, cover them with gold, worship them and by doing so think they have tamed them, but they will not be tamed. Beasts and monsters, God or the

Devil, they're all the same, my darling, and they have only one purpose, to kill and destroy. Don't you ever forget that.'

Ma led the way further round the curving chamber. Beyond were more cages. An eagle flapped its useless wings in one, in another a brown bear sat upright on its haunches, its piggy little eyes staring with malice at them as they passed. Some of the creatures crouched in the shadows at the back of the cages, their fur as black as the tunnel itself, and Ellen could see little of them except their glowing eyes. But to each one Ma gave a portion of raw meat.

'Why do you keep them?' Elena asked.

'They're my guardians, my pets. But they have other uses. They earn their keep as we all do here. But I am fond of them and they are fond of me; they have to be for I am their god. I bring them food and water and they know it. Who knows,' she chuckled, 'maybe when I am late in coming they pray to me. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie — give us this day our daily bread.'

There was one more hunk of meat in the basket and Ma lifted her lantern and led the way a little further on. The creature in this last cage was huddled down in the corner, not pacing impatiently like some of the other beasts. Even when Ma lifted the lantern Elena could not make out what it was, for its head, like that of the lion, was covered with a great mass of tangled dark hair and its body lay half buried in the straw.

'Your dinner, my pet,' Ma called, tossing the remaining piece of bloody meat into the cage.

The creature slowly lifted its head and Elena clapped her hands to her mouth for the blue eyes that glowed out at her from a face that was almost black with filth and grime were unmistakably human. He was naked, but Elena was scarcely aware of that for his body was so filthy that he might have been wearing a garment woven from mud.

The man tipped forward and crawled towards the hunk of meat on his elbows and knees. As he came closer to where

Elena was standing, she suddenly saw why he moved in such a curious way. His feet and hands had been lopped off. The skin was twisted and scarred around the stumps where the bleeding limbs had been dipped in boiling tar to seal the ends and stop him bleeding to death.

Elena had seen mutilations before. A hand or nose or ear severed for thieving or some other crime, but never had she seen a man so cruelly and deliberately maimed as this. The wretch sat up and using the stump of one arm to lever the meat up against his chest and his teeth to grasp it, he dragged his meal back away from the bars.

'You are well?' Ma asked, surprising Elena with the gentleness of the question.

The man did not speak. His gaze darted from Ma back to Elena. It lingered on Elena's face with such a miserable intensity that she wanted to turn away, but found she couldn't tear her eyes from his. Then, as if he was suddenly conscious of his nakedness, he hunched away from her, scrabbling with the stump of his arm to pull a few wisps of straw across his groin.

'Who ... who is he?' Elena breathed.

'Have you learned nothing, my darling? We none of us own our names in here. Here he is known as my pet, nothing more. What does he need with a name?

'But come, I sent Luce to look for you a while ago. I've work for you tonight, my darling, important work, and we must prepare you well. For the gentleman is very particular in what he wants.'