The Gallows Curse

Three Days before the New Moon,

August 1211



Bracken - When bracken is grown to its full height, if it be cut across near the base, marks will be found on the stem. Some mortals believe these to be the letters signifying Christ, others the Devil's hoof print, and some find therein the initials of those they are to marry. At Midsummer the root of the bracken may be dug up, carved into the likeness of a hand and baked till it shrivels. Mortals call it Dead man's hand and use it to ward off the power of witches and demons.

The seeds from the bracken will enable the gatherer to summon any living creature, beast or human, from the earth, air or water. The seeds also render the gatherer invisible if he should swallow them or place them in his shoe. A parcel of seed plaited into a horse's mane will make horse and rider invisible to evil spirits on the road or to thieves who lie in wait for the traveller.

But the seeds are not easily gathered. It must be done just before the midnight hour on Midsummer's Eve. The gatherer must place a cloth of white linen or a pewter dish beneath the frond. It is dangerous to touch the frond at this hour with his bare hand, so he must bend it with a forked hazel twig so that the seed shall fall upon the cloth or dish. But bracken is well guarded by spirits and demons who do not desire that mortals should gain such power. They will torment the gatherer as he tries to collect the seed, pinching and striking him, and appearing in such a terrible aspect that some mortals have died of fright. And many return home to find the seed they gathered in the cloth has vanished.

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Cat



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman nodded in satisfaction.

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

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

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

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

Madron sniffed. 'Fish for dinner?'

'For my dinner.'

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

'Wouldn't I?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

'A man?' Elena's stomach lurched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the centre of the room was a huge wooden bed curved up high at either end. A wooden cupboard leaned drunkenly against one wall and against the other was a long table on which stood a flagon and goblets, together with platters of spitted duck, hare and heron and a glistening haunch of venison. Crowning the table was a roasted hog's head with savage fangs, its face blackened with grease and soot to resemble the coarse dark coat it wore when alive.

The walls of the chamber were painted with scenes of hunting. Bulls were being slaughtered with spears. Bears pawed wildly at the arrows sticking out of them, and men and women dressed in skins cowered from the swords that were hacking at them. Each of the triumphant hunters was naked, their muscles taut as they ran towards their victims, their scarlet mouths wide with the cries of battle.

Even as Elena stepped forward, she was aware of a strong animal stench filling the room, overpowering the smell of the roasted meat. With a shudder she remembered the creatures in the cellar. The stench was not nearly as strong or rank in here, but there was no mistaking some creature was or had been in the room.

In the same instant as the thought struck her, Elena heard a deep snarling. Before she could locate where it was coming from, she glimpsed a movement as something hurtled towards her from behind the bed. She flattened herself against the wall as the creature sprang up, only to be dragged back in mid-air by the chain around its neck. It fell with a heavy crash on the floor before scrambling to its feet, glowering and panting. The creature was black as the Devil's hounds, with short, close fur and eyes ringed with yellow. It looked for all the world like a cat, but that was impossible, for it was the size of a wolfhound. The muscles on its shoulders rippled under the fur. After a moment or two it slunk back behind the bed.

'What is that?' Elena whispered, her heart still pounding from the shock.

Luce wrinkled her nose. 'Ma calls it her witch's cat. But if that's a cat, the mice that brute hunts must be the size of bloody badgers. It's all right though, the beast can't get free. That chain would hold a charging boar, as I keep trying to tell him.'

She gestured to the corner of the room furthest away from the cat, and for the first time Elena realized there was someone else in the room. Finch sat in the far corner of the chamber, his legs drawn up to his chin and his head buried in his arms.

'He's got to get dressed in that. Ma's orders.'

She pointed to the floor where a long drape of dark fur lay crumpled. The hair was dense and short, and it looked as if it had been made from the skins of numerous rats sewn together.

Elena crept across the room with her back pressed against the wall to where the little boy sat, and squatted beside him, stroking his hair. She kept a nervous eye on the bed, but the creature remained crouched behind it, though she could hear the rasp of its hot breath as it panted.

'Are you scared, Finch?' Elena asked, her own voice none too steady. 'Is that why you won't get dressed?'

Finch nodded, but didn't raise his head.

Luce put her hands on her hips. 'I keep telling him, if he's not ready when the man comes, Ma'll more than likely feed him to that beast herself.'

Elena glared at her. 'That isn't helping! Course he's scared. Anyone would be with that thing in the room.' She turned back to Finch, coaxing him softly. 'But Luce is right, the cat's on such a stout chain that not even a dragon could break it.

And besides, look at all that meat on the table. The man couldn't eat all that, that's for the cat, that is. That's what it can smell, not you.'

As if it understood the word meat, the great cat snarled from behind the bed, and the little boy cringed still further into the corner. He stared desperately up at Elena, his face blotchy with tears.

'But what's the man going to do with the . . . cat? Maybe he'll let it go.'

'He won't,' Elena said soothingly. 'He'd be too afeared the creature would turn on him. And besides, Ma wouldn't let him, she'd not want that thing roaming round scaring all her customers away.'

'But why's it here then?' Finch persisted.

Elena glanced at Luce, who shrugged. 'Gets some men excited,' she said.

Elena wasn't sure she even understood that herself, though by now, listening to the giggling tales of the other girls, she had learned a great deal about what excited men. Very little of it made sense to her, but she knew that a giant cat was by no means the strangest.

With her thumb, Elena rubbed away the tears on Finch's Softly rounded cheeks. 'The big cat can't reach you. It's just as safe as when it's in one of Ma's cages. And you're not afeared of those caged beasts, are you? Remember, you told me it was safe to walk by them. Please, Finch, you know you have to do what Ma says. We all do. If you just let me help you dress, everything will be all right, I promise.'

It took a lot more coaxing and pleading before Finch finally allowed Elena to strip the clothes from his thin little body and pull the fur over his head so it hung from him like a little tunic. He stood still as she dressed him, his arms as limp as a rag doll, his head bowed, as if he knew there was no point in putting up any kind of fight. Elena saw the old dead look creep into his eyes and knew he was trying to shut her out, to shut out everything and close himself off until it was over. She knew that, because she had done the same thing that night in the pit at the manor, when she thought they were going to hang her. Sometimes, when the body is chained and cannot escape, the only thing you can do to save yourself is to let your mind fly away instead.

They had just finished when the big cat began to growl in a deep, throaty rasp, and a few moments later Elena heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the room.

The door opened, but this time the big cat didn't spring up. It walked as far as it could on its short chain to the side of the bed and stood there, its ears pricked and tail held high.

Ma entered, followed by a dark-haired man.

'Is the boy . . . ?' she began, then broke off as she caught sight of Elena kneeling beside the child. Her eyes flashed in alarm. 'Luce, I thought I said you were to get him ready.'

'I couldn't, Ma. He'd only get dressed for her.'

'Disobedient brat, is he?' the man said, taking a step forward. 'All the better, Mistress Margot, I'll take great pleasure in schooling him.'

'He doesn't need schooling,' Elena snapped. 'He was afraid, that's all. That beast's enough to scare anyone.'

'That's quite enough,' Ma said quickly. 'Off you go now.'

Elena turned towards the door, but the man stepped in front of her, barring her way. He seemed oddly familiar to Elena. His features were well fashioned and his hair was almost as black as the great cat's, but it was his eyes she remembered, grey and cold as a November sky.

He seemed to know her too. He was staring at her as if he couldn't quite place her. 'What's your name, girl?'

'Holly,' she murmured. Then suddenly she realized who he was. Before she could control herself a look of fear flashed across her face. She tried to compose herself, but the man was staring even harder at her.

'I'm sure we've —'

Ma Margot clapped her hands briskly. 'Out, girls, quickly now, I'm sure this fine gentleman is impatient to get on with his fun, he doesn't want you two chattering on, ruining his evening'

She shooed the girls towards the door.

'Now, sir, you'll find everything you need in that cupboard and if there's anything else you desire, I'll have Luce stand at the end of the passage and you can call her to fetch it.' Ma wagged a stumpy finger at little Finch. 'You do exactly what this gentleman tells you or you'll have me to answer to.'

The last thing Elena glimpsed was the child's terrified face as he watched the man cross to the bed.

At the end of the passage, Ma grabbed Luce and thrust her against the wall with a force that made the girl cry out.

You stay there, all night if needs be, case he wants anything— that'll teach you to disobey my instructions. When he's ready to leave you take him straight to the door. Don't let him go wandering around. And if he asks about Holly here, you tell him that she used to work in the market in Norwich till she came here. You got that?'

'Yes, Ma.' Luce nodded earnestly, rubbing her bruised shoulder.

Ma led Elena downstairs and outside, pulling her well away from the staircase to the chambers before stopping again. 'You should never have gone in there. I couldn't refuse a man like him. It would have made him think we'd got something to hide. But if you and Luce had done what I said, he would never have seen you. You know who he is, I suppose?'

Elena was trembling. 'I think he might be. . . Lord Osborn's brother.'

'Yes, Hugh of Roxham. Talbot recognized him at once. Now Hugh knows he's seen you before, but it's plain he's not sure where. How often have you met him?'

'I... I saw him in the Great Hall the first evening Osborn came to the manor, but only at a distance and he never spoke to me. I didn't think he'd even noticed me for there was a crowd of servants.' Elena gnawed at her knuckle. 'Do you think he's come here looking for me?'

'He's not asked about a runaway, and even if he has somehow discovered Raoul came here the night he died, he can't know you were the girl who pleasured Raoul... or murdered him,' she added with a glower. 'There's no reason to think he was looking for anything more than pleasure, and where else would any gentleman come for that but here? Ma Margot's is known far and wide as the best. So if we all stick to the same story, we can convince him he's seen you on the streets in Norwich, that's why you look familiar. It's as well we dyed your hair. You've not told Finch anything about yourself, have you, like where you come from?' Ma grasped Elena's hand, digging her long nails into the flesh. You'd best tell me now if you have.'

Elena winced, but shook her head. Ma searched her face for a long time, then grunted and dropped her hand. 'Go on, get yourself to bed and be sure to keep out of sight till Luce tells you he's gone.'

But Elena didn't move. 'Ma, what's Hugh going to do to little Finch?'

'What he does is no concern of yours,' Ma snapped. 'But you'd best pray that he gets so much pleasure from it that it puts any thoughts of you right out of his head.'

'But he's not going to hurt the boy, is he? He's so very small.'

Ma frowned and Elena shrank back, thinking she was about to lash out. But when Ma spoke there was an unusual gentleness in her voice.

'A little, that's inevitable, but I warned him not to go too far.'

She looked up at Elena, a pained but savage expression in her yellow-green eyes.

'All things pass, my darling, that's what you've got to hold on to. In just a few short years Finch will be a young man. He'll be able to do what he likes then to old men and women too who'll be only too willing to make fools of themselves and lick the ground he walks on just for a smile or a tender caress from a beautiful young man. It'll be them suffering then, not him. Trust me, one day you'll feel sorry for them.'

'But that won't wipe out what happened to him,' Elena said. 'He'll remember it.'

'Oh yes,' Ma said with grim smile, 'he will always remember, I'll see to that, and one day he will make them pay dearly for what their kind did to him. That's when he'll know he has beaten them all, and I can promise you he will enjoy that moment better than the finest banquet ever set before a king. Survive, my darling, that's all you have to do, just survive, and if you can, then time will give your revenge.'





Raffe, peering impatiently out of the casement in Lady Anne's chamber, finally saw her emerge from the stables and cross the courtyard below him. She looked weary, hardly surprising after her long journey. She'd been away almost two weeks at her cousin's home and every day Raffe had grown more anxious for her return. He glanced over the yard towards the gate. Osborn had sent a messenger ahead to announce his return from court that very afternoon. Raffe prayed fervently he wouldn't arrive until he'd had time to talk to Anne.

He followed her painfully slow progress across the yard. With gracious nods she acknowledged the hasty bobs and bows of servants as they hurried across the yard with fruit and herbs for the kitchen or armfuls of linen for the washing tubs.

Then the door of the Great Hall opened and Hilda, Lady Anne's sour-faced old maid, bustled down the steps, her hands flapping frantically skywards like a clipped-winged goose. Hilda's bellyache must have seemed like the answer to a prayer for Anne, who was plainly craving a week or two of peace. She couldn't travel with a maid who was rushing to the privy several times an hour. So Hilda had been forced to remain behind, moaning and fretting in her mistress's chamber. Raffe knew that Hilda was now reciting all the insults, both real and imagined, she had suffered in her ladyship's absence. But Lady Anne was merely nodding absently at Hilda's prattling, plainly not listening to a word.

Raffe ranged up and down the wooden floor, praying Anne would retire first to her chamber and not stay to eat in the Hall. He needed to get her alone. After an agonizing wait, he finally heard Hilda's shrill bleating approaching the chamber and knew Anne must be with her.

'... and Lord Osborn's manservants show me no respect. Why, the other day that one with the missing finger had the audacity to tell me, me, that I should fetch . . .'

The door opened and both women entered, looking startled to find Raffe waiting for them.

Raffe bowed stiffly. 'Welcome home, m'lady.'

Anne grimaced. 'Home, is that what I should call it? I fear it feels less and less like my home each time I return.'

She limped towards a chair, sinking wearily into it. Her face was grey with fatigue and even the effort of pulling off her riding gloves seemed to exhaust her.

Raffe swiftly poured a goblet of wine and handed it to her.

'M'lady, I must speak with you . . . alone,' he added, pointedly staring at Hilda.

Anne waved a dismissive hand at him. 'If these are more complaints about Osborn's retinue, they will have to wait. I am too weary to hear them now. Besides, you know there is nothing I can do to make Osborn's servants curb their behaviour. By order of King John, Osborn is the master here now. You'd best try appealing to him, if you think it will do any good.'

Raffe inclined his head. 'I am sorry, m'lady, but this can't wait. It's not a matter concerning Osborn. In fact it is imperative I speak with you before he returns.'

Hilda, her eyes now aglow with intrigue, crouched down to unlace Anne's boots, and gazed up eagerly at Raffe, as much as to say, I'm listening.

You'd better speak then,' Anne said with heavy resignation.

Raffe swiftly knelt down and, elbowing Hilda out of the way, began untying Anne's laces himself.

'It is a delicate matter, m'lady ... if you would be so good as to dismiss your maid.'

Hilda turned on him, spitting like a cat whose tail has been trodden on. 'Her ladyship has only just returned and I have to help her out of her soiled clothes and dress her. Are you proposing to do that? Anyway, as she said, she's far too exhausted to talk to anyone just now. And I won't have you making her ill. Whatever you have to say will just have to wait. I'm sure it can't be that important.'

Anne closed her eyes and sighed. 'Hilda, be so good as to tell the kitchens I will take a warm posset in my chamber. When Osborn returns, tell him I have taken a chill on the road and will not be joining him in the Great Hall this evening'

'But m'lady . . .' Hilda protested.

'Please, Hilda, go quickly, for I fear I shall be ill if I don't eat at once.'

Hilda's indignation at being excluded was forgotten in her concern for Lady Anne's health and, convinced that only a warm posset would save her dear mistress from certain death, she sped from the room without another word.

Anne leaned forward and grasped Raffe's shoulder as he knelt before her. 'Make haste then, Raffaele, if it really is important.'

Raffe glanced at the heavy oak door to check it was fastened, then back at Anne.

'While you were away, m'lady, a boy came with a message for you. He brought a sign. It was the pilgrim badge of St Katherine, her wheel.'

Anne's eyes opened wide in alarm. 'Did he ... did he speak of me?'

'He said the message was for you alone, but if Osborn had caught him -'

'But he didn't?' Anne asked in alarm. 'The boy is safe?'

'He is safe.'

'I must get word to tell him I am returned.' Anne half rose from her chair as if she was going to dash out through the gates.

Raffe took a deep breath. He wasn't sure how she was going to respond to having her private messages intercepted.

'I convinced the boy to give me the message.'

'He was given strict instructions to tell no one, no one, except me,' Anne blazed. Despite her exhaustion her eyes flashed with the old fire that had once made even her husband quail. 'And you had no right to intercept a private message for me. Just because you were my son's friend does not give you leave to —'

Raffe's temper snapped. 'It's as well I did, otherwise that poor priest would still be shivering out there on the marshes. Did you expect him to starve until you returned?'

'A priest?' Anne was all concern now. 'What's happened to him? Who was he?'

'The Bishop of Ely's chaplain. He was hiding out on the marshes in fear of his life. I arranged his passage to France. He'll be safe ashore by now, or nearly. But the question is, m'lady, why did he send word to you? What game of madness are you playing? Don't you realize there are some who would count it treason to aid those fleeing from the king? Osborn is one of John's most loyal men. If he had the slightest suspicion of what you are about, he wouldn't hesitate to hand you over to the king. And I have reason to believe that treason is already suspected here.'

Anne winced. For several minutes she said nothing. Then finally she reached towards him and clasped one of his hands in both of hers.

'I am no traitor, Raffaele, but I must do this, don't you see? There are priests and innocent people being hunted down by John's men. If I can help to save them, help God's faithful servants reach safety, then Christ and the Holy Virgin will surely have mercy on my son's soul. It is my penance for Gerard, do you see? The only one I can make for him. I failed my child in his life. I must not fail him in his death.'

Her expression was that of an earnest little girl pleading for a parent to make everything all right. Had she been of lowly birth, Raffe might have taken her in his arms and hugged her simply to comfort her, so lost and desperate did she sound, but he could not embrace the Lady Anne.

'M'lady,' he said gently, 'before the priest left for France he came here to the manor and anointed the body of your son for death.'

Tears of joy sprang into her eyes and she gripped his fingers hard. 'Tell me it is the truth. Swear it is so. You would not lie to me about that, would you?'

'It is the truth, I swear,' Raffe said solemnly. He tried to meet her gaze steadily, but he couldn't. He could feel her eyes boring into him, trying to read his face. Raffe knew he could more easily withstand the torturer's knife than the pain of her stare. But what in all truth could he tell her?

The priest had begun to anoint her son, but would God bless such a sacrament when it had been forced from his servant by threats? Raffe could not be sure that extreme unction had even been completed, for the priest could hardly have been trusted to continue after Raffe had been forced to slam down the lid of the pit. Even if he hadn't fainted straight away, he was more likely to have cursed Gerard than blessed him.

Raffe silently cursed himself. What had he been thinking of? The priest was right, what good would it do anointing a corpse so much decayed? And yet, the bones of the saints still had power to heal, didn't they? Even though the bones were dry and crumbling to dust, people still kissed them and begged them for a blessing.

But Gerard was no saint. No perfume of sanctity wafted from his tomb. A priest would no doubt tell him that the unnaturally rapid decay was proof that he had died in mortal sin. And the rotting remains that lay in that box, the putrid liquid, the foul stench, that was not Gerard; it was not the man he loved and called friend.

As if she could read his thoughts, Anne whispered, 'My son, how did he look? Did he seem at peace?'

Raffe frowned, trying desperately to frame an answer that would not hurt her more. He nodded without meeting her gaze.

'Thank you,' she whispered, but Raffe wasn't sure if she was thanking him for his reassurance or for offering her the gentle lie.

'That girl, Elena, who carries my son's sin, is she safe . . . have you heard news of her?'

'I believe she is safe . . . for now,' Raffe added. He could hardly tell her that Elena might not remain so once Osborn returned, without revealing where she was.

Anne gave a weary smile. 'I am glad of it. I know that we did what had to be done to save my son's soul from torment, but still I cannot help feeling guilty that we deceived an innocent girl. I would not wish to see her come to any harm.'

Raffe winced. What would Anne think if she knew that Elena, whom they had both risked their liberty to protect from Osborn, might after all be a cold-blooded murderess?

Shouts and bellows rose from the courtyard below, followed at once by the clatter of hooves and barking of dogs. Osborn had returned. Raffe struggled to his feet.

'I should not be found talking to you alone. Osborn might suspect us of plotting against him. But m'lady, promise me this, you must not get involved in giving any more aid to the king's enemies. It's too dangerous, especially with Osborn here. Neither your birth nor your sex would spare you if you were charged with treason. John has not even shown mercy to his own kinsmen, and in truth it seems that the more noble they are born the more cruelty he devises for them. Promise me you will do no more.'

But Raffe never heard her reply, if indeed she made one, for Osborn was yelling his name as he ascended the staircase to the Great Hall. In a couple of strides Raffe had crossed the room and was out of the door. As it closed behind him, Lady Anne pressed a hand to her mouth and began to weep.





Elena had lain awake long into the night. She could not stop thinking about Finch. She had never before worried about what a customer was doing to any of the boys or women. On the contrary, ever since she had arrived, her only prayer had been, Let them do it to the others, but not to me. Holy Virgin, don't let them do it to me. And always there was that great unknotting of her stomach when she knew the last customer had left and no one would send for her that night.

She was growing accustomed to the pattern of night noises now. First came the sound of women coaxing the men across the courtyard to the rooms, the odd giggle and squeal as men already in the mood for fun would pinch a backside or try to snatch a kiss. Then would follow several hours of muffled laughter, shrieks and moans from the chambers, giving way again to voices and footsteps recrossing the yard: the men's words now slurred with drink or fatigue; the girls' giggling now more forced; the final pinches, slaps and kisses. And then, as each of the women bade farewell to the last of her customers for the night, the door of the sleeping chamber would open and close repeatedly as the women and boys drifted in, yawning, falling asleep almost as soon as they lay down on the rustling straw pallets. Finally a great safe blanket of darkness would settle down upon the brothel and the torture of waiting would be ended for another night. Usually Elena would sigh with relief and curl up into sleep, pausing only to pray that God would keep her little son and her beloved Athan safe, and that she would see them again soon. Tomorrow, let Athan come for me tomorrow, she'd whisper fervently.

But tonight Elena lay awake in the suffocating heat listening to the snuffles, snores and groans of the sleepers and the occasional distant barking of a hound somewhere in the town. Finch had not returned. His small, fragile face floated before her eyes. She was haunted by that look of fear and abandonment he had cast at her as she'd walked out of that room, leaving him alone with Hugh and that monstrous cat.

But Finch wasn't the only thing keeping her awake. Luce was absent from the sleeping chamber too. If she was still on watch, that must mean that Hugh was still somewhere here in the brothel. Maybe he too was lying awake at this moment or sipping his wine, trying to remember where he'd last seen the whore in that chamber. It was the sort of thing that people nagged at in their minds. It was the kind of recollection that came suddenly in the middle of the night.

Even with her dyed hair, he might recall her face, an expression, a gesture. What if he'd already left and was even now on his way back here with the sheriff? Elena lay rigid, her stomach aching with fear. Despite the heat, she had not dared to undress. It made her feel less vulnerable to be clothed, and if they came for her, it would be easier to run and hide, or even break away from them at the door.

She found herself planning how she might escape. If they came while it was still dark, she could run down into the cellar where the animals were. She was sure none of the other girls knew the entrance, for if they did then she'd have surely heard them gossiping about the identity of the mutilated man in the cage.

But if they came in daylight, what then? Would Ma be able to hide her before they searched? Would Ma even want to hide her? She'd already threatened to hand her over if Elena didn't earn her keep, and she knew she had hardly done that.

Elena became aware of a movement in the darkness. Slowly and silently the door of the sleeping chamber was opening. Elena drew herself up and crouched tensely in the darkness. Please let it be Finch, she prayed.

The figure behind the upraised lantern was short enough to be Finch, but it wasn't. Ma held the lantern aloft, sweeping the soft light over the sleepers, most of whom barely stirred. When the yellow beam caught Elena crouching on her pallet,

Ma beckoned with a long pointed fingernail, the flame glinting in the ruby on her hand.

Panic tightened Elena's throat. Was this it? Was Ma going to hand her over to them? On shaking legs she picked her way through the sleeping women, her mind galloping ahead of her. If she pushed Ma over, she could run, but where to? Ma knew all about the cellar. Her only hope was to make a dash for it once she was outside the brothel.

Elena blundered towards the door. Ma caught her wrist and pulled her outside.

'You're trembling, my darling, I can feel it. Are you getting a fever?' She held the lantern up, peering suspiciously into Elena's face.

Elena shielded her eyes from the light and stared wildly round the courtyard. 'Have they come for me?'

Ma chuckled softly. 'Ah, so that's it. No, they've not come . . . yet. But I need your help with Finch. This way.'

She started off in the direction of the upper chamber, but Elena hung back.

'Come on, my darling. If you're afraid of running into Master Hugh, he's long gone, for now anyway.'

Ma thrust the lantern into Elena's hands as she heaved herself up the staircase, clinging to the rope which ran alongside. Although the steps were shallower than normal to accommodate Ma's shortened stride, still her progress was laborious. There was no sign of Luce. Ma thrust open the door of the chamber. She hung the lantern on a hook inside and with a jerk of her head motioned Elena to enter.

Elena edged cautiously through the door keeping close to the wall, expecting the cat to spring out at any moment, but there was no warning growl.

'The beast's safely back in its cage below,' Ma said.

It was hard to make out anything clearly in the dingy yellow light of the lantern, but Elena saw that the pallet on the bed had partly slipped off and there seemed to be dark stains on it, though what they were, she couldn't tell.

'Right, my darling, I'll send Talbot along with some water and clothes. You get him cleaned up and settled down. He'd best stay here the night and you with him for company. I'll get Talbot to fetch up some herbed wine with poppy juice in it. Get him to drink that if you can, it'll send him to sleep.'

Ma lifted the corner of the pallet. Finch sat under it in the tiny cave formed by the hanging pallet and the side of the bed. His knees were drawn up to his chin and he was rocking backwards and forwards. As the light hit him, he screwed his eyes shut and began to sing in a quavering high-pitched voice — Lavender's green, diddle diddle, Lavender's blue. He kept repeating the one line over and over, as if it was a prayer.

Elena moved closer, bending down. But the child kept his eyes so tightly shut that no chink of light could possibly penetrate them. He was half naked. The long grey rat's-skin cloth was shredded, and beneath, Elena could see great long livid welts, oozing blood, standing swollen and proud from his flesh. His arms and legs were also scored with them, and though she could not see his back she guessed it might be the same. Had he been flogged? She suddenly realized what the dark stains on the pallet were — they were bloodstains, Finch's blood.

Outraged, Elena sprang up and wheeled round to face Ma. 'You promised! You said he'd only hurt him a little. Is that what you call a little? You knew he was going to do this, didn't you? How much did he pay you to let him hurt Finch? How much?'

Without thinking what she was doing, she made to grab Ma and shake her, but the tiny woman was too quick and strong for her and in an instant had seized both Elena's wrists in an unbreakable grip.

'You little fool! Do you really think I wanted this? Apart from anything else, it will be weeks before this boy is fit to work again, and I'll have to feed and physic him all the while.'

Even though Ma's fingers were crushing her bones, the pain did not cool Elena's temper.

'Is that all you can think about — coins, money, jewels? He is just a little boy and he's been badly hurt and scared half to death. He's in pain. Don't you feel anything for him?'

'You think you know about pain or hurt?' Ma retorted savagely. 'I've seen more pain and known more hurt than any soldier on the battlefield. You haven't begun to understand what cruelties men can inflict, my darling, and women too; they're sometimes the worst. But do you really imagine it will help the boy if I sit and cry with him? Will that help him fight it the next time and the next?'

'You're not going to let Hugh near him again? You can't, please, Ma, you can't let him,' Elena begged.

Ma released her hands and stood shaking her head sadly, so that the jewelled pins in her shiny black hair glittered in the candlelight.

'My darling, do you think that if I tell that man I don't like what he's done to the boy, it will stop him doing it to someone else, to another child who has no protector?'

You dare to call this protection?' Although Elena was rubbing her bruised wrists, her tone was still sharp with defiance and fury.

'If this had happened outside the stew, he probably would have gone on until he killed the boy.' She patted Elena's thigh. 'Tend to Finch,' she said wearily. You're the motherly sort. You can soothe him.'

At the door, Ma paused. 'Remember what I told you, my darling. If you survive you can always have your revenge. Trust me when I tell you that the man who did this will pay dearly for it, I can promise you that. He will pay.'

After Ma left, Talbot came lumbering in with a bowl of steaming water steeped with sage and thyme, cloths, and almond oil and honey to rub in the wounds, as well as a flask of wine. At the sight of the brawny gatekeeper, Finch retreated further under the pallet.

'You want me to get him out?' Talbot growled.

Elena spread her arms defensively in front of the boy.

'No, no, leave him to me. He'll come in his own time.' She added this more to reassure Finch that she would not force him than for Talbot's benefit.

The gatekeeper grunted and made for the door, rolling from side to side on his bandy legs. 'If there's aught else the little runt needs, you fetch me, you hear?' he said gruffly. 'Food, ale, anything he fancies. You just ask.'

Elena looked up, startled by this unexpected softness in the surly gatekeeper. You're a kind man, Talbot.'

Talbot looked. 'Aye, well, no lad deserves to be used like that. I tell you straight, you leave me alone in a dark alley with that bastard and I'd soon teach him what fear is. I'd have him squealing for his mother in less time than it takes for a priest to say a paternoster.' As if he already had Hugh standing in front of him, Talbot clenched his great fists. 'By the time I'd finished with him, he'd not be able to find his own prick to play with, much less someone else's. One of these days that bastard'll get what he deserves; I'll make sure of that.'

He closed the door behind him and Elena could hear his heavy footsteps retreating back down the stairs.

'Everyone's gone now, Finch,' she said softly. 'Come out and let me wash those cuts and put something on them to stop them hurting.'

But the child didn't stir. Elena tried again and again, coaxing him with wine and the promise that she would not hurt him, but still there was no movement. She refused to pull him out. Enough force had been used on Finch already. Finally, she retreated to the far side of the room and sat exhausted, propped against one of the walls, at a loss to know what to do next.

What on earth had Hugh done to the child? She'd been long enough in the stew to know what certain men usually wanted from small boys, but those marks, how had he inflicted those and what else had he done?

From under the pallet, she heard that faint, high-pitched singing again.



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

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



It was a thin, strange little voice that didn't sound like Finch or any child she knew, more like the mewing of an animal in distress. Softly Elena joined in.



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

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

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

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

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



Without warning the child erupted from under the pallet and flew across the room at her, shrieking and pummelling her in the chest with his small fists. The attack was so unexpected that Elena instinctively turned into the wall, covering her face as the boy punched, kicked and tore at her in a frenzy.

'You promised,' he screamed. You said that if I got dressed everything would be all right. You said the cat wouldn't hurt me, you said . . . you said it couldn't get me. You lied, just like all of the rest. I hate you! I hate you!'

He crumpled on to the ground, exhausted, and lay there sobbing.

Elena hesitated, fearful of another assault, but finally she reached out a hand and gently stroked Finch's curls. He flinched, drawing away from her and twisting himself into an even tighter ball.

'Go away. Leave me alone. I hate you.'

Tears filled Elena's eyes. 'I didn't know he would hurt you, I swear I didn't. I'm sorry, so sorry.'

But what the boy said didn't make sense. She couldn't imagine the cat allowing itself to be mastered by any man it didn't know. Surely not even someone as arrogant as Hugh would be so foolish as to unleash such a beast when it could just as easily have turned on him.

'I don't understand, Finch. Did he let the cat off the chain?'

The boy, still lying on the floor, shook his head.

Elena stared again at the long open cuts on his arms. She had been clawed by her mother's tabby cat a few times when playing with it as a child and recognized the parallel marks, though nothing as frightful as the marks on the boy. The boy's flesh had been ripped open, yet deep though the cuts were, surely a beast of that size would have ripped his arm off, not merely torn the skin. And his face was unmarked.

She reached out again and stroked the little head once more. 'Finch, please tell me what he did. You say he didn't let the cat off the chain, then how did it hurt you?'

He raised his head and stared at her, his face was blotched from crying and his nose was running. His breath came in thick, hiccupping sobs.

'The man, he was the cat. . . he pulled off his shirt and tied a pelt around his waist. He was muttering. You will feel the strength, over and over. His eyes went strange . . . like he was staring at something that wasn't there. Then . . . then he started changing, turning into a beast, 'cept it wasn't a beast like those ones.' He gestured to the paintings on the walls. 'He was ... he was a werecat. He could stand like a man, but he wasn't a man, he was a huge cat with great long claws. And he wasn't chained, he leapt at me. He had hair on his hands, thick hair, and his eyes were deep and mad like demons'. He ... caught me and I couldn't get away. I couldn't get away . . .' Finch broke off in a shuddering moan of fear.

Elena, shaking as much as the boy, drew the child to her and folded him in her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. He didn't resist, but clung to her, sobbing and trembling. They sat together like that for a long time, before the boy's breathing finally calmed. At last he let her wash him, wincing in pain as the cloth touched the cuts, but making no sound. She rubbed almond oil and honey in the cuts to soothe them and help them heal, then coaxed him to drink the poppy- laced wine.

She pulled the pallet off the bed and dragged it into the far corner. Then they both lay down on it, she with her body curled protectively round the boy's, he holding tight to her arm wrapped across his small chest.

She could feel him relaxing as the wine and poppy syrup took hold.

Just as she thought he was asleep, he murmured, 'The werecat was asking about you.'

Elena's body recoiled as if she had been struck. 'What. . . what did he ask?' she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

'Your name,' Finch murmured drowsily. 'I told him it were Holly. I had to tell him, he made me.' He started to shake again and Elena stroked his head. 'Of course you had to, it doesn't matter. But did he say anything else? Did he say anything about me?'

She could feel the child drooping in her arms, but she needed him to stay awake and answer her.

'Think, Finch, I know it's hard, but please, it's important, what else did he say about me?'

There was such a long silence that Elena was sure Finch was sleeping, then he muttered. 'Said next time ... he was going to take you.'