The Gallows Curse

3rd Day after the New Moon,

September 1211



Marigold — called also the Jackanapes-on-horseback, Summer's bride or Husbandman's dyall for the flowers follow the sun faithfully. For this reason maids weave it into their bridal garlands to keep their husbands constant. And if any maid would make a lover faithful, she should dig up the earth from his footprint and put it in a pot and therein plant her marigold seeds.

The flowers are eaten in possets and puddings. The flower- head rubbed on a sting will soothe the pain. The seeds crushed into white wine will cure or ward off agues and all manner of fevers. Mixed with hog's grease and turpentine, and rubbed upon the breast, it succours the heart in a fever.

If a mortal gazes into the flower at dawn it shall preserve him from contagion all day, and if he smells the flower, it shall banish the evil humours from him. Eaten before all other food is taken, it will cure the melancholy spirits and shall comfort those who sorrow.

Mortals regard the marigold as a symbol of cruelty in love, and of pain. And mortals must have pain, as a fish must have water. For mortals it is not enough that others should inflict it upon them, but they strive to inflict it on themselves.

The Mandrake's Herbal





Foul Wind from France



'Hugh, for God's sake stop exciting those brutes,' Osborn snapped irritably. 'Or I'll have them banished to kennels with the rest of the hounds.' He pulled the glass ball that magnified the light of the candle closer and bent his head once more over the rolls of parchment and ledgers scattered on the table before him.

Hugh was sprawled in the casement seat of the solar, feeding choice pieces of roasted meat to his two favourite hounds. They were drooling and yapping excitedly as he held the juicy morsel high up out of their reach. When he finally tossed the piece of meat the length of the solar the hounds bounded after it, skidding on the silk rugs and leaping to catch it before it fell. The loser came racing back to Hugh, his claws clattering on the wooden floor, and sat there hopefully gazing up at him again.

For a moment Hugh considered defying his brother, but one glance at Osborn's face told him his brother was in such a foul mood that if crossed, he'd probably order Hugh's dogs to be butchered and fed to the rest of the pack. Hugh laid the pewter dish of meat, bread and gravy down on the floor and watched the two dogs lick it clean.

He wandered across to the table and selected a fat mutton chop. God's blood, he craved meat. He could never seem to get enough of it these days. Thank heaven, the churches were closed. You were still supposed to abstain from meat on Fridays and the dozens of Holy Days in the year, but with no priest to wag his finger, Hugh didn't even make a pretence at obeying this rule. He licked the grease from his fingers. Time enough to do penance for that when the priests returned, and when they did, it would take a cathedral full of them a whole month to hear his confession.

For a start there was what he'd done with that boy in the whorehouse. It had disgusted and excited him at the same time. He had never felt so alive, so powerful. He had never desired a boy before, and the thought of it revolted him, even though he ached to repeat it. Even the hunt, which once had excited him, now seemed dull and insipid, like drinking milk- whey after a good rich wine. He gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the stirrings in his groin which the mere memory of that night aroused.

With a deliberate effort at concentration, he strolled across to Osborn and flicked one of the scrolls of parchment. 'This from King John? I saw the messenger arrive. Is it about Raoul's murder?'

His brother shook his head irritably. 'John wants money, a loan, he says, for the building and equipping of a warship. He's asking all his loyal lords to finance the building of new ships to increase the fleet. But where am I to get this kind of money? Half the merchants from Europe have ceased coming to England to buy wool, because of the Interdict. The Church tells them it's forbidden for good Christians to trade with those who are excommunicated; besides, they don't want to get on the wrong side of Philip. The prices of wool have dropped so much I can hardly give it away.'

'Then refuse John the loan,' Hugh said casually, spearing another chop.

Osborn slammed his fist down on to the table. 'How can I refuse the king after he granted me this manor?' He glowered at Hugh. 'You always were a complete numbskull in these matters. It's as well I was born the elder. You'd have lost all our father's lands and property within the year if you'd had charge of them, and probably your head too.' He raked his fingers through his beard. 'I'll just have to borrow from the Jews. No doubt they'll demand extortionate interest.'

'But the Jews are the king's property,' Hugh reminded him. 'He decides what interest they should charge. In fact I doubt you could lift any juicy piecrust anywhere in this land without finding John's thumb in it somewhere.'

Osborn eyes narrowed. 'Guard your tongue, little brother. If the king got to hear those words, you would lose it.'

Hugh waved the chop-bone at the room. 'There's no one to hear us and I am not such a numbskull, brother, as to speak it outside. Anyway, what surety is the king offering for this loan?'

'He promises to grant me, and the others who support him in this, wealthy estates taken from the rebel barons, when he defeats Philip,' Osborn said morosely.

'If he defeats Philip! You hoped for such things before when you hunted down the rebels for John after he captured the castle of Montauban, and all you managed to persuade John to give you for your trouble was this piss-poor manor. You should have demanded more. Our father would have done.'

Osborn threw back his chair and leapt up. Without warning, he struck Hugh hard across his cheek with the back of his hand.

Hugh reeled back, grunting in pain, and his hand reached for his dagger before he even realized what he was doing. It was only with supreme effort that he stopped himself drawing it. He turned away, breathing hard and seething with fury.

After a moment he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. 'Forgive me, little brother. I am weary. I should not. . .'

You should not have done what, brother? Hugh thought savagely. Hit me? Treated me like a child and fool for years? Kept me penniless like a base-born villein?

Hugh painted a smile on his face and turned back to Osborn with a respectful incline of his head. 'I'm the one who should ask forgiveness of you, brother. I spoke foolishly. As you say, I am a numbskull.'

It took every grain of self-control he could muster to utter those words in anything approaching a civil tone. But Osborn did not appear to hear the crackle of ice in his voice and merely nodded as if he thought all was mended between them.

Fearful of letting his rage explode, Hugh rapidly searched for a diversion. 'I'm surprised that John made no mention of Raoul.'

Osborn sank down again at the table, without looking at him. 'I have not told him yet.' He held up a hand as if to forestall a protest. 'I thought it wisest not to do so until Raoul's killer has been apprehended. John sent Raoul here to look for a traitor, and His Majesty might take it ill if one of his men came to harm while under my protection. Besides, John has too many cares just now to burden him with another. Time enough to tell him once I've got Raoul's killer by the heels. I'll go to Norwich myself and kick that feckless sheriff into action.'

Hugh felt as if God and all the saints of heaven were beaming down on him. The band of fur around his waist seemed to tighten and throb against his skin, even as he felt that shudder of pleasure rising between his legs.

'No, brother, no, you have enough to concern you over this matter of raising the money for John. Let me go to Norwich. As you say, I am useless when it comes to tending to estate matters. But I can be of service to you in Norwich. Let me go.' He watched Osborn's face eagerly, willing him to agree.

Osborn hesitated. 'There is something you should know. Raoul was in Norwich not on John's service, but mine. I'd heard that my runaway villein had taken refuge there. I sent Raoul to see if he could find her. This traitor, whoever he is, may have seized the opportunity to follow him and killed him for fear of discovery, or else someone killed him to stop him finding the girl. But either way, little brother, I caution you to take great care.'

Hugh smiled. 'Have no fear on my part. Unlike Raoul, I know how to defend myself, and I swear I will return not only with his killer, but with your runaway villein too. I won't rest until I have tracked that bitch down and run her back here tied to a horse's tail, as a gift to you.'

Hugh accepted his elder brother's warm embrace as if all had indeed been forgiven between them. But beneath his smile, his rage throbbed as fiercely as his cheek. The blow was neither forgiven nor forgotten. He swore he'd make his brother regret this latest insult in a long line of humiliations he'd suffered at his hands. Before the year was out he'd make Osborn remember each and every one of them.





A twist of mean, broken little cottages surrounded the Fisher's Inn. The ramshackle wooden buildings were threaded along a narrow strip of dry land squeezed between the dark river and the black, sucking marshes. The inhabitants of the cottages didn't earn enough between them to keep an alewife dry shod, never mind provide the business an inn needed to flourish. But despite its isolation, flourish it did, as far as anything except leeches and midges could thrive in that lonely place. It was its very remoteness that was attractive to a certain type of customer. Lost travellers, eel men, wildfowlers and the boatmen, sedge collectors and reed-gatherers all had reason to be grateful for its location when going about their damp and lonely tasks in the daylight hours. But there were others who sought it out by night, when dark corners and concealed nooks gave welcome shelter to those who had no wish for their faces to be seen.

Although the inn stood out plainly enough in the daytime, Raffe always marvelled how at night the wooden building seemed to melt into the darkness. The reeds blurred its outline and so faint were the lights burning inside that no glimmer escaped its shadows, even through the cracks of weather- beaten shutters.

Raffe lifted the latch on the heavy door and sidled in. As usual, he gagged as he took his first breath in the cloying, fishy stink of the smoke that rose from the burning seabirds, which were skewered on to the wall spikes in place of candles. In the dim oily light, he could make out the vague outlines of men sitting in twos and threes around the tables, heard the muttered conversations, but could no more recognize a face than see his own feet in the shadows.

A square, brawny woman deposited a flagon and two leather beakers on a table before waddling across to Raffe. Pulling his head down towards hers, she planted a generous kiss on his smooth cheek.

'Thought you'd left us,' she said reprovingly. 'You grown tired of my eel pie?'

'How could anyone grow tired of a taste of heaven?' Raffe said, throwing his arm around her plump shoulders and squeezing her.

The woman laughed, a deep, honest belly chuckle that set her pendulous breasts quivering. Raffe loved her for that.

'He's over there, your friend,' she murmured. 'Been waiting a good long while.'

Raffe nodded his thanks and crossed to the table set into a dark alcove, sliding on to the narrow bench. Even in the dirty mustard light he could recognize Talbot's broken nose and thickened ears.

Talbot looked up from the rim of his beaker and grunted. By way of greeting he pushed the half-empty flagon of ale towards Raffe. Raffe waited until the serving woman had set a large portion of eel pie in front of him and retreated out of earshot. He hadn't asked for food, no one ever needed to here. In the Fisher's Inn you ate and drank whatever was put in front of you and you paid for it too. The marsh and river were far too close for arguments, and the innkeeper was a burly man who had beaten his own father to death when he was only fourteen, so rumour had it, for taking a whip to him once too often. Opinion was divided on whether the boy or the father deserved what they suffered at each other's hands, but still no one in those parts would have dreamed of reporting the killing. And since the innkeeper's father lay rotting somewhere at the bottom of the deep, sucking bog, he wasn't in a position to complain.

Raffe leaned over the table towards Talbot. 'You sent word it was important. What's happened? They haven't arrested Elena, have they?'

'Nay, she's safe enough for now. But there's another matter needs attending to.'

He took a long, slow draught from his beaker. Raffe's heartbeat began to slow. All the way here, he'd been so afraid Talbot was bringing terrible news of Elena, but if she was still safe, then nothing else seemed of much import.

Osborn had not gone chasing off to Norwich as soon as he had returned, as Raffe had feared. In truth he'd seemed curiously unmoved by Raoul's murder, preoccupied with other concerns. And with every day that passed, it seemed less likely that the sheriff s men would discover the murderer at all.

Talbot set down his beaker and wiped his mouth on the back on his hand. 'I've had word that package you sent by ship arrived safely.'

'That's good,' Raffe said absently, still preoccupied by the thought of Elena and Raoul.

'Though if I'd known who he was, I'd have charged him double.'

Raffe grinned. He might have known that Talbot would find out somehow that the man was a priest. To be honest, if it had just been the priest's life at stake, Raffe wouldn't have much cared whether he reached France or not, but there was always the danger that if he was captured he might start talking. Raffe knew that they'd merely have to show that little runt the hot irons for the priest to start spilling every name in his head, even proclaiming the Blessed Virgin Mary a co-conspirator if he thought it would spare him pain.

'Maybe not as good as you think,' Talbot said. 'I get the feeling for some reason he took against you, the ungrateful bastard. Thing is,' Talbot leaned in closer, dropping his voice even lower, 'there's another package to be delivered and our friend insists he wants you to take charge of it personally.'

Raffe frowned. 'Speak plainer, man.'

Talbot glanced around the shadowy room. Everyone appeared deeply engrossed in their own muted conversations; all the same, he was taking no chances. He tapped Raffe on the arm and gestured with his head towards the door, Raffe rose and, slipping a more than generous payment for the scarcely touched eel pie to the serving woman, he left the inn and wandered out beyond the cottages to a small, open wooden shelter where the fowlers stored their nets and wicker tunnels for driving the ducks. The air was sharp after the fug of the inn, and even the stench of rotting vegetation and mud smelled clean compared to the fishy stench of the burning seabirds.

Raffe perched on an upturned keg in the darkness, listening to the gurgle of the black waters and the rustling of the reeds. Then he heard soft footsteps behind him. Talbot slipped into the shelter and squatted close to Raffe, facing in the opposite direction, so that he could watch the door of the inn.

You wanted me to speak plain,' Talbot said, keeping his voice so low that Raffe had to lean in to hear him. 'Word from the priest is that a messenger from France needs safe passage for a meeting at Norwich.'

'With whom?' Raffe asked.

Talbot shrugged. 'Not likely to give us names, is he? But if this envoy is on France's business you can safely wager it won't be John's friends he wants to meet.'

'I'll not do it!' Raffe burst out angrily.

Talbot gripped his arm. 'Keep your voice down,' he whispered.

He glanced anxiously about him, but Raffe was too angry to stay silent though he did lower his voice.

'Much as I'd gladly see that devil John hanging from the highest gallows in the land, I'll not betray my country to the French. You think I want Philip on the throne? This is England and I'd no more see it under France's heel than I would be slave to the Saracens.'

'But it isn't your country, is it?' Talbot said quietly. Your mam wasn't squatting on English soil when she gave birth to you, nor her dam, nor hers afore that. What allegiance can a man have for any land save the one that drank his mother's blood when he was born?'

The truth of what he said hit Raffe like an unexpected blow from a fist. For so many years, even before he set foot on it, he had thought of this land as his own. It was Gerard's home and he had pledged life and limb to Gerard, and therefore to his lord's land and lineage. All through those years as they'd travelled and fought for King Richard, then John, the men had sat around the camp fires in the evening talking of home, of their favourite inns and serving wenches, of familiar hunting forests and grey stone manors, the trees they had climbed and the meadows in the shires where they had played as boys.

And Raffe had almost come to believe that their memories were his own. Like them, he too spoke longingly of the comforts of home. And the home he meant was England. He belonged here. It was the only place where he had ever been allowed to think he belonged. And any idea that others might still consider him a foreigner had long since vanished from his head. Talbot's challenge stung him as smartly as a splinter driven under his fingernail.

'I took an oath to Gerard and I am still bound by that. He would never betray his country, any more than I can betray him.'

Aye, well, there's the problem, see?' Talbot muttered.

'No, I don't see,' Raffe said coldly.

'Word is that if the envoy doesn't complete his mission safely, other messages can be sent from France to Osborn or even the king himself, explaining how you and others he could name have helped those fleeing from John.' Talbot spat disgustedly into the darkness. 'I always knew priests were devious bastards, but you'd have thought at least they'd not turn on those who've helped 'em.'

Raffe felt the blood drain from his face. He knew exactly why the priest would be willing to see him hanged or worse. The little weasel had plainly not forgotten, much less forgiven, being trapped with Gerard's corpse. Raffe had little doubt the priest would carry out his threat. What was to prevent him?

But Raffe didn't have to stay and wait for John's men to come for him. Talbot had arranged passage on a ship for the priest — why couldn't he arrange it for Raffe? Not to France, of course, nor any of the lands where John still held sway, but there were other countries. He could go anywhere, just walk away from this. What was to keep him here?

Talbot suddenly gripped Raffe's shoulder. 'Priest said there were others who'd helped. What did he mean? Who did you talk about?'

Even though it was too dark to read the gatekeeper's expression, Raffe could feel the powerful fingers digging into him, and knew exactly what he was asking.

'Upon my life, I swear he knows nothing of you.'

'Then who?' Talbot demanded.

Raffe tried to think. 'I suppose the marsh-boy who delivered him to the boatmen, and the boatmen themselves . . . but he'll not know their names.'

'You sure there was no one else?' Talbot growled. 'He said others he could name'

Raffe suddenly knew with sickening clarity who the priest meant. When he was in hiding, the priest had sent the boy to find not him but the Lady Anne. The priest had to know her identity, and that was why he was so certain his threat would work. If Raffe fled, she would be left behind to face the wrath of Osborn and John.

There was no way out of this. Raffe couldn't smuggle Anne out of the country in secret. Such a flight would mean travelling at night, climbing on to ships in the dark, even hiding in the bilges until they were safely clear of the coast. A young woman might have managed it, but not her, even if she consented to do it. He'd seen how exhausted the journey from her cousin's home had left her; she would never survive a voyage as a fugitive. And if she did, what would become of her in a foreign land? He could take any menial job to put food in his belly, living rough in the open if he had to, he'd done it before, but he couldn't expect a woman of noble birth to end her days in some peasant's hut in a foreign field.

He could sense Talbot studying him, waiting for a reply, but he was not going to give him the name he was looking for.

'Even if I do what they ask, what's to stop the priest betraying us . . . me anyway?'

Talbot shifted his weight, 'Nowt,' he said bluntly. 'But you'd have information to trade, once you find out who it is the envoy has come to see. If it's that bastard Hugh, then you'd have your proof and could name him without needing to drag Elena into this. You'd be able to buy your way out of a deal of trouble, maybe buy a pardon for the lass too, with a traitor's name to parley with. It's a gamble, to be sure, but seems to me you've a simple choice: cast your dice or accept a certainty — a dead certainty.'

Raffe knew Talbot would give anything to see Hugh tried as a traitor. He'd always wanted to get even with him ever since the man had tried to hang him at Acre. All the same, he had a point. If he could prove Hugh a traitor without Elena having to repeat what she'd overheard, he'd not only keep her alive, she might be able to return to Gastmere.

The inn door opened and Talbot drew back into the shadows. 'I'd best be on my way. Word is ship's to weigh anchor seaward side of the isle of Yarmouth. They learned their lesson with the Santa Katarina, so they'll not risk running the ship into Breydon Water. Too easy to get trapped there. But Yarmouth's a free port, so there's none of John's men stationed in it, leastways not officially. I'll get word to you when ship's been sighted.'

'But what. . .' Raffe began, then realized he was speaking to the empty air. Talbot had vanished.

Raffe sat on the keg, staring out over the whispering marshes. The black bogs seemed to suck all the light from the stars and moon. The stinking, bottomless mud gurgled continuously like the stomach of a great beast digesting its prey. Here and there unearthly shrieks rang out from the tall reeds, but he knew of old that there was no living soul out there, only the tormented restless spirits who wandered the marshes.

But it isn't your country, is it? What did it matter if he betrayed England? What did it really matter? He owed this land no loyalty. It was Gerard's home, not his. Talbot had said he had a choice, a simple choice, he'd called it: betray Gerard's beloved country to the French or let Gerard's own mother be taken and executed as a traitor.

Once, as a little boy, he had knelt in the great abbey church and fervently prayed before the hot, bright candles for the life of his father. Now in the darkness he sank again to his knees among the stinking fishing nets and prayed once more with all his soul.

Gerard, forgive me. Forgive me for what I am about to do.





1Oth Day after the New Moon,

September 1211



Mice — are particularly efficacious when stewed, roasted, baked or fried, to strengthen sickly children, cure them of colds, fits, the pox and fevers, or prevent them from wetting the bed. If a mortal has a persistent cough, let him hang a bag of live mice about his neck and the cough will travel to the mice. When they are all dead the patient will be cured.

Mouse teeth are often worn as charms. Ailing cattle may be given water in which teeth or bones of mice have been laid. When the milk teeth of a child fall out they must be placed in a mouse hole so that the child's new teeth will be as small, white and sharp as a mouse's.

If a mouse squeaks in the chamber of one who is sick, the person will die. Likewise, if a mouse should run across a living person, he is doomed, for the spirits of man often appear in the likeness of a mouse. If the mouse should be red, the spirit is pure, but if black the spirit is steeped in sin.

If a mortal sleeps, a mouse may be seen running from his open mouth, and that is his spirit which leaves the body to travel through the dream world. But take heed, if you should move that man from his place while he sleeps, or wake him before his mouse-spirit has returned, that man will wake, but it will be as if he is dead, unable to talk to the living. He will wander senseless like a corpse and after some days or months he will die.

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Freedom of the Lark



Talbot grasped Raffe's arm and led him through the door to Ma's staircase. But instead of mounting the stairs, Talbot opened a small door tucked in behind them. In all the years he had been coming here, Raffe had never noticed the door before. In the dark recess of the stairwell, it was nigh on invisible.

Talbot led the way into a tiny cell. A shaft of early morning light streamed in through a slit in the stones, high up on the wall, revealing the low, narrow bed and a banded wooden chest which occupied most of the narrow space. From the clothes strewn across the bed, Raffe guessed this must be where Talbot himself slept, close enough to the main door to reach it quickly should he be summoned in the night.

Talbot turned to face Raffe. 'It's well you've come, saves me a journey. The ship carrying your cargo has been sighted off the coast. Dragon's Breath, she's called. They reckon she'll put in at Yarmouth tomorrow on the evening tide. Her crew'll not be allowed ashore till the day after her cargo's been inspected and tolls have been paid. You'd best meet them then.'

'But if they inspect the cargo . . .' Raffe protested.

Talbot waved his hand dismissively. Yarmouth folk aren't interested in men, only goods they can tax. They'll not look twice at the passengers, not unless John's men get wind of it, of course.'

At the mention of the king, anger welled up in Raffe again. 'I won't do it. I won't meet this man. I can't give aid to England's enemies.'

Talbot's fist shot out and grabbed the front of his tabard. You bloody will, you old bullock. That priest meant what he said about spilling all. He's nothing to lose and a great deal of favour and money to gain. You might not have told him about my role in this, but there's no knowing what he might have learned on board the ship. Besides, I want Hugh's head on a pike, and this French Skegg might just be able to give us the proof we need to see him die as a traitor. If not. . .' His eyes flicked up to the beams above and he lowered his voice to a whisper, 'no matter what her upstairs says, I'll use that lass of yours to nail him, even it does see her hanged for Raoul's murder into the bargain.'

Talbot wasn't a man to make idle threats. Raffe's friendship with him went deep, but was it as deep as Talbot's hatred of Hugh? Besides, Talbot's warning was sufficient to remind him of what else lay at stake if the priest chose to talk. The one name he could be certain the priest did know, besides his own, was Lady Anne's, and he couldn't risk him uttering that. Raffe nodded weakly.

Talbot let go of his tabard and gave him a friendly punch on the arm. 'That's more like it. Now, give the boatman this.'

He grabbed Raffe's hand and tipped a small tin emblem of St Katherine into Raffe's palm, just like the one the priest had sent to Lady Anne.

'He'll ask you where the cargo comes from. You're to tell him Spinolarei in Bruges. He's expecting that answer and he'll know you're the right man and not one of John's spies.'

Raffe was aware that Bruges, eager to keep the lucrative trade with England, was known to favour England against France, so no suspicions would be aroused should anyone chance to overhear the remark.

You got money?' Talbot asked. The man's been paid already but he'll expect more. They always do, the greedy bastards.'

'And you do it for love, I suppose,' Raffe said sourly.

Talbot grinned, but was instantly serious again. 'Be there, Raffe, for all our sakes, especially that lass of yours. I'd hate to see her pretty little neck stretching on a rope.'





Elena cautiously opened the door and eased herself into the small chamber. Master Raffaele was standing at the casement, staring up at the white clouds drifting across the brothel garden. The bright morning light washed his face, rubbing away, just for a moment or two, the wrinkles and sagging fat around his jaw.

Catching sight of him in profile, Elena glimpsed the ghost of the beauty that had once made her mother see an angel in him, but then, just as rapidly, it vanished, leaving behind only the wreck of flesh, the awkward, ungainly proportions of the too long limbs and the massive buttocks. Elena gave a little shudder.

'Master Raffaele . . .' She shuffled uneasily, not knowing whether he had heard her. Had he finally come to take her away? Why wouldn't he look at her? She meant to wait for him to speak, she really did, but the silence in that room was too much to bear.

'My Athan, is he well? Have you seen him? And my mam —'

'They told me about Raoul,' Raffaele cut in.

'I didn't do it, I swear.' Sweat burst out on Elena's forehead. 'I couldn't have . . .'

'But Talbot says you knew how he had died before you were told. That's not easily explained away. Elena, tell me the truth. For once in your life trust me. If Raoul hurt you, if he ... if he forced himself on you, I wouldn't blame you for killing him. It would be natural that you wanted him dead, honourable even, but I must know the truth.'

Elena's hands were clenched so tightly it hurt. She didn't want to talk about it, especially to him, but she knew Raffaele would go on questioning her until she did.

'I hated him for what he did. I hated him touching me. He was revolting. I felt sick. And if I could have killed him then to stop him, I would have, believe me, I would have done it gladly, but I couldn't. He was too strong.'

She swallowed the hard lump that had risen in her throat, trying to think how to explain it so that Raffaele would understand.

'Afterwards ... after he'd gone I fell asleep. I dreamed I'd killed him, but it was only a dream, just a dream. I couldn't have done it. I've thought about it over and over again. I don't remember walking through the streets. It must have been a dream.'

'Like the dream you had about your son?' Raffaele snapped. 'Curious, isn't it, how you dream and deaths always follow? There are those who might say that is worse than murder; they might call it witchcraft.'

Elena gaped at his back. He couldn't be saying this. 'But my son isn't dead. I told you ... I told you that Gytha took my son. I thought you believed me. That's why you helped me, wasn't it, because you knew I was innocent?'

'I don't know what I believe any more!'

Raffaele gripped the edge of the casement so hard that Elena thought he was going to tear it apart with his bare hands. For several moments he stood there, his head bowed, his knuckles white. Then he seemed to regain control of himself.

'You shouldn't speak about your dreams to anyone,' he said quietly. 'If Ma or the other women think they are harbouring a witch, they will not keep you here.'

'But I don't want them to keep me here,' Elena said. 'It isn't safe.'

For the first time since she'd entered the room, he turned to face her, staring at her as if she was a stranger. Elena realized it was the first time he'd seen her dyed hair. Her hand slid up, pulling her cap further down over her coiled plaits, but she couldn't hide her eyebrows. Luce had insisted on dyeing those too, saying her pale auburn ones were in too marked contrast to her dark hair.

Your hair, what happened to your beautiful hair?' Raffaele said, aghast.

'Luce dyed it. Ma insisted in case the sheriffs men came back.'

Raffe continued to stare at her, then he seemed to remember where he was. 'Talbot tells me that no one has returned here again to enquire about the murder. That's good. That means they don't link Raoul's death with you.'

'But what about Hugh?' Elena said. 'He saw me. He didn't seem to remember who I was, but he said he thought I looked familiar. And he asked Finch about me. I can't stay here now. What if he returns?'

Shock and fear flashed across Raffe's face. He grasped her shoulders, staring down into her eyes so fiercely that she was forced to lower her gaze.

'What's this about Hugh? He was here? When . . . when was he here?'

'More than a week ago . . . two maybe.'

'Was he here looking for you?'

'I don't think so,' Elena said. 'He was here to . . . use a little boy. He just happened to see me. But what if he remembers where he saw me before? You have to take me away.'

Raffaele stepped back from her, running his hand distractedly through his thick grizzled hair. 'I will ... I will, I give you my word, but not yet. There's something I must do, and until that's finished, I can't be with you to look after you. This is the only safe place I can leave you.'

'But it isn't safe!' Elena wailed. 'What if he comes back?'

Raffaele was pacing the floor, gnawing on the edge of his thumb.

'Hugh only saw you fleetingly when he was at the manor, one of dozens of servants. He wasn't there when you were accused. Everyone in the manor knows that villein escaped the gallows. There won't be a man in Osborn's retinue who doesn't know he'd pay a fortune to capture you, but even so, Hugh won't be able to link a face to a name. Even if he was the man who you overheard talking about the Santa Katarina, you said yourself he didn't see your face.'

Elena lurched violently, grabbing hold of the edge of a table, trying to keep herself from falling.

'Hugh! You think Hugh was the man I heard in Lady Anne's chamber? But. . . but I don't understand. That night when I told you, you said it was one of Osborn's servants.'

Raffaele shook his head impatiently. 'I know that's what I said, because I couldn't imagine who else it could be. You told me the man you overheard had fought in the Holy Land, but even then it didn't occur to me it could be Hugh. Hugh's a cold-blooded bastard, but I couldn't believe that even he could be so base as to betray his own king and country. And I wouldn't have believed it, unless I'd seen him with my own eyes, skulking among the trees, watching for the Santa Katarina. He was expecting that ship. He must have been the man you heard in the chamber, how else could he have known about it? And why would he have been trying to conceal himself, if he wasn't afraid of being caught by the king's men?'

'Then you have to take me away from here before he comes back, you have to ... if he knows it was me who heard him, he'll kill me!'

'I can't!' Raffaele snapped. Then he took a deep breath. His voice was heavy with weariness. 'Hugh can't be certain you heard anything. In fact he must believe by now that you didn't. I've taken great care not to tell anyone what I suspect, in case he realizes what you overheard. Hugh's bound to have heard that Osborn's missing villein is a red-head, and if he glimpsed your red curls that night outside the chamber, he may well have made the connection. But. . .' Raffaele held up a warning hand seeing that she was about to protest again, 'but don't you see that means he's looking for a red-head? That's all he knows of you, and you're not that woman any more.'

Raffaele crossed over to her and slipped off her cap. He pulled the pins from one of the braids and let it fall. Then, with an almost childlike curiosity, he ran his fingers down it, unravelling the braid, letting the long dark hair fall in soft waves across his palm. Elena, her thoughts still occupied with her fear of Hugh, was too bemused to move. Raffaele gently rubbed the locks of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, then his gaze lifted to her face and, bending his head close to her, his lips parted and she felt his hot breath on her mouth. She stiffened, flinching away.

Raffe instantly straightened up, letting her hair fall. He turned abruptly back to the casement, but not before Elena glimpsed the dark flush on his cheeks.

'It is your eyes,' he said in a strangely broken voice. He cleared his throat. 'Luce has done her work well with your hair, and the colour of your brows changes the shape of your face, but still anyone would know your eyes. Though you need have no fears about that where Hugh is concerned, I doubt he's ever noticed a woman's eyes.'

Elena, thrown entirely by his abrupt change of tone, could only stare at him.

Raffaele crossed to the door and opened it. 'If Hugh returns, just stay out of sight,' he said without looking back at her.

Seeing him stride away snapped Elena out of her immobility. She ran after him, catching his arm. 'Please, Master Raffaele, please take me with you. I could stay in an inn or find work as a maid in the town. You said no one would recognize me.'

He looked down at the little fingers grasping his sleeve and for a moment she almost thought he was going to agree, then he seized her wrist and roughly thrust her back into the chamber.

'I told you, you will stay here! Do you think I'm Athan or some frog-witted plough-boy who's nothing better to do than dance attendance on you and your selfish little wants? I saved you from the rope, what more do you expect of me? And not one word more about your dreams, do you understand? Better you confess you put a knife in a man's back with your own hand than that you killed him by witchcraft. It is dangerous, can't you see that, you stupid little fool? And I won't be there to save your wretched neck next time.'

The door crashed shut behind him and Elena stood there, massaging her wrist. Tears filled her eyes, tears of fear, rage and anger, but above all misery. For she suddenly realized that the only person in the world she really trusted, the only person who had believed in her innocence, had just walked away from her. Until that moment she had never understood so completely how it was possible to feel such utter loneliness and desolation surrounded by so many people.





Raffe bounded up the stairs to Ma Margot's chamber two at a time. He knocked on the heavy oak door, but didn't bother waiting for an answer before he burst in. The chamber was empty. The shutters, as always, were tightly shut and only a single candle burned on the wall behind the serpent chair. A hooded sparrowhawk perched on a block of wood on the table. The bird flapped its wings angrily as the draught from the open door ruffled its downy breast feathers. Raffe instinctively reached out a finger to stroke it, soothing it with murmurs of reassurance, but a vicious peck from the curved beak made him withdraw his finger with a curse, and he sucked it, trying to stem the flow of blood.

A low chuckle made Raffe jerk round. Ma was standing in front of the curtain.

'She's been taught to defend herself even when she is hooded. Haven't you, my angel?'

Raffe's temper reboiled with the throbbing of his finger. 'What's this I hear about Hugh coming here? Talbot didn't tell me that.'

Ma shook her head warningly, then twitched back the curtain. Luce was standing behind it, her shift clutched in front of her, but otherwise as naked as the day she was born. She was panting slightly. Her face was flushed and her eyes danced brightly in the candlelight. Ma smiled up at her and jerked her head towards the door. With a wink at Raffe, Luce slid as lithely as an otter from the room.

Ma mounted the steps to her own serpent's chair.

'Sit, Master Raffe, you're making the bird nervous. Now come, you know we never discuss our customers. Not, that is, unless they wind up dead at your friend's hands.'

'Elena didn't kill Raoul!'

But even as Raffe said it he knew he sounded like a man who was lashing out from uncertainty. He couldn't even convince himself of the truth of that. This was the second time in a few months Elena had been accused of murder. Was that just unlucky? Both times he'd so desperately wanted to believe that she was innocent, but then once he'd thought she was a virgin and all that time she'd been sneaking off behind his back to trysts with that lout Athan, even when she swore to him she was not going to see a man.

Part of him had dreaded seeing Elena again and yet he couldn't keep away. He hadn't been able to bring himself to look at her at first, because he knew that Raoul had had the pleasure of her. He had wanted to punish her, make her the whore she was, but now that it had happened, he was terrified of seeing that look of hardness in her eyes, that loss of innocence that had still remained even after Athan had bedded her. He wanted to seize her and shake her until she told him every single filthy thing that she and Raoul had done together. He wanted to know in each minute detail how she had looked when Raoul had touched her, what she had said, what she'd thought, what she felt.

Yet Raffe knew that if Elena had told him, he would have pressed his fingers to his ears and run away screaming. He had tried to convince himself that nothing she had done with Raoul would have been done willingly. Yet there was a worm that burrowed into his head, a worm of jealousy and doubt that made him lash himself over and over again with the thought that she might have surrendered herself to Raoul as willingly as she had once done to Athan. Even the smallest whimper of pleasure, the tiniest thrust towards Raoul's body would have been an act of betrayal.

And yes, Elena could have given herself entirely to Raoul and still have murdered him. He'd known women in the Holy

Land, fragile, delicate beauties who could whisper words of undying love and press their soft lips to a man's mouth. And then, as they fondled his manhood with one hand, with the other they'd pushed a knife between his ribs, as coldly as any battled-hardened soldier. Women could be far more ruthless than men when they had made up their minds to kill.

Raffe's face was burning, and he was suddenly aware that Ma was watching him with that usual knowing smile of hers. He was seized with the desire to wring her filthy neck, but instead he contented himself with trying to wound her pride.

'I thought you always said that not even a tick from a dog could crawl in or out of here without you or Talbot knowing about it. Are you telling me a simple girl managed to escape and get herself back in here and murder someone without you seeing her? You're getting old, Ma, losing your touch. Eyesight failing? Nodding off at your window?'

But if he hoped to needle her, he should have known better. She merely raised her thick black brows, like a schoolmaster warning an errant pupil.

'Talbot and I were attending to other things. The girl could easily have slipped out through the door. And there are other ways out of here,' Ma said. 'I found her in the cellar with that boy Finch; who knows what else she or that little brat has discovered. Too inquisitive for their own good, the pair of them. Besides, there's some that have the power to send out their spirits to do mischief while their bodies lie sleeping, even when they are locked in a gaol.'

But Raffe wasn't listening. 'The cellar, you found her in the cellar, what has she seen there?'

The ghost of a smile slid across Ma's mouth. 'My pets, all my pets.'

A chill ran through Raffe's frame. You told her about the man?'

Ma pulled the ruby pin from her hair and spun it idly in her fingers so that sparks of blood seemed to fly from it around the room. Told her? Now just what could I tell her, Master Raffe?'

Raffe tried to resist staring at the whirling ruby lights. He struggled to pull his thoughts together. Think! Hugh, that's what mattered now.

'Why did Hugh come here?'

Ma laughed again. 'Why does any man come here? He has needs, desires he can't satiate anywhere else, well, not without a deal of questions being asked. I dare say even he can't do as he pleases with his servant boys without raising a few objections. And, you know, men are curiously shy about having the whole world know the exact depths of those stinking mires in which their desires frolic.'

'Does Hugh know Raoul came here too?'

'According to Talbot's informants at the Adam and Eve, Raoul didn't know of this place until he arrived in Norwich, so he won't have told anyone in the manor where he was going, and Talbot saw to it that the bailiff made no report of it to the sheriff.'

Raffe frowned. He sensed Ma knew something, something she had no intention of telling him. That night Hugh had almost caught the priest anointing Gerard's body, Hugh had claimed to have been waiting for Raoul to return from Norwich. Raffe had been so preoccupied that he hadn't even considered why Hugh was so anxiously waiting until now. If Hugh feared that Raoul had discovered his treachery, or was about to do so, might he not have sent someone to follow Raoul and silence him? Had he been waiting in fact not for Raoul's return, but for news that the deed was done? And now Hugh had come here. Ma had said it was for pleasure, but what if he had realized that Elena had overheard his plotting in the manor? Having got rid of Raoul, he would certainly not hesitate to murder her too to keep his secret.

Raffe moistened his dry lips with his tongue. 'I must move Elena to a safer place. If Hugh has been here once, he is very likely to return, and even with her dyed hair, he will surely remember her eventually.'

Ma's brows arched for the second time that evening. 'And if she's caught and tells them where she's been hiding and where she met Raoul? I don't think so, my darling. I want her here where I can make quite sure she doesn't get the chance to open her mouth. Besides, she's hardly paid for her keep and my trouble. And think of all the effort we've put into protecting her.'

'You can trust her not to talk, I swear, and I will pay what is owed for her keep,'

Ma's lips curled in a humourless smile. 'Anyone can be made to talk. And unless you've suddenly come into a fortune, my darling, I rather fancy you'll find that paying me and whoever you next ask to shelter the girl will leave you with a debt you cannot possible repay. And not everyone is as patient as I am when they are asked to wait for their money. Tongues grow slack when bellies are empty, and the price on the girl's head as a double murderer will weigh heavier than a crown. There are those unscrupulous rogues who could find themselves sorely tempted, Master Raffe, and we wouldn't want to put temptation in their way, now, would we?'

Raffe was about to open his mouth to reply when Ma stopped him with a wave of her hand.

'Before you make up your mind, let's ask my angel, shall we?'

She reached for a small wooden box on the table. Ma's tastes usually ran to objects that were jewelled and elaborately carved, but this box was plain save for the carving of a single eye framed by a triangle in the centre. The eye had been inlaid with ivory, with a glistening pupil of blackest jet.

Ma gently slipped the hood from the sparrowhawk's head, and the bird shook out its feathers, staring around the room, its bright yellow eyes searching for something. With the bird's hooked beak inches from his face, and his finger still smarting, Raffe could not help but slide his chair back a little, and Ma laughed.

'She'll not harm you, unless you touch her.'

Ma flicked open the box and pulled out a handful of strips of parchment which she fanned out in her hand. Then she spread the other hand, the heavy rings flashing in front of the bird.

'Tell me, Master Raffe, what can all men feel, but none can hold? What is so strong it can destroy a forest with a single blow and yet is small enough to creep through the smallest chink?'

'The wind, of course,' Raffe said more sharply than he meant to, because he couldn't anticipate what she was going to do. 'Every child knows that riddle.'

'But how easily we forget what we learned as children, my darling. As you say, it is the wind, and it is the wind which carries this bird to the heavens. Every word men utter of truth and lies, knowledge and ignorance is borne on the wind, but only a creature of the wind may catch them.'

She held out the fan of strips towards the bird. Rapidly it leaned forward and pulled one, two, three strips from her hand and dropped them on the table as if it was plucking feathers from its prey. Ma laid the strips in a neat row, then reached for something in the shadows. It was a tiny wicker cage. She opened the door wide.

If the skylark had only stayed in its cage, it would have been safe, it would have lived. Whether the foolish creature didn't see the sparrowhawk, or whether it just made a wild, brave dash for freedom, thinking, if indeed it thought at all, that soaring upwards would save it, who can tell? But the skylark didn't even reach the topmost beam in the room. Raffe felt the hawk's wingtip brush his face as it shot past him and heard it land with a thud on the floor, the tiny bird dead between its claws.

Ma didn't even turn her head to look, but stared instead at the symbols on the three strips of parchment the bird had pulled from her hand.

'The wind carries treachery, Master Raffaele. But whether you are the betrayer or the betrayed, you alone know.'

Raffe rose, flinging the chair back. He strode from the room and thundered down the stairs. He didn't know what he had hoped to achieve in that chamber or what he had thought he would learn. He had meant to tell Ma not to admit Hugh again, but he knew that even had he begged her on bended knee she would do precisely what it pleased her to do. How much did Ma know about the message from France? Was that demonstration with the bird meant as a threat not to remove Elena or a warning of something else?

Without even thinking what he was doing, he hurried across the courtyard to the room where the boys entertained. It was deserted, as he expected it to be, since the noon bell had not yet sounded from the churches in the city.

He made his way to the back of the room and found the low doorway. He peered at it, looking for a latch, but the thick boards were smooth. It had been five years or more since he'd last forced himself to come here. How had Ma opened the door then? Surely there had been a latch? He tried to visualize Ma standing in front of him at this door. She'd stood on tiptoe, reaching up for something. He remembered that. Was it a hidden key?

Raffe groped back and forth along the door until he felt a small hole. It came back to him now. She'd used a knife. He withdrew his own knife from his belt and slid the point inside until it hit metal. Wriggling the blade, he managed to slide it under the metal bar and felt the latch rise on the other side. He pushed the door and it swung open.

It was as well that he'd had to bend double and almost crawl through the doorway, otherwise he would have surely cracked his head open on the stone archway on the other side, but once under it, he could just about stand upright at the top of the stairs. The stench of animal piss, rotting meat and dampness hit him with the force of a siege engine, making his eyes sting and water. Surely it hadn't been this foul before? He groped his way down, sliding his hand along the dripping walls until, half-way down, he reached the torch burning on the wall and removed it from the bracket.

As he passed each cage, the animals snarled or growled, some shrinking back from the blazing torch, others hurling themselves at the bars, their sharp teeth glistening in the flames. How many times had they beaten themselves on those bars over the long days and nights that stretched together to form interminable years? And yet they had still not learned that the iron would not yield. Was it impotent rage or unshakeable hope that made them do it, Raffe wondered, or perhaps making humans flinch just amused them.

He threaded his way past the animals, keeping to the middle of the passageway so as not to brush against any of the cages. He knew what such beasts were capable of. Behind him he could hear the rasp of hot, fetid breath and the click of sharp claws on iron as the beasts restlessly prowled up and down in their straw. The heavy animal odours of fur and dung filled his nostrils and burned the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, wondering just how long it would take a man to get used to these smells and sounds and know it for his home.

Opening his eyes again, Raffe edged forward until the light from the torch fell on the last cage. Its occupant was awake, sitting up, no doubt roused by the disturbance of the beasts and the flames moving towards him. He stared at Raffe, blinking in the sudden light. His expression revealed no recognition, only curiosity. He lifted his arm, brushing the wild hair back from his eyes with his stump, and tilted his face up. He shuffled forward on his knees, dragging the twisted remains of his legs behind him, holding out his mutilated arms as if he was begging, though Raffe noticed he didn't extend them through the bars, as if afraid that someone might hurt him. The bars were as much his protection as his cage.

Raffe crouched down until he was on a level with the man.

'You know me?' he asked Softly.

The man blinked his startlingly blue eyes, holding out his arms again, this time more insistently, but with no sign of recognition in his face. Raffe cursed himself that he hadn't brought food. Then he remembered the leather bottle he always carried at his waist. He felt for it. He'd drunk most of the contents on the journey here, but there was a little wine left. He took out the wooden stopper and held the mouth of the bottle through the bars. For a while the man in the cage simply stared at it as if he had forgotten what the object was.

'Drink,' Raffe urged.

Slowly the man shuffled forward again, finally putting his lips to the bottle. Raffe tilted it and the liquid ran down, making the man choke and cough, but when Raffe tried to ease the flow, he grasped it with both stumps, pulling it towards him and sucking and sucking until finally convinced there was not a drop more left inside, then he it let go.

Raffe squatted down on the damp flags of the cellar opposite the cage. For a long time the two men stared at each other.

'Do you remember me?' Raffe asked again, searching for the merest flicker of recognition, but the man's face was expressionless. He offered nothing.

A man had looked at him like that once before, when he was just a boy. Raffe could remember it even now, his father standing there framed in the great doorway of the abbey church, the sun burning so fiercely behind him that the hills were bleached white in the light. Raffe had looked back as the priest led him away down the long aisle of the church. His father was just standing there motionless, his broad hat in his hand, his face tanned to the colour of the soil, but there had been no expression at all in his eyes. Nothing. He'd watched his son being led away, as unmoved as the ancient olive trees on their farm. Relieved, maybe, that he need not work so hard now; proud, perhaps, of what his son would achieve? Who knows, Raffe certainly didn't, for his father had never seen the need for words.

Raffe turned his face away from the man in the cage, kneeling on the cold flags.

'Talbot told me that this is not my country. So why should I care who sits on the throne of England? John is not my king. I owe him nothing. I am betraying nothing. All that matters, all any man can be expected to do, is to protect the ones he loves. I have to save them.'

Raffe stood up and began to pace back and forward, as restless as the caged beasts.

'Anne and Elena, they are both part of Gerard. As long as Elena still carries what he did in her soul, there is hope for Gerard in the next life. But I don't know how to protect them. I don't know what to do. If I take Elena from here, I might be taking her to her death. In here she is safe. She is alive.'

He turned to face the man in the cage whose blue eyes stared out at him fixedly from the grime-blackened face.

'I had to make that choice once before, and I need to know if I was wrong, if I made the wrong choice. This may be the last time I can come to you. What I did, what I am about to do, I do only for love. You cannot ask any man to harm what he has given his very soul to protect.'

Raffe gripped the bars of the cage, shaking them violently, as if he could wrest an answer from the man who crouched in the straw.

'You have to forgive me. You have to give me absolution. There is no one else left who can ... speak to me, damn you, just speak! Just one word, one sign even, that's all I ask, just one!'

But the man in the cage didn't move. The torchlight flickered as twin flames in the great black pupils of his eyes, but he didn't take his gaze from Raffe's face. All around him the animals prowled restlessly up and down, their paws rustling through the straw, their claws clicking against the iron bars, and somewhere in the far distance came the hollow dripping of water, like a giant heartbeat, falling ceaselessly down into the gaping black hole in the floor.

Raffe picked up the torch and threaded his way back up between the beasts' cages. They too stared at him as the flame passed them, and they watched him as the darkness ebbed back behind him. Raffe felt their glowing eyes on his spine, but he did not turn around. As he mounted the steps, the darkness obliterated any trace of his presence as the tide washes footsteps from the sand.

But it wasn't until the very last ghost of light had vanished from the cellar that the man in the cage finally whispered, 'I do forgive you, Raffaele, because I know you will never forgive yourself.'

But only the great black cat heard him utter a word.