The Gallows Curse

The Day of the Full Moon,

September 1211



Seagulls — To kill a gull is to murder a man, for gulls that hover restlessly over the waves are the souls of drowned men. A gull which flies unerringly in a straight line follows a corpse that drifts beneath the waves. It is the unquiet spirit of that mortal, which cannot abandon the body that once was its home.

When sailors or fishermen die they are transformed into gulls, for the wind and the waves have captured their souls and they cannot leave the sea. The mortals took from the sea while they lived and now in their death they must pay for what they took. It is a devil's bargain.

If a gull should strike the casement of a house, a member of that household out at sea is in mortal peril.

When seagulls fly inland, a storm is brewing out at sea. But if they fly out to sea or rest upon the sand of the shore, the weather is set to be fair.

Mortals fear to look a seagull in the eye, for if they do the gull will know them and remember them. And should that mortal then ever venture to swim in the sea or fall from a ship into the waves, they will be at the mercy of that gull. It will peck out their eyes and leave them blinded and helpless to their fate.

For like the sea itself, gulls show no mercy to mortals who are foolish enough to venture into their kingdom.

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Sea Is Coming



Raffe stepped from the boat on to the island that was Yarmouth. He slid a coin into the palm of the boatman, who appraised it carefully before hiding it among his clothes. Shivering in the grey dawn light, he picked his way along the slippery wooden jetty that jutted out into Breydon Water, where the three great rivers surged into the salt water of the estuary. The gravel beneath Raffe's feet sparkled with silver fish scales. They were everywhere, dried and blowing in the wind, heaping in tiny transparent drifts like snow against the buildings.

He made for the Rows stretched out on either side of him, a hundred or so alleys running parallel to one another down to the open sea. He chose one at random and edged down it; the passage was so narrow that in places he could have touched the walls on either side. An open sewer ran down the middle, like the vein on the back of a shrimp, but the sharp salt breeze funnelling through it mercifully blew away much of the stench of excrement and rotting food, leaving only the overpowering smell of fish which clung to the tarred wood of the buildings like a second skin.

Many of the dwellings also served as shops or workshops, their goods spilling out into the narrow street to make space for the day's work in the tiny rooms. Dotted between the tiny wooden houses were small courtyards where he glimpsed women cooking over open fires, weaving creels or pounding linen in their wash tubs. Their fingers never once paused in their labour, nor did their tongues cease from chattering to their neighbours, but their sharp eyes missed nothing. Raffe kept a firm hand on his purse as he was jostled backwards and forwards, for ports were notorious for the rogues they attracted.

He breathed easier when he finally burst from the end of the Row and found himself on the seashore. There was no less activity here. Everywhere as far as the eye could see along the sand, men were busy making or repairing boats, or striding past with baskets of fish, or unloading bales, kegs and boxes on the precarious wooden jetties that jutted out into the waves. And beyond them in the grey sea, the great sailing ships rolled at anchor, while tiny shoreboats plied back and forth among them like shoals of sardines among whales.

Raffe tramped half the length of the beach looking for the Dragon's Breath, but it was impossible to pick out one vessel among all the ships out there. He enquired of a few of the men, but each shook his head, too many boats coming and going.

'Toll house.' One fisherman jerked his head towards the far end of the shore. 'They keep tallies of all ships, so as they can collect the toll.'

Raffe found the wooden building easily enough, but finding someone to speak to was another matter. He made his way up the outside steps to a square room, crammed with small tables and crowded with merchants and ships' captains shouting and waving rolls of parchments heavy with wax seals. Eventually, Raffe managed to force his way through the throng and by sheer dint of grabbing hold of a man bodily, managed to get his attention.

'Can you tell me if the Dragon's Breath has put in here?'

The harassed-looking clerk gave a squeak of laughter at the sound of Raffe's high-pitched voice, but quickly straightened his face and wearily gestured towards a great stack of parchments on his table, rolling his eyes. Raffe slipped a silver coin into his palm.

'Came in yesterday,' he muttered. 'Dealt with her myself. Wine, spices mostly, some timber, not good quality. Ivory, five bales of furs, wolf and bear, no sable and —'

'Where's her shoreboat?' Raffe interrupted impatiently. The clerk huffled a little, clearly insulted that his feat of memory was not being given the admiration it deserved. His hand slid again over the table, but Raffe was not about to part with another coin. He'd not forgotten or forgiven that laughter.

He leaned across the table, pushing his face into the clerk's. 'I said, where is it?'

The clerk glowered at him, but seeing that Raffe wasn't going to move away, he gestured back in the direction he'd come. 'Crew'll be in the Silver Treasure, up Shrieking Row.'

It took Raffe a while to find the Row for the names were known only to the local townsfolk. Finally one old fishwife grudgingly directed him to Shrieking Row and, once there, Raffe quickly spotted the Silver Treasure by the carved herring above the door, together with the few twigs of a dried bush that proclaimed it as an alehouse.

It was still early morning, so most men were hard at their labours, but those who had no pressing business to attend to sat in the small yard to the side of the house, pouring ale down their throats from blackened leather beakers as if they hadn't slaked their thirst for a week. From the stench of them, Raffe took them to be fishermen. He ignored them and peered into the tiny room beside the courtyard. Three men sat on benches around a narrow table, talking in low voices and evidently haggling over some deal. The only other furniture in the room was a rickety ladder leading through a trapdoor to the attic above.

As Raffe slid in through the open doorway, blocking out the light, the men looked up sharply and, just as swiftly, a hand covered some object lying on the table and swept it from sight, but not before Raffe had glimpsed the wine-red flash of a ruby.

'I'm looking for the crew of the Dragon's Breath.''

'You have business with them?' one of the men asked in a thick Spanish accent.

'I've come to take delivery of some cargo.'

The man's mouth shrugged, as if to say he would need a good deal more than that before he revealed anything.

The sunken-cheeked alewife came in from the yard, rubbing her hands on a filthy old scrap of ship's sail tied around her waist to protect her skirts. 'More ale, masters?'

All three heads swivelled in Raffe's direction. He knew what was required of him.

'Bring a large flagon and another beaker.'

'As you please,' the woman said without the flicker of a smile. Raffe wondered if any emotion ever crossed her sallow face. All the life and colour in her eyes seemed to have been bleached out by sun and sea, leaving them with only the faintest tinge of faded blue, like watered-down milk.

One of the men slid his buttocks a few inches down the bench and Raffe took that as an invitation to join them at the rough table which was blackened with old tar, having been assembled from bits of old ships' timbers and driftwood.

After the alewife had slopped a brimming flagon of ale down between them and drifted back outside, Raffe poured the ale into the men's beakers and tried again.

'The cargo I've to collect is a live one.'

They regarded him steadily, their faces tanned almost to the colour of the beakers, betraying nothing. Raffe wondered if they could even understand him.

He delved into his scrip and laid a tin emblem of St Katherine's wheel on the rough table.

All three men regarded it for some time in silence, then the leader picked it up and returned it to Raffe. 'This cargo, where does it come from?'

'Spinolarei in Bruges.' It was what Talbot had told him to say, though Raffe doubted his visitor had ever set foot on that particular quayside.

The sailor nodded.

'Can you take me out to him?' Raffe asked, taking this nod to be the only sign of acknowledgement he was going to get.

'No, no!' the sailor said with unexpected vehemence. Then he seemed to realize some kind of explanation was called for. 'Captain does not want strangers on ship. But I fetch him. You have money?'

Raffe pulled out a leather purse and unfastened the drawstring, tipping the contents into his hand.

The sailor spat contemptuously on to the floor.

'Not enough. We have others to pay. Much expense. I need more.'

Raffe had expected they would, but none the less he made a show of arguing that was all he would pay, until finally, seeing that the sailor would not budge, he reached under his shirt and pulled out the gold ring which dangled from a leather thong about his neck. Without removing the thong he leaned forward so that the sailor could examine the intricate gold knot that held in place a single lustrous pearl beneath. It had been Gerard's ring and his father's before that. It was on this ring, the hour Gerard died, that Raffe had sworn his oath that he would not let him carry his sins to the grave.

On the day that Lady Anne had drawn it from the hand of her dead son and given it to him, Raffe had believed that he would never part with it, but now . . . now he could not bear to keep it. He knew it for what it was: tainted, bloody, like the withered hand of a thief. And if it would buy Lady Anne's protection and keep the priest from betraying her, then giving it away would be an act of cleansing, an absolution for what he done. He could almost convince himself that the ring had been given into his hands for this very purpose.

The sailor peered at the finely wrought design. Then he beckoned, indicating that Raffe should hand it over.

'No, no, my friend, I am not that stupid. You bring the cargo, then I pay you.'

The sailor glowered at him, then bent his head to his companions, muttering Softly. But even had they shouted their conversation across the room, it would scarcely have mattered, for Raffe couldn't understand them.

Finally the man straightened up. "We take the ring now. Then you give us the purse when we bring your cargo.'

Raffe hesitated. He could see that they were not the kind of men who would be prepared to leave with nothing, and the ring was easier to identify than coins if they tried to double-cross him.

Raffe pulled the leather thong over his neck. The sailor swiftly examined the ring once more. Clearly he had learned not to trust any man. Then he looped the thong over his own head, dropping the ring down inside his shirt even as he strode to the door.

'Tonight I bring him here. But I do not wait. You are here, good. If not, your cargo it sinks to the bottom of the sea, you understand?' He returned a few paces to Raffe, staring him in the face. 'Tonight you give me the purse, no argument. You try to cheat me, and the crabs they have a good breakfast.'

The sailor spat on the palm of his hand and extended it to Raffe. He did likewise and they shook, their fingers gripping each other's with equal force. The transaction was sealed and there was no going back on it.





She gingerly pushes open the door of the courtyard, alert for an ambush. The sun is burning down, bleaching the stones a dazzling white, and for a moment she is blinded, unable to see anything. Then she hears the sound of fast, rapid breathing. Three girls are crouching in the corner of the tiny yard, pressed into a sliver of dark shadow, their arms wrapped around one another, their heads buried into one another's chests, so that they seem to be a single ball of limbs. Flies crawl everywhere in thick black waves, over the weeds as dry as parchment, over the dusty ewers, over the backs of the girls. As they hear the sound of footsteps behind them one of the girls begins to whimper, but they do not move.

Elena is thirsty and running with sweat. She is weary to the bone. She just wants to get this over with, get it finished. She strides to the corner and grabs an arm at random, trying to prise the little knot of bodies apart. But the others cling to their sister with surprising strength, considering how skeletally thin they are. Elena is almost afraid that if she pulls too hard, the bone of this slender arm will snap off in her fist. But pull she must. She seizes the girl round the waist and drags her out. The two remaining sisters snap together, clinging to one another more fiercely than before.

The girl struggles, but soon her arms are bound behind her. She stands sobbing and helpless. She is trying to mumble something. Is it a plea for mercy or a fervent prayer? Elena cannot tell. But whatever she is saying is repeatedly broken each time a new scream echoes through the street outside. Some screams continue on and on, like the wind howling. Others are cut abruptly short, severed in mid-cry. Although Elena longs for the screams to stop, her heart jolts with pain each time they do.

Elena has pulled a second sister out from the corner and is tying her wrists. This one does not even try to resist. She is numb; her eyes glazed and lifeless as if she is already dead.

But as Elena binds the two sisters together, one behind the other, the third girl suddenly springs up from the corner. Before Elena can stop her she is running for the stone steps that lead up from the yard. Elena tries to make a grab for the hem of her skirts, but the cloth slips through her fingers. The young girl bounds up the stairs in her bare feet. At the top she turns and lifts her face up to the golden sunlight. Then she closes her eyes and jumps. She crashes down on to the flags of the courtyard, and lies there, her legs twisted at grotesque angles. A trickle of scarlet blood runs from her head, and meanders slowly over the white stones. The flies are already crawling towards her.

But the fall was not high enough. She is still alive, still twitching. Her bones are broken, but her brown eyes are wide open and crazed with pain. Her two sisters stare at her aghast, then as one they begin to scream. She looks at them, her mouth opening wordlessly, her eyes pleading desperately for help. They struggle to cross to her, but they are tethered and cannot even reach out their hands to hold hers.

Elena watches the tears running down their faces. It shouldn't matter. She shouldn't care. She's seen the tears on hundreds of faces today, young and old. The sisters' fate will be the same as all the others'. Minutes, hours, what difference can it make in the end? By the time the sun sets today they will see nothing, feel nothing any more. For what seems like eternity she stares at the flies swarming over the trickle of blood. Then she crosses swiftly to the girl on the ground and cups her left hand over the pleading brown eyes. With her right hand she pulls out her dagger and plunges it into the girl's heart.





The clouds had been building all day, and now great purple walls of them were towering over the lead-grey sea. The wind was howling and white waves charged towards the land, rearing up and crashing down on to the shore, sucking up great mouthfuls of sand to be spewed out again as the tide rose higher and higher up the beach. The gulls had long since deserted the island of Yarmouth and fled inland, shrieking doom like witches in the sky.

Men were dragging the smaller craft out of the water and pulling them as far up the shore as they could. Others were sculling the bigger boats which could not be beached out into the deeper water. Once the boats were safely anchored and the ropes tethered to the shore to ensure they couldn't twist side-on in the wind, the men dived into the waves, hauling themselves by the mooring ropes back to the beach.

The wind funnelled between the Rows, moaning like the damned in hell, and sending the dried silver fish scales whirling in the air, stinging the faces of the men as they hurried back to their homes. Fish oil lamps began to flicker in the upper rooms and the tiny wooden houses hunkered down and braced themselves for what the night might bring.

Raffe trudged back to the Silver Treasure. The wind was too sharp now for anyone to be loitering in the yard and the brazier had been extinguished. The little ale room too was empty save for a solitary old man with red-rimmed eyes, who sat hunched in the corner over his leather beaker.

He raised his watery eyes as Raffe struggled to close the door against the wind.

'Dead are coming,' the old man pronounced solemnly.

Raffe nodded without understanding. The door opened and the alewife brought in a small flagon and a beaker. She banged them down in front of Raffe and waited, hand on hip, for the coin. Her face was as expressionless as before. She crossed to the old man to refill his empty beaker.

'Last one, then it's home with you. Your daughter'll be wanting to bar the door afore the wind takes it.'

'Where's he going?' the old man asked. They both turned to stare at Raffe from their hollow, sea-bleached eyes.

The woman shrugged. 'He's to wait,' she said, as if she knew all about Raffe's business.

Outside the skies darkened and the wind rattled any loose pieces of wood or reed-thatch it could find, like a naughty child testing to see if it could be yanked off. Raffe walked over to the door. He opened it a crack, holding it tightly against the wind. The Row was deserted. Here and there in the dim pools of yellow light cast by the oil lamps in the casements he could see small pieces of gravel being hurled up the alley by the wind, and in the far distance at the end of the Row, he glimpsed flashes of white foam on the tar-dark water.

Raffe was torn with indecision. Part of him was sure they would not come tonight. Surely no one would want to commit their lives to a little craft in these seas? Yet he dared not leave, for he had little doubt they were capable of carrying out their threat if they came and he wasn't waiting.

Forcing the door closed again, he slumped back down on the bench. The old man drained the last of his ale and hopped to the door, leaning heavily on a crutch.

'Be sure and give the sea back her dues, afore she comes to take them,' he muttered.

The door had scarcely shut behind him again when it flew open with bang. The sailor from the Dragon's Breath stood in the doorway, wiping his spray-wetted face on his sleeve and peering into the dimly lit room. He saw Raffe and grunted, pushing a man in through the door in front of him.

Your cargo,' the sailor said, without any greeting. 'My purse.'

He held out his open hand. The skin on his palm was thicker than the hide on a man's heel, but across it and between the fingers were deep raw cracks from the cold and the salt which would never heal, not until he settled ashore. And that was not likely to be anytime soon, for when a man's got salt water in his blood and a sea wind in his lungs, neither wife nor land can keep him from the waves.

Raffe ignored the outstretched hand and regarded the newcomer. He was short and slight, made to seem smaller by the muscular sailor standing beside him. His cloak was still pulled tightly around him and his face had a sallow, greenish tinge of one who is about to vomit. He swayed slightly on his feet. Then, stumbling towards a bench, he sank on to it.

The sailor was still holding out his hand, but Raffe gestured impatiently for him to wait. The Frenchman was leaning on the table, holding his head as though it would roll off his neck if he didn't hold it in place. He had a clerk's hand with thin fingers and swollen knuckles, as if he'd spent many hours writing in the cold, but his left hand was twisted and scaly like a bird's claw, though he could plainly use it to grasp, albeit clumsily.

'How do I know this is the man?' Raffe demanded, still regarding the Frenchman.

Without raising his head the man opened his tunic; the badge of St Katherine was pinned inside.

The sailor clapped a heavy hand on Raffe's shoulder and spun him round. 'You give me the purse now! Storm is coming'

To lend weight to his words, there was a roar and a clatter as a violent gust of wind dashed a handful of gravel against the wooden wall of the alehouse. Raffe slid the purse across to the sailor. He opened it, counting the coins, then he slipped it into his shirt. At the door he turned, grinning, showing a large gap in the front teeth, and gestured towards the hunched man.

'He thinks he escapes the sea. He don't like her. But the sea, she still wants to play with him. Women are like that, no? When you tire of them, that's when they want to make love to you.'

As the sailor struggled to close the door, the alewife ducked in under his arm, carrying a small sacking bundle. She set it on the table and unwrapped it, displaying some coarse dark bread and two small cooked herring.

'We can't stay to eat,' Raffe explained. 'We have to leave straight away to get to the mainland. I have a boat waiting.'

The woman ignored him and crossed to the door and, lifting a stout beam of wood, set it in the iron brackets across the door to brace it shut.

Raffe started forward. 'No, you don't understand, we have to leave.'

The woman turned to him, her hands on her hips, her body square in the doorway.

'There'll be no man willing to take you ashore tonight, tide's running in fast against the rivers. That wind'll push it hard in, but rivers'll only be pushed so far, then they'll come roaring back. You'd best stay here tonight, less you want to play with the sea, like the sailor said.'

She climbed the rickety ladder to the upper chamber and, moments later, two long thick pallets tumbled through the trapdoor and fell in a heap on the floor below. The woman leaned forward and squinted down at Raffe through the hatch.

'Mind you don't open that door again tonight till it's light, no matter who begs to come in. There's some foreigners would cut your throat just for a parcel of herring heads.'

She glowered at them both, as if she suspected the pair of them were in league with a band of murderers. Then she heaved the ladder upwards till it disappeared through the hole in the ceiling and the trapdoor fell down with a loud clatter. Raffe heard a beam of wood being drawn over the trap to brace it firmly shut.

Raffe cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to get this Frenchman to Norwich and off his hands as quickly as possible. He'd arranged to lodge the man in the north of the city among the tanners, who could be counted upon to keep their own counsel, for they loathed the sheriff as much as he despised them. And the knowledge that this part of the city was just about the most unpleasant and noxious a place as you could lodge any man was, for Raffe, an added bonus. But he knew there would be no way off the island tonight, not in this wind. And if he was forced to spend the night with this spy, the isle of Yarmouth was the best refuge they could hope to find themselves in if they wanted to avoid John's men.

Two years or so back, King John had made Yarmouth a Charter town, not from a sudden rush of generosity, of course, but as a way of raising more gold for his coffers, for the townspeople had to pay him fifty-five pounds a year for the privilege, far more than he could shake out of them in taxes. But it meant they administered the king's justice now and collected the tolls, so officially there were none of John's officers here. Raffe was certain, of course, that John would have men in the town who were paid to send regular reports to him, for he'd trust no one in Yarmouth, not with all the foreign ships coming to trade. But if John's men had found out about this Frenchman, they could no more get a message off the island tonight than Raffe could. So as long as the storm raged they were safe. After that, all he could do was pray.

Raffe arranged the pallets on either side of the banked- down fire and lay down on one fully clothed. It crackled as he shifted his weight. It was a sailor's pallet, fashioned from bits of old sailcloth patched together and stuffed with feathers. The cloth had been repeatedly rubbed with wax and tallow to waterproof it. Twine was bound around each corner to form handholds, so it could be used as a float if the ship floundered.

The Frenchman, whose face was now a little less pale, swivelled round on his bench to face Raffe.

'What are you doing? Why are we not leaving?'

You heard the alewife; no boat will put to sea this night. There is no other way off the island. We have to stay until morning.'

The stranger had turned pale again. 'I cannot stay here. I must get to Norwich. If your soldiers find me . . .'

Raffe propped himself up on his elbow, seething with resentment against this snivelling little wretch. The slightness of the man's build might have fitted him to a cloistered life, but he had a restlessness about him that would never be contained in a monastery. His gaze was constantly flicking round the room, never meeting your eyes for quite long enough.

He looked every inch like one of the scavengers who swarmed around great men, scrawny, hungry, feral cats waiting their chance to dart in and snatch a piece of wealth and glory.

'Be grateful for the storm,' Raffe said sourly. 'At least you won't be looking over your shoulder tonight. Neither John's men nor any other will be prowling the island on a night like this. It'll be a different story when you get to Norwich. You'll have to sleep with a knife in your hand there, that's if you dare risk sleeping at all.'

Raffe had no intention of making the man feel at ease. If he could add to his discomfort, he would.

'If we reach Norwich,' the man said. 'The Frenchmen on the Santa Katarina, they did not, I think.'

Raffe's head jerked up. 'What do you know of that ship?'

The Frenchman shrugged. 'That an ambush was waiting for her. It is rumoured there was a man on board called Faramond. He was well known in France for his services to Philip. You know of him?' The man kept his voice low, glancing up at the trapdoor.

'I know of nothing save that every passenger was lost,' Raffe said.

But Raffe knew the name of Faramond only too well. Elena had repeated it when she had spoken of the conversation she'd overheard in the manor. It was this Faramond Hugh had come to meet the night the Santa Katarina burned. That louse Hugh had fought for John once, and been rewarded well for it too, but he thought nothing of betraying him to the French.

There was silence for a moment, then the Frenchman persisted, You are sure Faramond did not make land?'

'Tell me about him,' Raffe said. 'Friend of yours, was he?'

'I did not have the pleasure of meeting him myself, though he was known to me. But if he was betrayed, how am I to know I will not be also? These boatmen you hired, you trust them? They are loyal to our cause?'

'I don't work for your cause!' Raffe blazed. 'I am doing this only because I must. As for the boatmen, they're loyal to gold. And that's the only loyalty you can count on in most men these days.'

'And what of these men I am sent to meet?' the Frenchman asked quietly.

'I told you, I know no one,' Raffe said.

It was all he could do to stop himself adding that if he did, they would already be in irons. But he was supposed to be helping this little piece of French shit. Lady Anne's life and his own depended on delivering him safely to Norwich. Raffe had to disguise his loathing for another few hours at least.

Raffe glanced over at the little Frenchman. 'I don't even know your name. What would you have me call you — spy? In spite of his resolve Raffe couldn't help himself loading the word with the disgust he felt.

The bench creaked as the Frenchman shifted his weight. 'Martin,' he said without any sign that he had taken offence at the word.

Raffe hesitated. Could he ask this Frenchman directly if he was coming to meet Hugh? If he admitted to it, then it would be the proof Raffe needed that Hugh really was the traitor. But if Hugh found out Raffe was asking about him, before Raffe was able to act on the information, he could easily turn the tables on him. No one would take the word of a man like Raffe over that of a nobleman. Besides, Hugh had already been to the brothel once; what if he did remember where he'd seen Elena before and realized she was the girl who had been listening outside that room the night he talked of Faramond? One word that he was suspected might be all it would take to convince Hugh that Elena was a threat to his life and had to be silenced. Raffe couldn't risk that.

The Frenchman's gaze darted once more round the room as if he was trying to memorize all the doors and windows in case of attack. Finally, ignoring the empty pallet, he drew his legs up on to the bench and settled himself in the corner, prepared to sit out the night. He made no attempt to extinguish the oil lamp, so finally Raffe was forced to rise once more and blow it out, leaving only the faint ruby-red glow of the damped-down fire to give any shape to the tiny room.

Outside the little alehouse in Yarmouth, the thunder of the sea grew louder. The narrow Row funnelled the sound from the beach, so that it seemed as if the waves were breaking against the little house itself. The wind dashed sand and stone against its wooden walls, shaking the shutters like a child in a tantrum demanding to be allowed in. Still hunched in the corner of the bench, Martin didn't stir. Raffe, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself, finally drifted into a restless sleep.

He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he was jerked awake by something crashing against the wooden wall of the house. The roar of the wind and waves seemed even louder than before, but Raffe could have sworn he heard something else outside, a high-pitched cry, like the shrieking of gulls. But gulls didn't fly at night.

The room was in complete darkness. Even the glow of the fire had vanished. Raffe reached out his hand to adjust the cloak that covered him, and stifled a cry as he felt an icy wetness beneath his fingers. He tried to struggle up from the pallet and promptly slipped sideways with a splash. The floor was awash with water. It wasn't deep, just two or three inches at the most, but it had trickled into the fire pit, extinguishing the embers. He could smell the wet, acrid smoke.

Raffe splashed through the freezing water, cursing vehemently as he blundered into the table and scraped his shins against a bench. He groped along the wall until he felt the edge of the casement and unfastened the shutter of the tiny square window. The wind almost tore the thick wood from his hand. At first he couldn't make sense of what he saw. The ground outside was writhing as if the earth itself was unravelling. Then something black reared up, crashing into white foam inches from his face. The Row was deep in water, waves were being driven up the street, between the houses. The sea was surging in.

Almost blinded by the stinging spray, Raffe struggled to close the shutter, but as he fought with the wind, he became aware of something else. There were figures moving along the Row in the black water. It was so dark that it was hard to make out what they were, but he saw a hand pale against the oily water, a face half turned towards him made blurry by his watering eyes. Fishermen trying to reach their homes? Men trying to rescue the stranded? Raffe didn't know, but it was madness to be out there in this storm. How any man could stand against that surge was beyond his understanding.

He finally managed to slam the shutter against the wind. He groped for one of the benches and swung himself on to it, pulling up his legs as the Frenchman had done. His soaking feet were numb with cold. The water didn't seem to be rising too quickly. The heavy tarred door was doing its job well, but water was seeping in from somewhere, probably up through the floor itself, or else oozing through cracks between the tarred planks of the walls.

The timbers of the house creaked and groaned as the waves surged past it. Raffe found himself wondering how much it could withstand. If it started to collapse, it would go very quickly. They'd be crushed by the timbers. Would it be safer to be outside with those men? Were they fleeing collapsed homes? The walls trembled as the wind beat itself against them, shrieking with frustration and fury, as if the demons in hell were hurling themselves at the house.

Then he heard it, a fist beating on the thick wooden door. The sound was muffled, but there was no mistaking someone was knocking.

'Let me in. For pity's sake, let me in!'

The anguish in the voice was so terrible that Raffe found himself swinging his legs down before he remembered the alewife's instruction not to open the door to anyone. He pulled his legs up again.

The hammering came again. 'Let me in! Merciful heaven, I'm drowning. I'm drowning!'

Raffe tried to ignore it. There were other voices out there, raised above the wind, all begging and whimpering. He knew they were struggling in that freezing water, clinging on to anything they could grasp, desperate not to be dragged back into the raging sea.

'Let me in. I've been betrayed. You must let me in. They tried to kill me.'

Raffe glanced up at the ceiling. Was the alewife lying awake up there listening to the cries? Could she hear them above the wind?

The voice outside rose higher, shrieking desperately to make itself heard. 'Have mercy on me. I'm so cold, so very cold. I cannot bear it. For pity's sake, don't leave me out here in the dark.'

The fist hammered frantically against the door. The man outside was sobbing, screaming. Raffe could stand it no longer. He struggled to his feet, splashing across the room, and with numb hands tried to trace where the bracing beam was positioned in its brackets. He began to wriggle it loose, and had almost succeeded when he felt an ice-cold hand grasp his.

'No, no!' Martin shrieked at him. 'What are you doing? You must not open it.'

Raffe shrugged the hand off. 'Can't you hear him? A man is in trouble out there. We can't leave him to die.'

'Who? Who would be wandering abroad on such a night? I can hear nothing except the wind and water. If you open that door, the water will pour in and we will all drown, maybe even the house will fall.'

The voice outside rose again in a shriek for help, the pleas so tormented that Raffe felt as if a fist was twisting his guts.

'Can't you hear that?' Raffe shouted. He pushed Martin aside and began again to wrestle with the beam.

'It is just the storm you can hear,' Martin said. 'Things banging in the wind.'

Raffe could not believe that Martin was pretending not to hear the man pleading for his life outside. That snivelling little wretch was such a coward, he was willing to let a man drown just inches away from where he stood and do nothing. Raffe fought with the beam and almost had it clear when a fist hit him so hard in the diaphragm that he doubled up, gasping and struggling to draw breath. He sank to his knees in the water, his hands clenching and unclenching, and he tried desperately to force air into his lungs, then finally, with a burst of effort that felt like an explosion inside him, he drew breath. He knelt there in the icy water wheezing painfully as he heard Martin forcing the beam back into place.

Raffe was still on all fours in the water gasping for breath when he felt Martin's legs against his thigh and the cold, sharp prick of a dagger in his back.

'Reach slowly and give me your knife,' Martin ordered.

Raffe reluctantly did as he was told. In his younger days, he could have disarmed the man in a trice, but he had a feeling that Martin, for all his weasel build, knew how to defend himself better than most.

'Now you will sit over there on that bench. And if you go near to the door again, I will kill you.'

The man's tone was suddenly cold and hard. There was a calm resolve in it which left Raffe in little doubt that he meant it.

They sat there opposite each other on the benches until daybreak, listening to the storm rampaging through the streets. Neither spoke again. The voice outside finally fell silent and the howling of the wind now seemed hollow and empty as if all life had vanished from the world.

Towards dawn, the storm died down and, despite the cold and his wet clothes, Raffe must have drifted off into some kind of sleep for he woke to the sound of the ladder creaking as the alewife descended into the room. A pale, milky light filled the room. The shutter stood open and Martin was peering out into the Row.

'The water, it has gone,' he said, turning to the alewife.

'Aye, well, it would. Sea goes back to its bed right enough, soon as the wind dies down.' She heaved the beam from the door and flung it open. Without even bothering to look out, she picked up a birch besom and began sweeping vigorously, shooing the black muddy water along the floor towards the open door.

'You'll be off then.' It was more a statement than a question.

She reminded Raffe of his own mother. She could never wait for the men to leave the house each morning. She regarded men and children as something to be shaken out with the dust, beaten out, if needs be.

Martin extended Raffe's knife to him, offering the hilt with his clawed hand. There was no embarrassment or apology, merely the curt return of it as you might hand over an object someone had accidentally dropped.

Raffe took the knife and at the same time grabbed Martin's arm with his other hand, pulling the little Frenchman in towards him.

'You try that again,' Raffe snarled, 'and you'll find my knife in your ribs instead of in your hand.'

'I hope,' Martin said levelly, 'that it will not be necessary to try that again.'

The alewife's besom nudged pointedly round their feet, compelling them to move towards the door and then leap swiftly out of it, as she swept a wave of filthy water towards them.

Outside, the small courtyard was a wreck. Although most of the water had indeed drained down the sloping Rows back into the sea, puddles still filled the smallest hollow. The tables and benches in the yard were smashed again into the pieces of driftwood from which they had been crafted, and lay in a heap against the far wall covered in wet sand. Barrels were stranded on their sides, bound fast in bright green seaweed. Dead fish stared up glassy-eyed from the sand or flopped desperately in the brackish puddles. Starfish, still twitching the tip of an arm, were strewn among lumps of tar, pieces of rope, broken flagons and a single rosy apple.

A movement drew Raffe's attention and as he watched, a large crab crawled out sideways from under a tangled piece of net and scuttled for safety towards the wood pile, holding a piece of something white in its raised claw. Now that the crab had drawn his attention, Raffe could see that there was something large and pale buried under the old net. He couldn't make out what it was. mostly from idle curiosity he bent down and tried to disentangle the net, which had been so long in the sea it was covered with slime and goose barnacle shells. But the net was caught fast. As he pulled, something flopped out of the tangle on to the wet sand. It was the tattered sleeve of a garment, bleached of any colour, but it was not that which made Raffe drop the net hastily. Poking out from the end of the sleeve were the bones of a hand.

It took a whole breath before Raffe realized he was staring at a human corpse, or rather the upper half of one. Whoever the poor bastard was, he had been in the sea for a long time. Most of the face was eaten away and what little flesh remained clinging to the bones of his hands and chest was feathery and bone-white. A cluster of black winkles had adhered themselves to one of the rib bones and purple bladderwrack dangled from the bones of his neck.

There was a cry behind him and Raffe turned to see the alewife standing in the doorway, her birch besom fallen to the ground and both hands pressed across her mouth. A neighbour passing in the Row heard the cry and rushed over to her.

'Whatever is it?' the neighbour cooed soothingly, then, following the wild stare of the alewife, she gasped. She crossed herself several times before throwing her arms around the alewife. She tried to pull her inside, but the stricken woman wouldn't budge.

'It's my man, my Peter.'

The neighbour pressed her own hand over the alewife's mouth.

'Hush now, would you drown your own husband? There's been no word his ship's come to any harm. He'll be walking in that door bold as you like one of these days. And you'll be giving him a right mithering afore he's even got his boots off.'

But the alewife shook her head. 'I knew he was gone that day the cormorant sat on the roof of our house from dawn to dusk. They always come to warn that a ship's foundered. It knew Peter was lost. It knew and came to tell me.'

The neighbour tried to pull her inside again. 'They found another corpse this morning. I've seen that one and that's not your Peter either. Dead always come back from the sea in their own time. But not your Peter, sweeting. Your Peter's not dead.'

The alewife shook her head. 'I know it's him come back to me. I heard him last night in the storm begging for me to let him in. Said he was cold, so cold. You heard him, didn't you, master, you heard my dead husband knocking at the door?'

She raised her head and looked straight at Raffe, though her pale eyes had no sight in them, only an endless streaming tide.