The Gallows Curse

Elena let go of the bell rope and pounded on the door. It seemed as if she had been standing there for a lifetime before the shutter finally opened and Ma's face peered out.

'Ma, please, please let me in,' she begged.

'I'm coming.' The firmness in Ma's voice sounded strangely comforting.

Elena pressed herself against the door in an agony of waiting as she heard Ma loosening the bar and clambering down off the steps. When the door finally swung open she almost fell over the tiny woman in her haste to get inside. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Her legs suddenly refused to move and she knew that if she attempted even a single step she would fall over. She stood swaying in the room, her arms wrapped tightly round herself.

Ma pulled at her hand. Her fingers felt scalding hot against Elena's icy skin.

Elena's breath came in shallow, jerky little gulps. 'Why couldn't I kill him, Ma? Why couldn't I? I killed Raoul and Hugh. But he wouldn't die. I thought... if I just... pushed the dagger in, it would be over. There was blood, but. . . but he pulled the dagger out and came after me . . . Why couldn't I kill him, Ma? Why was it so easy with the others? They died like they were supposed to but he wouldn't ... he just kept coming. . .'

'So he's wounded?' Ma gnawed at her lip. 'Did he recognize you?'

Elena jerked her head in the semblance of a nod.

Ma took a deep breath. 'Raffe's right, we have to get you both away from here, tonight.'

'Master Raffaele. Is he ...?'

'He's here, my darling, come to take you away. Now, you go and sit with him awhile, get your breath back, you'll be needing it. Talbot and I've got work to do.'





Without even being aware of how she got there, Elena found herself sitting in Ma's chamber clutching a beaker of wine in her trembling fingers. Raffaele was sitting on a stool at her feet. She had allowed him to wash Osborn's blood gently from her hands in a bowl of water. She'd stared in uncomprehending wonder as the water turned pink, then scarlet. The candle flames danced, and she thought she was back in a cottage in Gastmere watching Gytha's blood falling drop by drop, swirling around and around. She shivered. She couldn't seem to get warm.

Raffaele reached out and touched the bruise where Hugh had struck her, as tenderly as any father might. His eyes were so gentle and kind, searching for hers and gazing into them as if he could see everything inside her and did not judge her.

She wasn't even aware that she was talking. But somehow all of the events of that evening spilled out of her as if she was a fractured pot and couldn't hold anything in.

Why couldn't I kill him? Why didn't he die? She was drowning in a thousand terrors: that Osborn would come looking for her; that she had failed Gytha; that her child would be cursed; that she would never find her son again; that Athan would never rest in his grave. And yet the only question that her mind could cling to was — why couldn't I kill him? Why? Why?

Raffaele took her frozen hands in his, chafing them to warm them. 'You couldn't kill him, Elena, because you don't know how. You've never killed anyone.'

'But Hugh and Raoul... I killed them. And they're dead.'

Raffaele looked earnestly into her face. 'But you didn't kill them. I know now who did, and you must trust me, it wasn't you. You only dreamt of their deaths, as you said all along.'

'But the mandrake ... I used the mandrake to help me see the dreams clearer. And it was clear. I was in a church. There was a man lying on the floor, stabbed, and his face, his eyes had been put out. There was a monk too ... he was begging me not to defile the holy place.'

Raffaele frowned. 'But Hugh wasn't stabbed in a church.'

'Then who was?' Elena said. 'Someone was. I saw them.'

An expression of horror slowly dawned in Raffaele's eyes. He drew his hands away and covered his face. He was moaning, and for a moment or two Elena thought he was crying. She lightly touched his bent head.

'Raffaele, the man I dreamed about. Did I kill him too? You know, don't you? You know who it was.'

For a few minutes he didn't answer her, then he began to speak, staring not at her but at his hands.

'I think what you saw, was not what would happen, but what did happen four years ago. Gerard and I ... you must understand we had no choice ... or perhaps we did. Can any man really blame another for making him do what he knows to be a crime against God? You didn't dream about what you would do, but what we had already done.'

'But I saw myself doing it,' Elena protested. 'I was there. I saw the knife in my own hands.'

Raffaele stared up at her, his face stricken with anguish. 'Do you remember the first day I brought you to the Lady Anne? She asked you to eat and drink from a chest. You remember that?'

Elena nodded. 'The day before her son died.'

'When you came into that chamber, Gerard was already dead. I'd put his body into the chest. The food was laid out for you on top of it and you ate from it. Bread and salt, as I asked you to.'

Elena's eyes had widened in fear. Her throat was closing up so tightly it was as if a hand was pressing its fingers tightly around her neck.

'But... to take bread and salt that has laid above a corpse, that means you take the dead person's sin upon you! You tricked me . . . you tricked me into becoming a sin-eater!'

She threw back the chair and frantically paced the chamber, wiping her hands up and down her kirtle as if the blood had seeped back over them again.

Raffaele struggled up too. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't let Gerard die in mortal sin. I swore to him I would not. I owed him my freedom, my life, everything. He was like a brother to me, more than a brother.'

Elena turned to him, blazing with anger. 'But you let me carry his sin. How could you? If it was so terrible, how could you make me carry it?'

'I swear on my life, I truly believed it couldn't hurt you. You were a virgin, pure and untouched. You could not be hurt by it.' Raffaele's hands hung limply at his side like a helpless child's.

Elena stared at the wax dripping from the candle. 'A virgin, but ... I wasn't. I'd slept with Athan for the first time the night before. That was the night ... he got me with child. What have you done, Raffaele?' she screamed at him. 'What have you done to me and my baby and to Athan'

'I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. You're the last person on this earth I would hurt. If I'd thought for one moment. . .'

'But you didn't think. You didn't. You let me carry it. You made me carry it. You made me a murderer.' Her head snapped up and she stared at him. 'My dream about my baby, hurting my baby, was that also what Gerard did?'

Raffaele lifted his head, bewilderment mingling with his pain. 'But there was no baby in the monastery at Montauban. I don't understand . . . tell me, tell me what you saw.'

'I was in a room, there was cloth hanging everywhere and baskets full of it. A store room, but round, not square. I could hear a babe crying. I was angry, so angry that they were hiding it from me. When I found it, I just wanted to kill it. I dashed it against the wall. Night after night, I dreamed I was killing that little bairn. I thought... I really believed that was what I was going to do to my own son. That's why I gave him to Gytha, to keep him safe, so that I couldn't hurt him.'

Raffaele sank back on to the stool. He was murmuring to himself, so softly that Elena could hardly make out the words.

'This cannot be. The Church promised us that if we took the Cross every sin we had committed before the Holy Wars and while we fought them would be instantly forgiven, wiped out as if they had never been. They promised. He was an infidel. An unbeliever. It was a holy slaying, a righteous act. The Church swore that we were forgiven.'

'What?' Elena demanded. 'Was there a baby? Did Gerard murder a baby? Tell me, I have to know. I have to know it wasn't me.'

Raffaele wrapped his arms over his head, then let them fall helplessly. 'Yes, there was a baby, many babies. But this one, this was not like the others. You have to understand ... it was war. Men do things in war . . . things that they would never . . . good men . . .'

His face convulsed as if he was trying not to cry, and it took several moments before he could continue.

'Some months after Gerard's father set sail to fight under Richard in the Holy Land, Gytha came to Gerard and told him that the spirits had warned her that his father was in danger and was calling for his son to help him. Lady Anne pleaded with him not to go, but Gerard was adamant. He would not fail his father, he said.

'As soon as Gerard arrived, he sought out Osborn to whom his father owed allegiance, thinking to find him fighting under his command. Osborn told Gerard he was too late. His father was dead. The sappers had been tunnelling under the city walls to weaken them, Talbot was one of them, but the Saracens were burrowing out the other way, using the tunnels to attack under the cover of the Greek fire which the defenders were hurling from the city ramparts.

'Gerard's father had been close by the wall when one of the Saracen raiding parties broke out from the tunnels under the cover of smoke. He was last seen fighting them off, but then he disappeared. That night they searched for his body, but they had little hope of finding it. Many corpses were so badly burned or crushed it was impossible to distinguish one man from another. Even the chevrons and emblems that distinguished knight from foot solider were burned or torn away. The best that could be done was to bury the remains of the dead in mass graves, but at least they had priests aplenty to say Masses for their souls.

'Gerard was grief-stricken by his father's death. He blamed himself for not having arrived sooner, but he vowed to finish what his father had begun and so we joined Richard's army.

'A few days after we arrived, Acre surrendered. Richard set tough terms. He vowed to spare the lives of all those in the city, if Saladin would give him two hundred thousand golden pieces and release the fifteen hundred Christian prisoners he held. As a pledge of faith, Richard let many of the ordinary men in the city depart in safety with their wives and children, but he kept two thousand of the more prominent men and their families hostage until Saladin should meet his demands.

'But Saladin refused to hand over the men and money on the appointed day. Some said he had already killed the Christian prisoners, others that he had sent word that he couldn't yet raise the full sum of money demanded, and was asking for more time. Who can tell which was the truth? I only know that these two great leaders could not come to terms, so Richard gave the order that every hostage in the city was to be slain.

'Gerard and I were mercifully spared the task of actually slaughtering the captives, instead we were sent to drive them out of the city, so that they could be executed in plain sight of Saladin's camp. We were ordered to go from house to house and drive them to the gates of the city. The men were bound and led out like slaves, the women and children left to walk behind or, if they refused, lashed together with ropes and dragged out. Beyond the walls we could hear the screams and wails as Richard's men herded them together. The men they dragged to their knees and struck off their heads; the women and children they ran through with swords and pikes.

'It was late in the afternoon when we came to a house on the far side of the city. We were exhausted, sodden with sweat and maddened by the flies that crawled over every stone in that city. A man ran out of the house and knelt before Gerard. He seemed to be trying to tell us his name was Ayaz. He had a cloth in his hands and he opened it up to show Gerard. He'd evidently bundled up anything of value he possessed — his wife's jewels, tiny silver cups, coins and other trinkets. He begged Gerard to take them all in exchange for their lives. Gerard refused, but Ayaz continued to plead. He laid the cloth at Gerard's feet, picking up handfuls of the gold and silver, trying to thrust them into Gerard's hand.

'Gerard was wearily pushing them away. Then suddenly he froze, staring at one of the objects in his hand.

' "My father's ring!" he cried. He held up a gold ring with a single pearl held in place by a knot of gold. "This is my father's ring. Where did you get it?"

'But the man couldn't understand him.

'Gerard pushed the ring in his face. "Where! Where!" he was shouting.

'Ayaz kept shaking his head in incomprehension, then finally he shrugged and drew his finger across his throat to show he had taken it from a dead man, a murdered man. I heard Gerard gasp and turned to look at him. An expression of horror and rage was spreading across his face. Gerard had realized that it was this very Saracen grovelling before him who had slain his beloved father; the father he had arrived too late to save.

'With a scream of grief and fury that seemed to rip heaven itself apart, Gerard lifted his sword, then stabbed it into the Saracen's heart. Ayaz dropped where he still knelt, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. Gerard, pausing only to draw out his blade, ran into the house. I followed hard on his heels. Ayaz's wife lay dead inside, a bloody knife in her hands. She had stabbed herself rather than be taken alive. Gerard was beside himself with rage. He ran from room to room searching everywhere. He was sure she had hidden her children and he was determined that not a single child of his father's murderer should remain alive to carry on that infidel's name.

'But though he searched every conceivable nook and chamber, he could not find another person in the house. Then he heard a baby crying. He followed the sound and eventually found the infant hidden in a basket under a pile of linen. I watched him pick the baby boy up by the feet. I shouted at him to stop, and he turned to face me, the infant dangling from his hands.

' "And let him grow up to slaughter other good Christian men?"

'His voice was harsh and bitter. I'd never heard him speak like that before, it was as if another man was speaking through his mouth. It wasn't him, I know it wasn't him. Then, as if he was killing a fish, he dashed the baby's head as hard as he could against the white wall.

'I was horrified. But I don't know why I should have been. We both knew the child would be slaughtered anyway by Richard's men outside the wall. You could say what Gerard did was more merciful, for at least the child died instantly. If it had been thrown into the melee outside, fallen beneath the bodies of terrified men and women, or been hacked at by the exhausted, frenzied stabbing of Richard's men, the infant might have taken hours to die in pain. But it was the shock of seeing Gerard, that good, noble, brave man, commit such an act that rocked the foundations of all that I knew and loved about him. It was an indelible stain which seemed to haunt him from the moment the deed was done.

'By nightfall every Saracen in the town was dead, save for the prostitutes. Some three thousand died that day, so they said. Gerard finally reported to Osborn that the town was cleared. He told him of the many bodies he'd found inside: men who'd poisoned their own children rather than leave them to the mercy of Richard's soldiers; girls who'd jumped to their own deaths, women with their babies in their arms who'd thrown themselves down wells rather than be taken alive.

'All this he told Osborn, and Osborn laughed ... he just laughed . . . I've never been able to forgive him for that. It was at that moment I understood what a truly good man Gerard was. He cared about what he'd done. He remembered it. He condemned himself for it. But Osborn, with the murder of hundreds on his hands, had only laughed. He regretted not one moment of the pain he had caused, nor one drop of blood he had shed.

'That night the priests who travelled with Richard's army came round blessing the men and trying to cheer them, assuring them that all their sins had been washed away that day, and that they had done God's glorious work, for these pagan cattle were doomed to hell. They stood on any mound they could find and shouted the words of St Bernard of Clairvaux into the sweltering night — "The Christian glories in the death of a pagan, because thereby Christ himself is glorified."'

Raffaele was staring at the wall in Ma's chamber. He seemed to have forgotten where he was or that Elena was even there. She felt sick. She had been there. She had seen the girl hurl herself down into the courtyard. She had seen Gerard murder that innocent baby, just as Raffaele had watched it, except that Gerard's hands had become her hands. It was her own fingers that dripped red with that infant's blood.

She flinched as Raffaele suddenly began to speak again, distantly, as if he was explaining something to himself rather than to her.

'But I could never bring myself to tell Gerard the truth about what else I discovered in Ayaz's house. It would have destroyed him. And I couldn't add to his pain.

'You see, after he killed the baby, Gerard ran from the house. He was violently sick, but he didn't want any man to see him vomit in case they thought him a coward. I was about to leave too, when I noticed a low door that we had overlooked before. I discovered it led to some kind of chamber, shaped like a giant pot, with a channel running into it from the flat roof above. I took it to be some kind of cistern. In the winter rains, it would fill with water, but it was summer then and the siege had been a long one. Every drop of water was gone. But the cistern was not empty.

'There was a man inside. He lay curled up at the bottom, under a blanket. As I entered he cried out in alarm and I knew at once by his words he was a Christian prisoner. There was something familiar about his face and I guessed he was one of the soldiers I had met when we'd first arrived, though I couldn't recall his name. I scrambled into the cistern to help him up, telling him I would take him to safety at once, but to my astonishment, instead of being delighted to be rescued, he begged me to kill him.

'I was astounded. I told him the siege was over. Richard was the victor and he was safe, but still he pleaded with me to end his life. I couldn't understand it. He threw off the blanket and then I saw why he wanted me to grant him the mercy of death. His feet and hands had been lopped off. No man on God's earth would want to live out his days like that.

'He told me that he had a son and wife at home whom he adored. He couldn't bear to return home to them, unable to do the smallest task for himself, not able to feed himself or even clean the shit from his own backside. Better his son believed that his father died a noble death on the battlefield than that he lived on as a useless mockery of a man. How could he be a father to his son, or husband to his wife like this, he asked me, with tears streaming down his face. He was humiliated to weep in front of me, and he couldn't even wipe away his own tears.

'I felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of me, for as he spoke of his home, I knew at once where I had seen his face before, or rather, a younger version of it. I told him that his son, Gerard, was here in this city. That he had been in this very house not minutes before. But he begged me not to tell Gerard he was alive.

'And then . . . and then he asked me to do all in my power to protect Ayaz and his family. He told me how he had been captured by one of the raiding parties from the city and dragged back through the tunnels into Acre itself. The city leaders had mutilated their captives and left them to die. But that night Ayaz had found Gerard's father crawling among the dead and dying prisoners. He'd smuggled him home, tended to his wounds, fed him with what little they had, and sheltered him.

'You see, like many in the city, Ayaz's own father had fought in the last Holy War, not as a Saracen, but against them, as a Christian. Ayaz's father had been taken prisoner and forced to convert to the Muslim faith in exchange for his life. He had married a local Muslim woman, and their son Ayaz, like so many others in the city, now found himself fighting against his own Christian cousins. Ayaz had tried to save the life of Gerard's father out of honour and respect for his own father who had once been a Christian.'

Elena had hardly dared breathe in case she interrupted Raffaele's tale, but now she couldn't help blurting out the question, 'Did you do what the poor man asked? Did you kill Gerard's father?'

'I couldn't do it.'

The words were spoken so softly and with so much grief that despite her anger, Elena wanted to throw her arms about him and comfort him.

'I was a coward. I couldn't kill him, not once I knew who he was. I made arrangements for him to be brought back to England ... I think ... I hoped that in time, when he had learned to live with what he now was, he might want to see his son again.

'But the more I got to know Gerard, the more I realized what the knowledge would do to him ... do to them both.

Gerard had slaughtered the man who'd saved his own father's life and, worse still, he had murdered Ayaz's only son, a helpless infant. Gerard couldn't have borne that knowledge. And if I had reunited them, then his father would also come to know what Gerard had done in his name. How could I add to the pain of either one of them? Weren't they suffering enough?'

Elena pressed her hands over her mouth to stop a scream escaping. 'That man . . . that poor man in the cage in Ma's cellar, that is Gerard's father!'

Raffaele raised his head and looked at her, his face distorted in misery. There was no need for him to say anything.

'How could you leave him like that in the cage?'

'What else could I do?' Raffaele sank his head in his hands. 'I had to keep him safe and hidden. I didn't have the money to pay for lodgings for him and someone to take care of him, not for all the years he might live. How was he to survive, by begging on the streets? Ma took him in when I didn't know where else to take him. She was grateful to me for saving the life of her brother Ta . . . a brother she had not seen since she was an infant. She agreed to take him. A life for a life, she said. And at least in here he is not forced to endure the contempt or pity of the world, for Ma pities no one.'

Elena couldn't look at him. She closed her eyes, trying to piece together all the fragments of her thoughts that lay shattered around her. The dreams had not been about her. She was never going to harm her baby. All that had happened, her arrest, Athan's death, what Raoul and Hugh had done to her and now tonight, attacking Osborn, none of this would have had happened, had it not been for a single dream, a dream which was not even her own, but one that Raffaele had forced on her.

'Why?' she screamed at Raffaele. Why did you choose me? You could have chosen anyone as the sin-eater — a beggar, a thief, a stranger, anyone. Why me? Why punish me? What had I ever done to hurt you?'

He stared at her. 'But don't you understand? It was never to be a punishment. I couldn't carry this alone. While Gerard lived we bore it together. It was our burden, but also our bond that made us closer than any blood brothers. Once he'd gone I couldn't give that to a stranger. This is my past, my memories, my whole self, and I wanted you to share it. You were the only person in the world I could give this to, because ... because I love you.'

Elena froze in horror, staring at the pathetic wretch of a man in front of her. Tears were running down his sagging cheeks. He held his great hands out in a useless gesture of a child seeking comfort, and then let them drop as if he knew they would never be grasped.

The door banged open and Ma scurried into the chamber. Raffaele turned abruptly away, scrubbing the wetness from his face. Elena couldn't move. She could only continue to stare at him in utter disbelief.

Ma glanced from one to the other, sensing the atmosphere, but there was no time to pander to it. She snorted impatiently.

'On your feet, the pair of you. There's a boat waiting for you down river. He can't risk coming closer to the town for fear of being stopped and searched. I'll take you there myself. I need Talbot here in case the soldiers come. Hurry, it'll soon be dawn and we want you safely out of sight of Norwich by then. Here's your bundle, my darling. Now, give me that cloak and amulet, case any sees it.' She thrust a darker, shabbier cloak trimmed with grey rabbit's fur into Elena's arms. 'This'll keep you warm on the water.'

'Water?' Elena repeated dumbly.

'Haven't you told her yet?' Ma scolded Raffaele. 'What on earth have you two been talking about? Master Raffe's come to take you with him.'

Elena flung the cloak off, her eyes blazing with fury. 'Go with him? I can't go with him! I won't! You don't know what he's done.'

Ma just as firmly thrust the cloak back at Elena again. 'So you are going to stay here, are you? You've just attacked the most powerful man in these parts, wounded him and let him recognize you, and now you think you're going to sit and wait for him to find you? Well, you're not waiting here, my darling. You may not be fond of your own head, but I'm planning to keep mine on my shoulders for a good few years yet, if the Devil can spare me.'

'You needn't fret, I won't put you in danger,' Elena said, jerking her chin up defiantly. 'I'll leave this place, but I'll leave it alone. Not with him, never with him.'

'Brave words, my darling. And what exactly will you do alone? Even supposing you manage to evade capture with half the country looking for you and a wolf's bounty on your head, how do you imagine you're going to live? Begging, or whoring in the alleys of some filthy little town? You think the girls here are hard done by, but you wait until you're forced to service the stinking drunks and poxy rogues who can't afford a girl from a whorehouse. When they f*ck you against a wall and give you a punch instead of a coin, when you have to spend what's left of the night sleeping hungry in a graveyard, then you'll understand what it really means to be alone.'

Ma's words were brutal, but they did what she intended them to do and slapped Elena into understanding the reality of her situation. For the moment she felt herself sinking in despair, but then she remembered what had been floating somewhere beneath the surface of her mind. She clutched at it desperately.

'We can tell them,' Elena said, 'tell them what Osborn did. Then they'll arrest him not me.'

Raffaele and Ma glanced at each other as if her wits were wandering.

Elena turned to Raffaele. 'Remember I told you what I overheard in the manor about a ship and the French? I know now who it was who was talking in the bedchamber.'

Raffaele said wearily, 'I already know. It was Hugh, but —'

'No, no, it wasn't. It was Osborn. I should have recognized his voice at the trial when my son . . . but I was too upset to even think of it.'

Raffaele stared at her. 'You're wrong. Osborn is the king's man. It was Hugh who was the traitor. After all these months, you couldn't possibly remember his voice.'

'I didn't,' Elena said. 'But tonight when he realized that I was his villein, he told me he knew I was the girl who he'd seen running away from the door. He thought I'd come to ask him for money to keep quiet about what I heard.'

Raffaele looked stunned. 'All this time I thought. . . but it was the wrong brother.'

Ma grunted. 'It would explain why Osborn was so keen to get Elena back.' She turned to Elena. 'But, my darling, I'm afraid this isn't going to help you. It only adds to the danger you're in. You've no proof except what Osborn told you and he'll deny it, but now he'll be more determined than ever to silence you for good.'

Raffaele's face was haggard and pale in the candlelight. 'Elena, please come with me. Let me try to atone for what I've done to you. I'll protect you and see that you want for nothing that a man can provide for a woman. I know that my body repulses you. I've always known that and, believe me, I understand how you feel better than you can ever imagine, for my body disgusts me too. But I swear on Gerard's soul I will not lay one finger on you. And if you should in time find a man who loves you, and whom you love, I promise I will let you go to him with a glad heart. I begged you before to trust me and I did not deserve that trust, but I shall. I swear it.'

Talbot poked his head round the door. 'If they don't go now, Ma, there'll be no going at all.'

Ma nodded. She didn't wait for Elena to reply, but thrust her bundle into her arms, pushing the girl firmly towards the door. Elena found herself hurrying down the stairs behind Raffaele without even knowing if she had agreed to go or not.

Outside, Ma grasped both their hands and with one on each side of her she hurried them through the silent streets. To any casual observer glimpsing their shapes in the darkness, Ma must have looked like a child walking between her parents.

The streets were completely deserted now. The inns and alehouses had emptied. Candles had been extinguished or long since burned away, and there was not a chink of light to be seen in any of the blind houses. A fine drizzle was falling, which clung to their faces in a wet mist of tiny beads, soaking their clothes. Elena shivered.

Raffe carried a lantern low down, so that they could pick their way across the open sewers and through the tight little lanes. A beggar, curled up in the entrance of a courtyard, groaned in his sleep as the light from the lantern brushed his eyes. He turned over, hugging himself tighter against the cold and rain. His sallow wrinkled flesh glistened wetly through the holes in his rags and his filthy bare toes scrunched into fists.

The three strange figures steadied one another over the slippery cobbles, the lantern casting a misty yellow halo around their feet, but their faces were hidden in the darkness. Elena glanced over Ma's head at the tall figure lumbering beside her. He kept his head and his shoulders hunched forward like a prisoner being marched to the gallows.

Elena still had no idea what she intended to do. She could not forgive what he had done to her. Yet, though she told herself she hated him, she understood the need to share your most terrible secrets with someone. Who could you allow to glimpse the dark creatures that prowl within you, except someone you truly love? And Raffaele did love her. She knew that. Deep down, she had always known it.

But he'd used her. Raped her in a way that was worse than anything Raoul or Hugh could have done, for such men can only touch the body, not the soul. He had made her guilty of crimes she had not and could never have committed. And yet the blood of that baby, and of those holy monks, was now on her soul and she would be punished for them for all eternity, as he would ... as they would be together. The fear of that was so enormous that she could not even think about what it meant. If she allowed herself to dwell on the terror of that for one moment, she would run mad.

All she knew was that she wanted to be a hundred seas away from Raffaele. Yet she understood why he felt the loss of Gerard so intensely, because no one else could understand Raffaele's torments, no one else could see the horror of what he'd seen except Gerard and now her.

Even if she searched for the rest of her life, there could be no one she could share this with, for how could even the most devoted lover understand the images that were for ever in her head and the horror and revulsion that were in her heart, except the one man who also carried those things inside himself? She might hate Raffaele with every inch of her being, but they were one flesh. She could no more live alone with this than he could. It was more enduring than marriage; it was stronger than love, for sin would bind them together even beyond death. And for that very reason, Elena suddenly knew she had no choice but to go with Raffaele, because without him, she would have to carry this nightmare alone and that would be the most terrible sentence of all.

They had left the closely packed streets behind them and the land had opened out into the marshy ground that bordered the river. The wind was stronger here and rain slashed their chilled skin. Thick, knobbly trunks of pollarded willows stuck up from the boggy ground like giants' cudgels. And here and there the dark smudges of huts and bothies were dotted among the birch scrub.

Ma took the lantern from Raffaele and swept its beam across the wet grass, searching for something. She pointed to a peeled twig sticking upright from the ground. Her finger to her lips, she set off, following the trail. Elena trod carefully behind her, and Raffe brought up the rear. She could hear his boots squelching in the boggy ground, but she did not turn round. They were close to the river now.

Ma grabbed Elena's hand and pulled her down behind a low thicket of bushes. Raffaele crouched behind her. In front of them the great black river slid past; Elena could feel the chill of it, even colder than the rain. She glanced up, squinting against the falling drops; darkness still wrapped itself around the city, but a fiery red glow was running along the horizon.

Dawn was beginning to break.

Ma covered her lantern with her cloak, then moved the cloth so that the light flashed towards the river several times in rapid succession. They waited, hearing nothing but the pattering of rain on their heads and the rushing of the water. Then out of the darkness came an answering flash. Slowly the tiny light drew closer, floating suspended above the river.

Ma turned, keeping her voice to a whisper. 'Soon as the boat lands you run for it, get in and keep low till you're well out of sight of the city. The men know where to take you. You can trust them. They're good customers of mine.'

As they watched, the outline of a small boat gathered out of the darkness as if it was forming from the shadows.

'Please, Elena,' Raffaele whispered, 'come with me.'

He extended his hand, white and glistening wet in the lamplight; it looked like the hand of a drowned man. Elena hesitated, then slowly, very slowly, her fingers edged towards his and she grasped his hand, feeling not the coldness of his skin but the answering clasp as his fingers gently but securely locked around hers.

The shrill weet-a-weet alarm call of the green sandpiper suddenly split the air. Elena turned and saw figures darting towards them across the ground, spread out and ducking low against the lightening horizon. The first rays of the watery sun caught the flash of metal in their hands.

'Devil's arse! It's the king's men,' Ma hissed.

Raffaele let go of Elena's hand and pushed her hard, so that she sprawled flat beneath the bushes. 'Hold her, Ma! Whatever you do, keep her safe.'

Like a crab, he scuttled forward on his hands and knees until he was far enough away from Ma and Elena, then he leapt up, running openly along the river bank, drawing John's men's attention away from them and the boat.

There was a cry as the soldiers spotted him. At once they changed direction, running towards him as fast as the boggy ground would allow, weaving around the trees and shrubs. Their progress was slow for they repeatedly tumbled over as their feet stuck in soft ground, but they heaved one another out and continued to pursue their quarry. But soon the darkness had enveloped them all.

As the shouts grew distant, Ma seized Elena's arm.

'Move, my darling, quickly. No, don't stand up; they might have left men on watch. Crawl!'

Elena raised her head to look for the little boat on the river, but the men on board had extinguished their lantern as soon as they saw the soldiers and Ma had done the same. Now both she and Ma were creeping towards the bank on their hands and knees, Ma calling out Softly to the boatmen. But there was no answer.

Elena, putting a hand down on the ground in the darkness, winced as a sharp thorn was pressed deep in her palm, but she didn't stop. They were almost at the water's edge. The wiry grass had given way to soft mud. She stared across the river. Dawn was just beginning to edge over the horizon, revealing the black outlines of distant craft, but there were no boats close by. From a long way off, the wind carried the soldiers' voices as they shouted instructions to one another.

Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Holy and blessed Virgin Mother, in your mercy look after Raffaele. Keep him safe. Don't let them catch him. Please don't let them take him.

Ma was cursing under her breath. Then she caught hold of Elena's arm and pulled her back.

'Rancid lumps of lard, the pair of them! Useless flea shit. You just wait till those boatmen dare to show their faces in my house again. I'll use their balls for crab bait.' Ma sighed. 'Still, I can't say that I blame them, they say the only people worth risking your life for are your own kin, and I'd not risk my life for any of mine.'

She glanced anxiously upriver from where the shouts of the soldiers drifted back to them.

'We need to get away from here, as fast as we can. Raffe's leading them off best he can. We should go in the opposite direction.'

'But we can't leave Raffaele.' Even as Elena spoke the words, they heard the clash of swords echoing across the marsh.

'Sounds as if the Bullock has his hands full. . . no, no!' Ma grabbed Elena as she started to run in the direction of the sound.

'There's nothing either of us can do to help him. We'd only make things worse. When Raffe makes his escape, he'll find his way back to you. Then we'll find another ship for the pair of you. But best thing now is to get you out of Norwich as quickly as we can, for Osborn will be tearing the town apart house by house looking for you. Come on, my darling. I'll walk with you till I've set you on the right road.'

Elena turned round one last time. She thought she glimpsed a group of people in the far distance, the first few rays of dawn flashing off metal, but she couldn't be sure, perhaps it was just water. She turned back and meekly trudged after Ma.





Raffe knew he could never outrun the soldiers. Sooner or later they would catch up with him; he just wanted to lead them far enough away from Elena and Ma so that they had a chance to escape.

The effort of stumbling over the soft, wet ground was tearing at his calf muscles and he already had a pain in his side, but he would not stop until they forced him to. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw three of the soldiers were close. They were signalling to one another to spread out, obviously hoping to cut him off.

Raffe drove himself harder. Glancing now at the river, he wondered if he should jump in. He could swim well enough, but the river was swollen and fast. He'd never make it to the other bank, but he might be able to hide under the near bank, if he could find something to cling on to. He needed to find a place where the bank overhung .... He yelped as his foot stepped down into empty space.

With a splash of icy water that took his breath away, he found himself floundering on his back in soft mud. He'd fallen into one of the deep, narrow gullies that cut across the marsh into the river. Even in daylight, these gullies were hidden until you were on top of them. Raffe thrashed around in shallow water, trying in vain to get his feet under him in the slimy mud.

There were shouts and yells above, and immediately Raffe lay still, praying that what remained of the darkness would hide him. The voices seemed to be moving away. As slowly and silently as he could, he tried to right himself, but it was useless. The silky soft mud on the sides of the gully just came away in his hands. He gave up, and began to wriggle backwards, trying to edge towards the river. If he could drop down into it, and ease himself along under the bank, then, with God's help, he could hide there until they'd abandoned the search.

The narrow gully sloped gently downwards so that with only a small effort Raffe found himself sliding backwards towards the river. His fingers and toes were numb with cold, his body convulsed with shivering. He couldn't see where he was going, it was still too dark, but just another yard or so and he would be safe in the water.

He stifled a cry as his head connected with something hard and he felt himself being yanked upright by the back of his cloak into a sitting position.

'Thinking of leaving us, were you, traitor?'

A soldier was standing behind him in the gully. Raffe tried to grab his legs and pull them from under him, but before he could, hands reached down from the ground above to grasp his arms. Two men hauled Raffe upwards, dragging him over the edge of the gully and sending him sprawling, face down, across the wiry marsh grass. Raffe looked up. Six or seven men stared down at him.

The soldiers parted as a small, slight figure pushed through them. And Raffe found himself gazing up into the face of Martin, who grinned as broadly as if he was greeting an old friend:

'You look like that corpse we saw in Yarmouth. Or you soon will, Master Raffaele. I understand they have a very special death planned for you. High treason, that is the charge, I believe. Osborn himself is waiting to question you. He insists on doing it personally and from what he tells me he is much looking forward to it. There may unfortunately be a short delay before he can attend to you. So you'll have to amuse yourself listening to the screams of your fellow traitors in the castle dungeons. Osborn has unfortunately been wounded, did you know that? But thanks be to God, the blow glanced off a rib, so the physicians say he will recover well. He should be fit enough to attend to you personally in a week or so, though I fear he will still be in some pain when he questions you, which I am told by those who know him does not improve his temper.'

Raffe did not need to be told what Osborn would do. He had a healthy fear of the pain of torture, as much as any normal man, but it was not that which filled him with horror now. It was knowing that Osborn would be enjoying every twist of his muscles, would be studying his face for every spasm of agony, and watching him die with that same cold amusement with which he had watched Athan hanged. Above all, Raffe knew that Osborn's laughter would be the last sound on earth he would ever hear and it would pursue him into hell. Raffe had not gone through all this to become a prisoner of that man now.

Martin turned to the soldiers. 'Bring him and make sure he does not escape you. But treat him gently. Lord Osborn wants him unharmed and in a good state to talk.'

Raffe forced himself to go limp. He offered no resistance while two of the men pulled him to his knees, as though he had already accepted defeat. Then, just as his feet were firmly planted on the ground, he swung his great fist at the face of the nearest man, catching hold of the man's sword arm with his other hand. The soldier reeled backwards, crashing into the fellow beside him. It was only a momentary stagger, but it was enough to allow Raffe to grab his sword. Raffe held it out before him, sweeping the blade in a wide circle towards the other men.

Swift as a weasel, Martin slipped behind the soldiers. 'Disarm him, you fools, but don't kill him. Osborn wants him alive.'

It had been some time since Raffe had wielded a sword and this was not a good one. The balance was wrong and it was shorter than any he was accustomed to, but his long arms made up for that. He whirled around and lunged at one of the men in the circle. His opponent, taken off guard, stumbled backwards, but quickly recovered himself.

Raffe fought fast and furiously. He was used to fighting at close quarters and though it was still barely light, the flash of the rising sun on the whirling blades around him gave him warning enough to fend them off. He cut this way and that, beating them back with a manic fury born of desperation. One man reeled away with blood pouring from a slash on his face, another dropped his blade with a scream as Raffe's sword slashed down across his arm.

Raffe pushed forward until there was a gap in the circle of men just large enough for him to see the river glinting with shimmering gold lights as the sun caught it. With a roar he leapt through the circle towards it. He was within three strides of the water when he felt a white-hot pain slash into his back. He fell to his knees and tried to crawl forward, but his arms gave way beneath him and he crashed to the ground. He almost screamed in agony as hands seized him and roughly turned him over.

His back felt hot. For a moment or two he was grateful for the sudden comforting warmth, though he couldn't think what it was, until he realized it was his own blood pooling beneath him.

You f*ck-wits, I told you not to hurt him. Have you any idea what you've done? Do you know what Osborn will do to you when he finds out?'

Martin was kneeling beside him, slapping his face, trying to make him open his eyes. But he was suddenly very tired now. All he wanted to do was sleep. It was becoming harder to breathe, as if someone was holding a wet cloth to his face. He couldn't feel his legs. He knew he was dying and he was glad of it. It is not granted to many men to choose the hour of their own death. Osborn would not get the satisfaction of watching him die.

Raffe gave a cry of agony and pressed his hands to his chest. He felt as if someone had put his fist inside his chest and was clenching his heart. His eyes squeezed shut as he fought with all his strength to fight down the pain. There was something else, something he must do. He must stay awake long enough. There was only one way he could make atonement now, only one way to protect those he had wronged. It was the living who mattered, not the dead. The living should not suffer for those who are beyond life.

He opened his eyes and looked up into Martin's face. 'My confession. I want... to confess,' he whispered.

Martin leaned closer, his face alive with excitement. 'That's it, you must confess for the sake of your soul. You are dying and must tell me the truth now. It's the last chance to save yourself from the fires of eternal damnation.'

'No time . . .'

'Give me names,' Martin urged. 'Just names, that's all you need to say. I will do the rest. Speak.'

'Confiteor Deo omnipotenti... I confess ... before you and Almighty God, that I. . .'

Raffe stared up into the sky. It was growing darker. That wasn't right. It was morning, surely he had seen the dawn? He remembered the red glow like blood, a long, thin trail of blood running across the whole world.

Martin was shaking him. 'What did you do? What do you confess? Tell me!'

'I confess that I murdered . . . Raoul and Hugh. But you tell John this ... it is Osborn of Roxham who is the traitor. He is working . . . for Philip of France ... it was Osborn that. .. your French spy was to meet. As a dying man I swear by the Cross of the Crusaders that it is the truth. Tell John that... and tell Osborn on the scaffold . . . that he knows his brother's murderer. Tell him I did it for Gerard, for the monk and for a Saracen's child. Tell Osborn that as you execute him... let it be the last thing he hears . . . for I swear with my dying breath that I killed his brother, Hugh ... I swear it on my immortal soul. . .'