The Gallows Curse

Raffe set a goblet of hot milky posset, well laced with strong wine, on the small table next to Lady Anne. She was slumped sideways in the high-backed chair, her eyes closed, her forehead resting in her hand, but Raffe knew she wasn't sleeping. She would not permit herself to sleep tonight.

'You should drink this, m'lady.'

Steam rose from the goblet, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of cloves, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg. Raffe's stomach growled rebelliously, but food would have to wait.

He crossed to the chest from which Elena had eaten and carefully removed the flagon, trencher and beaker that still lay on top. Then he pulled off the white cloth covering the chest, steeling himself before he opened it. The heavy lid swung back with a creak.

Raffe stood looking down at the corpse hunched inside the chest. The body lay curled up on its side, the arms wrapped across its chest. A putrid stench was already rising from it, though Sir Gerard was barely a day dead. Fortunately it was not yet strong enough to penetrate the thick oak wood, but in this heat they could not delay burying him much longer. As if to confirm this, the flies buzzing among the rafters descended like a flock of miniature doves. Crawling over the face of the corpse, they refused this time to be deterred by the mere flapping of a hand.

'You must make the announcement of your son's death tonight, m'lady, in the hall. Tell them we have already washed and prepared the body, so that no one examines it.'

'No!' Anne wailed, 'I need more time.'

Raffe turned away, unable to bear the anguish on her face, but he could not afford to spare her feelings.

'He must be buried tomorrow, m'lady. Leave it another day and the body will start to bloat in the heat. I'll give orders that they're to work through the night to prepare the coffin and the grave.'

Anne raised her head. 'Where?' she demanded savagely. 'Where am I to bury my son? With the church locked, he cannot be laid in the family vault. What would you have me do, bury him under the midden?'

'The prison chamber beneath the undercroft. I went to examine it this morning.'

'The undercroft!' Anne blazed angrily. You think I want my son dumped among the stinking bundles of dried fish and barrels of pickled pork?'

Raffe slammed his great fist against the wall. 'God's teeth, woman, do you think that I. . .' he bellowed, but with a great effort managed to stop himself before he finished his utterance.

The wars had taught him that the men thrown into the hastily dug mass graves were the lucky ones. At least their humiliation was over. The severed heads staring sightless from the ramparts and the rotting corpses of mutilated men dangling from the walls soon taught you that even the meanest burial affords a dignity that is beyond price.

Raffe took a deep breath and tried to speak gently. 'That part of the prison chamber shall be walled up after the coffin is placed there. I'll do it myself. Then Sir Gerard may lay undisturbed until the Interdict is lifted and the coffin can be interred in the church.'

Lady Anne's head sank again into her hand.

'Why . . . why was he taken now?' she whispered.

Raffe turned his face away. Hadn't he screamed that very question into the hell-black heavens all night long, and received no more answer than she had?

'All those months and years when my son was away fighting in the Holy Lands and in Aquitaine I was driven to my knees in prayer a dozen times a day for him. I felt guilty if I laughed or even slept, imagining that Gerard was lying mortally wounded on a battlefield, or being tortured by the barbarous Saracens, or even drowning in the roaring seas, his ship torn apart on the savage rocks of the French coast. And when you and Gerard finally came home, and Gerard swore to me on his knees that he would go to war no more, you cannot imagine the joy and relief I felt. My son would live to see me buried, as it should be.

'What did I do wrong? Did I not show enough gratitude for his safe return? Did I neglect my prayers? Is God punishing me for my presumptuousness in daring to believe that my son was safe? Why has He taken him now?'

Raffe struggled to force words from his own tightened throat. 'At least you know how your son died and where he will be buried. Many mothers in England would give all they have to know that much.'

'Do you really think I need to be reminded of that?' Anne said bitterly. 'My own husband lies rotting in a mass grave in Acre. I know I should be grateful to have my son's corpse to grieve over. But it is no comfort. My husband died under the Cross in the Holy Wars, with all his sins absolved, but Gerard...'

Raffe turned back to the open chest. He pulled at the corpse, bending low so that he could heave the body over his broad shoulder, then staggered across the room and deposited him on the wooden table, carefully easing the head down on to the boards so that it did not thump on the wood. He crossed the arms over the body, and slid a large crucifix between the waxen fingers. Now that rigor had worn off, the face looked at peace, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from him. Their plan had surely worked; here was proof of it.

It had been more than a week since Sir Gerard had fallen ill of a fever. For days he had been racked with vomiting and the flux. He'd writhed in agony from the violent pains in his gut and his belly was so distended that it seemed the skin would burst open like rotten fruit if anyone so much as touched it. It was as if a demon had crawled inside him and was tearing his entrails apart from within.

For days Lady Anne had sat by his bedside, not daring to move, for the physician had warned her that her son could be taken from her at any hour. The worst of it was Gerard had known he was dying. Each time he was roused from his delirium he had grasped his mother's arm, begging for them to bring a priest. 'I must have . . . absolution ... I must. . . confess.'

Raffe had turned away, slamming his fist against the stone wall in frustration. How far off was the nearest priest — four days, a week? Men had been sent in every direction to find one. But the servants who returned all told the same story. Church after church was boarded up and locked, the priests banished or fled before they could be seized by the king's men.

God's teeth, why hadn't Gerard died on the battlefield along with the thousands of others whose bones were even now bleaching under the burning desert sun? Priests were not needed there. The Pope had sworn that anyone who died fighting under the Holy Cross would die with all his sins absolved. Yet even so, every man in that army had prayed each dawn that they would still be alive to see the sunset over

Acre, and at every sunset they begged their God that they might live to see another dawn. Be careful what you pray for, Gerard had once told him. It was a lesson they both should have heeded.

Gerard had vomited, blood pouring from his mouth, the twisting muscles of his stomach screaming in protest. He lay back on the bed, shivering and sweating with the effort. 'There's ... no priest coming, is there?' he gasped, gritting his teeth as the pain welled up again. 'Raffe . . . you can't let me die in my sin. We swore to each other . . .'

Anne clasped her son's hand to her face, her tears wetting his skin. 'My son, there's no man more honourable than you. No man who has ever made his mother more proud of her son. You've lived a pure life, fought in the Holy Wars. Those few venial sins you may have committed since must surely be outweighed by that. I promise you that I will pray day and night for your soul, and when the Interdict is lifted, which it must be soon, then we will have Masses said for —'

Gerard seized her wrist. 'Prayers will not be enough . . . I have to confess ... we did a terrible thing... Raffe knows ... I cannot die with it upon me. I shall be carried straight to hell.' His eyes rolled back in his head as if he no longer had control over any part of his body.

Raffe lumbered across to his friend's side. Clumsily he knelt beside him, seizing his other hand.

'Open your eyes, man! You can't sleep yet.' He shook Gerard, trying to force him to stay in this world, as you would pummel a drunk to keep him awake. Raffe wanted to scream at him — If you die there will be only me to carry it. You can't leave me alone with this. But although the words were written in his eyes, he dared not utter them aloud.

It was like holding on to the hand of a man who was hanging over the side of a cliff. Raffe could feel the life slipping away, as if the dangling man's fingers were sliding inexorably out of his grasp. This was his dearest friend, the man who had rescued him from the abject shame and misery of a mutilated life, the master who had raised him to companion and steward. They had protected each other in battle so often that they had long since forgotten who was in whose debt. And that night, a night that for ever haunted both of them, had bound them together with chains forged from a horror that was stronger than any affinity of family blood.

Did that bastard, Osborn, relive it night after night in his sleep? Raffe knew he did not. Even when Lord Osborn had issued those orders which other men were forced to carry out, he had given less thought to them than a boy snapping the neck of a snared bird. He knew Gerard would have to carry out those commands. Osborn was Gerard's liege lord and Gerard was bound by the oath of fealty to serve him. To refuse to obey his command on the field of battle was unthinkable. Any man who did as much would be branded a coward and a traitor.

That night, after it was all over, Raffe had watched Osborn with his younger brother, Hugh, tossing down a flagon of sweet cypress wine, already planning the next day's sport, and it was plain he had already forgotten the whole incident. But then it is easy to forget if you only have to say the words and don't have to look into terrified faces or hear the screams echoing again and again through all the long dark nights.

Raffe grasped his friend's icy hand so tightly that he could feel the bones grate under the skin. Gerard's eyelids briefly fluttered in protest against the pain. Gerard's hand still wore his father's ring, a heavy gold band with an intricate knot of gold filigree that held in place a single lustrous pearl. It was Gerard's most precious possession. Still kneeling at his bedside, Raffe bent his head and kissed the ring.

'I swear on your father's ring and by all the saints in heaven. I swear upon my immortal soul, Gerard, I will not let you carry that evil to your grave. I will not let it drag you down to hell.'

Gerard lifted his head and stared unblinkingly into Raffe's dark eyes as if he was trying to impale Raffe upon that oath.

Though Raffe had never flinched from any man's gaze in his life, he shuddered, suddenly terrified of the words which had fallen from his mouth.

Gerard drew in one last rasping breath which caught in his throat. Then Raffe felt his hand fall limp. He didn't have to hold a feather to Gerard's lips to know that his life was over.

Raffe looked down again at the corpse of his friend and master lying on the table. He reached out a hand and smoothed the ruffled hair.

'I have kept my word, Gerard. You will go to your grave now as guiltless as if you had been shrived by the Pope himself. I have done as I swore to do.'

He was turning away to fetch a cloth to cover the body when he felt his sleeve grasped tightly. Anne was standing beside him, staring up at him, her bloodshot eyes searching his.

'What have we done, Raffaele? What terrible burden have we forced that poor child, Elena, to carry? I insist you tell me what my son did. I have a right to know.'

Raffe looked down at Anne. Her body seemed to have shrunk over the past few days, shrivelled into itself as if it was withdrawing from the world. This woman who'd fought to keep the manor intact for her son, who'd faced every new disaster and threat with her eyes flashing defiance and a sword-sharp mind, had not been able to stand against her son's death. How could he tell her now what she demanded to know? It would destroy her. If she knew the truth of it, she too would bear that burden to her grave. Knowledge of sin devours the soul as voraciously as the sin itself. He couldn't bear to see her love and respect for Gerard shaken for even an instant. She must go on believing that he was a good and honourable man, as in truth he was and would now remain so for ever.

Raffe turned his face away and felt the grasp on his arm slacken. Anne had known him long enough to realize that there were some things not even she could command.

She gently lifted her son's cold limp hand and slid the pearl ring from his finger. She fumbled for Raffe's hand and before he realized what she was doing, she pushed the gold band on to his finger.

'No, no, m'lady, I cannot . . .' Raffe protested, trying to pull it off.

But she folded his fingers around the ring. 'It belonged to Gerard's father and, when he died, to Gerard, but he has no son to wear it in his memory. His lineage dies with him. You have been more than a brother to Gerard. That makes you my son. Take the ring. Wear it in memory of them both. They would want you to have it.'

Raffe felt as if the gold ring had tightened on his finger, burning into it, like a red-hot copper mask that is bolted on to the face of a traitor. Nothing, nothing she could have done could have caused him more misery and guilt than this and yet he knew it was being done innocently in love and gratitude.

Lady Anne softly caressed the cheek of her dead son, as if he was again an infant sleeping in a cradle.

'Tell me this, Raffaele,' she whispered. 'Are you sure, are you absolutely sure that the girl will be able to carry this sin without causing harm to herself and her family?'

'She doesn't know what she carries,' Raffe answered dully. 'It will be no burden to her. She is a virgin. Just as when, in the ordeal by fire, the hand of the guiltless is unwrapped and is found to be unharmed, so the sin-eater cannot be tainted by the sin, not if that person is pure.'

'And if Elena is not a virgin?' Lady Anne persisted.

'She is!' Raffe's assertion came out more vehemently than he intended. Lowering his voice, he added, You heard her say so herself, m'lady. Besides, it was for the soul of your son that we did this, your son and my friend. Is the life and soul of a villein worth more to you than that?'

Lady Anne gazed down at her son's wasted face. As she looked up at Raffe once more, he saw the same ferocity of passion in her own eyes as he had once seen in her son's.

'I swear to you, Raffaele, there is nothing I would not give in this world or the next, and nothing I would not do, to save my son from the fires of hell, even to the damnation of my own soul.'

He thought of the copper-haired girl running away from him down the steps. Although she didn't know it, Elena was bound to him now. No marriage blessing, no consummation could tie them closer than this. Marriage was only until death; together they would carry this sin to the grave and into the life beyond.