The Gallows Curse

As soon as Talbot's sharp eyes had seen the three tiny craft creep out of the marshes and glide towards the ship, he had made his way gingerly down the hillside, the better to see where they might put ashore.

Raffe's whole attention was directed towards the land, trying to see if the traitor was also watching for the men to be landed. So it wasn't until he glanced back at the water to mark the progress of the little boats that he saw the king's ship. It was racing up towards the Santa Katarina.

The captain and crew on board the Katarina had seen it too. They had already launched their shore boat and were sculling away from their ship, but not before the crew had cut her anchor and tossed their blazing torches into rope and tar barrels they'd stacked on the deck. The shore boat disappeared up the River Bure and melted into the darkness as the flames on the ship took hold, lighting up the sea around. Later the captain and the crew would claim alms and shelter as poor shipwrecked sailors, for what could anyone prove against them, now that all the evidence was going up in smoke?

But aboard the king's ship the sailors and soldiers had far more to worry about than the vanishing craft. Every man aboard was racing to try to lower the sail and bring their vessel about before they collided with the drifting fire-ship. They finally managed to steer their boat clear of the Katarina, but only just. They dropped anchor at a safe distance where wind and tide would not drive the blazing ship into their own vessel.

There was no use in the king's men trying to board the Katarina now. The fire had taken hold from bow to stern, sending flames and smoke leaping into the tar-black sky. Only the sea could dowse those flames now and it would do so soon when the whole flaming ball sank beneath the waves for ever, carrying all her secrets with it.

This time Raffe heard the crackle of twigs as Talbot slipped back into the thicket beside him.

'It's too late. The crew got off the ship, but the Skeggs didn't.'

Talbot, like most Englishmen, had been born hating the French, calling their soldiers 'Yellow Skeggs' in mockery of their emblem the fleur-de-lis, but despite this there was a rare note of pity in his voice.

Raffe groaned. 'The king's ship must have been lying in wait, thinking to catch all involved, but how the hell did John's men find out?'

'Don't look at me! Maybe one of the marsh-men tipped them off,' Talbot said. There's always those ready to take money from both sides, if they can get away with it. You can't trust a marsh-man, the only loyalty he has is to his own pocket.'

There were many who had cause to say the same thing of Talbot, but Raffe wasn't one of them, not yet, anyway.

Talbot nodded his head towards the ship blazing in the darkness. 'I reckon that bastard of a captain cut those poor runts' throats when he saw what was afoot. Didn't fancy being caught red-handed smuggling Skeggs into England and couldn't risk leaving them alive to talk after he scuttled off. Far as I could see, no one jumped overboard, and if they were alive they'd jump whether or not they could swim. Any man would sooner drown than burn.'

The two men were silent for a moment. They had witnessed the agony of flames before, had heard the screams, seen the blistered flesh, still saw it in their nightmares. The Saracens at Acre had a terrible weapon. Greek fire, they called it. They'd throw clay pots against the wooden siege towers and down on to the attacking men. The pots burst into flames and burned with a fire as fierce as a blacksmith's furnace. It stuck to wood, leather, metal, flesh, everything. Water wouldn't extinguish it, only vinegar, and where do you get that in the midst of a battle? They'd seen men reeling away, blinded, their faces aflame, roasting alive in their own armour, until they'd fallen on the mercy of a spear or sword. Both men knew only too well what a man would do to end the agony of burning.

Talbot tugged urgently at Raffe's arm. 'Look there, between those trees.'

Raffe glanced across at the rise. A lone figure sat on horseback, watching the burning ship. Raffe, motioning Talbot to follow, crept forward. It was dark, but even so Raffe could see from the cut of the long, heavy cloak that this was no marsh-man.

The horse shuffled restlessly sideways. Its rider gathered the reins and turned the beast's head, preparing to leave. As he looked back for one last time at the ship, the light from the burning vessel revealed the full profile of the man's face. It was so familiar that Raffe could have drawn it from memory.

'God's blood,' he breathed. 'Do you see who that is? That's Hugh, that's Osborn's brother.'

Talbot threw his arm over Raffe, pressing his head down hard into the dirt, just as Hugh dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and cantered off straight past the thicket in which they were sheltering. As soon as the muffled sound of hoof-beats had faded, Raffe sat up, brushing dried leaves from his face and spitting out bits of twig.

Talbot whistled through his teeth. 'So that's your traitor. 1 always hated the bugger.'

Raffe shook his head in disbelief. 'Unless I'd seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. I knew it had to be one of Osborn's men, but his own brother! Satan's arse, Hugh fought for John in Aquitaine.'

'As did you,' Talbot reminded him. 'And it didn't make you love the bastard.'

'I loathe John, but I'd never give aid to England's enemies, not even to save my own life.'

Talbot grunted. 'Easy to say when your life's not at stake. Thing is, what are you going to do now? Seems to me it's still your word against Hugh's, or rather that girl of yours. And -'

Raffe smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. 'And I can't prove a bloody thing against Hugh. If I could have seen him with this Faramond, or the king's men had taken even one of the Frenchmen alive and questioned him, he might have given them Hugh's name. But Osborn will never hear a word said against his brother. If there's one thing in this world he has any feelings for at all, it's that little whelp.'

Raffe grabbed a clump of grass and ripped it from the ground in frustration. His hope of seeing the whole pack of them turned out of the manor had slipped so far from his grasp, he couldn't see how to retrieve it.

'Thing is,' Talbot said, 'sooner or later Hugh's going to start wondering who tipped off the king's men, and I reckon he'll get to thinking that the girl did overhear what was said after all and told someone. If you've any feelings at all for her, you'd best see she stays well hidden out of his way.'

Raffe raked his fingers through his hair. God in heaven, how much more could go wrong? At least Elena was in the village, and Hugh was not likely to soil his boots by mixing with cottagers from Gastmere. He just prayed Elena would have the sense to stay away from the manor.

Both men stared in silence over the darkened bay. The flames reflected on the glassy black water danced around the stricken ship like imps at a witches' Sabbath. Even as the two men watched, the ship rolled over on its side with a mighty crash. As waves broke over the deck, the flames clawed higher in the sky as if they were desperately trying to escape the sea. But it was only for a moment, then the water closed over it and the Santa Katarina and all she contained was pulled down and down into the cold black depths.





7th Day after the New Moon,

June 1211



Rowan — was once known as raun, meaning charm, for it is a powerful weapon against witches and the evil eye.



Raun tree and red thread, hold the witches all in dread.



The druids burn rowan to summon the spirits to battle, or to force them to answer questions. Mortals often plant the tree near the door of a house so that no evil may enter it. On Quarter Days, when the spirits of mischief are most active, mortals lay a rowan sprig over the lintel of doors and windows, so that evil spirits cannot enter. Some mortals wear necklaces of rowan wood and hang garlands of it in the cattle byres or over the horns of a beast that they fear has been overlooked by the evil eye.

Those whose milk is witched so that it will not turn to butter had best get themselves a churn made from rowan wood. If their horse is bewitched and throws the rider, it may be tamed with a rowan whip. But those who really fear the spirits seek out the flying rowan, the tree whose roots do not touch the earth, but grows in the cleft of a rock or on another tree, for its wood is the most powerful of them all.

But take heed, mortals, rowan will protect you from the evils of men, but it will not protect you from a mandrake's power, for we are neither witches nor spirits to be commanded. We are gods.

The Mandrake's Herbal





The Shearing



'You'll never wind the bairn like that,' Athan's mother declared, scooping the baby from Elena's arms and patting him briskly on his back.

The infant stopped grizzling and looked vaguely surprised.

'You'll join the other women in the barn soon as you've finished here,' Joan said. It was a command, not a question. 'They'll help you with the little one.'

What you really mean is, I can't be trusted to look after him, Elena thought, but she held her tongue and merely nodded. It was the first time since the baby had been born that she would spend the day away from her mother-in-law. With the sheep-shearing about to begin and ploughing still to be done and the first haymaking starting in the forward meadows, every man, woman and child was pressed into labour, no matter what their age or infirmity.

Athan had left for the fields at ghost light, before the sun was even visible above the dark fringed marshes. Every precious hour of daylight had to be used while the weather held fair. But his mother continued to linger at the door, still watching Elena as a fox watches a rabbit, waiting for it to come close enough to pounce.

Please just go, Elena willed her.

'Remember to take clean rags, he'll need changing'

Elena nodded to the bundle she'd made ready. 'I have them. Hadn't you better make haste? Marion'll not be best pleased if you're late.'

Joan sniffed. 'Just because that harlot is keeping the bailiffs bed warm, doesn't give her the right —'

She broke off abruptly as Marion and some of the other Women called out to her as they passed the open door of the cottage. Pausing only to issue a further list of instructions about the care of her grandson, she sped off to catch up with them, only too eager to regale them with the latest of Elena's failings as wife and mother.

Peace seemed to roll in through the open door in the wake of Joan's departure. Elena took her son in her arms and gently kissed his face. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but the lids were almost transparent so that the blue of his eyes glowed through them like a jewel through gauze. She stroked the soft apricot down on his warm head and slid her finger into the tiny fist, feeling the fingers curl tightly round her own as if he knew without looking that it was his mother's hand.

The bairn, that's what they all called him. Athan said he had chosen a name, but Joan declared it was bad luck to say it out loud before the baptism in case a stranger or the faerie folk should learn it and use it to witch the child before his name was sanctified by the Church. At his baptism Athan would whisper it to the priest at the font, but only when the priest proclaimed it to the congregation would Elena knew what they were going to call her baby.

She already had a name in her heart for him, though she would never be allowed to use it. She whispered it sometimes when she was sure no one would hear her, a secret name because she adored him and he was her son. But she knew that any name she gave the child would not keep him safe, only the Church, only baptism could do that. But when would he be baptized?

With the Interdict and all the churches closed and half the priests fled or imprisoned, no infant could be christened How many months more would they have to call him the bairn? And all that time he would be unprotected from witches who could cast the evil eye on him and faerie folk, who might snatch him, and from demons and monsters who would devour his soul. If he died before he could be made a child of Christ, his soul would wander lost for ever; he would be buried at the crossroads or the hundred boundary where all the suicides, madmen and murderers lay.

Once, years ago, Joan had told her, a girl in the village had given birth to a boy and kept it hidden in mortal fear of her husband for he had been away at the Holy Wars when it was conceived, so he would know it was none of his getting. The poor little mite had died not long after. The sexton had found the mother trying to bury the tiny body in the churchyard, and had torn the corpse from her arms and buried it at the crossroads outside the village bounds, for he knew that if they did not take it out of Gastmere the soul of the unbaptized infant would wander through the village every night, rattling the doors and shutters trying to find a mother who would take it in.

Ever after travellers who had the misfortune to find themselves at that crossroads at night heard a baby wailing in great distress. If they were foolish enough to go closer to try to find the child, they saw a little infant white as bone, with large hollow eyes, burrowing out of the earth and crawling towards them on one leg and one arm, screaming so piercingly that horses and men alike were driven mad. Locals avoided the place after dark and if they had to travel that way always carried a sprig of rowan and a horse shoe to beat the creature away with, but many an unsuspecting traveller had been thrown from his horse, which had bolted at the shrieks.

Elena gazed down at the softly rounded cheeks, the tiny nose and pink plump lips wrinkling as if he still suckled in his sleep. She would never let them bury her son at some lonely crossroads in an unmarked grave. She would not have horses trample the ground above him or carts drive over him. She would not have them curse her beautiful angel or watch his decayed corpse crawling up out of the ground. But if she killed him, they would bury him there. They would drag his little body from her arms and bury him deep and alone in the cold, hard ground, without even a twig to mark where he lay.

As each day passed she loved him more and she knew it would only get harder to do what she must do. It had to be today. She could not wait for another. She must do it now, before it was too late. She must keep him safe — safe from them and above all safe from her, his own mother. Tying her baby tightly to her chest with her shawl, she slipped out of the house. The track was deserted. Everyone who was fit enough to walk was already at work in the fields or barns, but Elena was not making for the barn, she was walking as rapidly as she could in the direction of the forest.





A soft, warm breeze had sprung up with the setting sun. It rustled the leaves on the currant bushes and stirred the bright green shoots of the onions in their beds. Elena gently removed one of the two young pigeons from the little wicker cage hanging under the apple tree and carried the bird back into Athan's cottage. She sat down on a stool by the rough wooden table. The pigeon was struggling, flapping its wings fiercely in an effort to get away, but as she caught the wings and smoothed them back into a resting position with her fingers, the bird, calmed and lay passively in her grip. Its bright black eye looked sideways at her and blinked. She could feel its tiny heart thumping beneath its soft warm feathers.

'Hush now,' she murmured, 'I'm not going to hurt you.'

Outside in the small wicker cage, its mate cooed in the hot evening sunshine. For a moment or two, Elena stroked the bird gently, calming it almost to a point where it was falling asleep in the warmth of the fire. Then Elena's right hand moved up to the bird's neck. In one deft movement, she twisted and pulled sharply. The pigeon flopped limp in her lap.

She began to pluck it at once. It is always easier when the body is still warm. She ripped the feathers out, letting them drift into a soft mound on a rag she had spread out at her feet. When the bird was clean, she took her knife and ripped open the belly, pulling out the guts before tossing the carcass whole into the iron pot that was already bubbling on the hearth.

Then she went outside to the little wicker cage where the second bird still cooed, its hope undiminished, as if expecting an answering call from its mate. Elena reached inside and gently removed it, soothing it in her hands as she carried it back to her stool next to the steaming pot.

Preparing meals was something she had done ever since she could walk, like every girl in Gastmere. Her mam had taught her, just as her mother taught her before that. Most days Elena hardly wasted a thought on it, as long as there was food to be prepared. Her hands worked steadily as her mind drifted off to other places. But now she suddenly recalled how as a tiny child she had watched her own mother cleaning a bird. The picture was as clear in her head as if she was still there in her mother's cottage, though she had never remembered it before. Fascinated, Elena had pulled herself up on to her wobbly little legs by clutching her mother's skirts. Then, standing unsteadily, she had watched, with the wonder that only a child can know, as the soft grey feathers drifted down in dizzy spirals over her mother's legs, only to be caught by the breeze and lifted again, like a thousand tiny birds in flight. She remembered how she'd reached out her chubby hand to catch them and had overbalanced and tumbled on to the rushes. Her mother, laughing, had bent down to haul her upright again, with big red-raw hands smelling of feathers and onions and blood.

Tears suddenly poured down Elena's face and she realized that she would never feel her own son's dimpled little hands clinging to her skirts as he pulled himself up, never hear him laugh as she blew a dandelion ball for him so that the seeds danced in the shaft of sunlight, and never fashion a little boat of bark for him to bat across a puddle. There were a thousand inconsequential things she would never do for him, trivial things that did not put food in his belly or warm clothes on his back. Silly, time-wasting things, that somehow at this moment mattered more than anything else in her life.

She heard the sound of voices outside and hastily scrubbed the tears from her eyes as the door opened. She tried to compose her face, pressing her hands together to stop them shaking. But she need not have troubled, for Joan didn't bother to glance at her.

'What possessed you to shut the door?' Joan snapped. 'That cooking fire'll have us all roasted alive.'

The older woman sank wearily down on the stool, looking every one of her forty-five years and more. Her face was caked with dust and sweat, and her grey-streaked hair had come loose from its bindings and clung damply to her forehead. Elena, still trembling, pushed a beaker of ale into her hand, while Joan fanned herself with the other. Her mother- in-law just about managed a curt nod, which Elena was willing to believe might be a thank you.

Joan gulped thirstily at the ale, draining the beaker before she spoke. You want to be grateful, my girl, you could work in the shade of the barn today. It was as hot as a baker's oven out in those fields, not so much as a pant of wind all day.' I

Joan glanced out of the open door. The light had almost faded, and in the cottages opposite theirs, rushlights were already being lit.

'They'll have finished the shearing for the day. I thought my son would be home by now.'

'He's probably stopped off at the alewife with his friends,' Elena suggested quietly.

Joan immediately bridled. 'Would you begrudge him a drink to quench his thirst? You want to be thankful you don't have the husband I had. He'd have slept in the inn if I hadn't gone round to haul him out. You've got a jewel in my son and you want to remember that and count yourself lucky. I hope that supper's ready, the poor lad'll be famished enough to eat a horse and its cart.'

Elena was too drained to reply. She felt as if she was going to vomit each time she tried to think how to tell them where she'd done. She tried not to think, and concentrated on ladling out the pigeon and bean pottage into a bowl, which she handed to Joan. Joan sniffed at it dubiously and took a sip from her horn spoon. She wrinkled up her nose in distaste.

'Too much salt. We've haven't got it to waste, my girl. Not at the price those thieves are charging in the market.' She pulled out her knife and speared a piece of pigeon breast, stuffing it into her mouth.

Elena hung her head, saying nothing, but she noticed that for all Joan's grumblings the pottage was disappearing fast enough down her gullet.

Joan thrust the empty bowl at her to refill. 'At least you got my grandson to sleep before Athan comes home.' She nodded towards the hooded wooden cradle in the furthest corner of the cottage. 'You see, you can manage the bairn well enough when you try. You just give up too easily, my girl, that's your trouble.'

Both women glanced up as Athan's bulk filled the doorway. He stumbled across to the fire, rubbing his aching shoulders, pausing to plant a kiss first on his mother's cheek, then on his wife's.

Joan flapped her hands impatiently at Elena. 'Stop pawing him, it's food my son needs, not your kisses. Quickly now, before the poor lad faints with hunger.'

Elena filled the bowl from the steaming pot and Athan tucked in, grunting in appreciation as he shovelled the food down. As Joan had predicted, he was ravenous. His mother beamed and affectionately ruffled his hair as if he was still a small boy, though she had to reach up to do it.

Elena watched him too, her heart aching with love for him. Even now that the first flush of youthful excitement had worn off and they were in all but name an old married couple, she could not look at him without a little jolt of pleasure. She even loved the foolish things about him, like the way his sandy hair, slick with grease from the shearing, glistened in the firelight, or the childlike way he ran his finger round the wooden bowl to catch every drop of the juices.

He must have felt her watching, for he glanced over at her with a smile, his blue eyes vacant and untroubled, like a dog who is thinking only of a juicy bone. How could she start to tell him? How would she begin? Her mouth was dry. He'd understand, of course he would. He loved her. If she could just speak to Athan alone, then he could explain the whole thing to his mother. Athan would stand up for her. She knew he would . . . when it really mattered.

Joan was already nodding off, exhausted by the long day in the fields. Her head lolled against the wall. Her mouth hung open. Elena caught hold of Athan's hand, and with her finger pressed to her lips began to tug him towards the door. Athan, with a glance back at his sleeping mother, grinned broadly, and followed Elena outside.

The wind, which had been sleeping in the heat of the day, had finally begun to blow in earnest and was skimming the clouds across the moon. Before Elena could speak, Athan pulled her round into the dark space between two cottages and drew her into his arms, his breath hot on her neck.

'I've been missing you all day, my angel,' he whispered, a

'Athan, I. . .' She had meant to explain she urgently needed, to talk to him, but Athan stilled her lips with a long and hungry kiss.

Feeling his warm, tender mouth on hers, Elena couldn't, help but respond. Her body ached for him. They had no made love once since she'd come to live in the cottage and she was as desperate for his touch as he was for hers. Today more than ever, she longed for his comfort. She wanted him to hold her and tell her everything was all right. She needed him to clasp her so tightly in his arms that all the pain and misery would be pushed away. She clung to him, and he to her. Even if she'd still had the strength left to speak, no words came into her head except I love you, Athan.

It may have been a log spitting on the fire or just a mother's instinct that her son was up to no good which eventually woke Joan, but something made her start up and almost at once they heard her shrill voice calling them from the door.

Athan, a pained expression on his face, tried to ignore her, but it was useless. His mother's voice was like a dousing of

icy water. They quickly pulled apart, straightening their clothes without looking at each other, and returned inside. Joan stared at them as they came in, a look of growing bewilderment on her face.

'Where's the bairn?' she demanded. "You've not left him out there, have you? You've no business taking him out there at all. Night air's dangerous for a bairn.'

Athan shook his head. 'He's in his cradle asleep.'

'He's not,' Joan said adamantly. 'See for yourself, cradle's empty. That's why I thought you had him with you.'

Athan rushed over to the cradle, and threw back the covers. Then he lifted it, shaking it upside down as if the child was a lost coin that might have somehow rolled to the bottom. He stared wildly round the tiny, single-roomed cottage.

'Someone's taken him. A peddler!'

'Not while I've been home, they haven't,' Joan said. You think any peddler could get past me?'

'But you saw him in his cradle when you got home?'

'No ...' Joan said thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing. 'I didn't see him. Elena told me he was asleep in the cradle, but I didn't see him.'

They both turned to stare at Elena who hadn't moved from the doorway. Athan rushed over to her, grasping her shoulders.

'After you put him down to sleep, did you see anyone near the cottage? Did you leave him to go to the privy?'

But Elena just stood there, her arms wrapped round herself. Athan shook her slightly to bring her to her senses and she flopped back and forth in his hands like a rag doll.

Think, my angel, think! When did you last check the cradle?'

But still Elena couldn't speak or look at him. Only now that he had found the cradle empty did it finally seem true that her baby was gone. Up to then she'd almost been able to convince herself that her son was still safely lying in the corner Asleep. But now that Athan had turned the cradle towards her and thrown the heap of coverings on to the floor, there was no pretending any more. Even her love could not conjure the shadow of her baby in that starkly empty wooden box.

Athan wrapped his arms round Elena and hugged her tightly. 'It's all right, my angel, we'll find him, don't you fret. Whoever took him can't be long on the road. We'll catch up with them and I promise you'll have our son back in your arms afore cockcrow.' He turned to his mother. "You take care of Elena. I'll go and raise the hue and cry. I'll get the whole village out looking for him.'

He was almost out of the door before Elena managed to force the words out.

'The baby hasn't been taken. I tried to tell you. I tried ... but you wouldn't listen. I had to do it. The dream ... it kept warning me. So I had to, you understand that, don't you, Athan? I had to do it. Please say you understand.'

But Athan was staring at her in bewilderment. 'Understand what?'

'She's murdered him, that's what.' Joan's eyes were glittering with hatred.

Athan's jaw dropped open. 'Mam, how could you even think such a foolish, wicked thing? Elena worships our son, She'd not harm a hair on his head. You can see how upset she is.' He flung an arm across Elena's shoulders, drawing her to him protectively. 'I know Elena's never been good enough for you, Mam, but you've gone too far this time. You've no call to go accusing her of anything. I know you're my mam, but she's my wife and I won't have you saying such things about her.'

Joan lifted her chin defiantly. 'Go on then, son, ask her. Ask her what she's done with my grandson.'