'Which is exactly why John put this manor in his hands,' Raoul said, trying to keep the note of exasperation from his voice. Hugh praised his brother more often than a love-sick maid extols her swain, but then Hugh didn't have a thought in his head that Osborn hadn't put there.
Raoul turned back to Osborn. 'This is the part of England he fears for the most. The sea voyage from France to Norfolk is many days longer and more dangerous than the voyage across to the southern ports, and for that very reason most of John's advisers believe that Philip will try to land the bulk of his troops in the south. But there are some who believe that the spies are not being landed through the southern ports; they are too closely guarded. Anyone being put ashore in these parts could dissolve into the marshland mists in the blink of an eye, but they would have to have a contact here. No stranger could find their way through the marshes alone and they'd need someone who could help them find the people they want to meet. John believes . . .' Raoul hesitated, then decided he might as well tell all. 'John believes that there Is a traitor in these parts, perhaps even in this manor. He sent me to root him out.'
Hugh's hand jerked so violently that it sent Raoul's goblet spinning down on to one of the silk rugs. Hugh ignored the dark red puddle of wine sinking into it.
'The gelding! I knew it. I never trusted him. Raffaele's a foreigner; he's bound to side with England's enemies. What else can you expect but cowardly treachery from a man who isn't even a real man at all? You should dismiss him at once, brother.'
Raoul shook his head. 'No, if it is him, we need to keep him close till we have proof. Dismiss no one, whatever your suspicions. Sooner or later they will show their hand, and when they do, God have mercy on their souls, for John will show no mercy to their miserable bodies.'
But heaven knows when that will be, Raoul thought bitterly, for the truth was that however confidently he had assured John he could discover the traitor, he had no more idea how to go about it than of how to bake a pie or wash a shirt. So far, he'd discovered precisely nothing. Even if the traitor was Master Raffaele, how on earth did one set about getting him, or anyone for that matter, to betray themselves? One could hardly walk up to the fellow and ask him outright. Raoul only hoped that now he knew, Osborn would do the job for him ... oh, and, of course, leave Raoul to claim the credit.
Day of the Full Moon,
May 1211
Beans - a distillation of the bean plant when drunk will make a plain woman beautiful. If a mortal has warts, he rubs the wart on the lining of a bean case then buries it. As it rots, so will the wart fall from his skin.
But the scent of a bean flower will cause evil dreams and if any should fall asleep in a bean field he will suffer terrifying visions and after go mad. And if one bean in a row should come up white, then there will be a death in the household of he who planted it.
Beans must be eaten at funerals to keep the ghosts of the dead from lingering about the living. And the dried pods are rattled to drive away evil spirits.
In ancient times, when a human sacrifice was chosen, lots were drawn and the one who drew the black bean from the pot of white beans, drew forth his own death. What think you then: does death lie in his own hand to choose, or do his fingers reach for it because it is ordained they must?
The Mandrake's Herbal
Birth and Death
'No, no, take it away. I don't want to hold it.' Elena turned her l ace away from the bundle Gytha was holding out to her, and stared at the rough wattle wall.
'Bless you, the bairn's not an it,' Gytha chuckled. 'You've a boy, a beautiful, healthy boy, just like I told you. He's a mite on the scrawny side, babies born at green mist time always are, but he'll fatten up nicely on your milk once you get some good fresh meat inside you.'
Elena's mother-in-law, Joan, sniffed disparagingly. 'It's well known May's the unluckiest month to birth a bairn. You'll never rear a May baby, that's what my mother always said; too sickly. If Athan had listened to me —'
'Hush! Don't be telling the poor lass that,' Marion muttered, but Elena could see from her anxious expression she agreed with every word.
Her mother-in-law's tiny cottage was heaving with women. Her own mother, together with Joan, Marion, Gytha and two clucking neighbours, all bustled over her where she lay in the single room. Elena felt as if she was a small child again, lost among the legs and wheels of the crowded market place.
She lay on the beaten earth floor, her arms and legs too heavy to move. Her mother still supported her against her chest as she dabbed away at Elena's sweaty forehead with a rag, making little crooning noises as if Elena was herself a newborn again. Elena's buttocks were sore and numb from pressing against the hard, cold floor.
When the pains had come hard upon her, the women had hauled her off the low bed, scraped back the rushes and, pulling her shift up to her breasts, laid her bare loins against the cold, damp earth, so that she could take strength from Mother Earth from whence all men spring. It was how Gastmere women had given birth for generations and even Elena knew better than to protest against it. Now she was desperate to return to the bed, to curl up with her pain and misery and shut them all out, but she was too exhausted to drag herself there.
'Come on, my sweeting,' Gytha coaxed. 'I know you're worn out, but just let the bairn suckle, then you can sleep. He needs his mam's first milk. I'll help you hold him if you're afeared of dropping the mite.'
Gytha tried to push the mewling infant towards Elena, but she lifted her arm, warding him off as if he was a stick raised to beat her.
'Get him away from me,' she sobbed. 'I don't want him. I don't want to look at him.'
The women gasped and spat on their fingers to ward off the evil that would surely follow her words.
'That's a wicked thing to say,' her mother scolded, pinching Elena hard on the arm, as she used to do when Elena was a child and shamed her mother by misbehaving in front of the neighbours. 'Do you want to tempt the faerie folk to take him and leave you a changeling?'
She glanced over at the empty cradle into which Gyth had already laid a mistletoe twig and sprinkled salt to prevent the faeries from abducting the child.
'I do, I do, I want them to take him,' Elena wailed.
Her mother gasped in horror, crossing herself and moaning, 'Mary the Holy Mother and all the saints defend us. She doesn't know what she's saying'
Gytha rapped Elena sharply three times on the mouth. 'Don't speak so, they'll hear you and take him.'
Joan pursed her lips. 'I knew it! I knew she'd never make a good mother. I warned Athan, but did he listen? You should have heard some of the wicked things she was saying before the poor lamb was even born. It was enough to mark the babe in her belly for life. It's a wonder he hasn't come out with two heads and a tail.'
'She'll feel different when she feels the bairn pull on her teats,' a neighbour said soothingly. She patted Joan's shoulder as if to comfort her for the distress of having such an unnatural daughter-in-law.
Although the women had wiped the baby, Elena could still smell the stench of birth mucus and her own blood on him. They wouldn't wash him with water. Never wash a child's hands until he's a year old, else he'll not be able to gather any wealth. Joan had kept reminding her of that and a hundred more commandments besides in these past few months, as if that would somehow allay Elena's fears about the child she was carrying.
But nothing could do that. The mandrake had done all that Gytha promised. It had shown her the end of her dream, and she was certain now, as she had been for weeks, that she was destined to murder her own child.
Elena lay on the cold floor as Gytha scrubbed the blood and mucus from her thighs with a hank of straw.
Her mother-in-law came bustling back into the cottage carrying a small pestle. 'I've just been to tell my bees there's a new babe in the family. Now we must smear her paps with honey and butter. Should be the first thing the poor bairn tastes, so the bees'll lend him strength and sweeten his nature.'
Elena felt the
front of her sodden shift being pulled open. She tried to push them away, but her mother firmly held her hands, as her mother-in-law roughly anointed her sore breasts with a sticky mess of honey and butter.
'Butter to bless him with good health. And honey to keep the poor mite from the faeries.' Joan shook her head grimly as she said it, as if the precaution would be quite unnecessary if Elena hadn't so wantonly tempted the evil ones.
They held Elena tightly so that she couldn't push the child away. She felt the tiny face held against her breast, the warmth of the cheek, the nuzzling, then the soft lips fastening on her nipple. The hot little mouth pulling at her sent waves first of pain then of pleasure through her, like Athan had done that very first night. She felt her body relaxing towards this tiny, warm little bundle pressing into her bare belly. She pulled her arms free and cradled her son in her arms, as her resolve not to touch him melted away like butter in the sun.
But even in that moment as she fell hopelessly in love with her precious baby, even then, she heard herself screaming, 'No, no, I mustn't. I mustn't hold him. I'll hurt him, I know I will. I will kill him. I will murder my own little son.'
Raffe squinted up at the cold grey sky through the newly leafed branches of the trees. Thick clouds were tumbling across the flattened land and the light was beginning to fade. From his vantage point on the small rise he could see the cog-ship rolling at its anchor in the haven of Breydon Water. Wriggling forward, he peered down into the marshes that fringed the edge of the solid land, but could see nothing moving among the tall rushes. He didn't really expect to, a dozen little boats could have been hidden in the deep marsh gullies and you'd never see them until they emerged into the' open waters of the bay.
'They'll not stir till it's good 'n' dark,' a voice growled behind him.
Raffe whipped round and was mortified to hear a deep chuckle. He hadn't heard Talbot creep up on him. The old soldier's legs were bowed as a barrel hoop, but he could still move as quietly as an assassin.
Talbot, his hood pulled low over his craggy face, shuffled his backside into the shelter of the trees next to where Raffe lay. By way of a greeting he punched Raffe on the arm with his great fist.
'I remember a time when you'd have had a knife across my throat afore I got within a lance's blow of you.'
'I knew you were there, you great ape,' Raffe lied. You make such a racket, they will have heard you coming out on the Santa Katarina.' He jerked his head towards the cog-ship out in the bay.
They'd known each other for twenty years, but the old rogue hadn't changed since they'd first met at Acre. Talbot had been a sapper, one of the worst jobs in the Crusaders' army. Sappers burrowed under the walls of the city and lit fires beneath the stones to weaken the walls to make them collapse, while the defenders in the city hurled down any weapon they could on to their heads. And the Saracens would tunnel towards them from inside the city. If they met, the two sides would fight each other in the pitch darkness of those narrow tunnels. You had to be as tough and fearless as a mountain lion to survive that, and Talbot was.
Raffe grinned affectionately at him. 'But I didn't think to see you here. Your lads impatient for their money, are they?'
Talbot bridled indignantly, 'I came to watch your back, Bullock. If the marsh-men catch you spying on them and their cargo, your miserable carcass'll be lying at the bottom of some bog pool afore you can utter a curse. Whereas I can tell them you're a just a poor simple clod who wouldn't know his own arse if I wasn't there to kick it. They've only got to look at you to see the truth of that.'
If any other man had said as much to Raffe he would have laid him out cold, but instead he merely grinned. What Talbot couldn't fight his way out of with his great fists he could talk his way out of, at least with ordinary men. He wasn't quite so skilled in talking his way out of trouble with the nobility. Back in the Holy Land, Talbot would have found himself swinging from the gallows, hanged by his own commander, If it hadn't been for Raffe. It was the kind of debt that forged an instant and eternal friendship between the most unlikely of strangers.
And Raffe had known he could rely on Talbot to get him word when the Santa Katarina was sighted off the coast. He had a network of street urchins and boatmen who knew every inch of the river from Norwich to Yarmouth. A dog couldn't fart in Yarmouth without Talbot getting wind of it in Norwich. Through this web of rogues, Talbot could obtain anything that a man could pay for, though it was wisest not to enquire as to the source, that is, if you wanted to keep your guts safely in your belly.
'Any sign of this man you're looking for?' Talbot asked.
'Not yet, but he'll be here. As soon as I discover who the traitor is, I'll swear on oath to the sheriff in Norwich about what I heard him say and he'll be in chains within the day. With luck this night's work will rid us of Osborn too. John is bound to take the manor back from him, once this traitor is arrested. After all, a lord who doesn't even possess the wit to discover that his own men are plotting treason is hardly- competent to have oversight of the king's lands. And John will take it very ill, that Osborn has allowed this rebellion to fester under his roof.'
Talbot squinted at him. 'Way I see it, you wanted rid of that bastard Osborn from the outset, so why didn't you tell what you knew straightway? If you heard this man so plainly, how is it you didn't recognize the voice? Even if you didn't; know it then, you've surely heard it since.'
Raffe hesitated. He wouldn't trust Talbot with a clipped farthing if money was involved, but he would wager his life on the man's ability to keep his own counsel.
'If you want the truth I didn't hear what was said. It was a girl in the manor, a villein, she reported it to me. But she thinks one of the men may have seen her, glimpsed her anyway. If he's still at liberty when he discovers that he was overheard, her life wouldn't be worth the dirt on his shoe. That's why I need proof before I can act. I'll tell the sheriff I heard what was said, and I won't need to mention her.'
'So you'd lie for this lass,' Talbot grinned. 'Pretty, is she?'
'I'd lie to save a life,' Raffe snapped. 'And we both know it wouldn't be the first time I've done that, don't we?'
Mortals are strange creatures; they cling to life even when that life is nothing but pain and misery, yet they will throw awaytheir lives for a word, an idea, even a flag. Wolves piss to mark their territory. Smell the stench of another pack and wolves will quietly slink away. Why risk a fight when it might maim or kill you? But humans will slash and slaughter in their thousands to plant their little piece of cloth on a hill or hang it from a battlement. We mandrakes can give them victory, but on whom shall we bestow it? For both sides will pronounce their own cause just. And which is the brave man and who is the traitor? You must choose; we mandrakes never do. We simply give them both what in their hearts they truly crave — the illusion of a glorious death, which the poor fools imagine is immortality.
You don't believe me. Let me show you. Two old soldiers lying side by side on the hill watch the little ship bobbing out in the bay. The sailors on the ship watch the shore. They all wait impatiently for the blessed cloak of darkness to cover their wretched little deeds, but the sun will not be hurried by the whims of men.
The cog-ship shuddered as the racing tide twisted her against her anchor ropes. Hunched under the castle of the ship, Faramond shivered miserably in the wet wind, which had grown sharper as the light began to fade across the Norfolk marshes. Although they were sheltered from the great ocean waves behind the sandy island of Yarmouth, the lurching of the ship seemed even worse now that they were at anchor. The three rivers raced into the basin of water and the sea tide pushed hard against them, creating a turbulence that felt more violent than any at sea.
Faramond tried to shuffle downwind of the breeze which blew charcoal smoke and the stench of pickled pork across his face, but he could not leave the safety of the shadows in the ship's stern and the best he could do to escape the nauseating stench was pull his cloak over his mouth and nose. As soon as the Santa Kat
arina had come within sight of the English coast, the five Frenchmen had been forced to spend the daylight hours squatting in the stern under the castle of the ship, well out of sight. Even had they dressed in the thin, patched clothes of the sailors, a casual observer would see from the way they staggered like newborn calves across the rolling deck that they were not accustomed to life at sea.
The captain cursed as he struggled to reach round the huddle of men to grab a coil of rope.
'How much longer must we sit here?' one of the men grumbled loudly.
The captain grabbed him by the shoulder. 'I told you, keep your mouth shut. Sound travels across water.' He squinted over to the horizon where the pale sun was sinking beneath the waves. 'Be a while yet before we get the sign, they'll not risk crossing open water till it's good and dark. So you'd best settle down and get some sleep. It'll be the last chance you'll have to close your eyes tonight. Once you're on the move, your head will think your eyelids have been hacked off.'