Raffe balanced there, trying to get his breath, but the ominous creaking of the wood reminded him that the staves would not bear his weight for long. With a supreme effort he managed to push the priest's body up through the hole so that the weight balanced on the rim. Then, kicking against the ladder, he heaved himself up beside the man.
Raffe's limbs trembled with the effort, but fearful that the sounds might have aroused sleeping servants, he had no choice but to heave the priest's body back over his shoulder and stagger as fast as he could to the gate. He abandoned caution for speed; if Hugh was watching now Raffe couldn't bluff his way out of this one. His only hope was to reach the boat before Hugh could rouse his men and get to the gate.
At the bank of the river he sank to his knees, thankfully dropping the body to the ground. He gave the owl call to summon the boy. At first there was no answer, then he called again and this time a peewit cry answered. Almost at once he saw the dark smudge of the boat emerging from the lee of the islet.
'What happened?' the boy asked fearfully, catching sight of the body on the grass. 'Is he dead?'
'He lives. He's just fainted,' Raffe assured him.
'Fainted?' The boy prodded the body cautiously with his bare toe, as if he'd never heard of such a thing before, for the marsh-dwellers are a hardy lot and not given to swooning like milk-sop priests.
Raffe unceremoniously heaved the priest into the boat. Trying to find something with which to revive the man, Raffe reached for the basket of food he'd left with the boy. All that remained was the flagon of wine, and then only because the lad was unused to it and couldn't abide the taste, as he told Raffe, wrinkling up his nose. Between them, they managed to pour a little wine down the priest's throat, which at least made him open his eyes, though it nearly choked him.
Raffe glanced behind him towards the manor. All was quiet save for the rushing water of the river, no sounds of pursuit. Yet with Hugh on the prowl, Raffe dared not be found absent from the gate.
'I can't come with you, lad. You'll have to take him alone to the meeting place. There's an old jetty downstream of here by the Fisher's Inn. There'll be a boat waiting there with two men in it. Give them this as a sign.' Into the boy's grubby palm Raffe tipped the token Talbot had entrusted to him. 'And this,' he said handing the boy a small purse, 'is payment for the men who wait for you downstream. They'll know what to do. Can you scull him there yourself? It's not far.'
'Course I can,' the boy replied with disdain, 'but what about him? He's moon-mazed, he is.'
The priest lay curled up on the bottom of the boat, staring unblinkingly up at the sky, his teeth chattering with shock and cold. He was muttering to himself over and over, Sed libera nos — deliver us! Though it seemed he could remember no more of the prayer.
The boy eyed him warily. 'Suppose he attacks me or tries to jump from the boat? There was a man on our isle once got mazed by the boggarts and ran out into the mire though he'd lived on the marsh all his life and knew the mire would swallow him.'
'Just get him to the men. If he stirs, give him the rest of the wine. That'll calm him.'
The boy still looked doubtful, but he finally nodded and, taking a firm grip of his scull as if he meant to crack the priest across the head with it at the first sign of trouble, he steered the boat out into the centre of the river. In only a few strokes the boat had slid into the darkness and was gone.
Three Days before the New Moon,
August 1211
Bracken - When bracken is grown to its full height, if it be cut across near the base, marks will be found on the stem. Some mortals believe these to be the letters signifying Christ, others the Devil's hoof print, and some find therein the initials of those they are to marry. At Midsummer the root of the bracken may be dug up, carved into the likeness of a hand and baked till it shrivels. Mortals call it Dead man's hand and use it to ward off the power of witches and demons.
The seeds from the bracken will enable the gatherer to summon any living creature, beast or human, from the earth, air or water. The seeds also render the gatherer invisible if he should swallow them or place them in his shoe. A parcel of seed plaited into a horse's mane will make horse and rider invisible to evil spirits on the road or to thieves who lie in wait for the traveller.
But the seeds are not easily gathered. It must be done just before the midnight hour on Midsummer's Eve. The gatherer must place a cloth of white linen or a pewter dish beneath the frond. It is dangerous to touch the frond at this hour with his bare hand, so he must bend it with a forked hazel twig so that the seed shall fall upon the cloth or dish. But bracken is well guarded by spirits and demons who do not desire that mortals should gain such power. They will torment the gatherer as he tries to collect the seed, pinching and striking him, and appearing in such a terrible aspect that some mortals have died of fright. And many return home to find the seed they gathered in the cloth has vanished.
The Mandrake's Herbal
The Cat
Gytha wandered back towards the bothy, her wicker basket full of nettles, wild onions and sorrel. Two fat trout lay nestled under the cool of the leaves. She had coaxed those from the stream with nothing but her fingers for a hook and her cunning as the bait. She could have caught more, but she knew that if you took more than you needed for that day, the river would not let you take from her again. In the same way, she was careful always to eat from the tail to the head lest she make the fish turn away from her, and careful to collect up every tiny bone and return them to the stream, so that the fish might be reborn. That was the way of it. Learn the laws of the forest, marsh and stream, learn the ways of the beast, fowl and fish, and food would always come to you.
Gytha scuffed her bare feet in the warm, crumbling leaf litter, and breathed in the hot summer breeze, fragranced with the rich fruit of decaying leaves and the bitter tang of the white-headed cow parsley. Beech, oak and elm stretched out their long limbs above her as she paddled through the drops of green light filtering through the sun-soaked canopy.
She would be sorry to leave this forest when the time came to move, but they would have to leave soon anyway. They would need to find warmer shelter and build up food stores before winter. For she knew from experience how quickly the warm, sultry days could turn to rain and killing cold. Still, perhaps they would be back in their own cottage before then. Madron seemed sure that before the year was dead, Yadua would have finished her work. Gytha wasn't convinced. She had been born into the waiting. It was the only state she had ever known, and she couldn't imagine what would replace it.
Madron was sitting outside the bothy where Gytha had left her, nestled comfortably among the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, like a tattered old crow on its nest. Her twisted hands were turning the heap of yellowed bones in her lap, but her sightless eyes were already turned in Gytha's direction as her daughter emerged from the trees.
'Yadua has been fed,' she announced triumphantly as Gytha came into the clearing. She licked her wrinkled lips, as if she herself had tasted the red milk.
'And?' Gytha asked. She did not doubt the truth of what the old woman said for a moment. There was and always had been a bond, stronger than mother and child, between Yadua and Madron. Even now, when the mandrake was miles away, Madron could always tell when it stirred to life, perhaps because of the way she had acquired it. But Gytha could tell by the excitement in the old woman's voice that this time there was something more.
Madron pronounced her words slowly, as if she didn't want to part with them too soon. 'I scattered the bones and when the spirits led me to pluck one, I found a butterfly had settled on it and would not be dislodged.'
'A butterfly ... on a dry bone? That means there's been a death.'
The old woman nodded in satisfaction.
Gytha laid her basket down and hurried forward. She knelt in front of her mother, staring at the bones in the old woman's lap.
'Which . . . which bone was it, can you remember?'
The old woman snorted. 'I'
m blind, not doting. I know my bones.'
She folded her lips tight and turned her face away. Gytha knew that expression of old: it meant that Madron would refuse to tell her any more until she had been appeased. Angry with herself and the stubborn old besom in equal measure, Gytha returned to the basket and set about cleaning the fish without another word. Two could play that game.
Madron sniffed. 'Fish for dinner?'
'For my dinner.'
The old woman cocked her head on one side. You wouldn't let me starve.'
'Wouldn't I?'
'I could put a hex on you that you'd never undo,' the old woman raged. 'I could bring a cooked fish alive in your throat even as you swallow it to choke you to death. You still don't know the half of what I know, girl, and you never will. You don't have the skill or patience to master it. Haven't had to learn it to survive, not like me, and that's your trouble.'
'Do your worst!' Gytha stuck the tip of her knife into the trout's belly and sliced it open savagely. 'But just you think on this: if I'm dead, who's going to catch your next fish or rabbit, or even fetch you a bite of nettles?'
Neither spoke for a long time. Then Madron said grudgingly, 'It were the bone of a dog.'
It was on the tip of Gytha's tongue to ask if the old woman was sure, but she knew Madron would not make a mistake, not with her bones. She sighed in disappointment.
'Nothing to wail about, girl,' Madron said. You must give it time. The shadow of the fox is running, just like you said, hard on the heels of the bairn. She is doing well, our little Elena. She is calling them to her one by one, though she doesn't know it. Like flies to a corpse they will be drawn to her. Be patient. Can't rush the stretching of a new bow, else it will snap and all that work'll be wasted. Tonight you must pluck another thorn from the apple. Then we wait and watch.'
Gytha poured a little water into her wooden bowl, and dropped the bloody fish guts into it, watching as they wriggled like eels in the swirling water before settling.
Once, Gerard had sat cross-legged opposite her, staring into the bowl with such concentration that anyone watching might think he knew how to read the entrails. He didn't. He relied on her, trusted her. And she had never betrayed him. She had simply told him the truth. That's what he asked for, that's what she'd given.
'Your father is walking into mortal danger. He wants you to help him. He needs you.'
She had given her lover what all men wanted; she had revealed to him the future, knowing that he would not be able to resist acting upon that knowledge, and in doing so he would damn himself. Men always did. They couldn't help it. And no power in heaven or earth could punish him for the hurt he had done to her, as effectively as that single gift. Tell a man his future and he will destroy his own soul. It was the consummation, the pinnacle, the perfection of vengeance.
She pauses at the foot of the narrow stone spiral staircase. It is dark, so dark she cannot even see her own hand, let alone the hand of another who might be creeping towards her. The clash of swords, the clatter of metal on stone, the shouts and screams of dying men echo from the vaulted ceiling and down the long narrow passages, the sound is twisted, distorted. It might be above her; it might be below her; it might be in her head.
She cranes her neck trying to peer up the stairs. The flicker of a pale yellow light, fragile as a moth's wing, glows high above her, but she cannot see the source. A candle on the wall? A lantern in a man's hand? These staircases were built to be defended. A right-handed man could strike down on anyone trying to fight his way up the stairs, but his opponent's blows would be impeded by the wall. A man must learn to strike with both hands, if he wants to survive.
She waits, listening. Is someone also waiting out of sight on those stairs, listening for the sound of her footsteps? She hears breathing, but it is so cold here, entombed in these thick walls, that it might be the sound of her own breath rasping. Is this the place where she will die, struck down in this darkness, her blood pouring out on to these icy stones?
She tries to fight down her terror. She can wait no longer. She must move. She transfers her blade to her left hand and eases herself slowly up the steps, bracing herself against the wall in case someone should lunge down at her. The light gathers in strength as she walks towards it, but still she cannot see where it is coming from. Cautiously she winds her way up and up, until the light bursts full upon her.
She is staring into a tiny open chamber, not much bigger than a recess in the wall. A man in monk's robes kneels with his back to her. In front of him is a table on which stands a carved and painted figure of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus in her arms. The child's hands are outstretched as if begging to be plucked from his mother's grasp. Three slender candles burn around the base of the figure. Encircled by their trembling flames, the painted scarlet mouth of the Virgin smiles as if she knows what is about to happen, and it amuses her.
The monk lifts his head like a hound scenting the breeze. He seems to realise he is not alone. He scrambles up, turning towards her with a look of terror. She puts her finger to her lips, warning him not to cry out. She takes a pace backwards down the stairs. She means to leave him unharmed. She will not hurt him, not a holy monk. But the terrified monk seizes the heavy wooden statue in both hands. Holding it over his head, he charges towards her with a shriek. The sleeves of his robes fall back and she sees the muscles bulging in his arms, bracing themselves to strike.
She knows she must protect herself. She knows she must strike first, but he is a monk. She cannot harm a man in holy orders. The grinning face of the Virgin hurtles down towards her head. Instinct takes over. She thrusts her blade up towards the monk, meaning only to warn him to stay his hand. But even as she does so she sees a shadow looming up behind him. The monk's arms freeze in the act of striking. He arches backwards with an agonised cry as the point of a sword emerges from his chest. He falls to his knees, pitching forward straight on to her blade. The Virgin and Child fly from his hand and shatter against the cold stone wall. As he falls, the draught of his robes instantly extinguishes the flames of the three candles, as if the devil himself has snuffed them out.
She is standing in utter darkness. She can see nothing. But she feels hot liquid on her hands, and she knows the holy blood of a monk is dripping from her fingers on to the sacred stones.
Elena woke with a cry and sat bolt upright, breathing so rapidly that she felt as if she'd been running. The blood pounded in her temples. Her body was slippery with sweat and the cover of the thin straw pallet was as wet as if she had thrown water over it. It took a few minutes for her to calm herself and try to rid her mind of the images in her head.
The heat inside the sleeping chamber was suffocating. She hadn't been able to get cool all day. Now that the sun had begun to dip behind the buildings and the shadows were lengthening, it would have been cooler to sit in the garden, but she hardly dared leave the sleeping chamber any more. She was terrified that the bailiff and his men would return and walk in on her as she sat outside, before she had time to prepare herself. She knew that if the bailiff asked her anything she would give herself away in a word.
Luce had dyed her hair and eyebrows with a paste containing walnut juice to darken them. Ma's orders. It was a pity, Ma had told her with a sigh, for men liked copper-heads and would pay more. Elena couldn't get used to the sight of herself with black hair. It made her face look paler than ever and she felt as if she was staring back at a stranger whenever she glimpsed herself in one of the silver mirrors the girls shared. She wondered if Athan would even recognize her, much less think her pretty now.
The door opened and Luce stuck her head round it, searching the beds. 'Here, Holly, I need you.'
'A man?' Elena's stomach lurched.
'No need to look like a calf that's seen the butcher's knife. The man's not for you, it's a boy he wants. Come on, hurry up. Ma will kill me if the boy isn't ready.'
Elena scarcely had time to pull her shoes on before Luce was tugging her out of the door an
d towards one of the upstairs chambers.
'It's Finch,' Luce grumbled. 'He won't get dressed. And he won't let me dress him neither. If I try to touch him he goes rigid and starts shrieking. If I fetch Ma or Talbot they'll take a switch to him, but he trusts you. I thought you could persuade him.'
'You're dressing Finch for this man?' Elena grabbed her arm. 'No, not him, please, Luce. He's so little. You can't make him do it. Send one of the other boys.'
'Ma's orders. She's chosen Finch.' She smiled ruefully. 'You know how it is, Holly. He has to work, same as the rest of us.'
Luce marched along a passage with Elena scuttling behind her. Then, opening a heavy wooden door, she pulled Elena inside.
In the centre of the room was a huge wooden bed curved up high at either end. A wooden cupboard leaned drunkenly against one wall and against the other was a long table on which stood a flagon and goblets, together with platters of spitted duck, hare and heron and a glistening haunch of venison. Crowning the table was a roasted hog's head with savage fangs, its face blackened with grease and soot to resemble the coarse dark coat it wore when alive.