The Gallows Curse

  'You promised,' he screamed. You said that if I got dressed everything would be all right. You said the cat wouldn't hurt me, you said . . . you said it couldn't get me. You lied, just like all of the rest. I hate you! I hate you!'

  He crumpled on to the ground, exhausted, and lay there sobbing.

  Elena hesitated, fearful of another assault, but finally she reached out a hand and gently stroked Finch's curls. He flinched, drawing away from her and twisting himself into an even tighter ball.

  'Go away. Leave me alone. I hate you.'

  Tears filled Elena's eyes. 'I didn't know he would hurt you, I swear I didn't. I'm sorry, so sorry.'

  But what the boy said didn't make sense. She couldn't imagine the cat allowing itself to be mastered by any man it didn't know. Surely not even someone as arrogant as Hugh would be so foolish as to unleash such a beast when it could just as easily have turned on him.

  'I don't understand, Finch. Did he let the cat off the chain?'

  The boy, still lying on the floor, shook his head.

  Elena stared again at the long open cuts on his arms. She had been clawed by her mother's tabby cat a few times when playing with it as a child and recognized the parallel marks, though nothing as frightful as the marks on the boy. The boy's flesh had been ripped open, yet deep though the cuts were, surely a beast of that size would have ripped his arm off, not merely torn the skin. And his face was unmarked.

  She reached out again and stroked the little head once more. 'Finch, please tell me what he did. You say he didn't let the cat off the chain, then how did it hurt you?'

  He raised his head and stared at her, his face was blotched from crying and his nose was running. His breath came in thick, hiccupping sobs.

  'The man, he was the cat. . . he pulled off his shirt and tied a pelt around his waist. He was muttering. You will feel the strength, over and over. His eyes went strange . . . like he was staring at something that wasn't there. Then . . . then he started changing, turning into a beast, 'cept it wasn't a beast like those ones.' He gestured to the paintings on the walls. 'He was ... he was a werecat. He could stand like a man, but he wasn't a man, he was a huge cat with great long claws. And he wasn't chained, he leapt at me. He had hair on his hands, thick hair, and his eyes were deep and mad like demons'. He ... caught me and I couldn't get away. I couldn't get away . . .' Finch broke off in a shuddering moan of fear.

  Elena, shaking as much as the boy, drew the child to her and folded him in her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. He didn't resist, but clung to her, sobbing and trembling. They sat together like that for a long time, before the boy's breathing finally calmed. At last he let her wash him, wincing in pain as the cloth touched the cuts, but making no sound. She rubbed almond oil and honey in the cuts to soothe them and help them heal, then coaxed him to drink the poppy- laced wine.

  She pulled the pallet off the bed and dragged it into the far corner. Then they both lay down on it, she with her body curled protectively round the boy's, he holding tight to her arm wrapped across his small chest.

  She could feel him relaxing as the wine and poppy syrup took hold.

  Just as she thought he was asleep, he murmured, 'The werecat was asking about you.'

  Elena's body recoiled as if she had been struck. 'What. . . what did he ask?' she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

  'Your name,' Finch murmured drowsily. 'I told him it were Holly. I had to tell him, he made me.' He started to shake again and Elena stroked his head. 'Of course you had to, it doesn't matter. But did he say anything else? Did he say anything about me?'

  She could feel the child drooping in her arms, but she needed him to stay awake and answer her.

  'Think, Finch, I know it's hard, but please, it's important, what else did he say about me?'

  There was such a long silence that Elena was sure Finch was sleeping, then he muttered. 'Said next time ... he was going to take you.'

  3rd Day after the New Moon,

  September 1211

  Marigold — called also the Jackanapes-on-horseback, Summer's bride or Husbandman's dyall for the flowers follow the sun faithfully. For this reason maids weave it into their bridal garlands to keep their husbands constant. And if any maid would make a lover faithful, she should dig up the earth from his footprint and put it in a pot and therein plant her marigold seeds.

  The flowers are eaten in possets and puddings. The flower- head rubbed on a sting will soothe the pain. The seeds crushed into white wine will cure or ward off agues and all manner of fevers. Mixed with hog's grease and turpentine, and rubbed upon the breast, it succours the heart in a fever.

  If a mortal gazes into the flower at dawn it shall preserve him from contagion all day, and if he smells the flower, it shall banish the evil humours from him. Eaten before all other food is taken, it will cure the melancholy spirits and shall comfort those who sorrow.

  Mortals regard the marigold as a symbol of cruelty in love, and of pain. And mortals must have pain, as a fish must have water. For mortals it is not enough that others should inflict it upon them, but they strive to inflict it on themselves.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  Foul Wind from France

  'Hugh, for God's sake stop exciting those brutes,' Osborn snapped irritably. 'Or I'll have them banished to kennels with the rest of the hounds.' He pulled the glass ball that magnified the light of the candle closer and bent his head once more over the rolls of parchment and ledgers scattered on the table before him.

  Hugh was sprawled in the casement seat of the solar, feeding choice pieces of roasted meat to his two favourite hounds. They were drooling and yapping excitedly as he held the juicy morsel high up out of their reach. When he finally tossed the piece of meat the length of the solar the hounds bounded after it, skidding on the silk rugs and leaping to catch it before it fell. The loser came racing back to Hugh, his claws clattering on the wooden floor, and sat there hopefully gazing up at him again.

  For a moment Hugh considered defying his brother, but one glance at Osborn's face told him his brother was in such a foul mood that if crossed, he'd probably order Hugh's dogs to be butchered and fed to the rest of the pack. Hugh laid the pewter dish of meat, bread and gravy down on the floor and watched the two dogs lick it clean.

  He wandered across to the table and selected a fat mutton chop. God's blood, he craved meat. He could never seem to get enough of it these days. Thank heaven, the churches were closed. You were still supposed to abstain from meat on Fridays and the dozens of Holy Days in the year, but with no priest to wag his finger, Hugh didn't even make a pretence at obeying this rule. He licked the grease from his fingers. Time enough to do penance for that when the priests returned, and when they did, it would take a cathedral full of them a whole month to hear his confession.

  For a start there was what he'd done with that boy in the whorehouse. It had disgusted and excited him at the same time. He had never felt so alive, so powerful. He had never desired a boy before, and the thought of it revolted him, even though he ached to repeat it. Even the hunt, which once had excited him, now seemed dull and insipid, like drinking milk- whey after a good rich wine. He gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the stirrings in his groin which the mere memory of that night aroused.

  With a deliberate effort at concentration, he strolled across to Osborn and flicked one of the scrolls of parchment. 'This from King John? I saw the messenger arrive. Is it about Raoul's murder?'

  His brother shook his head irritably. 'John wants money, a loan, he says, for the building and equipping of a warship. He's asking all his loyal lords to finance the building of new ships to increase the fleet. But where am I to get this kind of money? Half the merchants from Europe have ceased coming to England to buy wool, because of the Interdict. The Church tells them it's forbidden for good Christians to trade with those who are excommunicated; besides, they don't want to get on the wrong side of Philip. The prices of wool have dropped so much I can hardly give it away.'
br />   'Then refuse John the loan,' Hugh said casually, spearing another chop.

  Osborn slammed his fist down on to the table. 'How can I refuse the king after he granted me this manor?' He glowered at Hugh. 'You always were a complete numbskull in these matters. It's as well I was born the elder. You'd have lost all our father's lands and property within the year if you'd had charge of them, and probably your head too.' He raked his fingers through his beard. 'I'll just have to borrow from the Jews. No doubt they'll demand extortionate interest.'

  'But the Jews are the king's property,' Hugh reminded him. 'He decides what interest they should charge. In fact I doubt you could lift any juicy piecrust anywhere in this land without finding John's thumb in it somewhere.'

  Osborn eyes narrowed. 'Guard your tongue, little brother. If the king got to hear those words, you would lose it.'

  Hugh waved the chop-bone at the room. 'There's no one to hear us and I am not such a numbskull, brother, as to speak it outside. Anyway, what surety is the king offering for this loan?'

  'He promises to grant me, and the others who support him in this, wealthy estates taken from the rebel barons, when he defeats Philip,' Osborn said morosely.

  'If he defeats Philip! You hoped for such things before when you hunted down the rebels for John after he captured the castle of Montauban, and all you managed to persuade John to give you for your trouble was this piss-poor manor. You should have demanded more. Our father would have done.'

  Osborn threw back his chair and leapt up. Without warning, he struck Hugh hard across his cheek with the back of his hand.

  Hugh reeled back, grunting in pain, and his hand reached for his dagger before he even realized what he was doing. It was only with supreme effort that he stopped himself drawing it. He turned away, breathing hard and seething with fury.

  After a moment he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. 'Forgive me, little brother. I am weary. I should not. . .'

  You should not have done what, brother? Hugh thought savagely. Hit me? Treated me like a child and fool for years? Kept me penniless like a base-born villein?

  Hugh painted a smile on his face and turned back to Osborn with a respectful incline of his head. 'I'm the one who should ask forgiveness of you, brother. I spoke foolishly. As you say, I am a numbskull.'

  It took every grain of self-control he could muster to utter those words in anything approaching a civil tone. But Osborn did not appear to hear the crackle of ice in his voice and merely nodded as if he thought all was mended between them.

  Fearful of letting his rage explode, Hugh rapidly searched for a diversion. 'I'm surprised that John made no mention of Raoul.'

  Osborn sank down again at the table, without looking at him. 'I have not told him yet.' He held up a hand as if to forestall a protest. 'I thought it wisest not to do so until Raoul's killer has been apprehended. John sent Raoul here to look for a traitor, and His Majesty might take it ill if one of his men came to harm while under my protection. Besides, John has too many cares just now to burden him with another. Time enough to tell him once I've got Raoul's killer by the heels. I'll go to Norwich myself and kick that feckless sheriff into action.'

  Hugh felt as if God and all the saints of heaven were beaming down on him. The band of fur around his waist seemed to tighten and throb against his skin, even as he felt that shudder of pleasure rising between his legs.

  'No, brother, no, you have enough to concern you over this matter of raising the money for John. Let me go to Norwich. As you say, I am useless when it comes to tending to estate matters. But I can be of service to you in Norwich. Let me go.' He watched Osborn's face eagerly, willing him to agree.

  Osborn hesitated. 'There is something you should know. Raoul was in Norwich not on John's service, but mine. I'd heard that my runaway villein had taken refuge there. I sent Raoul to see if he could find her. This traitor, whoever he is, may have seized the opportunity to follow him and killed him for fear of discovery, or else someone killed him to stop him finding the girl. But either way, little brother, I caution you to take great care.'

  Hugh smiled. 'Have no fear on my part. Unlike Raoul, I know how to defend myself, and I swear I will return not only with his killer, but with your runaway villein too. I won't rest until I have tracked that bitch down and run her back here tied to a horse's tail, as a gift to you.'

  Hugh accepted his elder brother's warm embrace as if all had indeed been forgiven between them. But beneath his smile, his rage throbbed as fiercely as his cheek. The blow was neither forgiven nor forgotten. He swore he'd make his brother regret this latest insult in a long line of humiliations he'd suffered at his hands. Before the year was out he'd make Osborn remember each and every one of them.

  A twist of mean, broken little cottages surrounded the Fisher's Inn. The ramshackle wooden buildings were threaded along a narrow strip of dry land squeezed between the dark river and the black, sucking marshes. The inhabitants of the cottages didn't earn enough between them to keep an alewife dry shod, never mind provide the business an inn needed to flourish. But despite its isolation, flourish it did, as far as anything except leeches and midges could thrive in that lonely place. It was its very remoteness that was attractive to a certain type of customer. Lost travellers, eel men, wildfowlers and the boatmen, sedge collectors and reed-gatherers all had reason to be grateful for its location when going about their damp and lonely tasks in the daylight hours. But there were others who sought it out by night, when dark corners and concealed nooks gave welcome shelter to those who had no wish for their faces to be seen.

  Although the inn stood out plainly enough in the daytime, Raffe always marvelled how at night the wooden building seemed to melt into the darkness. The reeds blurred its outline and so faint were the lights burning inside that no glimmer escaped its shadows, even through the cracks of weather- beaten shutters.

  Raffe lifted the latch on the heavy door and sidled in. As usual, he gagged as he took his first breath in the cloying, fishy stink of the smoke that rose from the burning seabirds, which were skewered on to the wall spikes in place of candles. In the dim oily light, he could make out the vague outlines of men sitting in twos and threes around the tables, heard the muttered conversations, but could no more recognize a face than see his own feet in the shadows.

  A square, brawny woman deposited a flagon and two leather beakers on a table before waddling across to Raffe. Pulling his head down towards hers, she planted a generous kiss on his smooth cheek.

  'Thought you'd left us,' she said reprovingly. 'You grown tired of my eel pie?'

  'How could anyone grow tired of a taste of heaven?' Raffe said, throwing his arm around her plump shoulders and squeezing her.

  The woman laughed, a deep, honest belly chuckle that set her pendulous breasts quivering. Raffe loved her for that.

  'He's over there, your friend,' she murmured. 'Been waiting a good long while.'

  Raffe nodded his thanks and crossed to the table set into a dark alcove, sliding on to the narrow bench. Even in the dirty mustard light he could recognize Talbot's broken nose and thickened ears.

  Talbot looked up from the rim of his beaker and grunted. By way of greeting he pushed the half-empty flagon of ale towards Raffe. Raffe waited until the serving woman had set a large portion of eel pie in front of him and retreated out of earshot. He hadn't asked for food, no one ever needed to here. In the Fisher's Inn you ate and drank whatever was put in front of you and you paid for it too. The marsh and river were far too close for arguments, and the innkeeper was a burly man who had beaten his own father to death when he was only fourteen, so rumour had it, for taking a whip to him once too often. Opinion was divided on whether the boy or the father deserved what they suffered at each other's hands, but still no one in those parts would have dreamed of reporting the killing. And since the innkeeper's father lay rotting somewhere at the bottom of the deep, sucking bog, he wasn't in a position to complain.

  Raffe leaned over the table towards Talbot. 'You sent w
ord it was important. What's happened? They haven't arrested Elena, have they?'

  'Nay, she's safe enough for now. But there's another matter needs attending to.'

  He took a long, slow draught from his beaker. Raffe's heartbeat began to slow. All the way here, he'd been so afraid Talbot was bringing terrible news of Elena, but if she was still safe, then nothing else seemed of much import.

  Osborn had not gone chasing off to Norwich as soon as he had returned, as Raffe had feared. In truth he'd seemed curiously unmoved by Raoul's murder, preoccupied with other concerns. And with every day that passed, it seemed less likely that the sheriff s men would discover the murderer at all.

  Talbot set down his beaker and wiped his mouth on the back on his hand. 'I've had word that package you sent by ship arrived safely.'

  'That's good,' Raffe said absently, still preoccupied by the thought of Elena and Raoul.

  'Though if I'd known who he was, I'd have charged him double.'