But he'd used her. Raped her in a way that was worse than anything Raoul or Hugh could have done, for such men can only touch the body, not the soul. He had made her guilty of crimes she had not and could never have committed. And yet the blood of that baby, and of those holy monks, was now on her soul and she would be punished for them for all eternity, as he would ... as they would be together. The fear of that was so enormous that she could not even think about what it meant. If she allowed herself to dwell on the terror of that for one moment, she would run mad.
All she knew was that she wanted to be a hundred seas away from Raffaele. Yet she understood why he felt the loss of Gerard so intensely, because no one else could understand Raffaele's torments, no one else could see the horror of what he'd seen except Gerard and now her.
Even if she searched for the rest of her life, there could be no one she could share this with, for how could even the most devoted lover understand the images that were for ever in her head and the horror and revulsion that were in her heart, except the one man who also carried those things inside himself? She might hate Raffaele with every inch of her being, but they were one flesh. She could no more live alone with this than he could. It was more enduring than marriage; it was stronger than love, for sin would bind them together even beyond death. And for that very reason, Elena suddenly knew she had no choice but to go with Raffaele, because without him, she would have to carry this nightmare alone and that would be the most terrible sentence of all.
They had left the closely packed streets behind them and the land had opened out into the marshy ground that bordered the river. The wind was stronger here and rain slashed their chilled skin. Thick, knobbly trunks of pollarded willows stuck up from the boggy ground like giants' cudgels. And here and there the dark smudges of huts and bothies were dotted among the birch scrub.
Ma took the lantern from Raffaele and swept its beam across the wet grass, searching for something. She pointed to a peeled twig sticking upright from the ground. Her finger to her lips, she set off, following the trail. Elena trod carefully behind her, and Raffe brought up the rear. She could hear his boots squelching in the boggy ground, but she did not turn round. They were close to the river now.
Ma grabbed Elena's hand and pulled her down behind a low thicket of bushes. Raffaele crouched behind her. In front of them the great black river slid past; Elena could feel the chill of it, even colder than the rain. She glanced up, squinting against the falling drops; darkness still wrapped itself around the city, but a fiery red glow was running along the horizon.
Dawn was beginning to break.
Ma covered her lantern with her cloak, then moved the cloth so that the light flashed towards the river several times in rapid succession. They waited, hearing nothing but the pattering of rain on their heads and the rushing of the water. Then out of the darkness came an answering flash. Slowly the tiny light drew closer, floating suspended above the river.
Ma turned, keeping her voice to a whisper. 'Soon as the boat lands you run for it, get in and keep low till you're well out of sight of the city. The men know where to take you. You can trust them. They're good customers of mine.'
As they watched, the outline of a small boat gathered out of the darkness as if it was forming from the shadows.
'Please, Elena,' Raffaele whispered, 'come with me.'
He extended his hand, white and glistening wet in the lamplight; it looked like the hand of a drowned man. Elena hesitated, then slowly, very slowly, her fingers edged towards his and she grasped his hand, feeling not the coldness of his skin but the answering clasp as his fingers gently but securely locked around hers.
The shrill weet-a-weet alarm call of the green sandpiper suddenly split the air. Elena turned and saw figures darting towards them across the ground, spread out and ducking low against the lightening horizon. The first rays of the watery sun caught the flash of metal in their hands.
'Devil's arse! It's the king's men,' Ma hissed.
Raffaele let go of Elena's hand and pushed her hard, so that she sprawled flat beneath the bushes. 'Hold her, Ma! Whatever you do, keep her safe.'
Like a crab, he scuttled forward on his hands and knees until he was far enough away from Ma and Elena, then he leapt up, running openly along the river bank, drawing John's men's attention away from them and the boat.
There was a cry as the soldiers spotted him. At once they changed direction, running towards him as fast as the boggy ground would allow, weaving around the trees and shrubs. Their progress was slow for they repeatedly tumbled over as their feet stuck in soft ground, but they heaved one another out and continued to pursue their quarry. But soon the darkness had enveloped them all.
As the shouts grew distant, Ma seized Elena's arm.
'Move, my darling, quickly. No, don't stand up; they might have left men on watch. Crawl!'
Elena raised her head to look for the little boat on the river, but the men on board had extinguished their lantern as soon as they saw the soldiers and Ma had done the same. Now both she and Ma were creeping towards the bank on their hands and knees, Ma calling out Softly to the boatmen. But there was no answer.
Elena, putting a hand down on the ground in the darkness, winced as a sharp thorn was pressed deep in her palm, but she didn't stop. They were almost at the water's edge. The wiry grass had given way to soft mud. She stared across the river. Dawn was just beginning to edge over the horizon, revealing the black outlines of distant craft, but there were no boats close by. From a long way off, the wind carried the soldiers' voices as they shouted instructions to one another.
Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Holy and blessed Virgin Mother, in your mercy look after Raffaele. Keep him safe. Don't let them catch him. Please don't let them take him.
Ma was cursing under her breath. Then she caught hold of Elena's arm and pulled her back.
'Rancid lumps of lard, the pair of them! Useless flea shit. You just wait till those boatmen dare to show their faces in my house again. I'll use their balls for crab bait.' Ma sighed. 'Still, I can't say that I blame them, they say the only people worth risking your life for are your own kin, and I'd not risk my life for any of mine.'
She glanced anxiously upriver from where the shouts of the soldiers drifted back to them.
'We need to get away from here, as fast as we can. Raffe's leading them off best he can. We should go in the opposite direction.'
'But we can't leave Raffaele.' Even as Elena spoke the words, they heard the clash of swords echoing across the marsh.
'Sounds as if the Bullock has his hands full. . . no, no!' Ma grabbed Elena as she started to run in the direction of the sound.
'There's nothing either of us can do to help him. We'd only make things worse. When Raffe makes his escape, he'll find his way back to you. Then we'll find another ship for the pair of you. But best thing now is to get you out of Norwich as quickly as we can, for Osborn will be tearing the town apart house by house looking for you. Come on, my darling. I'll walk with you till I've set you on the right road.'
Elena turned round one last time. She thought she glimpsed a group of people in the far distance, the first few rays of dawn flashing off metal, but she couldn't be sure, perhaps it was just water. She turned back and meekly trudged after Ma.
Raffe knew he could never outrun the soldiers. Sooner or later they would catch up with him; he just wanted to lead them far enough away from Elena and Ma so that they had a chance to escape.
The effort of stumbling over the soft, wet ground was tearing at his calf muscles and he already had a pain in his side, but he would not stop until they forced him to. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw three of the soldiers were close. They were signalling to one another to spread out, obviously hoping to cut him off.
Raffe drove himself harder. Glancing now at the river, he wondered if he should jump in. He could swim well enough, but the river was swollen and fast. He'd never make it to the other bank, but he might be able to hide under the near bank, if
he could find something to cling on to. He needed to find a place where the bank overhung .... He yelped as his foot stepped down into empty space.
With a splash of icy water that took his breath away, he found himself floundering on his back in soft mud. He'd fallen into one of the deep, narrow gullies that cut across the marsh into the river. Even in daylight, these gullies were hidden until you were on top of them. Raffe thrashed around in shallow water, trying in vain to get his feet under him in the slimy mud.
There were shouts and yells above, and immediately Raffe lay still, praying that what remained of the darkness would hide him. The voices seemed to be moving away. As slowly and silently as he could, he tried to right himself, but it was useless. The silky soft mud on the sides of the gully just came away in his hands. He gave up, and began to wriggle backwards, trying to edge towards the river. If he could drop down into it, and ease himself along under the bank, then, with God's help, he could hide there until they'd abandoned the search.
The narrow gully sloped gently downwards so that with only a small effort Raffe found himself sliding backwards towards the river. His fingers and toes were numb with cold, his body convulsed with shivering. He couldn't see where he was going, it was still too dark, but just another yard or so and he would be safe in the water.
He stifled a cry as his head connected with something hard and he felt himself being yanked upright by the back of his cloak into a sitting position.
'Thinking of leaving us, were you, traitor?'
A soldier was standing behind him in the gully. Raffe tried to grab his legs and pull them from under him, but before he could, hands reached down from the ground above to grasp his arms. Two men hauled Raffe upwards, dragging him over the edge of the gully and sending him sprawling, face down, across the wiry marsh grass. Raffe looked up. Six or seven men stared down at him.
The soldiers parted as a small, slight figure pushed through them. And Raffe found himself gazing up into the face of Martin, who grinned as broadly as if he was greeting an old friend:
'You look like that corpse we saw in Yarmouth. Or you soon will, Master Raffaele. I understand they have a very special death planned for you. High treason, that is the charge, I believe. Osborn himself is waiting to question you. He insists on doing it personally and from what he tells me he is much looking forward to it. There may unfortunately be a short delay before he can attend to you. So you'll have to amuse yourself listening to the screams of your fellow traitors in the castle dungeons. Osborn has unfortunately been wounded, did you know that? But thanks be to God, the blow glanced off a rib, so the physicians say he will recover well. He should be fit enough to attend to you personally in a week or so, though I fear he will still be in some pain when he questions you, which I am told by those who know him does not improve his temper.'
Raffe did not need to be told what Osborn would do. He had a healthy fear of the pain of torture, as much as any normal man, but it was not that which filled him with horror now. It was knowing that Osborn would be enjoying every twist of his muscles, would be studying his face for every spasm of agony, and watching him die with that same cold amusement with which he had watched Athan hanged. Above all, Raffe knew that Osborn's laughter would be the last sound on earth he would ever hear and it would pursue him into hell. Raffe had not gone through all this to become a prisoner of that man now.
Martin turned to the soldiers. 'Bring him and make sure he does not escape you. But treat him gently. Lord Osborn wants him unharmed and in a good state to talk.'
Raffe forced himself to go limp. He offered no resistance while two of the men pulled him to his knees, as though he had already accepted defeat. Then, just as his feet were firmly planted on the ground, he swung his great fist at the face of the nearest man, catching hold of the man's sword arm with his other hand. The soldier reeled backwards, crashing into the fellow beside him. It was only a momentary stagger, but it was enough to allow Raffe to grab his sword. Raffe held it out before him, sweeping the blade in a wide circle towards the other men.
Swift as a weasel, Martin slipped behind the soldiers. 'Disarm him, you fools, but don't kill him. Osborn wants him alive.'
It had been some time since Raffe had wielded a sword and this was not a good one. The balance was wrong and it was shorter than any he was accustomed to, but his long arms made up for that. He whirled around and lunged at one of the men in the circle. His opponent, taken off guard, stumbled backwards, but quickly recovered himself.
Raffe fought fast and furiously. He was used to fighting at close quarters and though it was still barely light, the flash of the rising sun on the whirling blades around him gave him warning enough to fend them off. He cut this way and that, beating them back with a manic fury born of desperation. One man reeled away with blood pouring from a slash on his face, another dropped his blade with a scream as Raffe's sword slashed down across his arm.
Raffe pushed forward until there was a gap in the circle of men just large enough for him to see the river glinting with shimmering gold lights as the sun caught it. With a roar he leapt through the circle towards it. He was within three strides of the water when he felt a white-hot pain slash into his back. He fell to his knees and tried to crawl forward, but his arms gave way beneath him and he crashed to the ground. He almost screamed in agony as hands seized him and roughly turned him over.
His back felt hot. For a moment or two he was grateful for the sudden comforting warmth, though he couldn't think what it was, until he realized it was his own blood pooling beneath him.
You fuck-wits, I told you not to hurt him. Have you any idea what you've done? Do you know what Osborn will do to you when he finds out?'
Martin was kneeling beside him, slapping his face, trying to make him open his eyes. But he was suddenly very tired now. All he wanted to do was sleep. It was becoming harder to breathe, as if someone was holding a wet cloth to his face. He couldn't feel his legs. He knew he was dying and he was glad of it. It is not granted to many men to choose the hour of their own death. Osborn would not get the satisfaction of watching him die.
Raffe gave a cry of agony and pressed his hands to his chest. He felt as if someone had put his fist inside his chest and was clenching his heart. His eyes squeezed shut as he fought with all his strength to fight down the pain. There was something else, something he must do. He must stay awake long enough. There was only one way he could make atonement now, only one way to protect those he had wronged. It was the living who mattered, not the dead. The living should not suffer for those who are beyond life.
He opened his eyes and looked up into Martin's face. 'My confession. I want... to confess,' he whispered.
Martin leaned closer, his face alive with excitement. 'That's it, you must confess for the sake of your soul. You are dying and must tell me the truth now. It's the last chance to save yourself from the fires of eternal damnation.'
'No time . . .'
'Give me names,' Martin urged. 'Just names, that's all you need to say. I will do the rest. Speak.'
'Confiteor Deo omnipotenti... I confess ... before you and Almighty God, that I. . .'
Raffe stared up into the sky. It was growing darker. That wasn't right. It was morning, surely he had seen the dawn? He remembered the red glow like blood, a long, thin trail of blood running across the whole world.
Martin was shaking him. 'What did you do? What do you confess? Tell me!'
'I confess that I murdered . . . Raoul and Hugh. But you tell John this ... it is Osborn of Roxham who is the traitor. He is working . . . for Philip of France ... it was Osborn that. .. your French spy was to meet. As a dying man I swear by the Cross of the Crusaders that it is the truth. Tell John that... and tell Osborn on the scaffold . . . that he knows his brother's murderer. Tell him I did it for Gerard, for the monk and for a Saracen's child. Tell Osborn that as you execute him... let it be the last thing he hears . . . for I swear with my dying breath that I killed his brother, Hugh ... I swear it on my immortal soul.
. .'
New Moon,
October 1211
Bread — Mortals make a cross in the dough before it is set to rise, to redeem it from Satan and guard it from the evil eye. No loaf must be cut with a knife while another is baking in the oven, else the new loaf will spoil. If a loaf is placed upside down on a table, a ship will founder or the breadwinner of the household will fall sick. Likewise, it must always be cut from only one end, else the devil will fly over the house.
Whooping cough may be cured if a piece of bread is wrapped and buried in the earth for three days then eaten. A loaf baked on Good Friday and kept in the home will guard that house from fire and vermin, and all who dwell in it from evil spirits. A Good Friday loaf or hot cross bun, if dried and crumbled into water, will cure all fluxes of the bowel.