The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  But you must be the judge of guilt and innocence, sin and sinner. We mandrakes make no judgment for those you pronounce guilty are, after all, our own dear fathers. For the fact is when men are hanged, innocent or guilty, their semen, that salty white milk, falls on to the earth and there on that very spot we spring up, white and black, male and female, the monstrous offspring of the dead, the familial image of their dark souls. Yes, if you could only glimpse those wizened and twisted souls, you'd see there's no mistaking I am my father's daughter.

  Why men should ejaculate in the throes of death is a mystery even to me. Perhaps death really is the consummation of life, or maybe it's the last act of the body desperate to bequeath a life that will go on even as its own is obliterated. But I like to believe it is a final one-fingered gesture of defiance at their executioners, the only obscene gesture they can make since their hands are tightly bound behind them. Whatever the reason, felons with their dying gasp impregnate our mother and so we, the mandrakes, are conceived.

  Semi-human, demi-gods, they call us. Demi-gods? Semi, demi, less than, partial, almost — that, if you ask me, is a hemi- insult. We are gods, totally, fully complete. How could it be otherwise, when we are fathered by eternal sin and born of Mother Earth who was old when time began? We are the immortals and the mortal men who tear us up are mere midwives to our quickening.

  You've heard of our powers, I've no doubt. How we can bestow children on the barren and make a man besotted with a maid. Ask that Jewess, Leah, if we did not bring Jacob to her bed and that very night get her with child? But remember this — we can also strike a woman barren and tear apart the most faithful of lovers. We can soothe the cruellest pain. We can conjure demons straight from hell. We can raise a woman to great wealth and cast a rich man into beggary. We can prolong the agony of those who beg to die, and snuff out the breath of those who plead to live. We can do all this for you. You think you can use us to gain whatever you yearn for, and you can. We don't judge if what you desire is good or evil. But never forget that we are gods. So have a care for what you wish — we might just grant it.

  But there is one wish all men want us to grant them. It is the desire to know their own destiny. Men and women are so desperate for a glimpse into their futures, they will squander a kingdom for the knowledge - 'What will I become?' 'What will become of me?' — that we have the power to show them.

  But knowledge always comes at a price, knowledge changes you, perhaps it can even change your destiny too.

  You don't believe me? Let me show you. I have a tale for you, one that concerns me intimately. Hear it out and then you shall judge, for as I told you, we never do.

  I was born, dragged from the earth, as you would say, in the hot, blood-soaked lands of the Saracens. Who my midwives were and why they risked their lives and sanity to pull me from the ground is another story, and perhaps I shall tell it to you one day, but the tale I want to share with you now begins many years after my birth. It begins in the cold lands far to the north, in England to be precise, in a piss-poor village called Gastmere, in Norfolk, during the reign of King John.

  John has borne many titles, one such was Duke of Normandy, though he lost that to King Philip of France. But he has others; his toadying courtiers call him the true king of England. His nephew, Arthur, would doubtless have dubbed him thief, traitor and regicide, if he had lived to utter such words. The Pope proclaimed him apostate, the worst of the Devil's brood. John ignored them all for he had once had another title — John Lackland.

  His own father, King Henry II, had bestowed on him that mocking epithet. For Henry had lands aplenty stretching from England to northern Spain. But when John, his youngest son, was born, Henry promised him nothing, not so much as a stinking village, for as the youngest of five lusty sons, John was surplus to requirements, his father's lands already pledged to his brothers. And what can you do with a babe that has no inheritance, no glorious destiny? Why, you give him to the Church, dump the infant in an abbey, and bid him pray for the souls of his royal father and lordly brothers.

  But the boy without a future was determined to obtain one, steal another man's destiny if there was no other way. He lusted after his brother Richard's lands, those great domains of Normandy, Aquitaine and England. The premature demise of Richard Cur-de-Lion might be considered by some a misfortune, but to his loving brother John, it was as if the stars were smiling on him. Fortune has blessed him, nudged along by a good sprinkling of cunning and a little dash of murder. For John has finally got his wish; he rules England. And the people of England have been granted their wish too; they finally have a king prepared to stay on English soil and govern their fair realm. So all is well, a happy ending you might think. Not so, not so at all. You don't need the powers of a mandrake to see that both king and people are deeply regretting their wishes now.

  For the year is 1210, and it is not a good year for England. The land lies under Interdict; the churches are locked; corpses lie in unconsecrated ground and babies sleep unbaptized in their cradles. The cause is the problem that has always vexed the throne of England. The king believes he should have the right to name the Archbishop of Canterbury, and is determined to see the plump backside of his own secretary, John de Gray, sitting upon the most powerful ecclesiastical throne in the realm.

  But Pope Innocent III has other ideas. He dared to send word to John declaring that his most favoured cardinal, Stephen Langton, had already been appointed to the post. King John replied with cordial greetings and begged to inform His Holiness that if Cardinal Langton should ever dare to set foot again on English soil, he would take the greatest pleasure in having him hanged from the highest gallows in the land.

  So the Pope has ordered the Bishops of London, Ely and Worcester to lay an Interdict upon England. No church services may be held for the laity. The people are denied all the rites of the Church, save for baptism of infants and shriving of the dying, which might save their souls from hell. But these rites too have been snatched from the people of England, for John in his fury has seized the property of the Church, and the bishops and priests have fled the land or are hiding and dare not show themselves even to save the souls of their parishioners from eternal damnation.

  So here is a merry England indeed. The populace are terrified of dying in sin; the Church is threatening eternal damnation; the barons are plotting rebellion and King Philip of France, with the blessing of the Pope, is planning invasion; but despite the army of entreaties and threats which daily assault his ears, King John remains obstinately defiant. And you have to admire him for that at least.

  But our tale does not concern King John himself, though you might say he is the cause of much that occurs, if indeed you hold that any man may be blamed for the crimes of others. No, our story is about two of John's most humble subjects, Raffaele and Elena, both unknown to the king.

  To be fair, if the name Elena means nothing to King John, his name likewise means nothing to her, for as a villein, it doesn't matter so much as a beggar's arse-rag to her who sits on the throne of England. It's the lord of the manor who has the power to make her life heaven or hell and, for all she knows, he will have that power in the next life too.

  But the man, Master Raffaele, or Raffe as his few friends call him, knows King John's name only too well. He fought for him in Aquitaine. He knows him by sight and reputation. And just at this moment, Raffe is striding across the courtyard of Gastmere manor and cursing his sovereign lord to the foulest pit of hell. For Raffe blames John, the Pope and every cowardly priest in the land for what he is about to do.

  1st Day of the Waning Moon,

  August 1210

  Deadly Nightshade — which some call Belladonna or Devil's berry. A plant that befuddles the mind and brings death, for its other name is dwale, which means mourning. Since it is poisonous, it is sacred to the goddess Hecate who taught her daughters the knowledge of all plants.

  Mortals make wreaths of the plant to cure horses that are witch-ridden and to ward off spe
lls from their own persons. But the Devil jealously guards the plant for it does his bidding. So mortals who wish to gather it must first release a black hen which the Devil will not be able to resist chasing, and the plant must be quickly harvested before the Devil returns.

  For a man who desires to accomplish death must first deceive.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  The Chosen

  Elena didn't notice Master Raffaele at first. Only when she became aware of the other girls jerking their heads in his direction did she glance behind her and see him standing just outside the barn door in a patch of dazzling light. The outline of the man shimmered against the sun, his form bleached to the pallor of a ghost.

  The doors were wide open at either end of the long wooden barn to catch the slightest breeze and channel it between the walls. Inside, a circle of women shuffled around a large pile of sheaves. Marion was singing the chant, and the flails whistled through the air in answering chorus. The steps of the women had slowed to the pace of a hobbled donkey in the drowsy afternoon heat, but catching sight of Master Raffaele lurking outside, Marion took up a more lively song to quicken the threshers, knowing full well that the steward's fury would descend upon her if he thought the women were slacking.

  . . . I heard a pretty maid making her complain

  That all she wanted was the saltiest grain . . .

  The women swung the flails in such a rapid, practised motion of the shoulders that a perfect circle hung for an instant above their heads as if drawn on the air, before they brought the shaft down to the ground, bouncing the full length of the swelpe across the ears of grain. After each blow the women took a single step sideways in unison as the flails were raised again, swing, thump, step, swing, thump, step, obeying the rhythm of the caller. Miss a beat, miss a step and it would be a human skull that was cracked instead of the ear of grain.

  . . . Kind Sir, you're the man to do the deed,

  To sow my meadow with the wanton seed . . .

  The grain skipped and pattered in golden raindrops across the threshing floor and the dust rose in a dense cloud until the women seemed to be dancing on mist. The girls had masked their mouths and noses with rags to keep from choking, but still they coughed.

  . . . then I sowed high and I sowed low,

  And under her hush the seed did grow. . .

  Several of the girls began to giggle. Marion shook her head at them, but though her mouth was covered against the dust, Elena could see that her eyes were watering with mirth. Had she chosen that song deliberately, knowing that Master Raffaele was listening?

  Elena glanced over at the tall figure standing motionless in the hot sun. His expression had not changed. If he knew they were taunting him, he showed no sign of it. She felt a surge of pity for the man, but it was not without a shiver of revulsion.

  Master Raffaele strode towards the barn.

  Marion, watching him out of the corner of her eye, shouted, 'Cease flail!'

  Like dogs whistled to heel, the women instantly lowered their flails. It was a command they never disobeyed. If a small child ran heedlessly into the barn or a woman stumbled and fell, those words could save a life.

  All heads turned to Master Raffaele as the dust swirled around his knees. Marion took a step forward, expecting the manor's steward to address her with an instruction or complaint, but he ignored her. His eyes searched the circle. The women shuffled uneasily. Why didn't the man speak? Someone was in trouble, they could tell from his grim stare. It was typical of the old bastard to make them wait for the axe to descend.

  Elena stared fixedly at the battered sheaves lying at her feet, praying she would not be noticed. She saw his thick leather shoes take a pace towards her, but she didn't look up. Her face flushed with guilt beneath the rag mask as she remembered the full flagon of wine she'd broken in the manor's kitchens yesterday. She'd scuffled the rushes on the floor to hide the spill and smuggled the smashed flagon out, hiding the pieces under a pile of rubbish in the yard. Surely he couldn't have found out? But what if one of the other servants had seen her and reported it? There were always those who sought to ingratiate themselves or divert attention from their own crimes by reporting someone else's.

  She saw the brown shoes turn as if the wearer was about to walk away. In her relief she must have relaxed her grip on her flail. It slipped from her sweaty fingers and fell with a dull thump. The shoes turned back.

  'You, come with me.'

  He was addressing someone else, he had to be. She dared not look up.

  'Did you hear what I said?'

  His voice was as high-pitched as a little girl's, but booming from his great barrel chest, it echoed off the barn walls.

  She felt the hand of the woman next to her pushing her in the back.

  'Do as he says, Elena,' she whispered. 'Don't bait him. He's a bear with a toothache today.'

  The field hands and servants might mimic the steward behind his back, but few dared do so in his hearing. Men knew from bitter experience that if he so much as caught them grinning, they'd be lucky to escape with their faces smashed to a pulp. He might sound like a small boy, but Master Raffaele had the temper of a charging bull and the bulk and strength to match.

  The steward waited long enough to be certain Elena was following, then he strode from the barn. Elena stumbled after him. Her legs felt as if they were chained to the threshing floor, but somehow she pushed her feet forward. Every woman in the threshing circle was watching her, some anxiously, others winking at each other as if they thought he had called her out because he wanted a tumble.

  Surely he wouldn't have taken her so publicly if that was his intention. Old Walter, the gatekeeper at the manor, had tried to drag most of the girls into the stables at one time or other, mostly when he was sheep-drunk after a night in the tavern. A knee in the groin and a threat to scream were always enough to send him reeling off to find other company. But she was pretty sure it would take more than that to drive Master Raffaele away.

  The sun beat down hard on Elena's bent head, scorching her skin despite the cloth she had wrapped around her hair to keep out the dust. Master Raffaele lumbered across the courtyard ahead of her.

  Even for a man he was unusually tall, with great long limbs out of all proportion to his body. Elena's mother, Cecily, had said that when he'd first returned from the Holy Land with Sir Gerard, Raffaele had been by far the best-looking man in the shire. There wasn't a woman in Gastmere, young or old, who hadn't dreamed of being bedded by him. With his heart- shaped face, delicate beardless chin and head of luxuriant blue-black curls, he seemed to have stepped straight out of the painting of the Annunciation on the church wall, a living, breathing Archangel Gabriel, clothed in flesh as soft and fragrant as a virgin maid's.

  'Who wouldn't want to feel that between your legs?' Elena's mother had sighed wistfully.

  And Master Raffaele was better than any heavenly messenger for he was, as everyone knew, a gelding, so unlike the Archangel Gabriel there was no danger of him leaving you with a bastard in your belly.

  It was not uncommon for men to lose their testicles through getting injured in a boar hunt or having them cut off to relieve the agony of a hernia, and there were many whispered speculations about just how Raffaele had come to mislay his. Nevertheless, all the women were agreed on one thing: no other geldings of their acquaintance were blessed with such a wickedly tempting body as Master Raffaele possessed.

  But it is impossible for the young to imagine their parents' generation could ever have been the objects of desire, for Master Raffaele was now approaching forty summers, so rumour had it, and old enough to be Elena's father — not that he could have fathered any brat. Even Elena's mother could scarcely believe she once lusted after him, for his angelic beauty had long since faded. His cream-soft skin was now scarred by battle and tanned to leather by sun and wind. His hair, though still thicker than most women's, was the colour of old lead. His belly, hips and backside were covered in sagging wads of fat, making his ridi
culously long limbs appear even more gangling and spindly. To Elena he looked like a bloated spider.

  She shuddered, feeling sick as she imagined those long fingers groping into her flesh. He wouldn't, surely he wouldn't. No one had ever said he'd forced himself on a woman. Quite the opposite in fact, for the alewives whispered that if he was capable of getting his prick up, which most of them doubted, his desire would surely be for the bull and not the heifers, for how else would you account for the hours he and Sir Gerard spent alone together? Besides, isn't that what you would expect from a grown man who had the voice of a little boy?