The Gallows Curse

by Karen Maitland

  Elena lay curled up on the turf seat in the darkened garden, but she wasn't sleeping. She was so drained and exhausted that she felt she might never again have the energy even to lift her head. But she couldn't sleep. She couldn't bear to close her eyes in case he came to her again in her dreams.

  The green scales glinting in the candlelight, the long black horns and the sharp fangs protruding from the blood-red mouth. The only things that moved were his eyes, glittering in the shadow of his wooden mask.

  She saw him over and over again walking slowly towards her, silent and expressionless. Just those cold green eyes flickering over her body. She felt again the ropes tying her to the post, keeping her helpless, tangled like an insect in a web, waiting for the spider to sink his fangs into her. She crushed her fists into her eyeballs till they hurt, trying to make them stop seeing what was burned on to them. The water, the cold water from the great fat lips of the fish, pouring down over her head, running over and under her mask, till she thought she was drowning, her lungs tearing as she struggled to breathe.

  Far above, the stars prickled in the small square of hell- black sky caged by the high walls of the courtyard. Elena's cheek was crushed against the rough stems of the thyme, but she ignored the scratches. It was nothing to the pain that engulfed her whole body and burned between her legs.

  Most of the women had already staggered back to their own chamber or else lay sleeping in the arms of customers who had paid to stay all night. The giggles and shrieks had long since ceased, but still Elena didn't stir from the garden.

  She was shivering, but she couldn't bring herself to go inside, to be near hot human flesh, to smell the stench of sweat and semen on the women's bodies. She tried in vain to draw in the cleansing scent of the thyme to rid herself of his stench that returned again and again to her nostrils like an echo that wouldn't stop.

  A year and a day, Raffaele had said she must stay. A year and a day to gain her freedom, but if she couldn't prove her innocence, who knew how long? And how many times in a year could that man come again, or others like him? If only she knew how long she had to endure this place, maybe she could teach herself to bear it. But what if she waited and hoped and never got out? Never again felt Athan's arms around her or saw her son's little face? She had to know if there would be an end.

  Although she had thought herself unable to move, Elena pushed herself upright. Her knees almost giving way beneath her, she stumbled towards the communal sleeping chamber. Carefully stepping around the bodies of the prone women, so as not to awaken them, she found her own sleeping pallet and, lifting the edge, pushed her arm beneath it until her fingers felt the cold leather of her scrip. Sliding it out as quietly as she could, she crept back outside and crossed the moonlit garden to the turf seat. She froze as she heard the great door of the hall open and then close. But no one came into the garden. It must have been someone leaving the brothel.

  Beyond the walls, she could hear a dog howling, but inside the courtyard there was no sound. Trees, gilded in silver, breathed softly in the warm night air, and the dark shadows of the branches glided as gracefully as dancers across the sable grass.

  Elena needed no light to perform her task. How many times had she done this in Athan's cottage while he lay sleeping? She drew out the little bundle from her scrip and carefully unwrapped it. She lifted her knife and, steeling herself, drew the sharp blade across her tongue. His semen was crusted on her thighs. She pulled up her skirts and let the blood from her tongue drip on to her bare legs, until it mingled with the dried white crust. Then she carefully anointed the mandrake with the salty blood-milk.

  It had been months since Elena had fed me. I had not drunk since her child was born and I was hungry. I was ravenous. The red milk in my mouth was like sweet wine is to men. It is easy to get intoxicated by it, giddy on the perfume of it, heavy as iron. But unlike wine-sodden mortals our wits grow sharper, our strength increases with each drop of the thick red curds we imbibe. I trembled in her fingers and she felt me stirring in her grasp.

  I knew what she wanted, far better than she did, but she had to ask, all she had to do was ask. That is our code, our pledge — Ask and it shall be given unto you. That was our promise long before another usurped it; for there were gallows and crosses centuries before He bawled his lungs out in the byre. We are as old as murder itself, and only the Angel of Death can make claim to be our elder brother.

  Elena held me close to her lips and whispered, 'Show me a dream. Show me what will happen. That man who came tonight, show me if he will come again. Tell me how I can be free.'

  But I knew what she was really asking. I knew only too well.

  2nd Day after the Full Moon,

  August 1211

  Thyme - This herb gives courage to the faint-hearted and joy to the melancholy. The crushed leaves relieve the pain of bee stings, cure headaches, kill the worms of the belly and banish nightmares. Foolish ladies give sprigs of it to those who ride to the Holy Wars in the forlorn hope that their lovers will remember them.

  The souls of the dead take shelter in thyme. When a mortal dies, thyme is brought into the house, and kept there until the body is taken for burial, but it is not used in the funeral wreath, for time means nothing to the dead.

  But if a man or maid be foully murdered, the sweet smell of thyme shall haunt the place where they fell for all eternity, though no thyme plants grow near it. For the passage of time cannot undo the crime of murder, since the victim is gone from mortal reach and has no tongue or sign to forgive the one who wronged him.

  The Mandrake's Herbal

  Crime of Passion

  It is dark, but she sees him standing there with his back to her, gazing into the flames of a small fire. He is mesmerised by the twisting orange light, as men are when they are exhausted. His head is drooping slightly. She advances, a knife in her hand, but she doesn't mean to kill him. Not murder, no. She has another use for him. Swiftly and silently as a cat pounces, she slashes him across the backs of his thighs.

  With a cry of agony he falls forward, narrowly missing the fire. He rolls away and writhes on the ground, clutching at his legs. She is sure they must be bleeding, but it is too dark to see. She raises the hilt of the knife and brings it crashing down on the man's head. But the blow is not hard enough. He is still moving, still yelling. She must make him stop. Someone will come running, if she does not. She raises the knife to bludgeon him again, but he knows what is coming and lashes out with his arm as she strikes, dashing the blade from her hands and sending it spinning off into the darkness.

  Now he is struggling to kneel, groping at his belt for his sword, but he is too stunned to act quickly enough and it is awkward for a kneeling man to draw a long blade from the scabbard. Even so, in time he will succeed in freeing the sword and then she will be at his mercy for she has no weapon. She cannot see her knife and she dares not waste time searching for it, for he is still yelling, shouting for help, and soon someone must hear him. She pulls the rope from her waist, the rope she meant to tie him with, but she knows now he cannot be tied. It is too late. She flings it over the kneeling man's head like a noose, pulling it tight against his throat. He struggles, trying to grab her hands as the rope tightens around his neck. If he does, he will be able to pull her over his head. She knows that, she has seen men do it.

  Something rolls beneath her feet as she struggles with him. A kindling stick, not big enough to strike him with, but she snatches it up and thrusts it through the rope, twisting the rope tighter and tighter round the stick. She hears the rasp of his breath, sees the frantic and now futile beating of his hands. Still she twists the rope harder and harder. Finally she realises that it is only the rope which is holding the man upright. His hands have fallen limp at his sides. His head lolls forward. He is not screaming. He is not breathing. She lets the body fall and this time he does not rise.

  Raffe stayed away from the manor until he saw the early morning smoke rising from the kitchens and the first of the carts tr
undling in through the manor's gates. If he went banging at the gate for Walter to open up in the middle of the night, word of it would race round the manor quicker than a lightning flash. But if he strolled in through the morning bustle of servants, with luck he would not be noticed. He thanked heaven Osborn and Hugh were away.

  He had not wasted the night. Even now a small boat laden with sacks of grain was being sculled upstream towards Norwich, by the same boatmen who had taken Elena to safety. They would carry the message to Talbot that passage was required on a ship for a gentleman who needed to slip away quietly from these shores. Talbot would know where to find a ship's captain who would ask no questions.

  The few hours' sleep in the bottom of the boat Raffe had managed to snatch before dawn had been fitful and uncomfortable. Perhaps it was meeting the priest that made him think of it, but for the first time in many years, when he did manage to sleep he dreamed not of the wars, but of the abbey where he lived as a child.

  Those years in the abbey choir had been the happiest Raffe had ever known. After the initial shock of being left there by his parents, given to the Church to pay for his father's life, he had found himself among friends, boys and men like himself, mutilated for the greater glory of God. He was taught to read and write, to sing in Latin and to study music. The laity who flocked to the abbey church treated the castrati like princes. Stout matrons vied with one another to bake them the most delicious treats; girls gave them flowers; and rich men bought them costly trinkets. Among the ordinary choir whose voices, though accomplished, were merely human, these rare and costly boys and men were the elite.

  The boy castrati worshipped the beautiful young men in their twenties whose looks and voices surpassed the angels'. But they'd giggle and whisper about the older castrati who dragged their bloated bodies about, yet whose voices, behind the screen, could still move men to tears. It never occurred to them that one day their own bodies too would become as aged and grotesque.

  Raffe loved the comradeship of this little band of chosen brothers. But his greatest joy was to sing, to stand among the choir and hear their voices rising together up to the throne of God. Daily he dreamed that one day the whole church would hold its breath as his voice ran like molten silver from the moon.

  But though he prayed every night and tried to convince himself that he was one of them, he knew something was starting to go badly wrong. Even if he hadn't seen the singing master shaking his head and the choir members exchanging glances whenever he was asked to sing alone, he knew that his voice wasn't like the others'. The music was perfect in his head. He could hear exactly how each note should sound. He knew what was required of him, but when he opened his mouth, what came out now made even him cringe.

  When he was eleven years old, they sent for him. The cart to take him back to his village was already standing at the abbey door. Sometimes with training the voice can be improved, they said, but his was becoming worse. It happens with some castrati. Unlike normal boys, their voices can never break, but they can crack as the child grows, and a bell that is cracked cannot ever sound a pure note.

  Raffe begged them to let him become a monk or to take Holy Orders as a priest, so that he could remain among them and listen to those voices even if he could never be one of them. But they sadly shook their heads. Did he not know, had he not learned in his studies what is written in the Holy Bible — 'He that is wounded in the stones shall not enter the congregation of the Lord.' Eunuchs are unnatural. They are an abomination. They are unclean. He had been wounded for God, and for that very wound he would be cast out from God's sight.

  When he returned home, his father said nothing. In contrast, his mother had plenty to say about the wicked waste of money and the dashed hopes of the whole family after all they had sacrificed for him. He had trampled on all their dreams by failing to study hard enough, by failing to be good enough. He found his sleeping place occupied by his younger brother. His tasks on the farm had been shared out among the others. They had not expected him to return. Like a stone lifted out of a pond, the water had closed over the gap where he had once been, leaving no trace. But all that he could have borne, for none of it had hurt him as much as his father's silence.

  A swan alighted with a splash on the river, almost colliding with the boat. The ripples sent the slender craft rocking. Raffe squinted up at the sky; the sun had risen high enough now for Walter to have opened the gate and the servants to be about their morning tasks. He hauled himself upright, scratching violently at the swelling bites of the marsh midges on his arms.

  Having returned the boat to the old eel man, Raffe made his way back to the manor. He could not suppress a yawn as he crossed the courtyard, weaving between the bustling servants.

  'Weary already at this bright hour, gelding?'

  Raffe whirled about to find Osborn's younger brother, Hugh, standing in front of the stables. God's teeth, when had he returned? Only yesterday he'd ridden out with Osborn and the rest of his men on their way to attend the king at court. What was he doing back here?

  Hugh looked the steward up and down with amused disdain. 'By the Blood, you look so draggled, had it been any other man I'd have sworn he'd spent the night in the arms of a whore, but we know you weren't losing your sleep in that cause, don't we?'

  Raffe, aware of the barely suppressed grins of the other servants, turned away, trying hard to swallow his anger. It wasn't easy for his fist was itching to connect with Hugh's nose.

  'I can see you still want for manners. Like a dog to a whistle you should come running to your masters when they address you.'

  Raffe wheeled around and walked rapidly towards Hugh, his fists clenched. He stopped so close to him that, being a good head shorter, Hugh was forced to crane his head back to look Raffe in the face.

  'Did you want something?' Raffe said coldly.

  Hugh giggled. 'You know, however many times I hear you speak, I still can't get used to the voice of a little girl coming from a man's body. Well, I say man, but we all know that's not exactly true, is it?' His tone changed without warning. 'Yes, I want something, gelding. I want to know where you were yesterday. When I returned last night I was burning up with a fever, but the maids brought me nothing to ease it. I was kept waiting for my food for hours and when those feckless arse-wipes did finally stir themselves to bring it, it tasted like dog shit. I sent for you to speak to you about their neglect, but apparently not one of the numbskulls you laughingly call servants could find you. So where had you sneaked off to?'

  'I am not a villein,' Raffe said coldly. 'I may come and go as I please. Since my duties were done, I decided to spend the night where the air was sweeter and the company had greater wit than I've been forced to endure these last weeks. So I spent it on the river with the fish.'

  'Let's see, shall we?' Hugh's dark grey eyes flicked to Raffe's basket, the same one in which last night he had carried food to the priest. 'Open it!'

  Raffe shrugged and unfastened the lid. A knot of three fat black eels squirmed over one another in a nest of damp weeds. Just as Raffe had hoped, the eels had snapped at the worms on the lines he'd laid out in the river before meeting the boy and had got their teeth entangled in the mass of sheep wool. He had pulled them from the water at dawn in a matter of minutes, but how could any man prove how long it had taken to catch them?

  Hugh scowled. 'So you were off enjoying yourself when you should have been here checking that the servants carried out their duties. It's as well I returned to see how my poor brother's manor is neglected the moment his back is turned.'

  'The servants know their duties.'

  'That's what you think, is it? Here, you! Come here, boy.'

  A thin, hollow-chested stable boy crept out of the darkness, his head held down at an angle, cringing away from Hugh. Raffe could immediately see why. The lad's nose, encrusted with blood, was so swollen it was hard to tell if it was broken. His eyes were purple and one was so puffy he couldn't open it more than a crack. There were bruises on his scrawny
arms, and from the way the lad was limping, Raffe suspected that his clothes concealed more injuries.

  Hugh grabbed the lad's neck and pushed him forward to face Raffe. 'This wretch was instructed to tend to my horse, but when I came to see all was well with the beast, I found his hooves still caked in mud.'

  'So you beat him?' Raffe demanded furiously.

  If any of the lads had been so lazy as to neglect a valuable horse, Raffe would have taken a switch to them himself, but he would never have disciplined them like this. Besides, they all knew better than to leave mud under the hooves where it could cause rot. And this lad loved horses and doted on all of them as if they were his personal pets. Raffe knew that Hugh had beaten the boy solely to punish him for his absence rather than anything the poor lad had neglected to do. God's blood, he wouldn't rest until he'd found proof that Hugh was a traitor, and when he did, nothing would give him greater satisfaction than watching the bastard die as slowly and painfully as possible.

  The boy stood shivering with misery. Raffe placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, shocked to feel him cringe under it. He called out to one of the scullions who was crossing the yard with an armful of fresh-cut herbs.