The Gallows Curse (15 page)

    There
was an indignant wail in the doorway and Joan, Athan's mother, marched in,
struggling to hold the black dairy cat in her arms. The cat knew from
experience what was coming and was trying to claw his way to freedom, but Joan had
a firm grip on the scruff of his neck. One of the dairymaids grabbed the poor
creature's tail and, parting the fur, searched for white hairs beneath the
black. She took hold of a pinchful of hairs and yanked them out. The cat
screeched. With a frantic wriggle it leapt out of Joan's arms and raced out of
the dairy as if the hounds of hell were in pursuit.

    The
dairymaid circled the room, dropping three white hairs from the black cat's
tail in each of the shallow stone troughs in which the milk had been left to
separate. As every woman knew, the cat's hairs would help the cream to rise and
counter any mischief evil spirits might have wrought. And it was well they did,
for Gastmere abounded in evil-wishers, both spirit and human, just waiting for
a chance to cause trouble.

    'Has
the fire been salted yet?' the dairymaid asked Joan, winking at the other
women. They exchanged sly grins. She already knew the answer and was only
asking to tease Joan.

    Joan's
chin tilted up with evident pride. 'Of course, I always do it first thing,
before any other work is begun, else nothing will go right. You needn't fret
that anything'll go
amiss while I'm here.'

    According
to Joan, no one, not even the dairymaids, knew better than her the charms which
would keep witches from spoiling the cheese or preventing the butter coming.
And no one was more diligent in ensuring that such precautions were taken. As
Elena had discovered, living under the same roof as her mother-in-law for these
past four months, Joan had every reason to fear the evil eye, for there wasn't
a man, woman or child in Gastmere who hadn't smarted under the lash of her
tongue and cursed her under their breath.

    Elena
saw her mother-in-law casting her sharp little eyes about the dairy, and tried
to shrink back out of sight, but with a belly as great as hers it was
impossible to make herself invisible. Joan spotted her and pushed through the
women towards her. Her lips were pursed as tight as the cat's arse- hole before
she even reached Elena.

    Shrinking
from whatever spiteful remark she knew was already in Joan's mouth, Elena's
grip faltered and the greasy calf's stomach slipped out of her swollen fingers
and plunged to the floor, where all the liquid gushed out over her shoes. Elena
tried to struggle off the keg to retrieve it, but Joan snatched it up.

    'Such
a wicked waste! The stomach can only be filled six times afore its juice is too
weak to use. And you've already lost the first and strongest filling through
your clumsiness.'

    Marion
took the stomach from Joan's hand and deftly poured more blackthorn water into
it.

    'Stop
mithering the poor lass, Joan. There's no harm done, bag's not even been put to
soak yet.' She winked at Elena, who smiled gratefully.

    Joan's
face flushed with indignation.

    But Marion
ignored her. 'How goes it, lass? You bearing up? Not long to go now, I'm
thinking. Last weeks are always the worst, but it'll be worth it when you hold
your own babe in your arms. You'll be cursing your Athan to Norwich and back
when the pains are on you, but the moment they put that bairn to your breast
you'll not remember a thing about sore backs or birth pains, isn't that so,
girls?'

    The
other women smiled, murmuring their agreement.

    'But
you make the most of these last weeks, lass,' Marion said. 'Once the bairn
comes, that'll be the end of a good night's sleep for years to come, 'cause
even when they're weaned, they'll still keep you awake worrying about them.'

    'My
poor son hasn't had a good night's sleep since that girl moved in with us,'
Joan snapped, still smarting from Marion's intervention.

    Marion
raised her eyebrows, grinning. 'Is that right? Keeping his pike well oiled are
you, lass? Good for you.'

    'No
she is not!' Joan spluttered furiously. 'In her condition, I'd never allow it.
I know my duty to protect my grandchild, even if its own mother doesn't. No,
it's her dreams keeping us all awake. Night after night, moaning in her sleep.
I've scarcely been able to close my eyes these past months. It's a miracle I've
not been driven to my grave.'

    'Bad
dreams, is it, lass?' Marion asked sympathetically. 'Every woman gets those,
'specially with the first one.'

    'Not
like hers,' Joan said tardy. 'Same dream over and over she gets, or so she
says. She hears her baby crying and goes to pick him up, only he won't stop so
she dashes his brains out.'

    Several
women gasped and spat three times on their forefingers to ward off the evil
that might follow such words, and even Marion looked troubled.

    For a
moment no one spoke, then Marion said with a forced cheerfulness, 'I used to
dream I'd put the baby down in the field and when I came back he'd turned into
a mushroom, with eyes and a mouth bawling fit to bust. Put me in mind of the
lad's father, dead spit of him, now I think on it.'

    Several
of the women chuckled. Every one of Marion
's
brood had a different
father, but none of them ever stayed around long enough to discover they had
offspring.

    'I
dreamed I dropped mine in the wash pool,' one of the other women said.
'Sometimes I wish I had. Might have knocked some sense into the little brat.'

    The
women murmured their heartfelt agreement. Her son
was the torment of the
village. His mother wore herself out with scolding him, but if anyone ever went
to her cottage to complain about him, she stood up for him more fiercely than
any sow-badger defending her cubs.

    Marion
nudged Joan with her elbow. 'You had dreams too when you were carrying your
Athan. I remember you telling me. Didn't you dream you baked your babe into a
pie thinking it to be a hare?'

    The
women exchanged sly grins and Joan flushed. 'Maybe I did, but I've never harmed
so much as a hair on my dear boy's head.'

    That
wasn't entirely true and the whole of Gastmere knew it. Athan could still
painfully recall the sting of his mother's switch which she had wielded
vigorously on numerous occasions, whenever she fancied he was in danger of turning
out like his feckless father.

    'There,
you see,' Marion said, patting Elena's shoulder heartily, 'every woman has
these strange fancies when they're with child, and nothing comes of it.'

    Elena
smiled wanly, and tried to look reassured, but she was grateful when one of the
maids called out that the milk was ready for churning. At once all the women
set about their tasks and soon the steady slap-slap of the churn paddles filled
the small building.

    When
Elena had confided her fears to Athan, he too had agreed that the dream
signified nothing, although later when they were alone he had whispered to
Elena that perhaps his mother had been right after all and they should not have
made love in her condition. No doubt that was what was causing the night terrors.
But Elena was not convinced by any of the women's tales. She had never in her
life dreamed anything that seemed so real to her.

    Ever
since the first night she had used the mandrake and seen the end of the dream,
she had tried repeatedly to dream it again, praying each night that it would
end differently this time. She had become obsessed by the dream. Even in
daylight she could think of little else. Days began to drag by as she waited
impatiently for the night to come again. She was terrified by the dream yet,
like someone with a sore tooth who can't leave it alone, she convinced herself
she had to try again, and again. This time, this night it would be different.
Once more, just once more, and it would surely change, it had to.

    Even
if she had not been pregnant, Elena could never have brought herself to make
love to Athan with his mother in the same room, but neither could she persuade
Athan to make love to her in the barns or fields, after she revealed her
nightmare. However, she quickly came to learn that no matter how faithful men
are when they are awake, they are helpless in their sleep. That wanton
temptress, the night-hag Lilith, came often to Athan and seduced him in his
dreams, so that Elena would waken to find the milk seed she needed was already
spilling from him. She had learned how to steal a few drops, gently catching
them on her fingers so as not to wake him, and slipping out of bed whilst Athan
and his mother were still snoring in unison.

    Day
after day she fed the mandrake, and night after night she was rewarded with the
same dream until she knew beyond any doubt or reasoning that she would murder
the baby she was carrying in her belly, though how or why she did not
understand. Perhaps she would do it in a moment of madness or hatred or
revulsion, for she felt all those things in
her
dreams. But one
thing she knew for certain, whatever Marion, Athan or Joan said, she would not
be able to stop herself. There was nothing she could do. She would kill her own
son, because she had already seen herself do it.

     Raoul
was feeling distinctly uneasy. Osborn had retired to the solar with Hugh and
dismissed all his men, save Raoul, to talk, it seemed, about the manor. At
least, that was how the conversation had started, but Raoul had spent enough
time at court to know that just as a viper may lie hidden in a basket
of
roses, so the most innocent remark can conceal a deadly trap.

    Osborn
leaned back in the carved chair which creaked in protest at his weight.

    'Do
you really imagine I want to spend days kicking my heels in this midden? Why do
you think John gave me Gastmere? It wasn't for my own amusement. He knows half
the barons in the land are plotting rebellion against him and he wants the land
in the hands of loyal men he can trust, strong men who can put down any sign of
discontent.'

    Raoul
still couldn't see where this conversation was leading. To cover his confusion,
he rose and refilled his goblet from the flagon on the side table. He glanced
towards the casement of the solar where Hugh was standing gazing morosely out
at the rain which was falling harder than ever. Even though he had his back to
Raoul, it was plain from his hunched shoulders that he was sulking. Hugh
considered a day without hunting or hawking was a day completely wasted. Raoul
hadn't known either of the brothers long, but he'd spent enough time with Hugh
to realize that hunting was the only thing that filled his head, whether he was
awake or asleep.

    Osborn's
eyes narrowed. 'John gave me this land, because I am one of the few men he
trusts, so the question is, Raoul, what does John think to gain by sending you
here?'

    Raoul
flinched. So that was it. Osborn wasn't stupid, far from it, and he'd been long
enough in the service of kings to know that when a monarch invites you to take
one of his courtiers into your service, it isn't to teach him table manners.

    There
was little to be gained by lying to Osborn, not that Raoul wasn't a master of
fabrication. You didn't claw your way up to becoming one of the king's
favourites without learning a few useful skills. But he suspected Osborn had
already half guessed the truth and he couldn't afford to alienate him by
letting him think he was being treated as a fool.

    Raoul
wandered back to the long table and sat down on one of the benches opposite
Osborn.

    'You
know that ever since the Interdict was pronounced the Pope has made no secret
of the fact that he was backing the cause of Philip of France against John?'

    'The
Pope has no right to try to impose his cardinal on an English Church!' Osborn
snapped. 'Now he thinks to plot with England's enemies.'

    Yes,
yes.' Raoul waved a long, elegant hand. 'But the Pope argues that John is
Philip's vassal and John did wage war against Philip in Aquitaine.'

    'Aquitaine
belongs to John; it was his mother's land. We fought to take back what was
stolen from England.' Osborn swung forward in his chair and glared at Raoul.
But Raoul had faced worst tempers than Osborn's.

    'No
one doubts your loyalty, my lord,' he said calmly. 'But every day John is
receiving reports that England is swarming with Philip's spies who are
reporting back on where and how he might best land his army. Now John has
learned Philip is planning to send
agents provocateurs
to stir up the
population to fight for him when he does land, as well as envoys who will try
to persuade the rebel English barons to side with France.'