The Gallows Curse (51 page)

    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 word 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.'

    Raffe
grinned. He might have known that Talbot would find out somehow that the man was
a priest. To be honest, if it had just been the priest's life at stake, Raffe
wouldn't have much cared whether he reached France or not, but there was always
the danger that if he was captured he might start talking. Raffe knew that
they'd merely have to show that little runt the hot irons for the priest to
start spilling every name in his head, even proclaiming the Blessed Virgin Mary
a co-conspirator if he thought it would spare him pain.

    'Maybe
not as good as you think,' Talbot said. 'I get the feeling for some reason he
took against you, the ungrateful bastard. Thing is,' Talbot leaned in closer,
dropping his voice even lower, 'there's another package to be delivered and our
friend insists he wants you to take charge of it personally.'

    Raffe
frowned. 'Speak plainer, man.'

    Talbot
glanced around the shadowy room. Everyone appeared deeply engrossed in their
own muted conversations; all the same, he was taking no chances. He tapped
Raffe on the arm and gestured with his head towards the door, Raffe rose and,
slipping a more than generous payment for the scarcely touched eel pie to the
serving woman, he left the inn and wandered out beyond the cottages to a small,
open wooden shelter where the fowlers stored their nets and wicker tunnels for
driving the ducks. The air was sharp after the fug of the inn, and even the
stench of rotting vegetation and mud smelled clean compared to the fishy stench
of the burning seabirds.

    Raffe
perched on an upturned keg in the darkness, listening to the gurgle of the
black waters and the rustling of the reeds. Then he heard soft footsteps behind
him. Talbot slipped into the shelter and squatted close to Raffe, facing in the
opposite direction, so that he could watch the door of the inn.

    You
wanted me to speak plain,' Talbot said, keeping his voice so low that Raffe had
to lean in to hear him. 'Word from the priest is that a messenger from France
needs safe passage for a meeting at Norwich.'

    'With
whom?' Raffe asked.

    Talbot
shrugged. 'Not likely to give us names, is he? But if this envoy is on France's
business you can safely wager it won't be John's friends he wants to meet.'

    'I'll
not do it!' Raffe burst out angrily.

    Talbot
gripped his arm. 'Keep your voice down,' he whispered.

    He
glanced anxiously about him, but Raffe was too angry to stay silent though he
did lower his voice.

    'Much
as I'd gladly see that devil John hanging from the highest gallows in the land,
I'll not betray my country to the French. You think I want Philip on the throne?
This is England and I'd no more see it under France's heel than I would be
slave to the Saracens.'

    'But
it isn't your country, is it?' Talbot said quietly. Your mam wasn't squatting
on English soil when she gave birth to you, nor her dam, nor hers afore that.
What allegiance can a man have for any land save the one that drank his
mother's blood when he was born?'

    The
truth of what he said hit Raffe like an unexpected blow from a fist. For so
many years, even before he set foot on it, he had thought of this land as his
own. It was Gerard's home and he had pledged life and limb to Gerard, and
therefore to his lord's land and lineage. All through those years as they'd
travelled and fought for King Richard, then John, the men had sat around the
camp fires in the evening talking of home, of their favourite inns and serving
wenches, of familiar hunting forests and grey stone manors, the trees they had
climbed and the meadows in the shires where they had played as boys.

    And
Raffe had almost come to believe that their memories were his own. Like them,
he too spoke longingly of the comforts of home. And the home he meant was
England. He belonged here. It was the only place where he had ever been allowed
to think he belonged. And any idea that others might still consider him a
foreigner had long since vanished from his head. Talbot's challenge stung him
as smartly as a splinter driven under his fingernail.

    'I
took an oath to Gerard and I am still bound by that. He would never betray his
country, any more than I can betray him.'

    Aye,
well, there's the problem, see?' Talbot muttered.

    'No,
I don't see,' Raffe said coldly.

    'Word
is that if the envoy doesn't complete his mission safely, other messages can be
sent from France to Osborn or even the king himself, explaining how you and
others he could name have helped those fleeing from John.' Talbot spat
disgustedly into the darkness. 'I always knew priests were devious bastards,
but you'd have thought at least they'd not turn on those who've helped 'em.'

    Raffe
felt the blood drain from his face. He knew exactly why the priest would be
willing to see him hanged or worse. The little weasel had plainly not
forgotten, much less forgiven, being trapped with Gerard's corpse. Raffe had
little doubt the priest would carry out his threat. What was to prevent him?

    But
Raffe didn't have to stay and wait for John's men to come for him. Talbot had
arranged passage on a ship for the priest — why couldn't he arrange it for
Raffe? Not to France, of course, nor any of the lands where John still held
sway, but there were other countries. He could go anywhere, just walk away from
this. What was to keep him here?

    Talbot
suddenly gripped Raffe's shoulder. 'Priest said there were others who'd helped.
What did he mean? Who did you talk about?'

    Even
though it was too dark to read the gatekeeper's expression, Raffe could feel
the powerful fingers digging into him, and knew exactly what he was asking.

    'Upon
my life, I swear he knows nothing of you.'

    'Then
who?' Talbot demanded.

    Raffe
tried to think. 'I suppose the marsh-boy who delivered him to the boatmen, and
the boatmen themselves . . . but he'll not know their names.'

    'You
sure there was no one else?' Talbot growled. 'He said others he could
name'

    Raffe
suddenly knew with sickening clarity who the priest meant. When he was in
hiding, the priest had sent the boy to find not him but the Lady Anne. The
priest had to know her identity, and that was why he was so certain his threat
would work. If Raffe fled, she would be left behind to face the wrath of Osborn
and John.

    There
was no way out of this. Raffe couldn't smuggle Anne out of the country in
secret. Such a flight would mean travelling at night, climbing on to ships in
the dark, even hiding in the bilges until they were safely clear of the coast.
A young woman might have managed it, but not her, even if she consented to do
it. He'd seen how exhausted the journey from her cousin's home had left her;
she would never survive a voyage as a fugitive. And if she did, what would
become of her in a foreign land? He could take any menial job to put food in
his belly, living rough in the open if he had to, he'd done it before, but he
couldn't expect a woman of noble birth to end her days in some peasant's hut in
a foreign field.

    He
could sense Talbot studying him, waiting for a reply, but he was not going to
give him the name he was looking for.

    'Even
if I do what they ask, what's to stop the priest betraying us . . . me anyway?'