The Gallows Curse (63 page)

    'To
give Finch time to escape,' Talbot growled. 'I've searched high and low and
there's no sign of the lad. And I found this one in the cellar just before she
came over to Hugh. She must have opened the gate for the lad and then she tried
to cover for him.'

    'I
didn't,' Elena cried. 'I don't know where Finch is. He's probably just hiding
in one of the rooms. You know how small he can make himself when he wants to.'

    Ma's
hand shot out and slapped Elena so hard across her face that she almost passed
out again. Her cheek burned like fire where Ma's long fingernails had raked her
skin.

    'You're
nothing but trouble. Have been since the day the Bullock brought you here. I
suppose you think you've done the boy a kindness. Don't you realize Finch has
no more idea how to fend for himself out there than a blind kitten? He grew up
on the Isle of Ely. His mam died in childbirth, so his father had him reared by
one of those wet nurses, takes in half a dozen children at a time and none of
them get enough milk. Most of them die before they're a year old. God alone
knows how this brat survived. Where do you think he's going to find work, a
scrap like him? Without apprentice fees or even good strong muscle, who's going
to take him in? I tell you, if any do, it won't be to put him to an honest job.
If that boy doesn't die starving in a ditch, he'll die on the gallows for
thieving, for that's the only occupation any master will be able to put him
to.'

    Tears
slid down Elena's cheeks. Not just for Finch, but for her own aching body, the
throbbing bruises, the smarting cuts. She couldn't bear any more tonight. She
hastily rubbed the tears away, but not before Ma had seen them.

    'It's
too late you wailing now, my darling. You may as well have strangled the boy
yourself with your own two hands, and spared him the misery of waiting'

    'I
didn't help him escape,' Elena protested miserably, but she knew that neither
of them believed her.

    'Go
on, get you to bed. There's still a few hours left before daylight. In the
meantime, I suppose it's me and Talbot'll have to think how to get out of this
mess.'

    Elena,
clutching the sheepskin around her, limped out of the chamber. The garden was
deserted now, all the lanterns extinguished. In the sleeping chamber, no one
stirred as she softly opened the door and slipped under her own covers. She lay
awake in the darkness. Every inch of her ached and burned. She longed
desperately for sleep, but it wouldn't come.

    She
hated Hugh. She loathed him more than she had ever known possible. A white-hot
fire raged through her. If it hadn't been for him, Finch would not have wanted
to run. And now, now he knew about her too. He hadn't made the connection yet,
of that she was sure, but he'd go on thinking about her red hair, and why she'd
tried to disguise it. He'd realize who she was in the end. And unless he really
did believe he'd killed her tonight, as soon as he discovered the truth, he
would return.

    And
where was poor little Finch now? Ma said she and Talbot would sort the mess.
Did that mean they would go looking for him? She had to know if the boy had got
away safely. She had to know what would happen to him. Suppose Ma was right and
she had sent Finch to his death. She couldn't bear to believe that. He must be
safe, he must!

    Almost
without thinking, she slid her hand under her - pallet and felt for the little
hard bundle. She unwrapped it, her fingers tracing the outline of the withered
limbs, the head, the body. She spat on her finger.

    That
foul animal had forced her mouth open, held her jaws apart with the hilt of his
knife, as he pushed himself between her lips. She almost vomited again as the
scalding memory welled up inside her. When he'd finished she'd retched until
there was nothing left in her stomach. That's why he'd hit her, cracking her
head against the wooden bed. She could still taste him and taste her own blood
where the dagger hilt had dug into her mouth. She smeared her bloodstained
spittle on the mandrake and wrapped the little body again, pushing it back
beneath the pallet, then she curled herself up in a little ball and tried to
dream of Finch.

    Hugh
leaned over the wall of the bridge, gazing down into the river below. A pale
dawn light was just creeping along the edge of the sky and gilding the filthy
water below with flecks of gold. The faint glow of a dying lantern revealed the
outline of two watchmen hunched against some hurdles at the far end of the
bridge. Bishop's Bridge formed one of the entrances to Norwich by day, but at
night the bridge was closed and supposedly guarded. Not this night though, for
these two watchmen were snoring like pigs in mud. Hugh was torn between a
desire to kick them awake or curl up beside them and sleep. His body felt drained,
as if every drop of blood had been sucked from it, but his mind was racing.

    He
felt for the band of fur beneath his shirt, and smiled. That cunning woman had
bestowed her gift on the right man. He was going to obtain everything he
desired and deserved. And unlike his brother, he knew how to use power.

    It
had been so easy to find this runaway of Osborn's. She'd practically crawled
into his lap as if she'd been drawn to him. Not that it was the first time a
girl had done that. Some women just couldn't help playing with fire; they
wanted to be burned. It would be rather annoying if she was dead. He would have
enjoyed watching what Osborn would do to her. But he'd call back to the stew
later and find out if she lived. If she did, he could find some place in town
to keep her safely locked up until he was ready to return to Gastmere. Either
way he had no intention of leaving Norwich yet. He had pressing business of his
own to pursue.

    It
had been a blow to learn that fool Raoul had come to Norwich on Osborn's
bidding to find the girl. He'd been so sure that Raoul had come here because
he'd found out something about the traitor, something that Hugh could use to
his advantage. Hugh was still convinced that Raffaele was involved in this
treachery somewhere and he was determined to find some proof of it, even if it
was only for the pleasure of watching the gelding begging for mercy at the
hands of the torturers. But if Hugh could catch Raffaele along with the other
men who were helping the French, he'd have something to offer John. He'd not
make the same mistake as Osborn, waiting on empty promises of future lands.
He'd insist on having his reward now — their heads for a wealthy estate. It was
a fair bargain.

    The
prize had almost been within his grasp before when he'd learned about the
Santa Katarina
from the marsh-man he'd caught stealing. But even after a
thorough beating the man had told him little except that the ship was smuggling
Frenchmen, and the wretch couldn't or wouldn't tell him the names of those who
were helping the French. Try as he might, Hugh had been unable to find out any
more.

    So in
the end he had to settle for sending an anonymous warning to the garrison. That
way, he thought, he could take the credit if the French were captured, but not
look a fool if the tale proved to be false. He'd expected the garrison to station
John's soldiers on land and seize the Frenchmen when they came ashore. He'd
even gone to the bay to watch events unfold, certain that whoever was helping
the French would be waiting to meet the ship and he could lead the soldiers to
them.

    But
John's men had ruined everything in their bungled attempt to take the ship
itself. With the boat in flames there was nothing even to prove the French had
ever been aboard. And for all he knew, the snivelling little thief had invented
the tale just to try to save his skin. The whole business had proved worthless
to Hugh, but now, if he could discover who had murdered that idiot Raoul, it
might yet lead him to the nest of traitors, the perfect gift for a king.

    Finding
this runaway girl seemed like an omen. Surely, as the cunning woman had
prophesied, his star was in its ascendancy? He would find the traitors where
that fool Raoul had failed. He would earn the king's gratitude and the lands he
wanted. Why not all of his brother's lands too, wouldn't that be the crowning
glory? Yes, Hugh rather thought he would insist on that little detail into the
bargain.

    God's
bones, but he was weary. That wretched girl had taken it out of him, and Ma had
been plying him with far too much strong wine all that time he'd been waiting
for the boy. Now the drink was catching up with him and his head was muzzy and
heavy. He leaned more heavily on the wall of the bridge, resting his head on
his hands, trying to summon the energy to stagger back to the inn where he was
staying.

    Hugh
was just about to pull himself upright when a movement on the river bank below
caught his eye. A tiny, fair-haired boy was darting along the narrow track.
Hugh would not have given him a second glance had the boy not been crouching
low and peering fearfully at the boats moored along the river, trying to slip
past them unnoticed. There was something familiar about the child. Hugh
squinted down at the little figure.

    'Finch,
is that you, boy? I've been looking for you. Don't think you can get away from
me.'

    Finch
jerked and spun round to see the man he most feared in all the world standing
on the bridge above him. The child was paralysed with horror. He was shaking so
violently that he couldn't seem to walk, much less run. He began to whimper helplessly.
But even as he stood there staring up, he saw a terrible spasm of shock and
agony burst across Hugh's face. He saw Hugh's hands gripping the top of the
wall as he arched backwards with a groan. Then the man fell, his head crashing
against the stone wall as he crumpled on to his knees. The terrified child
didn't wait to see more; he turned and ran as if all the cats of hell were at
his heels.

    Hugh
lay in a spreading pool of his own blood. The first stab wound in his back had
killed him, so he never felt the knife slashing at him again and again just to
make certain he could never wake in this world. Some might say that was a pity,
for he deserved to feel every one of those cuts. His attacker certainly thought
so.

    The
watchmen who found him, when they finally woke as the bright dawn light
disturbed their infant slumbers, stared in horror at the corpse and shuddered
to think how close they had come to having their own throats cut. For surely
only a madman could have done this. They briefly contemplated trying to heave
the body off the bridge in the hopes that he would be found further down river
and nowhere near where they were supposed to be keeping watch. But one glance
at the boatmen cooking their breakfasts on the little crafts below convinced
them that not even the most dull-witted river man could fail to notice a
blood-soaked corpse hurtling down past their ears and falling with a great
splash into the water. The watchmen stared miserably at each other. There was
nothing for it but to raise the hue and cry, and pray for a miracle to save
them from the punishment that would surely follow. They didn't need the powers
of a mandrake to tell them this was not going to be a good day.

    A
grinning demon with the face of a pig and the ears of a bat swung upside down,
peering down at Elena. Something furry rubbed itself against her cheek and as
she fought to move her head, a wolf with bared teeth lunged out at her. She
screamed, trying to raise her arms to shield her face, but they were as heavy
as marble and she couldn't move them. She heard a slow, heavy tread somewhere
behind her and then two bulging frog's eyes blinked slowly at her. A long red
tongue flicked out, and from a very long way off she heard the boom of a voice,
but she couldn't make out the words. She thrashed wildly, trying to wriggle
away, but she couldn't move. She seemed to be caught in a web.

    The
frog spoke again. 'Lie still, my darling. It's for your own good. You were
raving when Talbot brought you home.'

    Slowly,
as if a mist was dissolving in her mind, Elena began to recognize fragments of
where she was. She was lying on a bed of furs. She had been here before in the
room of the grotesques. It was Ma Margot's chamber, the one with the spy mask
to see out into the entrance hall. She had no idea if it was day or night, for
the room was windowless, and only the light from a single candle flickered
across the carved monsters that peered down at her. She tried to sit up, and
only then did she realize why she couldn't move her arms. She was bound wrist
and ankles by soft leather straps to the corners of the bed.

    Something
loomed towards her out of the fog in her head.

    'Brought
me home,' she repeated. Her words sounded slurred. Her tongue was swollen and
dry.

    
Home
,
Ma had said home, but this wasn't her home. Where was home? She felt as if she
was a crazy old woman wandering the streets, knowing the place had to be found,
but not knowing where to look. Ma pulled up a low stool. An image flashed into
Elena's head of a milkmaid seated beside cows, except that surely the maid
hadn't sat on a stool mounted on the back of a carved kneeling angel.