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.