side. Clumsily he knelt beside him, seizing his other hand.
'Open your eyes, man! You can't sleep yet.' He shook Gerard, trying to force him to stay in this world, as you would pummel a drunk to keep him awake. Raffe wanted to scream at him — If you die there will be only me to carry it. You can't leave me alone with this. But although the words were written in his eyes, he dared not utter them aloud.
It was like holding on to the hand of a man who was hanging over the side of a cliff. Raffe could feel the life slipping away, as if the dangling man's fingers were sliding inexorably out of his grasp. This was his dearest friend, the man who had rescued him from the abject shame and misery of a mutilated life, the master who had raised him to companion and steward. They had protected each other in battle so often that they had long since forgotten who was in whose debt. And that night, a night that for ever haunted both of them, had bound them together with chains forged from a horror that was stronger than any affinity of family blood.
Did that bastard, Osborn, relive it night after night in his sleep? Raffe knew he did not. Even when Lord Osborn had issued those orders which other men were forced to carry out, he had given less thought to them than a boy snapping the neck of a snared bird. He knew Gerard would have to carry out those commands. Osborn was Gerard's liege lord and Gerard was bound by the oath of fealty to serve him. To refuse to obey his command on the field of battle was unthinkable. Any man who did as much would be branded a coward and a traitor.
That night, after it was all over, Raffe had watched Osborn with his younger brother, Hugh, tossing down a flagon of sweet cypress wine, already planning the next day's sport, and it was plain he had already forgotten the whole incident. But then it is easy to forget if you only have to say the words and don't have to look into terrified faces or hear the screams echoing again and again through all the long dark nights.
Raffe grasped his friend's icy hand so tightly that he could feel the bones grate under the skin. Gerard's eyelids briefly fluttered in protest against the pain. Gerard's hand still wore his father's ring, a heavy gold band with an intricate knot of gold filigree that held in place a single lustrous pearl. It was Gerard's most precious possession. Still kneeling at his bedside, Raffe bent his head and kissed the ring.
'I swear on your father's ring and by all the saints in heaven. I swear upon my immortal soul, Gerard, I will not let you carry that evil to your grave. I will not let it drag you down to hell.'
Gerard lifted his head and stared unblinkingly into Raffe's dark eyes as if he was trying to impale Raffe upon that oath.
Though Raffe had never flinched from any man's gaze in his life, he shuddered, suddenly terrified of the words which had fallen from his mouth.
Gerard drew in one last rasping breath which caught in his throat. Then Raffe felt his hand fall limp. He didn't have to hold a feather to Gerard's lips to know that his life was over.
Raffe looked down again at the corpse of his friend and master lying on the table. He reached out a hand and smoothed the ruffled hair.
'I have kept my word, Gerard. You will go to your grave now as guiltless as if you had been shrived by the Pope himself. I have done as I swore to do.'
He was turning away to fetch a cloth to cover the body when he felt his sleeve grasped tightly. Anne was standing beside him, staring up at him, her bloodshot eyes searching his.
'What have we done, Raffaele? What terrible burden have we forced that poor child, Elena, to carry? I insist you tell me what my son did. I have a right to know.'
Raffe looked down at Anne. Her body seemed to have shrunk over the past few days, shrivelled into itself as if it was withdrawing from the world. This woman who'd fought to keep the manor intact for her son, who'd faced every new disaster and threat with her eyes flashing defiance and a sword-sharp mind, had not been able to