priest had begun to anoint her son, but would God bless such a sacrament when it had been forced from his servant by threats? Raffe could not be sure that extreme unction had even been completed, for the priest could hardly have been trusted to continue after Raffe had been forced to slam down the lid of the pit. Even if he hadn't fainted straight away, he was more likely to have cursed Gerard than blessed him.
Raffe silently cursed himself. What had he been thinking of? The priest was right, what good would it do anointing a corpse so much decayed? And yet, the bones of the saints still had power to heal, didn't they? Even though the bones were dry and crumbling to dust, people still kissed them and begged them for a blessing.
But Gerard was no saint. No perfume of sanctity wafted from his tomb. A priest would no doubt tell him that the unnaturally rapid decay was proof that he had died in mortal sin. And the rotting remains that lay in that box, the putrid liquid, the foul stench, that was not Gerard; it was not the man he loved and called friend.
As if she could read his thoughts, Anne whispered, 'My son, how did he look? Did he seem at peace?'
Raffe frowned, trying desperately to frame an answer that would not hurt her more. He nodded without meeting her gaze.
'Thank you,' she whispered, but Raffe wasn't sure if she was thanking him for his reassurance or for offering her the gentle lie.
'That girl, Elena, who carries my son's sin, is she safe . . . have you heard news of her?'
'I believe she is safe . . . for now,' Raffe added. He could hardly tell her that Elena might not remain so once Osborn returned, without revealing where she was.
Anne gave a weary smile. 'I am glad of it. I know that we did what had to be done to save my son's soul from torment, but still I cannot help feeling guilty that we deceived an innocent girl. I would not wish to see her come to any harm.'
Raffe winced. What would Anne think if she knew that Elena, whom they had both risked their liberty to protect from Osborn, might after all be a cold-blooded murderess?
Shouts and bellows rose from the courtyard below, followed at once by the clatter of hooves and barking of dogs. Osborn had returned. Raffe struggled to his feet.
'I should not be found talking to you alone. Osborn might suspect us of plotting against him. But m'lady, promise me this, you must not get involved in giving any more aid to the king's enemies. It's too dangerous, especially with Osborn here. Neither your birth nor your sex would spare you if you were charged with treason. John has not even shown mercy to his own kinsmen, and in truth it seems that the more noble they are born the more cruelty he devises for them. Promise me you will do no more.'
But Raffe never heard her reply, if indeed she made one, for Osborn was yelling his name as he ascended the staircase to the Great Hall. In a couple of strides Raffe had crossed the room and was out of the door. As it closed behind him, Lady Anne pressed a hand to her mouth and began to weep.
Elena had lain awake long into the night. She could not stop thinking about Finch. She had never before worried about what a customer was doing to any of the boys or women. On the contrary, ever since she had arrived, her only prayer had been, Let them do it to the others, but not to me. Holy Virgin, don't let them do it to me. And always there was that great unknotting of her stomach when she knew the last customer had left and no one would send for her that night.
She was growing accustomed to the pattern of night noises now. First came the sound of women coaxing the men across the courtyard to the rooms, the odd giggle and squeal as men already in the mood for fun would pinch a backside or try to snatch a kiss. Then would follow several hours of muffled laughter, shrieks and moans from the chambers, giving way again to voices and footsteps recrossing the yard: the men's words now slurred with drink or fatigue; the girls' giggling now more forced; the final pinches, slaps and kisses. And then, as