goblet spinning down on to one of the silk rugs. Hugh ignored the dark red puddle of wine sinking into it.
'The gelding! I knew it. I never trusted him. Raffaele's a foreigner; he's bound to side with England's enemies. What else can you expect but cowardly treachery from a man who isn't even a real man at all? You should dismiss him at once, brother.'
Raoul shook his head. 'No, if it is him, we need to keep him close till we have proof. Dismiss no one, whatever your suspicions. Sooner or later they will show their hand, and when they do, God have mercy on their souls, for John will show no mercy to their miserable bodies.'
But heaven knows when that will be, Raoul thought bitterly, for the truth was that however confidently he had assured John he could discover the traitor, he had no more idea how to go about it than of how to bake a pie or wash a shirt. So far, he'd discovered precisely nothing. Even if the traitor was Master Raffaele, how on earth did one set about getting him, or anyone for that matter, to betray themselves? One could hardly walk up to the fellow and ask him outright. Raoul only hoped that now he knew, Osborn would do the job for him ... oh, and, of course, leave Raoul to claim the credit.
Day of the Full Moon,
May 1211
Beans - a distillation of the bean plant when drunk will make a plain woman beautiful. If a mortal has warts, he rubs the wart on the lining of a bean case then buries it. As it rots, so will the wart fall from his skin.
But the scent of a bean flower will cause evil dreams and if any should fall asleep in a bean field he will suffer terrifying visions and after go mad. And if one bean in a row should come up white, then there will be a death in the household of he who planted it.
Beans must be eaten at funerals to keep the ghosts of the dead from lingering about the living. And the dried pods are rattled to drive away evil spirits.
In ancient times, when a human sacrifice was chosen, lots were drawn and the one who drew the black bean from the pot of white beans, drew forth his own death. What think you then: does death lie in his own hand to choose, or do his fingers reach for it because it is ordained they must?
The Mandrake's Herbal
Birth and Death
'No, no, take it away. I don't want to hold it.' Elena turned her l ace away from the bundle Gytha was holding out to her, and stared at the rough wattle wall.
'Bless you, the bairn's not an it,' Gytha chuckled. 'You've a boy, a beautiful, healthy boy, just like I told you. He's a mite on the scrawny side, babies born at green mist time always are, but he'll fatten up nicely on your milk once you get some good fresh meat inside you.'
Elena's mother-in-law, Joan, sniffed disparagingly. 'It's well known May's the unluckiest month to birth a bairn. You'll never rear a May baby, that's what my mother always said; too sickly. If Athan had listened to me —'
'Hush! Don't be telling the poor lass that,' Marion muttered, but Elena could see from her anxious expression she agreed with every word.
Her mother-in-law's tiny cottage was heaving with women. Her own mother, together with Joan, Marion, Gytha and two clucking neighbours, all bustled over her where she lay in the single room. Elena felt as if she was a small child again, lost among the legs and wheels of the crowded market place.
She lay on the beaten earth floor, her arms and legs too heavy to move. Her mother still supported her against her chest as she dabbed away at Elena's sweaty forehead with a rag, making little crooning noises as if Elena was herself a newborn again. Elena's buttocks were sore and numb from pressing against the hard, cold floor.
When the pains had come hard upon her, the women had hauled her off the low bed, scraped back the rushes and, pulling her shift up to her breasts, laid her bare loins against the cold, damp earth, so that she could take strength from Mother Earth from whence all men spring. It was how Gastmere women had given birth for generations and even Elena knew better than to protest against it. Now she was desperate to return