a good mother. She hadn't dreamt of killing her son. Was the Holy Virgin as disgusted with her as her own mam was? Would she refuse to listen because Elena was in her heart a murderer? To think about doing something, the village priest had once told her, was as wicked as actually doing it. It was the same sin. She had murdered her baby, because she had thought about murdering him, over and over again. She was guilty.
She holds the baby dangling from her hands, like a dead rabbit. The scarlet blood from his head is dripping down on to a piece of white cloth. The fat drops of blood spread out on the cloth, merging into one another, until the white is lost entirely. Now the cloth is as red as hawthorn berries, as if it had always been red. Her rage has slowly trickled away with the dripping blood and now she is staring at the tiny corpse, unable to believe what she has done. Not believing that she has done it. She knows she must have done it. She knows she wanted to. She was consumed by hatred, burning up with the desire to smash, to hurt, to destroy. But she doesn't remember killing him.
All she knows is that she is holding the dead infant and she is alone. Her legs give way and she falls to her knees, the baby drops from her grasp on to the bloody cloth. She turns and vomits. Shakily she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, and when she turns back, the baby is lying there, looking up at her with wide blue eyes which do not blink. His soft lips are parted as if he has opened them to suckle, but no breath comes from them.
She hadn't meant to hurt him. That's all she can think. She hadn't meant to do it. She hears a creaking, a door opening behind her. She whirls round.
The iron ring caught her hard across the throat as she moved, jerking her awake with a cry of pain. Something was creaking open, something was grating towards her. She heard the sound of rasping breath. Elena sensed something moving beside her — the wall, the stones, were they being pushed outward? Was Gerard's corpse . . . ? She screamed.
'Be quiet, girl, do you want to wake the whole manor?' a boy's voice whispered from the dark.
Then came the faint glow of a lantern muffled beneath a cloak and she realized the wooden ladder was sliding down towards her. Minutes later the wood groaned under the weight of a heavy man descending cautiously into the pit.
Raffaele set the lantern down and reached out towards her. She was certain he was going to hurt her, probably rape her. She kicked and pushed him, struggling away from his long fingers until she was choking on the iron collar. She tried to scream again, but his hand clamped hard across her mouth. . 'Stop struggling, you little idiot,' Raffaele whispered. 'What are you kicking me for? Can't you see I've come to help you? But there isn't much time. They'll come for you at dawn and you must be long gone by then. We have to hurry. Now, will you promise to stay quiet?'
She nodded and he slowly withdrew his hand from her mouth and reached for a key in his scrip. Clumsily he tried to unlock the collar. Cursing her, he thrust the lantern into her hand. 'Here, hold it up so that I can see, and stay still.'
Dumbly she did as she was bid and moments later he was climbing the ladder and ordering her to follow. He helped her over the edge of the pit, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the darkened undercroft, weaving through the barrels and past the cart until they reached the archway leading into the courtyard. There he paused, peering out.
It could not be too far off dawn now, for torches intended to illuminate the courtyard were almost burnt away. Raffaele had timed it well. Crushing her between himself and the wall, he hurried her round the edge of the courtyard until they reached the huge bossed gate. The shutter on the window of the tiny gate lodge lay open, and from inside came the sound of pig-heavy snores.
Raffaele bent close to Elena. 'Here, take your scrip and your cloak, you'll need them. As soon as I open the door, you run. Run for the