The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  ‘I’ll get one of the maids—’

  ‘No, you won’t, you lazy brat. I’ll not have the master think we make work for others while you stand idle. Besides, it will do you good to get out in the fresh air. A lad of your age hanging around dusty old books all the time, it’s not natural. I thought you’d be only too eager to spend the morning bantering with the linen maids. Don’t think I haven’t seen you making sheep’s eyes at them from the turret.’

  I gaped at him. In all the time I’d worked for him, he’d never once been concerned that I needed fresh air. If he’d had his way, I’d have been chained to the desk with leg-irons. First the goat-leaf seeds, now a sudden desire for clean blankets, the old crow was definitely up to something. I reckoned he’d found the document or thought he was close to it and was inventing reasons to get me out of the way. But for the moment there was nothing I could do except lumber down the stairs under the heap of smelly blankets.

  I lugged them across the courtyard to the big washing pool near the drying green, where three maids were already pounding linens. Two of the girls were as broad and shapeless as milch cows in summer, with low-swinging udders to match. Their great hams wobbled as they bent over the washing. The other was a thin, scrawny little thing with pustules spattered over her pale face.

  Even had I been vaguely attracted to any of them, flirting, as Gaspard had urged, was out of the question. They giggled when they saw me and laughed even harder as they watched my clumsy attempts to clean the blankets. That was when they weren’t giving exaggerated gasps of horror and pinching their noses when they saw how black the water turned. I’d no doubt the tale would be all over the château by nightfall.

  I spread the blankets, only slightly cleaner, on the drying green and contemplated what to do next. It was clear Gaspard would be delighted if I stayed away all day. Part of me longed to do just that for I might not get the chance of another day’s freedom to enjoy myself until the ancient one was mouldering in his grave.

  On the other hand, curiosity was eating me up, and curiosity is a demon who will not relinquish its hold on you until its voracious appetite has been satisfied. I’d have no peace until I discovered what Gaspard was trying to hide. So, I turned my back on freedom, crept back up the spiral staircase and, as silently as I could, I lifted the door latch.

  Chapter 4

  Norfolk, England

  And the air of the four quarters of the world must occupy three parts of the room that the death song of the swan may be distinctly heard.

  Gisa is sitting in the narrow beam of sunlight that penetrates the dark interior of her uncle’s apothecary’s shop, grinding a root of black hellebore. She does not need to see her hands in order to do her work. She has pounded roots, dried herbs and minerals for her uncle so often that her fingers can feel just when the texture is right. But she is grateful for the warmth of the sun, hungry for it, for she seldom has the time to feel its touch on her cheek.

  A shadow falls across Gisa’s lap. The girl glances up, frowning. A man is standing outside the shop, but she cannot see his face because the sunlight is behind him. Sighing, she lays aside the pestle and mortar and crosses the narrow room towards him. The shutters on the small shop have been lowered from the window to form a counter, which protrudes like a tongue into the street beyond.

  Most customers are served through this window. They are admitted to the shop only when her uncle needs to inspect a wound or examine a bloodshot eye. Otherwise the door is kept barred for fear that curious children will sneak in or would-be murderers: on these shelves are stored more ways to dispatch a man into the next life than can be found in King Henry’s arsenal. Some of the potions and powders would kill a man gently with an endless sleep. Others would make him suffer all the agonies of Hell long before he descended into Satan’s realm.

  The man at the window says nothing, asks for nothing, but as soon as the girl recognises the bulbous, pitted nose and the sharp green eyes, a cold stone rises up in her throat. She wants to call for her uncle, vanish until they have concluded their business, but she dare not keep him waiting outside. Reluctantly, she unfastens the door and the man sweeps through. The heavy folds of his black tunic almost catch in the door as Gisa hastens to close it behind him. He gazes down at her. A faint stench of urine hangs about him. He stands too close, always too close, and she wants to move away, but the edge of the table is pressing into her back, trapping her.

  The light from the window flashes on the silver embroidery at the neck of his black tunic and around his black hat. ‘Osle’ – the townspeople call him, though never within his hearing – the great black bird. It is an old name from the elder faith, for the Christian saints are powerless to protect them from those ancient fears that cannot be caged by the words of the Church. The goodwives cover their children’s eyes as Osle passes, spitting on their fingers to deflect the malice of his gaze. They hurriedly cross the square to avoid being grazed by his shadow, though they are seldom put to this trouble, for he rarely comes to the town except to visit the apothecary’s shop and that in itself unnerves them.

  ‘My uncle is in the courtyard, Lord Sylvain,’ Gisa mutters. ‘I’ll fetch him.’ She tries to edge away, but he blocks her in.

  ‘Today is your birthday, is it not? Fifteen, a young lady now.’

  She blushes, wondering how he could possibly know that. Her aunt and uncle have not remembered. Secretly she thinks herself a woman, but his words have turned her into an awkward child again. He stands too close. His gaze is too intense. There is nowhere safe for her to look, without turning her head away from him. She’s seen women do that when they are feigning indifference, but are really trying to seduce a man. She’s frightened he will think she is playing that game. She stares down at the black leather tassels on the purse that dangles from his belt. Each thong ends in a silver bauble in the form of a snake’s head. The merest twitch of his body makes them writhe. To her embarrassment, he follows her gaze and reaches for his purse, as if he thinks she is a street urchin begging for a coin.

  ‘I have a gift for you,’ he says.

  He pulls out a small package wrapped in shining white silk.

  Since she makes no attempt to reach for it, he lifts her hand and places the gift in her palm, closing her thin fingers around it. She feels the magical softness of the silk, but at once it grows sticky in her sweating hand.

  He commands her to unwrap it and she does, though she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want this gift, whatever it may be, but she dare not offend him.

  The white silk lies open, covering her hand. In the centre of the cloth is a brooch in the form of a white enamelled swan with a snaking arched neck. Its beak, which is fashioned from gold, is opened wide as if the bird cries out in agony.

  ‘The mute swan sings only as it dies. Did you know that, Gisa? The most pure, the most sublime beauty can only be achieved through death. But then,’ he sweeps his hand about the room, indicating the stacks of jars and boxes cramming the shelves, ‘who knows better than you and your uncle that perfect healing is to be found in the deadliest of poisons?’

  Without asking for her permission, he takes the swan and pins it to her kirtle directly over her thudding heart.

  Chapter 5

  For true whiteness is hidden under blackness and is taken forth from its belly.

  I jerked awake on my pallet as Gaspard’s head hit the wooden desk. He cursed, pushing himself upright again. He must have nodded off where he sat. It was hardly surprising. He was exhausted, only his obsession keeping him going. I once read about a hermit who was so devoted he drove thorns into his knees and rolled naked in the snow to keep himself awake during his vigils, and when that failed he even cut off his own eyelids so that they wouldn’t thwart his resolve. I reckoned it was only a matter of time before Gaspard started slicing away.

  The flames of the hanging oil lamp, swaying in the draught from the window, sent shadows and tiny lights flickering about the dark walls. For a few minutes more, Gaspar
d studied the book in front of him. Then, with a great sigh, he closed it and staggered over to the straw pallet I’d rolled out for him. Without even removing his shoes, he lowered himself with a groan and fell instantly asleep. I waited until I heard the steady rhythm of his wheezes. Then I tiptoed across the room and pulled a blanket over the old man’s thin body, tucking it in beneath his grey beard. He didn’t stir.

  For the past two days, every time I’d returned from the latest spurious errand Gaspard had sent me on, I’d heard him scratching away with his quill behind the door. But always when I entered he’d hastily shift the book in which he was writing to the far side of the desk, barking some nonsense to distract me until he’d had time to dry the last few words with sand and close the page, then shove it under a sheaf of documents. The book was an old one, judging from what I could see of the cover. The leather bindings were torn and worn thin in places, revealing patches of the bare wood beneath, and most of the gold leaf on the winged ox that decorated the front was rubbed away, leaving only the outline of the beast impressed in the leather.

  ‘So have you given up the search, then?’ I’d asked him, the first time I’d caught him scribbling.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he’d snapped. ‘I’m not like you young ones, abandoning a task because it’s too difficult. If something is lost, I keep searching until it is found. Though how I am expected to find anything in this mess is beyond me. Look at it! Books and papers thrown around as if you were scattering manure on a field. It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘It was you who dragged everything out,’ I’d protested, then wished I’d held my tongue as his staff cracked across my ear.

  ‘I wouldn’t have to tear the place apart looking for things if you’d put them in the right order in the first place. You’re useless, bâtard, useless. I should have taken a pig as my apprentice. You don’t realise how grateful you should be . . .’

  It was a speech I’d heard many times before – the bastard child of an English nun should consider himself the luckiest soul alive to have been taken into a noble French household and accorded the singular honour of becoming a scribe’s apprentice. Most nuns’ brats were buried alive in the nunnery crypt within the hour of their birth or else raised on scraps until they were old enough to tread dog shit in a tanner’s yard.

  Of course, I had only Gaspard’s word that I was the child of a nun for I don’t remember ever having had a mother. My earliest memories were of crawling through straw to nestle among the puppies of a wolfhound and snuggling into the warm hairy belly of the dog as it lay in the corner of the stables. I remember sucking the ear of one of the puppies while another licked my toes. Maybe I was suckled by the wolfhound or even a wolf, like one of those wild children they sometimes found in the forest.

  I’d been born far away from France, across the sea, in an English city called Winchester. I’d pretty much fended for myself for as far back as I could remember, stealing food or begging for it, always hungry, until the day the French army marched on Winchester when Prince Louis came to seize the English throne. I must have been eight or nine years old then. I saw my chance and made myself useful fetching and carrying for the French, for which they paid me by sharing their food and giving me a place at their fire. Gaspard made the most use of me, for Philippe had brought him as his scribe and the old man needed an agile boy to climb the trees and gather oak apples for ink or find fresh feathers for quills. I made sure he always had plenty of both.

  But the good times lasted barely a year. Then the French were driven out and sailed home. I didn’t want to go back to my old life sleeping rough and stealing scraps from the midden heaps. At least the French fed me well. No one noticed I’d crept on board with them until we were well out at sea and by then it was too late to send me back.

  I was too small and skinny to be of much use in Philippe’s kitchens or stables, but by then I could speak French as fluently as my mother’s tongue. Gaspard persuaded Philippe I’d learn Latin and my letters just as quickly, so I was hauled up to the turret to become the old man’s slave. But if I’d known I was going to spend the rest of my life caged up with that raddled crow I’d have stayed in England and starved.

  I watched Gaspard for a few minutes, just to make sure he really was asleep. Then I edged over to the desk and quietly opened the book I’d seen him writing in, taking care to support the heavy cover, so that it wouldn’t thud against the desk. Not that the old man would have heard it if it had: he was so exhausted the turret could have collapsed and he’d still have been found sleeping peacefully in the rubble.

  I was certain that this book must contain some great secret, if Gaspard had tried so hard to conceal the contents from me. But it seemed nothing more inflammatory than the mundane records of the Church of St Luke’s written in several different hands. Judging by the dates, the entries had been made around a century before. There were lists of candles, vestments, chalices and other costly objects given to the church by Philippe’s ancestors as penance for sins or as thank offerings for members of the family returned safely from war. There were colourful accounts of storms, droughts, fires, fevers and famines that God in His mercy had sent to ravage the countryside and chastise the sinful parishioners. And between them were the tedious life stories of virtuous priests or faithful deacons deemed worthy of being remembered after their deaths.

  Occasionally notes, written in a different hand, had been added in the margins, a pernickety correction of some minor error in the record or a detail the scribe must have thought a glaring omission from his predecessor’s account. But the ink of the additions was as faded as that of the original entries.

  Yet I was sure that this was the book I’d seen Gaspard writing in, and not just once but many times. Glancing down at the slumbering old man, I continued turning page after page, looking for anything he might have added, but could see nothing. Finally I came to the last entry in the book. It was written in smaller letters than the rest and little wonder: there was much to cram into the few pages remaining, as if the scribe had been determined not to begin on a new book until the very bottom of the very last page had been used up.

  A Faithful Account of the Great Virtue of Hélène and of the Wickedness of Her Sister, Lisette.

  I had half closed the book, intending to search among the other papers on Gaspard’s desk, but I found myself opening it again. The ink of this last entry was just as old and faded as it was in all the others, but the title piqued my curiosity. Just what mischief had this wicked sister got up to? It sounded a great deal more interesting than the pious acts of some village priest.

  Estienne, Le Comte de Lingones, was a virtuous and well-favoured man.

  The opening line was not promising, yet another tediously worthy saint, but I read on, hoping the juicy scandal of the naughty sister would quickly emerge.

  He was betrothed from infancy to Lisette, the eldest daughter of Le Marquis des Roches, though as is the custom, the pair had not laid eyes upon one another since they were children. But when Estienne had returned from the wars, having proved his valour on the battlefield, it was thought high time the couple should wed.

  So our saint was to marry the wicked sister. What dreadful sin had she committed? Adultery, was that it? Did she prove to be a whore? I hoped there’d be plenty of detail.

  Estienne was invited to des Roches’s château to spend the weeks there in preparation for his nuptial feast. He rode in at the head of a fine procession, bringing gifts for his bride, including a dainty honey-coloured palfrey decked out in the finest scarlet bridle and saddle. On the afternoon he was to arrive, the marquis’s daughters were up in the solar dressing in their finest clothes. Lisette and her sisters tried on jewel after jewel and had their maids bind their hair first one way then another to make art endow them with what nature had failed to bestow.

  All that is, except little Hélène, youngest and fairest of des Roches’s daughters. She had been quickly elbowed out of the way and had had her own jewels snatched from her neck by on
e of the sisters who fancied they would suit her far better. But Hélène made no complaint. She was a gentle, innocent girl, but her elder sisters were jealous of her, for when Hélène came into the hall, their charms paled in the eyes of all those around them, as the light of the moon fades in the brilliance of the sun.

  Hélène saw no reason to primp and preen, for she modestly believed that no one would even glance her way. Besides, she thought it much more pleasant to be out in the warm sunshine than trapped in a dark room with her squabbling sisters. She threw on a simple gown and ran outside to gather flowers instead.

  So it was that when Estienne’s procession galloped into the château grounds, the first woman he saw was Hélène, her soft cheeks flushed as pink as the roses in her arms, the sunlight glinting from her flaxen hair and her warm, welcoming smile. It did not occur to Estienne that this was any other than his betrothed, and without even asking her name, he dismounted, swept her up in his arms and, seating her on the palfrey, led her into her father’s courtyard with his own hand.

  When Lisette, his bride-to-be, heard the clatter of the hoofs below she scurried excitedly to the casement. But her joy turned to rage when she saw her youngest sister seated upon the bridal horse and Estienne smiling at her as he reached up to grasp her waist and swing her down.

  As soon as the marquis hurried out to meet his future son-in-law and present his daughters, Estienne realised his mistake. But it was too late. The damage was done. He had fallen hopelessly in love with Hélène and, by comparison, Lisette seemed insipid. She was rendered all the plainer by the furious scowls she was directing at her youngest sister.