The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  As if to prove their father’s words, the three children raced past the gate in pursuit of each other, yelping like a pack of overexcited hounds.

  ‘But you told the gatekeeper that one of your children died only a week ago. We cannot be sure you do not carry the contagion. We will pray for the soul of the dead infant, but now you must return home. You may come again at Easter. He will be permitted to see you then. And I advise you not to enter the town or talk to any of the townspeople for fear you endanger your other children.’

  The shutter is slammed so decisively that Hudde knows no amount of ringing the bell or begging for admittance will cause it to be opened again. He remembers the stories his grandmother used to tell, of children who were lured away by the faerie folk and led through a door in the hillside to a land beyond, but when their parents hurried after them to bring them back they found the door vanished and they were left pounding on solid rock.

  Hudde paces slowly back towards his wife. The anguish on her face cuts him like a knife slash. She has cried enough these past days and he knows he has failed her. He tries to sound cheerful, to explain that the holy brothers are keeping Wilky safe. If a fever takes hold in such closed places it runs through them like a fire in a forest.

  ‘But why couldn’t they bring him to the grille in the gate? I wouldn’t have touched him,’ she sobs. ‘I only wanted to look at him.’

  Her husband doesn’t know what to say to comfort her. ‘Suppose women aren’t allowed to look in,’ he says, ‘case the monks see them.’

  It’s all he can think of to console her, but they both know it’s a lie. Monks see women all the time in the towns and villages. And many do far more than look.

  Hudde plucks his little daughter from his wife’s skirts and swings her up onto his shoulders. They trudge back along the muddy road. The children creep up behind one another and tickle each other’s necks with dried reeds or shove each other into puddles. But for once neither Meggy nor Hudde has the heart to scold them and in the end, disconcerted, the children, too, fall silent.

  They see a woman they recognise walking towards them, leading a milch cow by a rope halter, with a pail and stool slung either side of its back. She and Meggy have known each other since they were giggling girls for she lives in the very centre of the town where Meggy grew up. Fearfully, Meggy calls the children to her, forcing them to walk at the very edge of the track on the opposite side to the woman, as if she is a leper.

  The woman is taken aback as she sees fear on the face of her friend. Alarmed herself now, she glances behind her, assuming danger must be following, but the track is empty, innocent of harm. She begins to tug the cow across the road, intending to offer the little ones some milk, warm and foaming, straight from the cow’s udders, for they look tired and hungry, but stops, bewildered, when Hudde hastily steps in front of his family, holding out a hand, warning her to step no closer.

  ‘Whatever’s amiss?’ she calls, really frightened now.

  ‘I hear tell there’s bloody flux in the town. We’ve been warned to stay away. Don’t want the little ’uns getting sick. We buried our youngest just a week back. Meggy can’t bear more grief.’

  The woman’s face crumples in sympathy. ‘I’m right sorry to hear that, Meggy, God rest his little soul.’ She crosses herself and hastily spits three times on the back of her fingers to ward off any curse that might pass from Meggy’s family to hers.

  ‘But what’s this about the flux? Whoever was it told you such a thing? Why, thanks be to the Blessed Virgin, there’s been no sickness in the town since the summer fever last year. You’ve no need to fret for your cletch, Meggy. I swear on my life, there’s no flux in these parts.’

  Chapter 17

  If an emerald is set before a toad’s eye either the stone, if of weak virtue, will be broken by the toad’s gaze, else the toad will burst if the stone is possessed of natural vigour.

  ‘Stand aside, woman.’ A guard pushed past me so violently that I staggered into the wall. For a moment I could do nothing but crouch there, gasping and hugging my sore ribs.

  ‘Mind who you’re shoving, you clumsy great ox,’ a woman yelled at the man who’d knocked into me.

  But he didn’t bother even to turn as he elbowed his way through the crowd at the gate who were waiting to be searched before they’d be allowed to squeeze out of the town.

  Two arms encircled me, helping me to stand. ‘The guard think they can do what they like. Don’t care who they trample underfoot.’

  I was sprayed with spittle as my rescuer spoke, for her mouth was crammed full of teeth that jutted out at odd angles, like a rockfall, between her lips.

  She stared at the bit of my face she could see beneath the cloth wrapped around my head. ‘By the looks of it that guard wasn’t the first to knock you about. Husband, was it?’

  I nodded, not daring to speak for I wasn’t sure I could manage a high enough voice. I’d never had reason to practise for a moment like this.

  The woman shook her head grimly. ‘And with his babe in your belly too,’ she said, staring at the bulge beneath my skirts.

  By good fortune, the bundle of clothes I’d tied about my waist had been pushed to the front as I’d fallen. I should have thought of doing that myself, for the guards would never search a pregnant woman, would they?

  My rescuer looked at me sharply. ‘’Tis your husband’s, I suppose.’

  I nodded again, gazing down and sighing in what I hoped was a heartbroken and affecting manner.

  The woman nodded towards the gate. ‘You don’t want to be queuing there in your condition. The Watch’ll keep people hanging around for hours. Makes it look as if they’re doing a thorough job of searching for the thief, which they’re not. You come along with me, my little duckling. I know a quieter way out of the town and one your husband’ll never find, that’s for certain.’

  Having no safe way to protest without giving myself away, I had no choice but to allow her to link her arm through mine and lead me through a maze of twisting alleys and stinking hovels till we reached a line of houses crowded hard against the town wall on the far side.

  The street was so narrow that not even a sliver of autumn sunshine could squeeze between the dark houses. Pigs, chickens and skeletal dogs rooted through the offal and scraps that had been tossed out into the mud, squawking, snapping and snarling whenever they came too close to each other. A group of women with grizzling infants dandling on their hips or clinging to their patched skirts broke off their gossip to stare in silence at me as my companion hurried me along the street. With a wary glance up and down the road, the woman stopped at one of the buildings and, opening the door, pushed me inside.

  I found myself in the long narrow ale-room of a tavern, crammed with half a dozen tables and benches. It was empty at this hour of the day, save for a couple of young women who were sprawled over one of the tables, engrossed in rolling knuckle-bones on which they had evidently placed a wager. Both were pretty, in a grimy sort of way. The taller of the two had sandy hair and a mass of freckles over her wide cheeks. The other was darker and plumper, her dumpling breasts pushed so high over the top of her gown that it was a wonder they hadn’t escaped altogether.

  They straightened as we entered. One of the girls snatched up the two small coins that lay on the table and scooped the bones into a small sacking bag, ignoring the furious glances of her friend.

  ‘Aline! Barbot! I hope you’ve got the chickens plucked and stewing,’ my companion snapped.

  ‘Course we have, Tantine,’ the dark-haired girl said, with an impudent grin.

  ‘Then fetch a bowl of chicken and some bread. This poor creature’s in need of a bite.’

  The girl looked me up and down curiously. Then, with a grin spreading across her face, she ambled towards the door at the back of the room, her hips swaying.

  I was so famished I’d have thrown myself into the arms of the hangman himself if he’d held out a piece of bread. I could think about nothing except food a
nd when the girl returned with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, I almost snatched it from her hands and tipped it down my throat. It was far too heavily salted and the chicken was stringy. A boiled shirt would have had more flavour. But when you are hungry enough the meanest dish tastes like a king’s banquet.

  ‘Eating for two, that’s what it is,’ my rescuer said.

  ‘Two? I reckon she must have a dozen of them in there.’

  I glanced up to see all three of them watching me with amusement and realised that I’d been shovelling the food down like a ploughboy. I tried to use my spoon more daintily.

  As a woman I was sure I was expected to refuse another bowl, but even for the sake of maintaining my disguise, I couldn’t bring myself to say no to a second or a third, but at last even I was satisfied.

  ‘I reckon you’ll want to sleep that off now,’ Tantine said. ‘We’ve a loft-room, all nice and quiet it is. Barbot’ll show you.’

  The dark-haired girl hitched up the front of her gown. ‘Stairs at back.’

  I was about to protest when I remembered my voice. Any attempt at a falsetto was doomed before I opened my mouth. Even experienced actors never made the women’s roles sound anything other than comic and I’d had no time even to try it out. So I settled on a hoarse whisper, hoping they’d put it down to shyness or my delicate condition.

  ‘You said you’d show me a way out of the town. I must be on the road before dark. How do I get out?’

  Barbot pointed to the window at the back of the room. I peered through. Behind, a courtyard enclosed a chicken coop and pigsty, which were pressed up against a couple of small huts that I took to be a brew house and kitchen. These in turn were leaning against the massive town wall, which ran along the back of the yard. There was no gate. A squirrel or polecat might have bounded up those great stones with ease, but even with a grappling iron I couldn’t have scaled them, which is hardly surprising since the whole point of a town wall is to stop people getting in or out.

  ‘I can’t climb that, not in my condition,’ I whispered, patting my bulge for good measure.

  Barbot giggled. ‘You go under, not over, stupid.’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ Tantine rapped, and spittle sprayed out in a great shower from her crooked teeth. Her niece’s grin was instantly replaced by alarm. Those teeth could evidently bite, and bite hard. But when she spoke to me again it was with a soothing tone.

  ‘Why don’t you rest for an hour or so, my little duckling? You’re as weak as whey and you’ll be needing all your strength when you’re out on the road. I’ll fetch you myself soon as it’s safe and show you the way out. And don’t you worry, your husband will never think to look for you here.’

  I was desperate to get out of the town, but I could see that no amount of argument would persuade her to act sooner. Instead, I allowed Barbot to lead me out into the courtyard and up an outside staircase behind the inn to a dusty chamber tucked under the thatched roof. It was impossible to stand upright except along the centre. A couple of stained and stinking pallets lay side by side and a few small chests and boxes were stacked in the corner. I guessed it was where the girls entertained their customers for, though no one had ever offered me such entertainment, I knew that inns sold more than wine and pottage.

  I was about to press Barbot further about the route out of the town, when I heard footsteps outside on the wooden stairs and Aline pushed open the door with her hip.

  ‘Tantine sent this in case you’re thirsty.’ She set a flagon and beaker down on one of the boxes.

  I’m certain I wasn’t meant to catch the look that passed between the two girls, but something in Aline’s expression set my heart pounding with dread. As her aunt had done, she urged me to sleep, assuring me that I’d be roused as soon as it was time to leave. She poured a beaker of blood-red wine and thrust it into my hand. ‘Drink this. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  Barbot gave a nervous laugh, but Aline grabbed her hand and dragged her from the room. My face grew hot. Did they know? I heard them fumbling at the door, before they clattered down the wooden stairs. I tried the door. It opened a crack, but no more. They’d tied it shut. Was that to keep me in or inquisitive neighbours out?

  I sniffed at the wine. It was strong and spicy. I’d been desperately thirsty before I’d even reached the inn and the salty stew had made it worse. It was an old trick to encourage customers to buy more wine, but this wine smelt and looked much better than any I’d expect to be served in a place like this. It seemed as good as the wine Philippe had poured for me from his own flagon that day I’d confronted him in his chamber. I’d be surprised if any of the customers who frequented this midden of an inn could afford to pay for anything of quality. But that only made me more suspicious. I’d been drugged once and wasn’t going to fall for that one again. Had the tavern-keeper guessed who I was and was even now on her way to the Watch so that she could claim the reward for my capture?

  But with the beaker in my hand, my thirst became torture. I knew that, sooner or later, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself taking a gulp. Even if I only rinsed my mouth with it, who knew what poison those witches had put in it or how quickly it would take effect? The only safe thing to do would be to get rid of the wine before I gave in to temptation. I daren’t throw it on the floor in case it dripped through the boards and betrayed me, so opening the nearest chest I tipped the contents of both flagon and beaker onto the ragged blanket inside.

  I had to get out – out of the inn and out of the town – but I knew every gate was being watched. There was only one small window in the chamber, little wider than the slits in the turret that, just a day ago, had been my home. I squinted through the gap. The three women were standing in the courtyard, deep in conversation. Several times I saw them glance up at the door. It was clear I was the subject of their earnest discussion. As I watched, Tantine handed something to Aline. Both moved too swiftly for me to see the object clearly, but I was certain I glimpsed the flash of a long blade.

  I quickly drew back from the window. They had no intention of handing me over to the Watch. The silver bird’s head must be worth far more than any reward offered for my capture. And, dead or alive, I was worth the same bounty. They could claim the raven’s head was not in my possession when they found me, steal the bird and claim the reward as well. Cold sweat trickled down my back. Those witches were going to murder me as I slept.

  Chapter 18

  Thy body I will bury that it may putrefy and grow and bear innumerable fruit.

  Shrieking and whooping, the boys dodge between the bare fruit bushes and run towards the great wooden cross that stands in the centre of the vegetable garden. They are brandishing the stoutest sticks they could steal from the abbey’s wood pile. Today they do not resemble Father John’s obedient little scholars, for they have tied cones of straw to their heads and their faces are blackened with soot. Cloaks of straw hang ragged and moulting from their shoulders.

  The boys are oblivious to the biting cold, though their breath puffs out in white clouds, as if they are rampaging dragons. Every blade of grass and slender twig is gilded with frost. The winter sun, pale as the moon in the blue sky, glints on each tiny crystal of ice covering the flagstones and walls. The whole garden dazzles so brightly, the boys have to squint to see, but they know exactly where they are going.

  On any other day, they would never dare to leap or shout, but today, on the feast of St Stephen, even Father John is prepared to indulge them. But as they near the tall wooden cross, they motion each other to silence. They rise on tiptoe and creep towards it with exaggerated strides, suppressing giggles, which explode once more into raucous laughter as little Mighel slips and crashes down onto the icy flagstones. The hard bang to his knee brings tears to his eyes, but he tries to grin as if he doesn’t care and, scrambling to his feet, he clutches the tiny amulet of St Michael he wears about his neck, holding it tightly to make the pain go away. As the throbbing subsides, he limps after the other boys.

 
They are already clustered about the foot of the cross, which is mounted on a heap of large stones, and it is on these stones that they focus their attention.

  ‘Is it still there?’ Peter whispers.

  ‘How can I see with your pudding head in the way?’ Felix grumbles, pushing him aside. He kneels down, oblivious to the melting frost soaking his knees. ‘Straw’s still there,’ he announces.

  And it is. Straw has been wedged into every small gap between the stones. Felix did it himself last night, when it was dark, with Father John’s grudging permission. He glances up. ‘Everyone ready?’

  The boys nod eagerly, crowding closer to the stones and raising their sticks high in the air. Felix pulls out one of the plugs of straw. The boys hold their breath, waiting, their gaze fastened on the tiny dark hole. Nothing happens. Felix pulls out another plug. Then, after a pause, he removes yet another twist of straw. Finally there is a flutter and something small and brown emerges at their feet.

  The tiny wren finds itself surrounded by a dense forest of legs. It tries to fly upwards, but the sticks beat down. Most miss the bird, a few almost hit Felix as he scrambles out of the way, but before long, as is inevitable, one of the flailing sticks catches the little creature, breaking its wing. The next blow leaves it lifeless on the sparkling, frosted ground.

  Boys all over the land are hunting the wren today, for there is not one who does not know how the blessed St Stephen, on his way to be stoned to death, managed to escape his captors, and how the heathen wren betrayed him by waking his guard with its shrill cry. Stephen is in Paradise now, but all the same, the wren must be punished for all eternity as a warning to the heretics and pagans who would dare to murder Christ’s holy saints.

  The other boys are cheering and punching the air to celebrate their triumphant victory, but Regulus alone is not grinning. He stares miserably down at the tiny bundle of feathers. Once, he trailed after his elder brothers as they roamed through the forest, like real huntsmen, following a wren, before hunger and cold drove them home. The little bird hopped and flew low in front of them, always just out of reach, leading them deeper and deeper among the trees. They never caught it. Regulus wonders if his brothers are out there, somewhere beyond the high wall, hunting today. If he called out, would they hear him? Would they come?