The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  Chapter 23

  I am light and I am dark; I am born of earth and of heaven; I am known and I do not exist.

  If you can imagine squelching through a forest in the middle of the night, sopping wet and chilled to the marrow, teeth chattering and ribs screaming in pain, you’d think that you’d be feeling utterly wretched. At the very least, you’d think you were having a bad day. But when the alternative is certain death, even these dire miseries seem little more than trifling inconveniences compared to the exhilaration of finding yourself alive and free. And I found myself in just that crazed, euphoric state, to the point that, had I not been so weak, I might have started leaping about like a lunatic and baying at the moon. Not even the rain dampened my spirits, for when a man has been half drowned in a river, how much wetter can he get?

  I stumbled on for as long as I could, putting as much distance as I was able between myself and the town. Only relief and elation drove me on, for my body could barely keep itself upright, but eventually not even the fear of pursuit could force it to take another step. I collapsed into the nearest hollow, made a feeble attempt to cover myself with dried leaves and shivered into an exhausted sleep.

  I woke in damp clothes to an even colder dawn. Then, and only then, the reality of my situation dropped on me, like a great boulder. I couldn’t return to the only home I’d ever known. I was a wolf’s head, a fugitive, an outlaw. If any man, rich or poor, beggar or priest, discovered who I was and hacked me to pieces on the spot, the law would reward him for doing it. If I was captured alive and taken for trial, I would certainly be executed, if not for the theft then for the murder of the girl, if she was dead. I felt a pang of guilt about that, but reminded myself that Barbot would willingly have helped her aunt to cut my throat if I’d given her the chance.

  I had no friends or kin, no work or shelter, and all I possessed were a few paltry coins. Not that the size of my emaciated purse mattered, for even had it been stuffed full, I couldn’t risk spending a single denier. It was plain from the reaction of the roasted-pigeon seller that the coins Philippe had given me were marked and I’d no doubt word would spread quickly to all the neighbouring towns and villages. Even if a lonely cottager innocently accepted one in payment for food or lodging, it would be like leaving a trail of blood across the countryside for Philippe’s hounds to follow.

  It wasn’t quite true that all I possessed were the marked coins. I still had the silver raven nestling against my thigh in its little box, and some might have considered that made me a wealthy man indeed. But, like the coins, it might as well have been a box of cow shit for all the use it was to me. I certainly couldn’t sell it anywhere in those parts.

  I drew the box from the leather pouch. I hadn’t looked at it since the morning Philippe had made me unwrap it in front of him. That had been only two days ago, but it seemed like two years, for so much had happened in those few hours. Everyone I had trusted had deceived me, and I wondered if the silver flask, too, had been a trick. Perhaps it was only made of base metal, or maybe Philippe, by some sleight of hand, had substituted a stone for the flask before returning it to me.

  But in the cold, grey haze of the breaking dawn, the head was more wondrous even than I remembered. The light, flickering through the branches of the swaying trees, glinted from the silver feathers so that they looked as if they were being ruffled in the breeze. I turned the flask upside down so that the raven’s head was upright. The polished black-onyx eyes had a gleam in them that almost made me believe they were staring back at me. I ran my finger down the long, sharp curve of the beak.

  The harsh cry of a bird shattered my contemplation. It came again, the rapid pruk-pruk-pruk of a raven, so close to me that for a moment I thought it had come from the silver bird in my hand. The alarm call sounded again, and I glanced up to see a black raven sitting in the branches of the tree above me, its gaze fixed on the forest slope below.

  Then came the creaking of leather and the jangle of harness. Three or four men-at-arms on horseback were winding their way through the trees below. I recognised Philippe’s livery at once. Two men on foot ran in front of the riders, each holding a pair of hounds on long leashes that were quartering back and forth, sniffing the ground.

  My heart galloping like a charging warhorse, I shoved the raven’s head back into its box and slipped it into my leather pouch. Rocking myself forward into a crouching position, I watched the progress of the riders, unable to decide whether to make a run for it or to try to hide. Either way the limiers would surely pick up my scent and drag their handlers straight towards me. I had climbed up to this vantage-point in the dark and I couldn’t remember which route I’d taken up the hillside, but I was sure any moment the limiers straining on their leashes would find it and follow.

  The flapping of wings above my head made me glance up. The raven launched itself off the branch, flying straight down towards the first of the riders. Startled by the raucous cry and closeness of the large bird, the horse shied and reared. The bird circled the beast, repeatedly clawing at its head as if it meant to scratch out its eyes. The rider fought to drive it off with one arm and regain control of his mount with the other, but it was no use. The terrified horse plunged down the side of the hill and thundered away through the trees towards the river, the rider clinging to its mane.

  The other horses, seeing their companion galloping away, bolted after it. The limiers, convinced that the hunt was in full spate, began barking and straining so fiercely on the leashes that one broke free and rushed after the horses. The handlers slithered and tumbled down the slope, trying desperately to regain control of their dogs. Whether they did manage to retrieve them I never knew – I certainly wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I fled.

  From that moment on, I was certain of only one thing. If I had any hope of living long enough to reach my eighteenth birthday, I would have to leave France: with Philippe’s fortunes rising steadily at the king’s court, his reach would shortly extend to every corner of the kingdom. And as his wealth and power grew, so would my threat to him, for as long as my head remained on my shoulders.

  Chapter 24

  Both the vessel and the receiver must be chosen carefully according to the nature of the thing to be distilled.

  Gisa sits at the bench in the apothecary’s shop. The shutters that form the counter have been fastened for the night, blocking off the sight of the street outside, but not its sounds. Two pairs of feet clack over the cobbles; the rattle of the wooden pattens tied over the thin-soled shoes echoes from the buildings. Their owners chatter as they pass. Fallen words, cast adrift from their sentences, drift through the cracks in the door, but Gisa ignores them. She is straining to hear what is being said above her head in the solar.

  The unguentum basilicon, which she has been sent to prepare, lies in the clay bowl, only half mixed. It must be stirred twelve times to the right, and twelve to the left, after each drop of myrrh is added. She knows this without ever having to be reminded, but tonight she keeps losing count. All her thoughts are fettered to the room above.

  The voices above are too muffled to pick out anything but her own name. First comes her uncle’s soft, measured tones, then her aunt’s strident ones, but she cannot hear Lord Sylvain’s voice, though she knows he is up there. A chair creaks on the boards above and footsteps cross the floor, but not to the stairs. Her uncle must be fetching more wine. He bought it especially for his visitor. Uncle Thomas prefers ale.

  In church Gisa always prays for the souls of her dead parents. As instructed by the parish priest, she prays for her aunt and uncle too, even though they are not dead, though she guiltily reflects that her prayers might be more sincere if Aunt Ebba had departed this life. At each confession, she is reminded to beg the Holy Virgin to help her live in obedience, duty and virtue, as befits a grateful orphan. But the words Gisa is murmuring now are not any her priest would approve of. She is praying fervently to St Ursula and to every other virgin saint she can name that Sylvain is not ask
ing Uncle Thomas for her hand in marriage. And that if he is, Uncle Thomas will refuse, though she knows this last plea would require a miracle far beyond the talents even of the Virgin Mary: Aunt Ebba wants this match, and when she is determined to have something, the entire army of the heavenly host could not turn her aside.

  Aunt Ebba has changed her mind entirely about Gisa leaving her. A few days ago she was adamant she would waste away and die if her niece was not there to care for her. Now she has decided she could easily obtain another willing orphan from the nuns, a child who would gratefully perform all of Gisa’s duties and more. Not that she will need the orphan’s services for long – if her niece marries a baron, Aunt Ebba fancies she will be invited to dine daily at the manor and will soon reside there permanently. She is Gisa’s mother in all but name, and in her frail state of health cannot be expected to languish uncared for in a damp, poky room while her niece plays the lady in splendour.

  Gisa’s heart is pounding again as the door opens above her. She hears two pairs of footsteps descending the stairs. She rushes out into the courtyard before they reach the shop, shrinking into the darkest corner. She doesn’t want to hear the news. If they don’t utter the words, it cannot happen. But words, once spoken, seal a man or maid for life or death. Crouching outside in the darkness, she hears the door to the shop open and close, then the sound of the brace being slid into place.

  But she knows that, sooner or later, her future has to be faced. She edges back into the shop. Her uncle is standing by the door, his head resting wearily against the wall. From upstairs, Aunt Ebba calls shrilly for some hot metheglin to soothe her soured stomach after the wine. She does not sound happy. Uncle Thomas lifts his head and grimaces.

  ‘You’d best fetch her some. Your aunt has suffered something of a disappointment.’

  A bubble of joy and relief rises in Gisa’s chest. She cannot suppress a smile. ‘You mean I am not to go to the manor?’

  Uncle Thomas rakes his beard. ‘Not as the baron’s wife. I am sorry if you were hoping . . .’ He hesitates. ‘But he did come to ask for you. It seems he needs someone to assist him with some work in his laboratorium. He believes that the skills you have acquired working in this shop are precisely what he requires. He has offered a handsome payment for your services . . . perhaps too generous for what he says he wants from you.’

  ‘Uncle, please don’t send me!’ The panic, which had ebbed away, now surges back, greater than before. ‘Tell him I cannot be spared. You can find him an apprentice, a journeyman with far more skill than me. You must know a dozen—’

  Her uncle holds up a hand to silence her. ‘I suggested as much to him myself. But he is adamant. I’m sorry, child. I cannot afford to refuse. It is not simply a question of the money he is offering, but what he would do if I cross him. He could ruin me in a week, not merely by withdrawing his own custom, that would be loss enough, but he could stop anyone in these parts coming to me with just a word. Besides . . . your aunt demands that we accept.’ He shrugs helplessly, begging for her sympathy. ‘What can I do?’

  Gisa crumples onto the stool, not even registering her aunt’s increasingly shrill demands for her immediate attention. Unbidden, her hands reach for the half-finished pot of unguentum basilicon and she stirs it mechanically, as if she is twining the cord that will become her own noose.

  Her uncle lays a hand upon her shoulder. ‘He wanted you to live at the manor, Gisa, but I told him I would not agree to that. I have insisted that you return here each night, so you will sleep safely under my roof. He was not pleased . . . but I insisted.’

  Uncle Thomas repeats the phrase as if he is begging to be forgiven for doing her a grave wrong, the nature of which neither of them as yet understands. Gisa knows he wants her to thank him, to tell him that she is happy to go and all is well. But she can’t. She won’t. She cannot forgive him and he will never forgive himself.

  Chapter 25

  Under the Astrological House of Pisces, the Fish. Port of Hondsdamme

  This dragon seize and slay with skilful art within the sea,

  And wield with speed thy knife.

  ‘And what use would I have for a sprat like you on board a ship? Climb a rigging, can you? Tie a rope? Man an oar? You’d be clinging to the sides and squealing, “Mama!” before we were clear of the harbour.’

  The ship’s master squinted down at me as if he was blinded by bright sunlight, even though the space under the ship’s castle was as gloomy as a church crypt. The constant dazzle of sea and sun gives sailors permanently screwed-up eyes and it certainly didn’t make any of them look friendlier, particularly the ship’s master. Not only was he built like a blacksmith, the features of his face looked as if they’d been hammered out on an anvil. His nose was bent sideways and his leathery skin pitted with such deep dents above the grizzled beard that shrimps and small fish could easily have taken shelter in them. I could tell at once he was a man who wasted no energy in smiling and that was just as well, for any attempt would have sent small children shrieking to hide behind their mothers’ skirts.

  He cracked the knuckles of his great hairy fists, which would probably have taken my head clean off my shoulders if he’d landed a blow, but I’d met dozens of men like him as I had crept my way closer and closer to the coast, and I wouldn’t be thwarted by this bull.

  ‘I can assure you I have no intention of swarming up any rigging,’ I said. ‘I am on official business.’

  With a flourish I pulled a parchment out of my shirt and offered it to him. Having watched him supervising the loading of cargoes yesterday, I was certain he couldn’t read. I saw him glance about for the clerk, but I’d taken care to wait until I’d seen him heading towards one of the warehouses with the quartermaster before I’d sauntered up the gangplank.

  ‘I am to be granted passage by order of King Louis. See there.’ I tapped at an impressive flourish on the scroll.

  I glanced around pointedly, as if fearing we would be overheard, and drew closer to him, though I wished I hadn’t for he stank of rancid pork. ‘I am to deliver a package to one of the English barons loyal to our king’s cause. It must pass unseen. That’s why His Majesty wants it carried by someone who will not be suspected of being a king’s messenger.’

  The ship’s master raised a cynical eyebrow, looking at my ragged clothes. ‘No one’s going to suspect you, that’s for certain. Take me for a fool, do you? As if the king would send a mudlark on his errands!’

  ‘And would I be in possession of such a document if I wasn’t on his business? You recognise the king’s seal, don’t you?’

  I dangled the heavy red wax seal in front of his bloodshot eyes. It was a good piece of work, though I say it myself. I’d abstracted the parchment from one of those scribes who hire themselves on street corners to write charms or letters for those who cannot do it for themselves. The wax was from a stolen candle that some pious pilgrim had left at a wayside shrine, which I’d melted and coloured with berry juice. I’d seen enough letters sent from the king to Philippe bearing the royal seal to be able to whittle a passable copy, which I had impressed into the wax. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone who’d seen the real thing, but I wagered the ship’s master had not, though he plainly recognised the coat of arms.

  He peered closely at the wax seal, then back at me. I could see he was beginning to waver. But he needed something more to convince him. Dare I? What if news of the stolen silver flask had spread this far and all the ships’ masters had been instructed to keep a look out for the thief and murderer? The box hanging at my belt stirred, as if something was moving inside it, something that was urging me to trust my instincts and show him. I drew the man deeper under the castle deck.

  ‘You must swear that you will reveal to no one what I am about to show you. The king would have both our tongues torn out for this.’

  Curiosity burned in his eyes and he nodded.

  ‘This is what I am to deliver to the English baron. It’s a sign from the king, a coded mess
age.’

  I pulled the box from its leather bag and opened it, peeling back the woollen wrapping just long enough to let him glimpse the silver raven’s head. That must surely convince him I was no mudlark, if I had something so fine and valuable in my possession. I had hoped he’d be impressed, but he seemed almost bewitched by it, gazing at it with something approaching awe. I tucked it safely away again.

  He sucked in his breath. ‘King Louis sends the sign of death to England?’

  ‘The raven warns of war between the false king and the true one. King Louis sends word to those loyal to him to make ready for battle. The raven is the sign that they must gather all the information they can about which of the English nobles will support him and where King Henry plans to muster his defences.’ I winked at him. ‘A cunning symbol, don’t you think? The old gods used to send the ravens out across the world as their spies to bring them all the news.’

  ‘Then the king makes ready to take the throne of England again?’ the ship’s master asked eagerly. ‘I said all along what King Louis should do is land north of London and march south. And if an army set sail from Scotland and joined forces with him, the nobles in the north would march with them and they could take London by the heels before the boy-king could cast aside his hobbyhorse. Our Louis has the stronger claim by far and what right-thinking man would want a snivelling boy on the throne when they could have a seasoned warrior, especially when that boy has the devil’s blood running in his veins?’

  I shook my head wonderingly, as if I was astounded by his cleverness. ‘That is exactly His Majesty’s plan. You think as a warrior does. The king will like that. And, of course, to carry out that plan the king will need ships and men to captain them, men who have shown their loyalty to him and share his reasoning. Men who know where an army might safely land in England along the northern coast,’ I said, hoping I was not laying it on so thickly that he’d grow suspicious again.