The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  ‘The parting will not get any easier, however long you delay it,’ the white rider said impassively. ‘And all the signs tell us it will be a bitter winter. There will be much starvation and sickness. By spring the boy may be dead. Which would you rather, woman, that we take the child or death does?’

  Wilky starts to sob. He understands little of what they are saying. No one has told him of this bargain, but he understands the word death. He’s gone to sleep next to a living child and woken to find him cold as a frog. In his short life, he’s been forced to watch two of his little brothers wrapped tightly in winding sheets and laid in the frozen earth. Now at night he dreams of them tying a bandage around his own jaw so he cannot cry out, of the hard clods of dirt falling on him, pinning him down, of no one coming to help.

  The white rider stares curiously at the child, then shrugs and turns towards the door, as if to make it plain he intends to waste no more time on this. ‘If you are regretting your decision, Master Hudde, you can always return the money you were given and settle your debt, and we will trouble you no more.’

  Hudde and Meggy gaze helplessly at one another. Both know they can no more return the money than they can send the rain back up into the clouds. The money is gone, spent, finished. Meggy sees the expression on Hudde’s face and knows he is going to give them her son.

  She wants to seize the stave and drive the men from her house. She wants to scream that they will never have her children, not a single one of them, that she would rather they all starved together than be parted from each other. But she says none of these things. She knows the pain of burying her children. She knows the bitter finality of that parting. Better to think of the boy living, warm, well fed and happy than think of him lying out there alone in the dark forest and hearing the sobs of his ghost on the howling wind.

  Hudde lifts his son onto the horse and seats him in front of the younger of the two riders. The man wraps his heavy woollen cloak around them both, holding the boy firmly in the crook of his arm. The man’s clothes have an unfamiliar, bitter perfume, like a mixture of woodsmoke and crushed cow parsley, but it is neither of those. The boy begins to struggle again, but the arm around his waist tightens painfully.

  ‘Sit still, you little fool, else you’ll fall and break your neck.’

  Wilky has never sat on a horse before and it is a dizzyingly long way to the ground. The tears that wet his cheeks burn in the wind. As the horse is kicked into a trot he clutches at the man’s arm, and twists his head to look back at his parents, brothers and sisters all crowded in the doorway. It is too dark to see their faces, but he hears the crack in his mother’s voice as she calls out, ‘Be a good boy, Wilky, and do whatever you’re told. We’ll come to see you soon . . . very soon . . . if you’re good.’

  The boy clings desperately to that promise as the riders canter away into the darkness.

  But Meggy should have trusted a mother’s instincts, for there are evils in this world far worse than death. If she had known, if she could have even imagined, she would have cut her own son’s throat before their very eyes, sooner than let the white riders take him.

  Chapter 1

  Under the Astrological House of Libra, the Scales, in the year of Our Lord, 1224. Near Ricey-Bas, France

  If you would understand what birds are saying, steal crows’ eggs from the nest, boil them, then return them to the nest. The crow will fly to the Red Sea to find a stone, which she will touch to the eggs and they will become raw again and, in time, hatch. If you then place this stone in your mouth you will understand the language of every bird.

  ‘What foul mischief are you up to now, petit bâtard?’

  I hadn’t heard old Gaspard creeping up on me and I was so startled that the arrow in my bow shot out through the slit window and landed with a thwack in the chamomile bank far below, just inches from where Charles was standing. He squawked, like a startled goose, and started to run, falling over his own feet as he twisted round, trying to see where the arrow had been fired from. I flung myself off the wooden box I’d been standing on and crouched on the dusty floorboards of the turret room, hoping he hadn’t seen me.

  ‘Did you hit someone?’ Gaspard demanded.

  He dragged himself up onto the wooden box and peered down through the slit window, trying to see what damage I’d done. If I had killed someone, it would certainly have come as no surprise to him, since he was always telling me I’d end my days on the gallows. Satisfied that no one lay bleeding below the tower, he fetched me a hefty blow across my shoulders with his staff. Fortunately, his joints had swollen again in the wet weather, so he couldn’t balance long enough without his stick to hit me again, though I knew he was itching to do it.

  Leaning on his staff, he limped heavily over to the small brazier and, perching himself on a stool, swayed back and forth, like a tattered rook in the wind, warming his twisted hands. ‘So, what were you doing, garçon?’

  ‘Killing crows,’ I said.

  ‘In other words idling your time away, when you should have been working.’

  Actually, I had not been idling my time away. I had in fact been wondering whether I could murder Charles and get away with it. Not even wondering, really, just fantasising about it, picturing the insipid little slug lying in his coffin and Amée burying her beautiful face in my shoulder as she sobbed her heart out, convinced that only I could comfort her in her grief. The reality was, of course, that if Amée was going to sob on anyone’s shoulder it would be one of the jongleurs that she was always flirting with, or the languid young men who hung around her father, like ticks on the arse of a sheep, hoping that now Philippe was rising in favour at the new king’s court, he’d drag them up with him.

  ‘Have you finished copying that deed? Let me see it.’ Gaspard thumped his stick on the wooden floorboards, sending up a small puff of dust. ‘If you’ve time to waste chasing crows . . .’

  I gathered up the three sheets of parchment from the sloping writing table and thrust them into his misshapen fingers.

  ‘Light, petit bâtard, light! You couldn’t see a white cat in this gloom.’

  He had a point. There were slit windows at intervals all the way round the turret room, but they were so narrow the only thing they let in was the cold. It was a wonder to me that a colony of bats hadn’t taken up residence in the chamber long ago. They’d certainly have found it dismal enough for their tastes. Even the swineherds who worked for Philippe had better dwellings than we did. I kept reminding Gaspard that the rest of the château was stuffed with fine tapestries, thick hangings and sumptuous cushions, not to mention fine wines and good food. He should ask Philippe to send a few trifles our way.

  But Gaspard only waggled his grey beard. ‘The master pays our wages and feeds us,’ he croaked. ‘If he thought we were in need of anything he would send it.’

  ‘But he’s never going to know if you don’t tell him,’ I said. ‘He never sets foot up here, much less sees the arse-rags we call blankets, or tastes that vinegar the scullion fetches up as wine.’

  ‘And where would we put these fine things, if he did send them?’ Gaspard asked. ‘There’s barely room enough to work as it is.’

  He was right about that, of course. Apart from our two writing desks and a piss pail, every inch of the walls and floor was crammed with teetering piles of books and boxes of documents. If they fell down it would take them a week to dig us out of the drift of parchment and vellum.

  Sometimes I feared I’d turn into a bat myself, stuck up there night and day, scratching away. Gaspard rarely left the turret room even for meals for he complained the noise and music of the Great Hall gave him a headache. I’d have been only too glad to leave him to his icy chamber and descend to enjoy the chatter and dancing. Then the raddled old bird could have had all the peace and quiet his withered heart desired. But, no, I was ordered to eat in the tower with him, in case he wanted something fetching. Then he’d send me to my straw pallet in the corner, where I was forced to lie awake half the
night listening to him flick through the pages in some old ledger, making that irritating, dry little cough of his and humming tunelessly to himself.

  When Gaspard did finally retire to bed, he’d toss and turn, grunting like a farrowing pig, until he finally fell asleep, and that was when the snoring began. It was a mark of just how saintly I was that I hadn’t smothered him to death long ago. Was this how I was going to end my days, withering away in a dusty turret until I was as desiccated as him, finally croaking out my last sour breath without having kissed a girl, never mind bedded one?

  Gaspard was running his crooked thumb down the deeds I’d copied. I learned from painful experience to stay well out of range of his stick whenever he read any of my work. After years of scratching away on parchments and peering at documents, his eyes had grown dim, though he’d sooner have gouged them out of his head than admit as much. But he could still manage to spot a mistake at fifty paces, as if the violated words leaped up at him from the page, screeching like ravished maidens.

  ‘Five errors on the first page alone,’ he barked, flinging his stick at my head.

  I dodged it, which I knew wouldn’t improve his temper. He made a grasping motion, like a disgruntled baby, indicating he wanted his stick fetching for him, but I pretended not to notice. If the old bird thought I was going to hand him a weapon—

  There was the sound of someone climbing the stairs and, without so much as a knock, the door was flung open. Gaspard didn’t look up from the parchment, but his frown deepened. ‘Did you drop your manners on the way up? Wait outside till I bid you enter.’

  ‘I trust that remark was not intended for me,’ a voice said gravely.

  The expression on old Gaspard’s face was of a man who’d inadvertently swallowed a live ferret, and little wonder, for none other than our master, Monsieur le Comte, was standing in the doorway.

  I’d been apprentice to the old scribe since I was ten and, throughout those seven interminable years since I’d moved into Gaspard’s turret, I’d never once known Philippe to visit it. I’d often suspected he didn’t even know the place existed.

  Gaspard flapped wildly at me and I handed him his stick. He tottered forward, looking as dazed as if he’d just been whacked on the head with it.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte! What . . . what an honour. I trust there is nothing amiss?’

  Between bowing repeatedly, like a bird pecking crumbs, the old scribe groped for the roll of parchment and the quills that were always kept ready in case Philippe wanted to dictate a message or letter. The mood had been known to seize our master even at the dead of night and he thought nothing of sending for us to come to his hall in the early hours of the morning, seeming amazed that we’d been sleeping. It was as if we were pieces of parchment ourselves and Philippe imagined we were simply filed away among the books on the shelves, waiting until he wanted to use us.

  ‘A chair for Monsieur le Comte,’ Gaspard demanded. ‘Quickly, garçon.’

  But there wasn’t a chair, only the two high stools we used at our desks. I scrubbed at the top of one of them with my sleeve and pushed it into the tiny space in the centre of the room.

  Philippe made no move to sit, but gazed at the stacks of books and wooden cylinders as if he was searching for something. He was a tall, lean man, with a prominent square jaw. His tawny hair had been curled at the nape of his neck to match the curl of his fringe on his brow. He was already clad for dinner in a dark blue tunic. A long, sleeveless white tabard flowed over it, decorated with a rich panel of scarlet and gold embroidery at the neck. He looked what he was, a man ascending rapidly in the service of the new king, Louis VIII, who even as Crown Prince had been dubbed Le Lion.

  Gaspard’s trembling hand hovered over the jug of vinegary white wine, but he seemed to realise it was hardly suitable to offer to Philippe.

  Philippe appeared to recognise the old man’s dilemma. ‘Fetch us some wine, garçon. And take your time. I would speak with your master alone.’

  On any other occasion I would have been as eager to escape from the tower as a hound released from its kennel, but I found myself resentful at being excluded. I’d copied Philippe’s documents and contracts, read his letters and written secret love notes for half of the men and women in his service – which, I might add, was the only time any woman in that manor deigned to look at me – and in all that time I’d never once divulged a single confidence, not that I’d had much opportunity. Who did I ever get to talk to except old Gaspard and the birds? But that aside, you would have thought I could have been trusted with whatever message he wanted to dictate to Gaspard. Besides, I’d get to know about it sooner or later, anyway. They were bound to want it copied, and though Gaspard told me repeatedly that a good scribe must learn to copy without reading or remembering, I always ensured I remembered everything.

  But I bowed my head respectfully and closed the door behind me. I made sure that I clattered enough on the stairs for them to be satisfied I’d retreated, then tiptoed back up and, sitting on the steps, pressed my ear to the gap beneath the door.

  ‘. . . disturbing news today from a friend.’ Philippe stressed the word as if the source of this news mattered. ‘There are certain rumours being whispered about me at Court. I had these past weeks suspected something of the sort – odd looks, men who were once affable now growing cold. But I couldn’t discover the cause until today.’

  ‘The king shows you great favour,’ Gaspard said. ‘And there will always be those about him who are jealous of that. The old king’s advisers are always cast off when a new king takes the crown.’

  The old crow’s voice had a wary, sycophantic tone. Was he afraid Philippe was accusing him of spreading rumours? Surely not. Even if he hadn’t been the most loyal servant in Philippe’s employ, Gaspard had no more chance of spreading gossip than I did, stuck up there.

  ‘It was the same when the king’s late father came to the throne,’ Gaspard continued. ‘Out went the old and in came the new. A king always likes to surround himself with his own men. But you needn’t fear the jealousy of others, Monsieur le Comte. It is plain to see from his letters that our lion puts much trust in you.’

  ‘Not for much longer, if this rumour reaches his ears,’ Philippe said grimly. ‘The king needs strong men around him if he is to consolidate the lands he’s gained from the English Crown. Le Comte de Champagne is bitterly opposed to the banning of Jews from lending money, he makes a good income from taxing them, and the king will find it hard to stand against him. Louis cannot afford to have any weak spot in his armour that his enemies can use to pierce him.’

  ‘But, Monsieur le Comte, why should you be that weak spot?’ Gaspard said.

  I pressed closer to the door – this I did not want to miss. The floorboards creaked and I heard footsteps crossing the room. I hurtled down the spiral steps, as the door opened. Philippe was evidently taking no chances. I stood, pressing myself against the cold stone walls, praying he would not venture onto the staircase, for I dared not retreat any further down for fear he would hear me moving.

  But he seemed satisfied they were not overheard and the door closed above me. I knew it was foolish to risk going back, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to learn the rest of this tale.

  ‘. . . but I must have proof,’ Philippe was saying. ‘If it should be challenged, I would lose not only the king’s favour, but my titles and lands too. Even my own villeins would own more than I. My daughter would be fortunate to find any man more favoured than a butcher to wed her. There must be something – a record, a letter – that would banish all doubt. You must have come across some document, Gaspard.’

  ‘I am certain the proof is here, Monsieur le Comte.’ Gaspard sounded even more agitated than our master. ‘I cannot lay my hands on it immediately, but that is only because I’ve had no cause to look for such a thing. But I swear nothing, not even an order to buy meat for the hounds, has been thrown away since I came here nigh on fifty years ago, that I can promise you. And the librarian befor
e me was just as diligent. If you can but give me a little time to search . . .’

  ‘Search thoroughly, Gaspard. Come to me day or night as soon as you discover anything, anything at all. All our futures depend on you. You must find it!’

  Chapter 2

  Norfolk, England

  Visitabis interiora terra, rectificando, invenies occultum lapidem – VITRIOL.

  Visit the interior of the earth and by rectifying, you will find the hidden stone.

  Wilky’s eyes water in the stinging wind and, though his body is enveloped in the cloak of the white rider, his nose is numb with cold. The boy pulls the edge of the cloak over his face to shield it. His teeth rattle as the horse’s hoofs thunder over the stones. He’s sure they are flying as fast as a dragon. He keeps glancing up at the man who grips him so tightly, fearing that he might have turned into a demon or the lantern-man, not that Wilky really knows what the lantern-man looks like, though he must be monstrous. But in the darkness the boy can see little of the rider’s face, except a pair of glittering eyes fixed on the track ahead.

  The rhythm of the beast gradually lulls the child into a stupor. He cannot keep his eyes open. Slowly his head droops down into the soft wool of the cloak. This is just a dream. He will wake and find himself back in his bed, curled like a puppy around his heap of brothers and sisters, warm and safe.

  The rhythm changes. Wilky jerks awake. He is not in his own cottage, but clattering through an archway into a courtyard that seems, at first, to be on fire. Yellow and orange flames from blazing torches lick across the stones. All around him, the giant shadows of men and of sweating horses twist over the high walls. The heavy wooden door in the archway shudders closed behind the riders and men come running to take the reins.