The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  I, being only an ignorant apprentice, somehow misunderstood the instructions and took the records directly to Philippe, on the pretext that I’d thought he’d want to go through them with Charles before he set out. To my relief and delight, I found him standing alone in his chamber, pouring over a long parchment scroll stretched out on a table. I managed casually to let slip that Charles hadn’t known which books he wanted and I’d been obliged to spend hours selecting them for him. I hoped my diligence would impress Philippe, while, of course, reminding him that Charles was a half-witted goose to whom no father should entrust a stray kitten, never mind his only daughter. But I was not congratulating myself for long.

  Philippe barely glanced at me and, with a flick of his finger, indicated that I could set the bag down near the door. He said he intended to send for Charles later that evening to give him his final instructions; Charles could take the records with him then and study them overnight.

  I derived considerable satisfaction from the thought of Charles having to lug that heavy bag all the way over to the Great Hall and spend the night wading through the mountain of dusty records. Not that he would, of course. He’d call for a servant to carry the bag and not give the ledgers a second glance. But I’d learned long ago that life was much more bearable if you indulged in the odd fantasy or two about the way things should be. But I had more pressing matters on my mind.

  Philippe dismissed me with a curt gesture and bent once more over the scroll on which were inscribed the details of roads and rivers. He was so accustomed to servants doing exactly what he asked that he had turned away without waiting to see if I had retreated. Like a conjuror, he imagined that, at a simple sweep of his hand, I would simply vanish. And his authority was such that I found myself obediently walking to the door, even as I was telling myself not to be such a fool. Here was my one chance to speak to him alone. I might never get another.

  I turned with my hand on the latch. Though I had been rehearsing this for days in my head, now that I was face to face with the man, I couldn’t think how to begin. My mouth felt as if it was full of sand and my legs were trembling.

  ‘My lord, I have to speak with you on . . . on another matter.’

  I saw a slight frown of irritation crease his brow, but still he didn’t bother to look round, his finger tracing down the length of the scroll. ‘What is it?’ he grunted. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Some days ago you asked my master Gaspard to search . . . for a certain document.’

  ‘So,’ he said curtly, ‘who do you imagine I would ask to look for documents – my cook?’

  I came close to losing my nerve, but I forced myself to continue.

  ‘I believe . . .’ I swallowed hard, then said firmly, ‘I know the document he brought you was a forgery. In the book . . . the book of records from St Luke’s Church. That last account was not written by Father Vitalis.’

  Philippe’s back snapped upright. The scroll he’d been examining sprang back into a roll, jumped from the table and fell to the floor. He took a pace towards me, his expression so furious that I found myself pressing down on the latch ready to take flight.

  ‘Shut the door,’ he said, in a dangerously quiet tone. ‘Come closer.’

  I shuffled a couple of paces towards him. Living with Gaspard had taught me exactly how long a man’s reach is, but Philippe was a younger and much fitter man.

  ‘A book of church records.’

  I nodded briefly, trying to force myself to stand still.

  ‘And what makes you imagine that I would be interested in anything written in the church records?’

  His gaze was fixed so intently on me that, though I had been determined to look him in the eye as his equal, I found myself having to stare down at the corner of the table in order to be able to stammer out a word.

  ‘The – the last entry, my lord, an entry concerning your great-grandfather’s marriage to Countess Hélène and the birth of their son . . . that’s what you wanted Gaspard to find.’

  At the edge of my vision, I saw Philippe’s feet stir and was unable to stop myself taking a step back, but he made no move towards me.

  ‘I had not realised Gaspard had confided in you,’ he said quietly.

  I could hardly tell him I’d listened at the door, but if I said that Gaspard had told me all, the old crow would surely deny it. So I remained dumb. But, unwittingly, there in that chamber, I learned my first lesson about how to discover what you need to know. If you stay silent, neither confirming nor denying, men will eventually begin to talk.

  Philippe sank down in the chair beside the fire. ‘Then you know already that my enemies were circulating rumours that my grandfather’s birth was not legitimate, which might have caused me some difficulties.’

  Difficulties! Total ruin, more like. I’d be the first to admit I was as innocent as a newly hatched chick back then, but even I knew that the moment a man’s entitlement to lands and hereditary rank is questioned you can’t take a pace without treading on a hundred relatives, all clamouring to prove they have the greater legitimate claim.

  ‘But now I have proof that my grandfather was the legitimate son of Estienne, Le Comte de Lingones,’ Philippe continued softly. ‘The king is satisfied that all is in order, so that is the end of the matter.’

  ‘The proof was the story in the book from St Luke’s Church?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  ‘Which Gaspard discovered in the attic,’ Philippe said carefully, arching his eyebrows, as if daring me to contradict him.

  ‘Which Gaspard wrote himself,’ I countered.

  ‘That’s nonsense, boy!’ Philippe was again on his feet. ‘Any man can see at a glance it was written many decades ago. The book is old, the ink faded. Whatever madness has possessed you to think otherwise?’

  ‘I saw Gaspard writing in that book, yet there are no new entries in it. The ink was made to look old. He didn’t use iron-gall ink, he wrote with the older form of ink they used a century ago. I found the recipe, which he also must have read for it was among the books I fetched for him from the attic.’

  As proof I recited the recipe from memory: ‘Grind the seeds of goat-leaf and after let them boil in wine together with a rusted iron nail. This makes a green ink. But if thou wouldst make a black ink, add drops of vitriol till it turn black and also the sap of the hawthorn, so that will stay wherever thy pen does place it.

  ‘The base of that ink is green,’ I said, in case Philippe hadn’t got the point. ‘So when it’s old, the green tinge begins to show through the black again. Gaspard sent me to the still room for goat-leaf seeds for a purge, or so he said, but I know he used them for ink. By adding too few drops of vitriol, a little of the green hue would remain visible, so it would look as if black ink had faded with age. I can prove it to you. I can make that ink again and match it to the page.’

  You have to admire men like Philippe: they have been well schooled in the art of not betraying their emotions. Vital, I imagine, if you spend your life among the schemers at Court. But, even so, I thought I saw his face blanch a little, though it might just have been the flickering of the firelight.

  ‘Gaspard is a loyal servant,’ he murmured.

  I had no idea if Philippe himself knew what Gaspard had done or if he, too, had been tricked by the old man. He wasn’t stupid. He must have suspected something, but he’d been so desperate for proof that he’d probably grasped at any rope flung out to him that would pull him from the mire.

  His tone when he spoke aloud again was chilling enough to freeze the flames in a blacksmith’s furnace. ‘But you, my young apprentice, are evidently neither loyal to your master nor to me. You say you saw your master writing. Naturally, he writes. That is his job. You say it was in a certain book. I have only your word for that and one book looks much like another from a distance. You say he sent you to fetch some seeds for a purge. Who gave you the seeds? Will this person corroborate what you have said? . . . No, I thought not. You can hardly imagine that King Lo
uis would listen to the half-witted ravings of a disaffected servant and English boy to boot. And that is what they are, nothing more than the delusions of a mooncalf. The king has already accepted the evidence as true and he does not like to be made to look a fool.’

  My face grew hot. The discussion was not proceeding as I had rehearsed in my head. But I wasn’t going to slink away defeated, not yet.

  ‘Surely then the king will like it even less if he’s made a fool of by one of his trusted nobles,’ I said quickly. ‘What if your enemies who were spreading those rumours find out about the forgery and tell His Majesty? They’d be only too willing to believe my story and . . . and they’d pay well for such information,’ I finished in a rush.

  Philippe’s mouth slowly widened into a humourless smile.

  ‘Ah, now we cut to the heart of the beast. Gaspard, no doubt, told you that I generously rewarded his diligence in finding the record. And you thought, But I, too, spent many hours searching long and hard like my master. Indeed, perhaps it was you who discovered the book on those dusty shelves and, not unnaturally, you are thinking, But where is the justice in this? I also should have been rewarded for my pains, even though I am a mere apprentice.’

  I gave a half-nod, uncertain whether he was mocking me or actually thought I had a point.

  He paused, regarding me for a long time. A heavy silence descended on the chamber, broken only by the cracking of the logs on the fire and the moaning of the wind through the shutters. I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest. Was he going to pay me, have me thrown out or worse? It suddenly occurred to me that he could easily have me flogged bloody. The sweat was trickling down my forehead, but I daren’t wipe it away for fear of drawing attention to it. I knew I shouldn’t let him see I was afraid, but it was all I could do to stop myself blurting out that I’d made a terrible mistake and throwing myself on my knees, begging him to forgive me. I was on the verge of doing just that when he spoke again.

  ‘You are an intelligent lad, quick-witted, observant. And it takes boldness to tackle the wolf in his own den. A young man with your gifts could rise rapidly if his talents were fully appreciated. I warrant you won’t remain an apprentice for much longer. But I think you want to stride further than old Gaspard’s feet will lead you. You want to be more than a mere scribe in my household, or you wouldn’t have risked all by raising this matter.’

  A surge of relief rushed through me. He understood!

  ‘I could be of great service to you, Monsieur le Comte, if I had the chance.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that. But wits and ambition alone are not enough. If you seek advancement you must learn that those who can help you rise require two other qualities from the men they champion – discretion and loyalty.’

  ‘You’ll find no one more discreet or loyal than I am, Monsieur le Comte. I told no one, not a single person, what I knew. Not even Gaspard knows I’ve discovered his secret and I swear on the Holy Virgin no one will ever learn of it, if . . .’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘If . . . Yes, indeed, that tiny word on which have balanced the fates of whole kingdoms and the lives of thousands.’

  His grey eyes bored into my own. ‘Very well, then. We shall forget this foolish attempt at blackmail for we both know this nonsensical talk of a forgery was just a youthful and misguided attempt to bring yourself to my attention.’

  He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger, so that the blood-red garnet rippled in the firelight. ‘I believe that if any man is to earn another’s loyalty and trust, he must first demonstrate his own loyalty and trust in that person. So we shall offer trust to one another, you and I. I will entrust you with an errand that requires great discretion and secrecy. If you succeed, you will have earned my confidence and gratitude, and I am always generous in showing my gratitude, as you will have observed from the purse I gave Gaspard. Perform this task well and I promise you that you will never again have to return to that tower to waste your life burrowing among dusty books.’

  ‘Anything, I will do anything,’ I blurted out. ‘What is it that I’m to do? Only tell me and it will be done instantly . . . I mean perfectly. I won’t fail you, I swear.’

  And in that moment I meant it. I was not going to be flogged. Instead I was actually going to be promoted. I felt almost giddy at the thought, imagining myself day and night at Philippe’s side, sitting at high table next to Amée in my new clothes – he’d obviously have to present me with new clothes: my limp rags weren’t fit even for the servants’ table.

  He laughed. ‘Patience. I will send for you again in a day or so and explain exactly what is required of you. In the meantime, tell Gaspard to wait upon me here. But, first, to seal our bargain, drink with me.’

  He lifted a flagon of wine from the table, poured the wine into one of his own pewter goblets and held it out to me. ‘Let us drink to your destiny. I predict it will be interesting, far more so than you could ever have dreamed.’

  Chapter 10

  He should be discreet and silent, revealing to no one the truth of his works.

  ‘Boys, this is Regulus, your new companion. You are to look after him.’

  Six pairs of young eyes gaze solemnly at the white-robed figure and back again to the small child, who shrinks beside him.

  ‘But be warned. If I hear any idle gossip, or even a whisper, that you have spoken of things about which you have been told to keep silent, I will punish not just the offender, but each and every one of you most severely. For he who listens to idle chatter is as guilty as the one who utters it.’

  The White Canon allows the full force of his glare to fall on each of the faces in turn, noting those who quickly stare down at the rushes on the floor or dart an anxious glance at a companion. The boys believe he can see into their heads, which indeed he can, for though they would never believe it, he was once a child himself and he knows well what strange and foul creatures wallow in the filthy middens of a boy’s mind.

  Regulus clutches the wooden bowl, leather beaker and bone spoon he has been given. He’s been told that if he loses them he will go hungry and thirsty, for he will have nothing to put his meat and drink in. He wonders if he must carry them all day and what will happen if his arms grow tired, which they already are, because he is gripping them so tightly. The canon pushes him forward.

  ‘Felix, make room for Regulus at the table. I leave him in your care. See you instruct him well, for if he transgresses, it will be your back that will smart for it.’

  A thin, gangly boy of about eleven years with lank brown hair and bulging eyes shuffles his buttocks along the bench, leaving a gap between himself and the next boy. Felix beckons Regulus to the space with a jerk of his head. The little boy tries in vain to scramble over the bench and sit at the table, but though the bench is low, he is still gripping the bowl, beaker and spoon, which he is afraid to set down. The other boys giggle. Felix impatiently stands, grasps him under the armpits, swings him over the bench and plonks him down on it, as if he was an infant.

  ‘Put your bowl down,’ Felix instructs.

  But Regulus hesitates. He’s hungry and he’s afraid to let go in case they refuse to feed him. He glances along the length of the table. Each boy’s bowl and beaker sit in front of him on the table. Still he worries. Suppose they snatch his.

  ‘Everyone is waiting, Regulus,’ the man with the frosted chin says. ‘Set your bowl and beaker on the table, like the others.’

  He obeys, glancing up first at the man, then at Felix, for reassurance that he has done it correctly, but neither gives him any encouragement.

  At a sign from the white-robed figure they all stand. Regulus is hauled to his feet by Felix. The boys bow their heads and press their hands together in front of them.

  ‘Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine . . .’

  Frosty-chin leads and the boys join in, though some are merely gabbling sounds that no Latin scholar would recognise. They take their places once more, save two of the boys who fetch a pipkin of herb potta
ge. The bowls are passed up and Regulus watches anxiously as his is whisked away to be passed along the row.

  ‘It’s mine!’ He makes a grab for it, but Felix promptly cuffs him, pressing his finger to his lips and sternly shaking his head. Regulus anxiously marks the progress of his bowl, watching as a slice of old bread is dropped into the bottom and a dollop of the thick green porridge plopped on top. At last it is returned to him, with a slice of new bread. The boy takes a bite of the bread. He has never tasted anything quite like it. This is cheat bread, not by any means the finest bread that is made but when in your short life you have eaten nothing but ravel, full of bran and husks mixed with rye and beans, you may think yourself in Heaven when you first taste bread made from wheaten flour.

  As the boys eat, a nervous-looking child stands at the low lectern in the corner, reading aloud. He rubs the metal amulet hung about his neck as if this will ward off disaster or the wrath of Frosty-chin, maybe both. Several times, the boy’s stomach rumbles loudly as he smells the food he is not yet permitted to eat. Whenever he stumbles over a word, he glances anxiously at the white-robed man, afraid that if his tongue trips again he will get no pottage.

  Regulus does not notice the hesitations. He is not listening to the words. He is too intent on spooning the cabbage and pease pottage into his mouth as fast as he can. He has to be prevented by Felix from devouring the stale bread lining the bottom of his bowl, which to Regulus’s dismay is snatched from him and collected in a great basket. Felix whispers that it will be given to the hungry who come begging at the alms-gate, but the boy is still hungry himself. He wonders where this gate is and if he can go there to get his bread back.