The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  A bell tolls. Once more the boys scramble to their feet and stumble through the words led by the canon.

  ‘Benedictus sit Deus in donis Suis . . .’

  Frosty-chin surveys the room. ‘You are free to indulge in such pastimes as you wish for an hour before Nones but, remember, no noisy games. Some of the brethren sleep at this hour and if any are woken by your balls or chatter, you will all be made to labour for them during this hour every day for a week.’

  He sweeps from the room, closing the massive door behind him. The boys hesitate, then, as one, advance on Regulus, forming a circle around him.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Your parents dead?’

  The questions fly at him and he can’t answer them. No one has ever asked him where he comes from for he’s always been there. There never was a past place, just a here and now and is.

  ‘Regulus.’ Felix pronounces it carefully, as if he was chewing a flavoursome morsel of meat. ‘Who gave you that name? Your father?’

  That is the only thing the boy does know. He knows it is not his name.

  ‘Wilky . . . my name is Wilky.’

  Felix’s bulging green eyes blink slowly. ‘Father John, was he the one who named you Regulus?’ Then, seeing the blank expression on the child’s face, he adds, ‘You know, the man who brought you here . . . Him who was sitting just there.’ He points to the chair at the end of the long table, which the white-robed figure has just vacated.

  Regulus tries to think. Was it Frosty-chin who gave him this name? The night’s events are as jumbled and hazy in his head as a half-remembered dream.

  Finally he nods. ‘And the man who cooks things in glass pots. He called me that too.’

  ‘Regulus,’ Felix repeats softly. He circles the child, frowning.

  ‘What’s it mean, Felix?’ one of the boys asks, sensing this name is a weapon to be used.

  ‘Don’t you ever listen to your lessons, Peter?’ Felix says. ‘Last week, remember. Regulus – ruler, king.’

  The boys see the joke at once and grins spread across their faces. ‘Him, a king? That little maggot? What’s he meant to be king of, then?’

  ‘King of the beggars.’

  ‘King of the codwits.’

  ‘King of the turds.’

  This game looks set to last a long time. The boys won’t easily tire of coming up with new titles.

  Only one of the small gang is not joining in and that is Felix. He knows only too well that if Father John chooses you and Father John names you, there is a good reason. Father John does not make jokes, far from it. He is always serious, deadly serious, and if the boy has already been to the dungeons, he must be special. And that is an honour no boy wants, not in this place. He’s heard Father John speak the name Regulus before. They have been waiting for this boy for a long time.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Felix says suddenly. ‘Leave him be. You’ll get no chance to play any games if you don’t go now. Hour’ll soon be up.’

  The boys stare at him, puzzled. Felix has never been known to stop teasing before. He’s usually the chief tormenter, but they’ve no time to ponder the matter. Their one free hour in the day is far too precious to be wasted in here. They race each other to the door.

  Felix stares down at the little boy, who gazes up at him from liquid blue eyes. Felix shudders. He would not want to be named Regulus for all the food on the abbot’s table. Even at eleven years old he is already wise enough to know there are some titles in life you pray to every saint in Heaven you will never be granted.

  Chapter 11

  Devours his tail till naught remains. This dragon, whom they Ouroboros call.

  The summons came at dawn three days after I had confronted Philippe. I was beginning to think he had forgotten about me or had never had any intention of entrusting me with a task and had merely made promises to keep me quiet.

  When old Gaspard returned from speaking with Philippe that night, he’d shuffled to his desk and ignored me as if I was one of the pigeons that flapped about the turret. I was used to the ancient one not speaking for hours at a time when he was absorbed in his work or his reading, but he always had something to say when he first returned to the tower, generally some complaint about me not working, but that night he didn’t even look at me. I knew Philippe must have told him all I’d said and he was angry, hurt even.

  Well, it was his own fault. If he’d offered to share the purse with me or told me what he was doing, I wouldn’t have gone near Philippe, but if the old crow was determined to be so secretive and refuse to confide in me, his faithful apprentice, he could hardly blame me for reasoning it out for myself.

  But I wouldn’t have to put up with Gaspard’s sulks or complaints or his vicious stick any more. Philippe had finally sent for me and I would never have to go back up that turret again. Gaspard could die up there, for all I cared, and probably would. In a few years someone would say, I wonder what happened to old Gaspard? And they’d find him, sitting mummified at his desk, the quill still in his hand, the ink turned to dust and the mice nesting in his beard.

  ‘Adieu,’ I said jauntily, as I turned at the door.

  The ancient one lifted his head. He seemed to be struggling to speak, but nothing came out except a single word – Vincent – and, to my astonishment, I saw that tears were running down his papery old cheeks. Anyone might think the old crow was going to miss me. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to miss him. I bounded down those stairs with all the joy of a colt let out to pasture on the first day of spring.

  ‘I have a package I want you to deliver to a man by the name Albertus. A gift for the good service he has done me.’ Philippe indicated a leather pouch lying on the table between us. ‘His house is a mile or two beyond Ricey-Bas. The road through the valley will take you straight there. He’s a man who prefers his own company. You will know his house by the ouroboros inscribed upon the wall. It resembles a winged serpent devouring its own tail. You will tell no one where you are going and you will give this package only into the hands of Albertus himself. Do not entrust it even to one of his servants. Then hasten back here.’

  ‘Am I to take a horse from the stables?’ I asked hopefully.

  The town had to be at least ten miles away, maybe more, and on the few occasions I’d been there to buy new parchments and other supplies for Gaspard, I’d travelled with other servants in the back of a wagon. I didn’t fancy walking that distance and back.

  ‘Can you ride a horse?’ Philippe asked.

  He knew I couldn’t. What chance did an apprentice librarian ever have to learn to ride?

  ‘Can’t be that hard,’ I mumbled.

  Philippe’s face wore an indulgent smile, like the one men adopt when dealing with a small child who thinks he has said something clever but has merely shown his naïvety. ‘When you return, I will see to it that you are taught the skills of horsemanship. In the meantime, Vincent, I have no wish to see you break your neck or, more importantly, damage the package. Besides, you are less likely to draw attention to yourself on foot. No one will suspect you of carrying anything of value, whereas mounted on one of the fine beasts I keep in my stables you would instantly be marked out as wealthy. But don’t look so dismayed. I wouldn’t expect you to walk there and back in a day. Take this.’ He handed me a soft leather purse, which I could feel contained a few small coins. ‘That should be more than sufficient to buy a comfortable night’s lodging in the town before your return.’

  Although I was still a little irked by having to walk, I could see the sense in what he said. To be honest, part of me was relieved he didn’t want me to ride – the horses Philippe kept in his stable were huge, powerful brutes that even his knights found hard to control. But he could have sent a servant to drive me in a cart, at least as far as the town. Set against that, though, was the prospect of a night spent away from the château. All those inns and taverns, cockpits and girls! Actually, the more I thought about it, the mo
re I realised Philippe was doing me the most enormous favour by making me walk. Otherwise I’d have missed what promised to be the wildest night of my life. After spending every night for the past seven years with Gaspard, even a sedate game of Nine Men’s Morris with an elderly nun would have seemed thoroughly debauched, and I intended to do a great deal more with my freedom than play board games.

  I heard the iron ring in the door turn and glanced round to see Amée entering, a small sack swinging from her hand of the kind that a farmer might sling over his shoulder when setting off for a day’s haymaking. My heart began to pound at the sight of her. She always looked adorable, but today, in a sky-blue kirtle, her flaxen hair draped with a fine white veil, she was as beautiful and pure as the Virgin Mary at the Annunciation.

  She crossed to her father and, stretching up on tiptoe, planted a sweet kiss on his cheek. I wondered how it would feel to have that soft mouth pressed against mine. I might never kiss her, but if I impressed her father, I would surely see her every day . . . and who knew?

  Amée turned, with a dazzling smile. ‘My father tells me you have a long walk today. I didn’t want you to be hungry, Vincent, so I packed some food for your journey.’ She held out the sack. ‘I hope you will enjoy it. I chose everything myself.’

  I didn’t know what was in the bag and I didn’t care. If she’d filled it with mouldy bread, I’d have thought it the finest food I’d ever tasted because she had picked it up with her own hands and put it in the bag for me. I could hardly have been more ecstatic if she had popped the food into my mouth with her own dear little fingers. Amée cared about me being hungry! She had risen at dawn to pack food for me . . . herself . . . with her own hands! I thought my heart was going to float out of my mouth. She had spoken my name. She had remembered my name! I was so stunned that it was several moments before I could stop gazing at her long enough to bow and thank her.

  She nodded and, with another dimpled smile, slipped away through the door. I couldn’t stop smiling. I bet she’d never got up at dawn to pack food for Charles.

  Philippe coughed pointedly and I flushed as I realised I’d been standing there like the village idiot, grinning at a closed door. I straightened my face and scooped up the leather bag that I was to deliver, fumbling with the long strings with which I intended to tie it around my waist, concealing it beneath my cloak.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what you are carrying?’ Philippe asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of prying, my lord,’ I said respectfully.

  Philippe laughed. ‘Yes, you would. Curiosity will get the better of you before you’ve gone a mile down the road. So, you’d better satisfy yourself now. It’s safer that you do it here than examine it on the open road where others might see you. You have my permission to open it.’

  Since he was ordering me to look, I could hardly refuse, so I loosened the drawstring and pulled out a small wooden box. It was a plain-looking object, not gilded or jewelled, not even painted, and decorated only by a carving of an ouroboros on the lid, the same sign that he had told me I would find on the wall of Albertus’s house. I opened the lid and tipped out an object wrapped in a piece of soft white woollen cloth. Unrolling it, I found myself holding a heavy silver flask in the form of a bird’s head with a thick curved beak and eyes inlaid with beads of polished black onyx. Every feather on the bird’s head was so delicately engraved that each barbule could be distinguished, their lines no thicker than a human hair.

  ‘The raven’s head,’ Philippe said, gazing at it with an expression of near rapture. ‘Exquisite, is it not? A fitting gift for my friend, I think.’

  I wondered what service Albertus had performed for Philippe to warrant such a present, for I could tell, just from the weight, that the silver alone was worth a fortune, even without the fine workmanship of the piece.

  Philippe took it from my hand and with his fingertip caressed the smooth polished silver of the beak. ‘You see what faith I am placing in you, Vincent. There aren’t many men to whom I would entrust such a costly and rare object. Do not betray that trust.’ His voice was suddenly as cold and sharp as a sword thrust. ‘I do not forgive betrayal.’

  Chapter 12

  The spirit which is extracted from metals is the urine of children and of the sages, for it is the seed and primal matter of metals. Without this seed there is no consummation in our art.

  The chapel is in darkness, save the candle flames trembling on the altar. The great pillars supporting the arches stretch up like petrified tree trunks, the tops vanishing into the shadows above. The breath of the little huddle of boys escapes as white mist from their mouths, as if their spirits are leaving their bodies. Somewhere, overhead, a great bell tolls.

  Regulus is shivering in spite of the warm cloak they have given him. He pulls it up over his mouth and nose, trying to breathe through the wool, for the air is as cold and damp as if he was leaning over a deep well. Mighel, the boy with the amulet, is coughing and wheezing. He scratches frantically at the raw red patches on his arms. Father John frowns at him. He desists until he thinks Father John isn’t looking, then surreptitiously rubs his arm against the wall, like a pig with an itch.

  There is a sound at the great door behind them. Some of the boys crane their necks, but Father John clicks his fingers and they spin their heads back to face the altar as he motions to them to kneel on the hard stone flags.

  The great door opens, but though Regulus turns, he can see no one, for a broad panel of wood at the end of the aisle shields the doorway, and it is as well it does for the candles on the altar gutter wildly as if the flames are trying to tear themselves loose and fly up into the air.

  Ten white-robed men emerge from behind the panel and process up the centre of the church two by two, their hoods pulled low over their faces. They are singing a psalm in Latin, though to Regulus, who has seldom been inside a church, it means less than the twittering of birds. He is unnerved by these faceless men. He had not realised there were so many men like Father John in this place. They have multiplied like maggots on a dead rabbit.

  But by the time the incomprehensible service finally crawls to the end, Regulus has had to be shaken awake twice by Felix. The child is so sleepy, he can barely put one foot in front of the other. Felix propels him back to the chamber in which they ate, and pulls a straw pallet from the stack for him. He lays it neatly beside the row of others and tosses a blanket from the pile on top.

  ‘I’m only doing this once, mind,’ Felix warns. ‘Tomorrow you fetch your own bed, else you’ll sleep on the hard stones.’

  Regulus isn’t listening. He is desperate to lie down. Felix drags him over to the corner. ‘That’s the pot you piss in. That’s the one you shit in. Don’t forget. We’ll all get punished if you get it wrong.’

  Even half asleep, Regulus knows he has heard this warning before and panic wells in him again. What will the punishment be if he makes a mistake? Is it as bad a crime as poaching deer? He once saw a boy sewn into the hide of the deer he’d killed and sent running through the forest to be hunted down by the pack of hounds. He can still remember the baying of the excited dogs and the screams of the boy as their snapping jaws brought him crashing to the ground. Regulus shudders.

  Father John glides silently in, and when all the boys are lying on their pallets, he blows out the candle. They hear the door close behind him. Regulus, exhausted, falls asleep as quickly as a new-born puppy, but not so the other children. They lie tense, waiting.

  The bell tolls, echoing through the silent passages, like a stone dropped down a great well shaft. Huddled beneath the thin blankets, the boys silently count – eight, nine, ten. Still they lie awake. It is not safe to sleep yet.

  As the air trembles with the last chime, the door swings open. Half roused by the bell, the sudden gust of chill air on his cheek makes Regulus open his eyes. A monstrous white bird hovers in the doorway. The boy tries to scream, but no sound escapes him. He pulls the blanket over his head, holding his breath, but the dust and
fear make him choke and he stifles a cough. Has it heard him? Is it the lantern-man come to carry him off?

  He hears a faint scraping, like a bird’s claws, across the stone flags. The scaly feet are pattering nearer and nearer. He can hear them. Almost rigid with terror he presses himself down into the straw of his pallet, but that makes the straw rustle. There is a tiny shriek, like the cry of a mouse when the silent owl pounces, but Regulus is not the boy who cries out.

  He pulls the blanket down just enough to peep out with one eye. A figure is bending over one boy’s pallet, holding a guttering candle over the bed. Regulus sees it is not a bird at all, but a man dressed in white robes, his hood drawn low over his face. He drags the boy up from his pallet by his arm, and silently waits while the boy wrestles his shirt over his pale, skinny chest and gropes his feet into sandals, which he fumbles to fasten.

  The robed man grows impatient. He seizes the boy by the shoulder, and propels him towards the door before his shoe is secure. The boy walks with a lopsided shuffle trying to keep a grip on his sandal, but on the steps leading up to the door, he loses it and it bounces back down, as if trying to flee back to the safety of the pallet. The boy turns, trying to retrieve it, but the robed man pushes him towards the door. As he lifts the candle to illuminate the iron ring, the light catches the boy’s face. His cheeks are wet with tears, his face contorted, but he makes no sound as he is led out into the bitter night. The great door closes behind him.

  Regulus dreams he is pissing into a giant pot, but it’s running out through a hole and he can’t stop it. Felix is shouting at him, Fill it up! Fill it up! But it’s all running out. Beneath the blanket, something hot trickles down the sleeping boy’s leg. The little king has wet his bed.