The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  Chapter 13

  Saturn is the planet of death: look, this one has brought the black mantle of the raven’s head.

  There were two tracks that wound through the river valley to Ricey-Bas. The broader one was favoured by soldiers on the march and by men driving carts or women herding squawking geese or plodding cows. This track followed every twist and turn of the River Laigne, skirting fields of grain and vineyards, and marked by numerous wayside chapels where men might light a candle to their favourite saint to pray for a safe journey and a good day’s trading in the market.

  The higher track, on the opposite side of the river, was much straighter, though steep, rough and narrow. It was fit only for single riders and foot travellers. I agonised over which would be the better route. If I took the broader track there was a chance I could beg a lift on a cart, which was certainly tempting. But the ground was sodden after the rain and there was a risk of carts and wagons getting stuck in water-filled ruts, with any passing man being pressed into pushing it out. I’d no wish to spend my day with my shoulder to a cartwheel, being splattered with mud and dung for my pains.

  I made for the river and parted with one of the precious coins Philippe had given me to pay the ferryman to row me across. At the start of the forest path, where the track parted company from the river, there was a small shrine to the patron saint of travellers, St Julian the Hospitaller, who had accidentally slain his own mother and father and spent his life running a pilgrim’s inn as penance. But I passed without stopping. I didn’t intend to waste a single coin or prayer on the fellow. I was only going out for a day’s stroll after all, and when you have a man as powerful as Philippe as your patron and protector, you’re hardly in need of the favours of a dead innkeeper, who was so witless he mistook his own parents for his wife and her lover.

  The autumn leaves on the trees had turned every hue between buttercup yellow and ruby red, and as the wind rattled the branches, they spiralled up the hillside. Winter was not far off, but at least this year I’d be sleeping in the great hall before the huge fire, not in that draughty turret with the wind shrieking through the shutters and Gaspard’s dry old bones lying between me and the miserly heat from the brazier.

  The wooden box bounced against my thigh as I walked. If the surly ferryman had known what I had hidden under my cloak, he would have been far more polite to me, instead of treating me like a beggar. New clothes: that would be the first thing I’d demand from Philippe – and I’d hold him to those riding lessons too. I had a vision of myself leading the hunt for the stag, riding out ahead of the field and dazzling Amée with my horsemanship as I leaped boldly over fallen trees and ditches that her other suitors feared even to attempt. I patted the bag of food she’d prepared for me. She was the most wonderful girl.

  Spurred on by my daydreams, I strode out confidently along that forest track. Running up and down all those steps in the tower had made me as fit as a hound of the chase, or so I thought, but I soon discovered it wasn’t the best training for paths like these and I kept stumbling over tree roots concealed beneath the rain-sodden leaves or slipping on loose stones that had fallen down from higher up the slope.

  In the first couple of miles, a few people passed me, making their way down towards the river crossing – two old women carrying live ducks in panniers, a crook-backed pedlar and a couple of children with bundles of kindling on their heads. They all grunted a greeting of sorts, but the wind was too sharp and the daylight too short to waste time in gossip. For the last hour or so the track had been deserted, so I was all the more startled when a voice rang out above me.

  ‘Polecat, Polecat! . . . I’s been a-waiting for you.’

  I heard something slithering and crashing down the bank above me. I gave a shriek and almost slipped off the path. It was as if part of the forest had reared up from the leaf mould and formed itself into the crude shape of a man. It hurtled towards me and I retreated almost as fast. It came to a halt a few feet from me, its head tilted to one side, staring curiously at me.

  ‘I’s waited, Polecat. I’s waited just like you said. Didn’t tell no one.’

  It was only then that I saw this was no forest sprite, but a man of flesh and blood, whose grimy skin was tanned to beechnut brown. He wasn’t exactly dressed: his naked body was hung with rags of coarse brown sacking, woven through with leaves and twigs. His wild, matted hair bushed out from beneath the tattered remains of a cloth hood, decorated with bracken, feathers, withered flowers and what might have been an old bird’s nest.

  ‘You find the gold, did you, Polecat, did you?’

  ‘I’m not Polecat,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me.’

  The tree-man peered at me uncertainly through his shaggy locks. ‘Polecat?’

  ‘No, not Polecat, Vincent. My name is Vincent.’

  ‘You seen him? You seen my Polecat? When’s Polecat coming back?’

  I had no idea who this friend or relative was, but I knew it would be futile to explain that. I wondered how long the poor old bastard had been waiting for this man – years probably, by the look of it. I thought it safest to humour the wretched creature. ‘Polecat told me to tell you he’s coming soon, very soon.’

  I turned away, striding on up the narrow track on the steep hillside, and for a few yards the man kept pace with me, lolloping sideways through the leaf mould, as sure-footed as a mountain goat on the steep, slippery bank.

  ‘Polecat’s a-coming,’ he sang over and over, like an excited child. Then, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, he confided, ‘When he brings the gold, I’s going to buy a new hat . . . Sssh, sssh, don’t tell them about the gold. Mustn’t tell.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, trying to quicken my pace to get away from him.

  ‘You’ll fetch the gold for me, Polecat?’ His tone was suddenly anxious.

  ‘I’m just going to fetch it now,’ I told him. ‘You wait here. Don’t move. I’ll be back.’

  That seemed to pacify him, for he stopped following me, and when I cautiously squinted behind me, he’d vanished, as if he’d sunk back into the leaf mould from which he was formed.

  After that, I saw no one. The trees grew closer together in that stretch of forest. The branches intertwined so that, even though the leaves were falling, it was like walking deeper and deeper into a cavern. Several times, I thought I heard someone walking behind me, feet shuffling through dried leaves, twigs snapping. Was that madman stalking me? But when I whirled round, the path was empty.

  A worse thought struck me. Maybe a wild boar was preparing to charge or a wolf was stalking me. I suppressed the urge to run, knowing that if a predator was following that would only encourage it to give chase. But I’d come too far to turn back and take the other road. There was nothing for it but to press on and eventually, when no madman leaped out at me and no ravening beast sank its teeth into me, I was able to convince myself that the rustling was only squirrels and the footsteps just nuts falling in the wind.

  My stomach growled and I pulled the sack of food from my shoulder. I was gratified to find that, in addition to fresh wheaten bread, the adorable Amée had furnished me with cheese, onions, apples, a roasted pig’s trotter and two meat pastries. My only disappointment was that the leather bottle, which I had hoped would contain some more of Philippe’s good red wine, had been filled with the white wine they issued to the servants, sour and as weak as nuns’ piss. But perhaps that was to the good. A rich wine would only have made me drowsy.

  The sun had swung well past midday, but I’d dared not stop to eat. I’d no means of telling how much further off the town lay and I certainly didn’t want to find myself still in the forest when twilight crept in. So I ate as I walked, hoping that the smell of food wouldn’t attract any animals. Best to eat the pig’s trotter first: then I could fling the bones behind me. If a lynx or wolf was following, that at least would distract them.

  After the trotter, I devoured one of the pastries which was every bit as succulent as it loo
ked, and after a good swig of wine to wash it down, I strode out again, blessing the sweet name of Amée. When I returned I would have the perfect excuse to seek her out and speak with her – just to thank her for the food, of course.

  I tried to quicken my pace, but I was not accustomed to walking for miles, and I began to feel as if I was wearing lead boots. My legs would scarcely hold me up. A wave of cold sweat broke over me. I thought I was going to vomit. The path lurched under my feet, as if it had been transformed into a twisting serpent. I staggered, trying to keep my balance, but even the trees seemed to be tipping, as if they were slowly falling to the ground. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear them. Everything was blurred, as if my head was under water.

  I never saw the rope lying across the path ahead, only glimpsed the movement as it sprang taut at shin height, but by that time it was too late. I was already tumbling over it, sprawling face down on the path. A man sprang out of the trees, his staff raised above my head. But I had lived with Gaspard long enough to sense a blow when it was coming. I rolled out from under it and grabbed his ankle, jerking it upwards and sending him crashing to the ground.

  I glimpsed his face screwed up in pain as he tried to right himself. But I barely had time to scramble out of his way when two more men were upon me, kicking and battering me with their staves. I covered my head with my arms, rolling myself into a ball, yelping in pain as the blows landed on my back and sides. I screamed out, pleading for them to stop, begging them to take anything I had, but spare my life.

  I heard someone yell, ‘Your knife, man, use your knife and finish the little turd.’

  In desperation, I struggled to my knees and tried to crawl away, but another blow across my back knocked me flat again.

  There was a roar somewhere above me. ‘I’s kill you! I’s kill you if you hurt him!’

  An arrow whooshed over my head. It must have struck one of my assailants, for he gave a sharp cry and the stave dropped from his hand. A second arrow followed and a third in quick succession, but both missed their mark. The men held their ground. Then I heard something lumbering down the hillside through the dried leaves, roaring like a wounded bull. With yelps of fear the men stumbled over me and ran. I was dimly aware of the distant sound of men tearing headlong through the trees, before pain and dizziness engulfed me and all the world grew dark.

  I came to in a fit of coughing and tried to open my eyes. My eyelids rasped as if they were being dragged over sand. I could see nothing, except a flickering red glow. Two agonising sensations hit me in the same instant – the side of my face was burning and there was a searing pain in my ribs, as if they’d been pounded with a blacksmith’s hammer. For one terrible moment I thought I’d died and was being tortured in Hell, but as I tried to pull my head away from the heat, I felt the cold, damp earth beneath me. I wasn’t in Hell, then. I gritted my teeth against the pain of moving and shifted my weight, trying to make sense of where I found myself.

  I was lying with my head dangerously close to a fire trench and my outstretched feet pressed against a large rock. By the glow of the smouldering wood, I could see I was in some kind of shallow pit excavated between two large boulders, with the rock that lay at my feet forming the back wall. The top was covered with a dome of densely woven branches. The fire pit guarded the narrow entrance to this hut, if such a basic shelter could even own a name, and was presumably intended to keep out any wild beasts that might be tempted in for food or shelter. I coughed again, clutching at my ribs, as the wind gusted the smoke back inside the hut.

  Outside, the forest lay in darkness, but there was no way to tell the hour of the night. Just how long had I been unconscious? With my ribs screaming in protest, I tried to ease myself into a sitting position, and only then did I see that what I’d taken to be a heap of leaves was in fact a body, lying motionless beside me. It was the tree-man, the one who’d mistaken me for his friend.

  It was as if time was turning backwards and fragments of broken images were rearranging themselves in my mind, like pieces of a shattered pot coming back together.

  I’d been beaten, that much I remembered almost immediately, and it must have been the tree-man who had frightened off my assailants. But who had attacked me? Robbers! There was no shortage of those ready to prey on lonely travellers. Philippe had said I’d be safer on foot, so as not to draw attention to what I was carrying . . . As the thought struck me, I fumbled for the leather bag I’d hung around my waist and felt, to my utter relief, the hard outline of the wooden box inside. The small purse of coins hanging on the opposite side of my belt was still there as well. Neither the robbers nor my rescuer had discovered either one.

  But my relief turned swiftly to puzzlement. The first thing footpads do is knock their victim off his feet, then, as he lies stunned, rapidly feel all over his body, cutting away any purses or ingots and running off before he has a chance to cry out. It was said that some thieves could do it so swiftly they were gone before he’d even landed on the ground. Why waste time beating your victim and risk being disturbed?

  Stray words bobbed about in my head. One had shouted something – Finish the little turd! They’d intended to kill me! They were actually going to murder me. So it wasn’t a robbery at all. But why? What was I to them?

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to think. I saw the features of a disembodied face as if it was drifting towards me through the woodsmoke. It was the face of the man who’d led the attack. The features had been distorted with pain and rage as I’d sent him crashing to the ground, but now that the fog was clearing from my brain, I recognised him only too clearly. It was that bastard Charles, Philippe’s arse-licker.

  He must have got wind of the mission Philippe had entrusted to me and followed me, determined that I’d fail and be disgraced in Philippe’s eyes. Charles certainly wouldn’t want me to supplant him as Philippe’s trusted man and he wouldn’t think twice about stabbing his own best friend, let alone some lowly apprentice, not when the prize was Amée and all the fortune that went with her. Just wait until I told Philippe about this! He’d have the little weasel thrown out of the château in the clothes he stood up in, or even without them. I grinned to myself at the image. It had almost been worth taking a beating just to see that louse banished.

  The smoke from the fire sent me into another coughing fit and I clutched my ribs against the searing pain. I tried not to groan aloud, though nothing seemed to disturb my snoring companion. I lay still, considering what to do. Should I return to Philippe immediately and warn him about Charles or deliver the raven’s head first, as he’d told me to do? The question was, would Charles and his cronies be waiting for me further along the track, determined to finish what they’d started? I would be if I were them, especially since Charles was bound to think I’d recognised him. He’d apparently been so sure of killing me in the first attack that he hadn’t even bothered to disguise himself.

  Maybe the answer was to double back in the dark as far as the river, then cross over and take the lower path to the town from there. Always assuming I could find my way back, since I had no idea where the tree-man had brought me.

  I wondered whether to ask him to guide me, but it was probably best to try to slip out without waking him. For I’d noticed that, in addition to his bow and arrows, a wicked-looking axe lay beside his right hand, where he could snatch it up at the first whisper of danger. If he was still suffering from the delusion that I was Polecat, he might not be keen to let me go, and if I told him I wasn’t, he could turn nasty. Who knew if he’d even remember rescuing me? Suddenly roused from sleep, he’d probably think I was a stranger come to attack him.

  A log in the fire pit collapsed, shooting red sparks into the darkness, and filling the sunken bothy with more smoke. But the tree-man didn’t stir. It was a wonder to me he hadn’t set himself ablaze long before now. He really was a sound sleeper. Still, doubtless you learned to be, living out there, with the creaking of the trees and the shrieks of unseen beasts as your only lullaby.


  I’d lived rough for most of my early childhood, but always in the town, sheltering in doorways or church porches or beneath a cart in the corner of some workman’s yard. Towns never slumber. There are always footsteps and dogs barking, babies yelling from a nearby house, women shrieking or drunks roaring. I knew what town noises signified. But in the forest a rustle might be nothing more sinister than the wind stirring leaves, or it could be the last sound you heard before a boar ripped your belly open. I shivered. I had no desire to leave the comfort of the fire and venture out into that darkness, but my best chance of evading Charles was to move before dawn.

  I attempted to roll over and ease myself onto all fours. It wasn’t easy in the cramped space. It was all I could do to stop myself screaming at the pain in my ribs and back, and I couldn’t prevent the odd gasp and squeak escaping. But as I struggled forward, my foot slipped under me, hitting the tree-man’s leg. I froze, gasping for breath, but even the hard knock didn’t wake him. If it hadn’t been for his snoring, I would have thought him dead. Maybe he was dead drunk. I glanced down and saw that my sack of food lay across his legs. The leather bottle was on his chest and the crust of what looked like the remaining meat pie. He’d doubtless swigged the rest of the wine but, even so, the nuns’ piss in that bottle wouldn’t have been strong enough to send a baby to sleep.

  At that moment the final fragment of memory slid into place. Just before the ambush I’d suddenly felt so drowsy . . . couldn’t see properly. I was dizzy, staggering as if I was drunk . . . but I wasn’t drunk! I’d been drugged, just as this man was now. Drugged by the food or drink Amée had given me.

  But she couldn’t have known, not my beautiful, innocent Amée. Someone else must have put— Who was I trying to fool? She’d made a point of telling me she had packed the food sack herself, carefully selected the contents. Only she could have drugged it. Charles must have persuaded her to do it. He’d probably told her it was a joke and convinced her it would merely make me sleep so that he could steal the raven’s head and deliver it himself to gain Philippe’s favour and make me look a fool. I flushed with humiliation at the thought of the two of them laughing together at the stupid apprentice.