The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  She held out a meaty hand for the money. Her palm was so calloused and thickened with scars, she looked as if she could easily grip a red-hot iron without flinching. A useful skill were she ever to find herself tried by ordeal for murder, and I could well believe she had been – several times.

  Not wishing to be dragged off to languish in some dank dungeon, I could see no alternative but to tell her my story and throw myself on her mercy.

  ‘Mistress Ibby, I confess I cannot pay you, though I swear on the Holy Virgin that I had every intention of doing so. The truth is I’ve been crushed by ill fortune. I was to have met my father here. He sent me word he was arriving by a ship and I was to see him safely ashore and accompany him to the shrine at Walsingham, for he’s blind and near-crippled and cannot travel alone. He wanted to make the pilgrimage for his soul’s sake. He knows his end is near. But the ship has not put into port. I don’t know if it’s lost, or merely delayed. I couldn’t sleep for worrying about my poor, helpless father. I was just on my way to the quayside again to ask if anyone had seen his ship or had word of it.’

  Any woman with so much as a mote of compassion in her would have taken pity on a desperate lad, particularly one who might be about to discover he was an orphan, but Mistress Ibby merely stood there, arms akimbo, eyes steel-hard and lips pursed as tight as those of an abbess who’d caught one of her nuns in bed with a monk.

  For several moments she stared at me, before the corners of her mouth began to twitch as if she was trying to suppress a laugh. ‘I’ll give you credit for the tale, lad. Most can come up with nowt better than – I was robbed. Even known some to give themselves a black eye just to make it look convincing. But I’ll say to you what I say to all of them. If you don’t want me to call the constable, you’ve got two choices. You give me what valuables you’ve got, and if they’ll cover what you owe, I’ll say no more about it, or if you’ve nothing worth the selling, you’ll have to work off what you owe.’

  I hesitated. The only thing of value I had was the raven’s head, but that was worth far more than I owed. If I surrendered it, I’d be left with nothing. I still entertained hopes that I could sell it if I travelled inland. Those living along the coast were bound to be infected with the fears and superstitions of the seamen who, as everyone knows, are a strange and contrary breed. They refuse even to utter the word pig in case it brings them misfortune, and though all normal men carry a hare’s foot to protect them from colic and ague of the bones, the sailor thinks his ship is doomed if anyone should bring a hare’s foot aboard.

  I shrugged helplessly. ‘I regret I’ve nothing valuable to offer as surety. If I had I would willingly give three times what I owe. But as soon as my father arrives, he’ll pay you handsomely when I tell him you’ve entertained me as if I was your own kin.’

  ‘That so, is it?’ she said, in a tone that suggested she thought it more likely the King of England would take her as his wife. ‘I’ll tell you what, while we wait for this poor, blind father of yours to crawl here, why don’t I find you some work to do, just to pass the time, like?’

  She looked me up and down as if weighing up what tasks I might be suited to. There was some talk of midden heaps that needed clearing, which might have led me to mention my work at the Fiery Angel in Canterbury. Chatting to convivial customers in a warm ale-room sounded infinitely preferable to digging out some stinking dung heap in the cold and rain. How hard could it be to serve a few mugs of ale? Flatter the men, flirt with the women, and they’d be bound to stand me a drink or toss me some coins. But I’d have no chance of earning any extra money if I was shovelling shit and stinking like a beggar’s backside.

  And so it was that I found myself working for Mistress Ibby, mostly in the kitchen, scrubbing a mountain of pots or acting as scullion for the girl who did the cooking. After a few days up to the armpits in grease, my eyes stinging from the fumes of burning fat, my chest and arms blistered to the bone from cranking the spit over a roaring fire, I wished I’d chosen the peace and cool of the midden heap.

  But Ibby was not ungenerous to her servants: the pallet on which I slept was much warmer and more comfortable than my old one in Gaspard’s turret and at least there was always plenty to eat, for she let us eat our fill of whatever was left after the paying customers had departed. After the weeks I’d spent hiding in rain-soaked forests and ruined barns, I’d learned to appreciate the comforts of a full belly and a warm fire to curl up beside, as the sea wind rattled the shutters.

  Gradually, I even worked my way back into the ale-room as I learned to carry several flagons at once, like the girls, and to ladle pottage onto the customers’ trencher-bread without landing hot dollops in their laps.

  It is easy to find yourself becoming woven into a repeating pattern of days, so that you scarcely notice you have become entangled in a net. You mean to move on, but it is always the next day, then the next. And I don’t know how long I might have remained working in that inn had it not been for a chance remark I overheard one night as I was serving customers in the woodsmoke fug of its ale-room.

  At first I was so preoccupied with remembering what I was to fetch from the kitchen that it wasn’t until I was walking towards the courtyard door that my mind registered what my ears had heard or, at least, the import of it. The three men at the table had drained the best part of two flagons of cider, and their voices were growing louder, as was their recklessness. The wretch they were pillorying was none other than Lynn’s bailiff, a man by the name of Robert de Drayton, and what they were saying about him was not merely enough to have him dismissed from his post but to put him on the gallows, if the crime could be proved. As I stood in the sharp wind of the darkened courtyard, the realisation drenched me like a pail of iced water – never mind those sinners at Walsingham, right here in Lynn was a man in dire need of a story and he’d have the money to pay handsomely for it, too.

  That night, after the maids and Mistress Ibby had gone to their beds, I stretched my pallet out before the banked-down fire of the ale-room and, carefully unwrapping Lugh from his wool-lined nest, I recounted all I’d learned about the bailiff. ‘So all I need now, Lugh, is a story – a story for which Robert de Drayton will pay the earth to silence those braying tongues.’

  And I swear I saw a glint of malicious pleasure in the old raven’s eye.

  Chapter 30

  There are four degrees of fire: the first slow and mild as of flesh or embryo; the second moderate and temperate, as of the sun in June; the third, great and strong, as of a calcining fire; the fourth, burning and vehement as of fusion.

  The white-robed man sidles into the chamber and, bending his head, mutters something in Father John’s ear. Regulus recognises the intruder as Father Madron, who came to the cottage with Father John to fetch him here. He looks scarcely older than Felix, all bone, with sharp cheekbones and knobbly wrists. All the boys are darting curious glances at the pair as they whisper together, trying to hear without raising their heads from their wax-coated writing tablets. Father Madron steps back a pace and waits, sliding his reddened hands into his white sleeves.

  Father John coughs and lifts his head, peering down the row of boys. ‘Felix, Peter and . . .’ Father John pauses, his gaze stalking round the table. All the boys are intently studying their tablets, or their fingers, trying not to draw themselves to Father John’s attention, all except Regulus. At the mention of Felix’s name, Regulus’s head jerks up and he glances anxiously at the older boy’s face. Felix has become his soothsayer.

  When his mother wanted the future told or an omen interpreted she would visit the old charcoal-burner in the forest. He was too old and eaten up with ague to build the charcoal hearths himself any more, but he would watch the earth-covered mounds and tell his sons where to pour a pail of water on the hearth for fear of it opening up, and when to break the crust. They had been making charcoal themselves since they were knee-high, so they hardly needed their father to remind them, but he did anyway.

  But none of
his sons could read the future in the cooking fire, like the old man. Ask him a question and, depending on what you wanted to know, he’d throw a feather or a nut, a blackbird’s egg or a forked twig into the embers and watch how it burned. Did it smoulder or pop? Did it shrivel or flare or twist? It was all written in the flames, he’d say. As the sailors used the stars to find their way across the raging oceans, so he used fire to guide him through the dark world. Regulus loved to watch the old man muttering away, pointing to a shape in the flames. The boy could never see anything at first, save red embers, grey ash and charred black wood, but the old man would trace a shape in the air with his twisted hands.

  ‘There, boy, see it? A fish leaping – that there’s a good sign. Goats and pigs’ll all drop a good litter this year and chickens’ll lay plenty of eggs. Reckon your mam might drop another bairn ’n’ all.’

  Once he’d outlined the shape in the air, Regulus could see it, too, as clearly as if a real fish was swimming through a red sea, a fish with a black head and a fiery eye.

  Now, instead of reading fires, Regulus reads Felix’s face. If Felix looks unconcerned the boy’s breathing eases, but if the skin is puckered between Felix’s sandy brows Regulus’s heart starts to race. He studies him now, but Felix looks more sullen than fearful. Regulus is relieved. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Felix. As long as Felix is here, he is safe.

  ‘And Regulus,’ Father John says.

  The boy starts violently. He’s been so concerned that Felix has been chosen, he never thought his own name might be called.

  ‘You are excused lessons this morning. Father Madron has need of you. Off you go.’ Father John flicks his hand in an impatient gesture. Felix scrambles to his feet and the other two boys follow. They trail after Father Madron out into the grey morning. The canon shivers in spite of his thick robes.

  ‘A spiteful breeze this morning, boys,’ he says. ‘But we’ll soon be out of it.’

  If anything, the outside feels warmer to the boys than their dorter, for they are rarely permitted a fire, but nonetheless they quicken their pace to keep up with Father Madron, who is plainly anxious to be back inside.

  Regulus keeps glancing at Felix’s face, but there is no old man’s hand hovering above it to make the reading clear. They stop in front of a low oak door, which looks like all the others in the abbey until Father Madron opens it and Regulus sees the stone staircase winding down. Then he knows. Then he remembers. Panic-stricken, he edges close to Felix. The older boy briefly squeezes his shoulder.

  ‘It’s daytime and there’s three of us,’ he whispers. ‘It’s only at night, alone, you have to worry.’

  Regulus feels a little better, but not much. He presses his hand to the wall as they descend in single file behind Father Madron. They pass the door to the room where he slept, or tried to sleep, that first night and then they are in the vaulted chamber. Day and night have no meaning down here. Only the flickering torches and fragile candle flames hold back the tide of darkness. But this time no braziers burn and the thick black liquid in the bottom of the glass flasks is still and cold.

  The magpie squats at the top of the shelves. It gives a swift chacker-chacker and turns its back on them, annoyed at being disturbed. Regulus wonders if it has ever flown free in the forest, if it has ever seen the sun.

  Father Madron clears his throat and his prominent Adam’s apple bobs up and down, making him look like a snake that has swallowed a mouse. He points at Felix. ‘You’re a good strong lad. The dung in all these containers needs taking upstairs and tipping on the midden heap. It’s old and the heat’s gone from it. We’ll need fresh. And then the water needs emptying from that vat.’ He indicates a huge wooden vessel, like a giant barrel, resting on six small stone pillars. The open top is high above Regulus’s head and he cannot see inside. ‘There’s a wooden bung underneath it. Pull it out and the water will drain away down that gully beneath,’ Father Madron continues. ‘Then collect fresh water and wash the vat out thoroughly. Don’t spill any on the floor. If any of the fathers should slip . . .’

  Father Madron leaves the threat of what will befall Felix unspoken and it is the worse for that.

  ‘Why can’t the lay brothers do it?’ Felix grumbles. ‘They’re the ones who are supposed to carry water and shit.’

  Regulus is startled. He’s never heard Felix or any of the boys challenge Father John. They wouldn’t dare. Father Madron takes a pace forward, his face flushed. Regulus is afraid he is going to hit Felix.

  ‘The lay brothers are not permitted down here,’ he says, then adds, with an attempt at authority, ‘Besides, I dare say Father John selected you because he believes you might benefit from a lesson in humility and I see he was correct.’

  It is Felix who flushes this time. He opens his mouth, but the mention of Father John seems to remind him that it is not wise to risk further defiance. Sullenly he heaves up one of the containers of dung, deliberately brushing it against the back of Father Madron’s white robe, leaving a thick brown stripe. The young canon appears not to notice. Peter and Regulus catch each other’s eye, a fit of giggles bubbling up in both of them.

  Father Madron regards them suspiciously, but seems to conclude their laughter is caused by Felix being reprimanded. ‘There’s no cause for you two to smirk. You boys will not find your task any less instructive. Father John selected you both because you are the smallest. You two will clean the well of the furnace at the top and also underneath, where the fire usually burns. A vessel cracked in the well above and the contents ran through the holes into the fire chamber beneath. You’ll have to crawl through the stoking hole and scrape the inside clean so that the fire will burn clear. It’s been extinguished for many hours and the furnace is cold now. But you’d best strip off your clothes. They’ll get filthy and, besides, they might catch on something and trap you. Peter, you’re a little bigger. You’d better take the top. Regulus can crawl into the hole.’

  Regulus stares at the tunnel that leads into the bottom of the furnace. He is not even sure it is wide enough to wriggle through. How big will it be inside? What if he gets stuck and can’t get out? He is close to tears.

  ‘You heard what I said,’ Father Madron snaps. ‘Take off your clothes or you’ll be in there all day.’

  Regulus fumbles hopelessly with the knot that fastens the top of his tunic. Fear makes him clumsy. After watching him for a few moments, Father Madron slaps his hands away and begins to undress the boy himself. Regulus does not resist. He has been here long enough to know that it is useless.

  Peter is already wriggling out of the last of his clothes. He does not want Father Madron to change his mind and send him through the hole.

  ‘Regulus, you’d better wait until Peter has finished, else the soot he dislodges will fall through the holes and choke you. You can fetch a besom and be ready to sweep up any dirt that falls out of the fire hole.’

  Peter grimaces as Father Madron inserts his cold hands under his naked armpits and thighs and swings him up in his arms, depositing him in the well of the furnace. The young canon hands the boy a scraper and a brush. Peter, crouching awkwardly in the narrow space, sets to work. Powdery soot and burned fragments begin to tumble down the holes in the base and trickle out of the stoking tunnel beneath.

  Clumsily, Regulus sweeps it into a pile, but the dust refuses to lie still, swirling up again each time he moves. His legs and hands are black with it.

  Father Madron has moved to the other side of the pillar, where he is replacing bottles and boxes on the shelves, but each time Regulus looks up he sees the man’s head turned in their direction. He is watching them intently. Regulus thinks it is to ensure they are working hard. He will tell Father John if they are not. The boy tries to make the cloud of soot behave, but it will not lie still.

  ‘Wet it,’ Felix hisses.

  Regulus flushes. He can’t piss on it. Not here, while Father Madron watches. But Felix dips his hand in the pail of water he carries and sprinkles it on th
e soot. It forms little clumps that cling together long enough for Regulus to collect them. He is grateful.

  Soon, much too soon, Peter sings out that he has finished. Father Madron peers over the edge of the furnace to inspect his work, pointing out odd places he has missed, but finally he sets a stool beside the furnace and tells the boy he can climb out. He does not seem so eager to lift Peter out now that he resembles an imp from Hell, rather than a cherub.

  Regulus laughs, for Peter’s eyes in his blackened face look startlingly white. He does not look like Peter at all but an actor in the Christmas mummers’ play. Peter grins back, but Regulus’s smile freezes as Father Madron takes the scraper and brush from Peter’s hand and gives them to him. He gestures to the narrow opening at the bottom of the furnace.

  ‘In you go, boy.’

  Regulus edges towards the furnace. Father Madron pushes him down until he is crouching on the floor.

  ‘Lie down and wriggle in,’ Father Madron urges. ‘It’s not dark in there. There’s plenty of light from the holes.’

  Regulus peers at the tunnel. It looks dark. ‘What if I get stuck?’

  ‘Peter will hold your ankles and pull you back out when you ask him to,’ Father Madron says. ‘The sooner you get started the sooner you’ll be out.’

  Regulus feels something pressing on his backside, pushing him in. He thinks at first it might be the sole of Father Madron’s shoe, but then he feels fingers moving against his goose-pimpled skin and knows it is a cold hand pressing against him. He wonders if Father Madron has a birch, like Father John. He can almost hear the whistle of it above his naked rump. He crawls rapidly inside.

  The tunnel is not long, two or three foot maybe. A faint light filters down into the fire chamber ahead of him. Regulus wriggles in a little further, though not too far in case Peter cannot touch his feet. He starts to cough. The stone is not hot, but it is still warm to the touch and that is enough to remind Regulus of where he is. Suppose someone lights a fire while he is in here? The scar round his finger suddenly burns, like it did that night he fell into the hearth. The flames of the torches on the walls are dancing over the holes above his head. He can’t breathe. He’s growing hotter. The flames are licking down the holes now. Sweat greases his naked body. He will be roasted alive. He starts to scream.