The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she promises. ‘Do you have a name, so I can call to you when I come?’

  She can barely make out the whispered sob of his reply.

  ‘P-Peter.’

  Chapter 35

  He should avoid having anything to do with princes and nobles.

  I limped into the market square, trying to walk on the heel of my left leg. The ball of my foot, where the nail had gone in, was hot and painful. The whole foot was beginning to swell alarmingly. I needed a good physician to draw the poison from it. A night spent sleeping in a leaking goat byre, which was the most luxurious shelter I could find, had left me cold, aching and in a foul humour.

  But my mood was slightly lifted by seeing that I had arrived in Langley on market day. Now, I do enjoy a lively market, not that I’d gone to many when I was walled up in old Gaspard’s turret, but as a child in Winchester I’d loved watching the jugglers and dancing bears, dark-skinned merchants in their colourful robes and pink-cheeked fisher-girls prising open their oysters to tempt goodwives with the plump, glistening flesh. Every way you turned you’d catch a whiff of something different – exotic spices and roasting pork, perfumed Castile soap and fresh peaches. But the market at Langley held no such excitement.

  It reeked of necessity not pleasure, of cabbage not cinnamon. In one corner, faded women were selling off whatever they could spare from their tofts, a couple of threadbare chickens, a few onions or some dried peas scooped up in wooden bowls and trickled into a sack held by some gimlet-eyed hag, who would shriek as though she was being ravished if she thought her measure short by so much as one withered pea. Butchers proffered hunks of meat so dry I’d have sworn they’d been trying to sell the same piece for a month.

  The salmon and cod fish smelt none too fresh either and even the carp gasping in their barrels of green water looked ready to hurl themselves on the ground to end their misery. There were a few beasts on sale, mostly unwanted billy kids or cows and goats that had ceased giving milk, but there was scarcely enough meat on their sharp bones to feed the most ascetic of hermits.

  The most animated section of the market was occupied by the craftsmen and those who had sailed their tiny craft downriver to Langley from the neighbouring villages. They shouted their wares, proclaiming the cheapness of their threads and needles, axe heads and knives, pots and pails, oxen yokes and leather belts. All sturdy and serviceable, but fashioned without any attempt to decorate them, and I could see why: the few goodwives and men who rooted about the stalls were as dully clad and unadorned as the pails and beakers they were haggling for. There were only two qualities the Langley folk considered – would it stand up to hard wear and was it cheap? They’d no money to waste on anything as frivolous as beauty.

  The wooden box rocked beneath my cloak. Lugh was growing restless.

  ‘You’re right,’ I murmured. ‘There doesn’t look to be a man in these parts with spirit enough to get a nun with child, or a wife with the energy to care about it if he did. As soon as I find someone to tend my foot, I’m off to find a town with more life about it, for where there’s life there’s scandal.’

  What I should have done, of course, was to heed the warning of the Seven Whistlers and hobble out of Langley just as fast as my one and a half feet could carry me, but if the beetle could see the boot about to descend on it, it wouldn’t hang around waiting to get crushed. So, fool that I was, I limped up to a goodwife who was dragging a small tow-haired child by one hand and a skeletal cow by the other and enquired politely if there was a competent physician in the town.

  She studied me for an age, her eyes narrowed, as if she was weighing up the merits of the numerous physicians Langley had to offer. The child and cow tugged her fretfully in different directions, but she ignored them. ‘You don’t want to waste time on physicians. They only send you to fetch physic from the apothecary. May as well go to him straight off. That way you’ll not be charged twice.’ She jerked her chin towards the street that ran off the square. ‘Try the apothecary up yonder street. He’s a good ’un. Saint, if you ask me. What he has to put up with from his wife would drive most men to murder. Most husbands would have sent her packing long since and got themselves a new woman, one as could cook and clean, instead of lying about expecting to be waited on.’

  Now that the woman had started, she was like a broached keg. The gossip flowed out of her and I began to fear I’d never get away.

  ‘Course, he used to have his niece to help him. Quiet little thing she was, plain as pease pottage.’

  I thought this a trifle unkind, given that the straggle-haired gossip had a face that resembled a badly carved gargoyle. ‘My thanks,’ I said, turning away to face the street she’d shown me.

  But she was far from done talking. She’d sold me her knowledge, and she was determined I should pay the price by listening. She stepped in front of me so that I was hemmed in by woman, cow and child.

  ‘I was telling you about the girl. Queer affair, if you ask me.’

  I hadn’t, but she ignored that minor point. She leaned closer. Her breath smelt of onion and, for some inexplicable reason, wet dog.

  ‘This niece of his is working up at the manor. But the old baron’s only ever had manservants in the manor for as long as anyone can recall. A woman’s not stepped over the threshold since his wife ran off and left him. Not that any women from these parts would venture near him. Cruel as the east wind, so they say. But now, after years of keeping away from townsfolk, the old baron’s sent for the apothecary’s niece to work for him, if you ever heard of such a thing. And what does he want with her? That’s what I’d like to know. Whatever it is, it can’t be decent, for the girl has told her aunt Ebba nothing about what she gets up to in the manor, save he asks her to grind and mix things.

  ‘“What things?” Ebba asks the girl.

  ‘“Herbs,” the girl says.

  ‘“Is he setting up his own apothecary shop now?” she asks the girl.

  ‘But the girl tells her aunt she doesn’t know.’ The woman snorts in disbelief. ‘How can she not know what’s she’s mixing? And if there’s mixing to be done, why can’t one of his manservants do it? Course, I reckon Ebba encouraged the girl to make sheep’s eyes at him in the hopes he’d wed her. Ebba’s always been one to hanker after roast swan when anyone else would be grateful for a bite of boiled chicken. But it stands to reason, a man as wealthy as the baron wouldn’t wed a girl like that, especially when her father . . . Well, you know what they say about her father.’

  I didn’t, but at that moment I was far more interested in the wealthy baron than some penniless girl’s father. In fact, I was so interested that the throbbing in my foot had almost vanished. Curiosity is better than any apothecary’s draught for relieving pain.

  ‘You said this man’s wife ran off? Who with?’

  The woman gave me an impatient glare, as if I’d entirely missed the point of what she was telling me.

  ‘Osle doesn’t like folks enquiring into his business and he’s not a man you’d want to go annoying.’

  ‘Osle – is that the baron’s name?’

  She glanced around furtively, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Sylvain’s his name, but there’re some names as are best forgotten.’ She tugged at the child’s hand. ‘Come along now, don’t dawdle, there’s a heap of things want doing at home.’ She jerked the cow and child forward, as if they’d been delaying her. ‘You want to plough a wide furrow round Osle, you do. Wide as you’d plough round the devil himself.’

  But I had no intention of ploughing any furrow, unless it was straight to this baron’s door.

  I found the apothecary’s shop by following my nose. The pungent scent of dried herbs and tallow trickled out through the shutter, which had been lowered into the street to form the counter. A tired-looking, grey-haired man was leaning over it, handing a jar to an old woman, who was cupping her ear the better to hear his instructions. He repeated them several times, but finally she abandoned th
e attempt to understand. She heaved her drooping dugs round in the direction of the marketplace and the rest of her body waddled after them.

  The apothecary gazed after her, sorrowfully shaking his head. ‘She hasn’t understood a word of what I told her to do with the unguent. And she refuses to bring her daughter with her to help her. You’ll see, she’ll be back next week complaining it’s done her no good.’

  He seemed suddenly to realise he was addressing himself to a stranger and peered at me anxiously, as if I might take his comments amiss. I explained about the injury to my foot. He regarded me warily, as if trying to decide whether this might be some trick, but when I started to take off my shoe in the street, he finally nodded. ‘You’d better come inside and let me look.’

  There seemed to be a great many bolts to be drawn before the door was opened, then fastened again as soon as I’d limped through. The shop was small, and so dark I could barely make out the shapes of the jars and bottles on the highest shelves and was forced to duck beneath bundles of herbs and twigs swinging from the beams. An ancient yellow thigh bone of some animal lay on the table, beside a bowl of dried mice, another of desiccated worms and some shrivelled black things that looked as if they might be the dried hearts or livers of hares or cats.

  The apothecary led the way to the rear of the shop, where a rough-hewn bench had been placed before a tiny window that overlooked the yard at the back.

  ‘Please sit and remove the shoe.’

  I plucked at the laces around my ankle till they were loose enough to slide the shoe off. Once free of the constraints, the throbbing intensified and my foot felt as if it was swelling so fast, I wondered if I’d get the shoe back on.

  I hauled my leg up on the bench so that the apothecary could examine it.

  He flexed my toes and prodded the wound in the ball of my foot, ignoring my gasps of pain and keeping a firm grip on my ankle as my foot jerked at each touch.

  ‘I should send you to the physician. Master Alfred objects to me treating his patients.’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot blame him. I’m depriving him of a living, but even a king would blanch at the fees he charges – and as for his treatments! Sometimes I think he is still living in the days of the Saxons, like his namesake.’

  ‘I’m not Master Alfred’s patient,’ I said. ‘I arrived in Langley today and I’ll not be staying long. I swear he’ll never know you treated me.’

  The apothecary smiled wearily. ‘All the same, we’d best close the shop. You never know who might peer in.’

  He bustled outside into the street, lifting the counter up so that it fitted over the open window as a shutter, then returned and refastened the door. Lighting a candle at the fire burning in the hearth, he collected a wicked-looking iron implement shaped like a small spear, with a long glass tube that opened out at one end into a small glass sphere.

  ‘Perhaps I should see the physician after all,’ I said hastily. ‘I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.’ I tried to thrust my swollen foot back into my shoe.

  He pressed me firmly back onto the bench. ‘Have faith, young man.’

  Faith had never been a particular virtue of mine: I preferred always to trust what I could see, and seeing the apothecary advance towards my exceedingly tender foot with that sharp little spear was not helping to turn me into a believer.

  ‘I will make the tiniest of incisions so quickly you will feel nothing but relief. Then I will draw a little of the poisoned blood.’

  He straddled the end of the bench, clamping my foot between his knees. He was right. The sharp prick as the blade pierced the swollen flesh was almost at once followed by an immediate easing as the warm, sticky fluid oozed out.

  He held a snip of cloth to the candle flame till it caught fire, dropped it inside the glass sphere and quickly pressed the end of the long glass neck over the incision. The mouth of the glass tightened hard against my skin and I felt a strong, sucking sensation. He’d neglected to warn me that that part would hurt. I yelped as he slid a finger against the edge of the glass and levered it off. It came away from my skin with a pop, and as he held the glass up in the light of the candle, I saw the sphere now contained watery blood and yellow pus.

  ‘Does your foot feel easier now?’ he asked.

  To my surprise, I found it did, though it was still tender.

  ‘I’ll dress it with an ointment that will draw out any remaining foulness. You must apply it morning and night for three days. After that you should return here, so that I may look at it again. It would be foolish to walk any distance on that wound. It will only inflame it the more. Stay in Langley till it is healed.’

  ‘Are there any passable inns in the town?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘I have no use for them myself. Better ask in the market.’

  He smeared a thick layer of some dark green ointment on my foot. It smelt of fat and bitter herbs, but didn’t smart. In fact, it was soothing.

  ‘I was thinking of visiting a certain baron who I’m told lives in these parts,’ I said casually. ‘A friend asked me to call and enquire how he does. He goes by the name of Sylvain. Does he live far from here?’

  The apothecary’s hand paused in mid-air and a great gob of the sticky ointment plopped onto the bench. ‘You know Lord Sylvain?’

  ‘I know of him only through a friend and it’s been many years since they met. Is he in good health?’

  The apothecary rose abruptly and went to a shelf, pulling down a box containing strips of linen. ‘I do not discuss the health of my customers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to break any confidences. I only meant that my friend hopes he is well. I trust he prospers? I believe my friend said he was newly wed,’ I added, in the hope that he would be drawn into correcting me.

  The apothecary did not meet my eye, seemingly absorbed in the all-engrossing task of bandaging my foot. ‘Is that why you came to my shop, to learn of Lord Sylvain?’

  ‘Hardly – you’ve seen my foot. It was relief from the pain that I wanted.’

  His fingers worked deftly, but his lips remained firmly pressed together.

  I glanced along the shelves, noticing the array of poisons sufficient to lay waste an entire army. At the very least this apothecary was usurping the physician’s role behind his back, which Master Alfred would not take kindly to if he discovered it. I briefly contemplated reminding the apothecary of that and maybe hinting about the poisons too, but I thought better of it. I couldn’t afford to upset him. I needed his services to heal my foot far more than I needed his money. If the wound turned foul, Sylvain would be the least of my concerns. Besides, I could probably learn all I needed from the well-oiled tongues in the local inn: judging by that woman in the marketplace the whole town was gossiping about the baron.

  I treated the apothecary to one of my most carefree smiles and prattled on about the wars in France, the rowdy behaviour of the foreign pilgrims, the late spring and anything else I could think of that would make it appear my enquiries about Sylvain were nothing more than inconsequential chatter to pass the time.

  All the while, however, my mind was working feverishly. A missing wife, a wealthy man who shut himself away with only men for company and who was now brewing up Heaven knew what with the help of a young girl. If there wasn’t a scandal here already, one was crying out to be invented and a great big juicy one at that. The question was, how best to get close to this Sylvain long enough to convince him he badly needed my help?

  He was plainly not a man to frequent the inns or stewhouses. And I guessed from what little the woman had said that a stranger, even one bearing a message, was unlikely to be admitted to his house, never mind be granted a private audience. But perhaps the message might be carried another way. Yes, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I’d been shown exactly how to get inside the baron’s deep and well-lined purse.

  Chapter 36

  He who wants to enter the divine realm, must first enter his mother’s body and die therein.
>
  Lord Sylvain is watching her again. She can feel it. When Gisa can hear neither his feet shuffling on the boards above her nor the clink of the glass vessels, she is afraid. In the silence, in the stillness, she knows he watches.

  He has arranged two silver mirrors at angles in her store room beneath his chamber and hung a great silver ball in his own chamber above the trapdoor. He says they are to reflect the light, to help her work. But whenever she is in his chamber, she stares into the silver ball and knows that it captures the reflections of the mirrors in her room below, imprisons them, so that he can watch her chamber as if it is land floating in air. He can see the bench where she grinds the herbs and the stairs she climbs. These objects are distorted. Things she knows to be small appear monstrous. Straight lines are bent into graceful curves. She knows she, too, must be grotesquely twisted inside that silver ball. But why does he watch? Is he afraid she will steal from him?

  Her face flushes hot with guilt, for she has stolen and she means to do so again as soon as she can, a little fragment of dragon’s blood, some myrrh, galbanum and opanax to make the unguentum apostolorum, which she has been reading about in his books. She needs it for the trapped boy.

  Gisa has found a plank to bridge the ditch and reach the hole where the boy lies beneath the wall. She conceals the plank among the trees. It must not be seen. For the past three nights, as soon as she can slip away from Aunt Ebba, she has brought stolen food and small ale to the boy, blankets thin enough to feed through the hole and a shirt of her uncle’s, to cover his naked body. She took the iron crow from the blacksmith while his back was turned, and worked until her hands were blistered, but not one of the great stones would move or even splinter. But she will free him.

  He lies on a narrow ledge inside the tunnel, just inches above the oozing mud and water. The labyrinth of channels is the bowel of the abbey, carrying away the filth draining from its latrines, wash houses and middens. But Gisa has seen the dried refuse and green slime covering the ledge on which the boy lies. If it rains hard or the river bursts its banks, the tunnels will fill to the top. And there will be no way out for Peter. Every day she glances anxiously at the sky.