The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  I’d read often of such things, pieces of stone that spin on a thread always to point north, mirrors that show you places that lie many miles away, rings that glow if an enemy is close by. But now I realised Lugh was far less innocent than any of those. Was a spirit or demon imprisoned inside that head? And the more I thought of it, the more I became convinced that every decision I had made, every turn I had taken, had been manipulated by the raven to drive me into Sylvain’s clutches. As a sheepdog circles a sheep, slowly but surely herding it into the waiting arms of the shearer, so Lugh had guided me here.

  I tried to recall all the things I had foolishly prattled about to that bird, which he could have revealed to Sylvain – the lies, the stupid fantasies, the girl who’d dragged me into her father’s barn. My face burned as hot as my chest. It was worse than being caught fondling yourself by your own priest. God’s arse, that bird probably knew how often I’d done that as well! I ground my teeth and tried to think of something else.

  I wriggled into a more comfortable position and, as I did, I caught sight of the dark stain on the wall. I was sure it had not been higher than the bed when I left the chamber, but it was now and, what was more, the black mould was beginning to ooze out from the walls and spread across the floor. It was only by a foot or so, but even so, mould shouldn’t spread across dry dusty wooden boards, should it?

  I lay awake until the candle burned low, watching the wall, but, of course, I didn’t see the stain spread. It was only mould, after all. And I had much more to worry about than whether the chamber needed a fresh coat of lime wash. Sylvain was plainly determined to keep me there by force, but for what purpose? Not even I could convince myself that all he wanted was to hear a good story. You are his prey, his gift of flesh for his master. A trap had been set, but this time it was the bird who had caught the man.

  I knew someone had been into my chamber again as soon as I woke. I distinctly remembered watching the candle burn down to the last inch, but now a much longer one burned in its place. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed and immediately found myself anxiously glancing at the black stain on the wall. I didn’t know why it troubled me so much. I’d slept in far worse lodgings on the road – wattle and daub huts with rotting thatch and whole forests of moss and fungi lurking in the dank corners. Mould was nothing. But all the same I was relieved to see it had climbed no higher up the walls.

  But my relief lasted only for a moment, for when I glanced down at the floor I could see it had crept further over the dusty boards and was now even closer to the bed. One slender black line stretched out from the rest, like a tendril of ivy, as if it was trying to twine itself around the bed’s leg. I shook my head impatiently. It was not creeping closer. It couldn’t be. It had been like that for days and in the dim light I just hadn’t noticed it.

  But I wasn’t imagining that someone had entered the room while I slept, for the scarlet robe I’d worn yesterday had been replaced with a fresh one, identical except that it was undamaged by any scorch marks or holes. Had I dreamed it? My hand and chest were bandaged and the wounds beneath were sore. I’d certainly been burned. That much, at least, was real.

  The door at the bottom of the turret slammed. Someone was mounting the stairs, but it wasn’t Sylvain. I could never hear him coming until he was in the room. If danger was approaching, I didn’t want to face it naked. I dragged the robe over my head, wincing as my muscles twisted the burned skin beneath the bandages. The door to my chamber was flung open to reveal the gangling youth who had helped to serve supper in Sylvain’s hall. He regarded me curiously for a few moments, before gesturing that I should follow him.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  I was beginning to fear any kind of summons from Sylvain. The youth drew his finger across his forehead from eyebrow to eyebrow, which I was fairly sure was the monk’s sign for either a trout or a woman. Either Sylvain was inviting me to go fishing, which did not seem likely, or the lad was taking me to Gisa. I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel relieved. Gisa was less likely to feed me to demons than Sylvain, but then again, if she was working with him . . .

  The lad beckoned again, more urgently, and stared at me as if he was trying to decide whether he should drag me out. Sylvain must be with Gisa. The thought of what they might be planning together made my stomach lurch. But I knew enough about my host to realise that refusal was not an option. I followed the lad down the stone stairs, while he bounded ahead, like a boisterous goat. If I’d been back in old Gaspard’s turret, I’d have done the same, but the fear of what I was about to walk into had a remarkably sobering effect on my pace.

  He led me across the grass, past the dead rabbit, which in daylight was no more than white bones and slimy fur. I thought we were making for the tower, but as I approached the door, the young man grabbed my sleeve and shook his head, grinning at me inanely as if he was privy to some hilarious joke. There was something strange about his open mouth. I peered at him, unable to place it at first. Behind his broken teeth there was nothing but a black cavern where . . . where there should have been a tongue! The lad’s tongue had been torn out! God’s arse! Odo said Sylvain would rip out Pipkin’s tongue if he heard him gossiping to me, but I’d thought it was just an idle threat. Surely he hadn’t really done that to the boy.

  I was still trying to take in what I’d seen when the lad, gripping my sleeve, led me round the side of the tower towards a wall of yew trees. Loosening his grip, he forced himself between two, which were growing so close together that their branches interlaced. After some hesitation, I followed, cursing as the fronds rasped across my burned chest. Which idiot had not had the foresight to plant the trees far enough apart for a man to walk through?

  They had been planted in a hollow square, perfectly concealing a low, circular stone building in the centre. It was not unlike a wayside chapel, except this had no windows and the domed roof was made not of thatch but of stone slabs. Strands of ivy had snaked over the roof, and the stone walls were clad in thick cushions of moss, which was hardly surprising since, even though the day was warm, the square inside the tall trees was dank and cold enough to make anyone shiver. The building must have remained perpetually wrapped in shadow, even during the hottest part of a summer’s day.

  The small door, which appeared to be the only entrance, was slightly ajar. The lad pointed and again made the same sign, drawing his finger between his eyebrows, but before I could react, the door opened wider and Sylvain emerged, ducking out under the lintel. The boy gave his cavernous grin and vanished back through the trees.

  ‘I know you have been perplexed by the nature of my work, Laurent, and even frightened, judging by your attempt to leave us so precipitously last night. That is natural. Men always fear what they do not understand.’

  Sylvain’s tone was quite different from the menacing voice he had employed the night before. He sounded almost soothing, as if he was trying to calm a delicate elderly lady who’d been startled by a mouse.

  ‘Perhaps if you understood what I am trying to achieve you might be more willing to assist me. For I do want you to assist me, Laurent, I want that very much.’

  He stepped aside, his hand sweeping towards the open door as if he was a gracious host inviting a man into his banqueting hall. ‘Go in. Look, but I beg you to take the greatest care not to touch her. The slightest brush of a hand or even the sleeve of a robe could fatally damage her.’

  I stumbled backwards, crashing against the branches behind me. If Sylvain thought I could be tricked into stepping into that prison willingly either he was an idiot or he thought I was. I’d no doubt he could call on Odo and Pipkin, even the lad, to bundle me inside, but I’d no intention of making it easy for them.

  Sylvain looked amused. ‘You fear a trap? That is, perhaps, not surprising, but I assure you I have no intention of leaving you in here. In fact, you are one of the few who have ever been privileged enough to see what I am about to show you . . . No? You still don’t trust me? Very well, I shall go fir
st, then, and you may stand between me and the door.’

  He ducked under the lintel and vanished inside. I was telling myself simply to walk away – better still, run! Odo was probably concealed inside, ready to brain me as I bent to enter. But on the other hand, if that was the plan, they could have bludgeoned me as I lay sleeping in the tower and Odo could have carried me here like a trussed chicken. I hesitated. Curiosity was always my weakness and, once more, it got the better of me. I edged cautiously towards the door, trying to peer in without actually entering.

  The inside of the building was higher than it first appeared, for the floor had been constructed below ground level, with three stone steps leading down, so that even a tall man could easily stand upright. A long stone slab, raised four feet above the ground, took up most of the space inside the circular chamber and Sylvain was standing at the far end, holding up a lantern, though the candlelight glowing dimly through the horn panels did little to illuminate the scene.

  ‘If you came in, you would not be blocking the light from the door and you could see more clearly.’

  Something was lying on the stone slab, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I edged down the three steps and stood at the bottom, pressed against the stone wall. The chamber had been lime-washed and decorated with many of the same symbols I’d seen elsewhere in Sylvain’s manor. In the highest point of the dome, a pair of ouroboros, snakes swallowing their tails, had been painted in green with golden fangs and scarlet tongues. They seemed to twist in dizzying spirals. I staggered sideways and grabbed at the edge of the slab to balance myself.

  ‘Careful!’ Sylvain snapped. ‘Don’t touch her.’

  I glanced down. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the twilight, I found myself staring down at the life-sized effigy of a girl. The paint on the face and hands had a curious wet gleam under the lantern light, as if it had only just been completed. The statue was dressed like a saint in a white linen gown, with a linen coif over the hair. She’d been carved with her arms stretched down either side of her and her eyes were closed, as if the sculptor had intended her to appear asleep.

  I guessed the stone slab covered a tomb and the statue on top represented the person who lay buried beneath. I had to admit, it was one of the most realistic effigies I’d ever seen, and if it bore any resemblance to the woman when she lived, she must have been beautiful. She vaguely reminded me of someone I’d met, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think who.

  As if he could read my thoughts, Sylvain said quietly from the shadows, ‘You find her attractive? You would not be the first. My daughter was admired by many men.’

  ‘Your daughter? Then . . .’

  ‘Then, as you can see, she is not, as your rumours suggest, locked up in my tower, any more than her suitors are languishing in my dungeons. My daughter is dead . . . long dead.’

  I tried hastily to think of something appropriate to say. It seemed a little late for condolences. ‘The effigy must be a great comfort to you . . . to be able to remember her in all her beauty, as she was . . . The sculptor did a fine job.’

  ‘That is no effigy, Master Laurent. That is my daughter.’

  Sylvain gestured to a niche in the wall next to him in which stood several sealed jars, half hidden in the gloom. ‘These vessels contain her organs, her heart, liver, guts and so on. All I have removed and carefully preserved. The cavities left in her body I filled with honey, precious oils and herbs, and she herself has been completely encased in wax. She is perfect. Just as she was on the day she died. She lies there waiting to be brought to life again.’

  I stared at the figure on the slab in horror, my eyes now seeing for the first time what my brain was struggling to accept. I was looking at a corpse. The tones of her skin were not painted, but real flesh. The eyelashes and brows were not stuck on but had once burrowed out of her body and been frozen there in that moment of her death.

  ‘This is my work, Master Laurent. To bring my daughter to life again, and I will.’ Sylvain’s voice reverberated in the small chamber, like a priest’s before an altar.

  ‘I have the bag that has been sewn with human hair to hide inside her belly. I have the ring your shadow transformed to place in her mouth. I have the blood of the boy to cleanse her. I need one thing more, Master Laurent, the most important object of them all. With that my daughter will rise again and live just as she was before. I will resurrect her. I will raise her from death to life, a new life. She will be reborn and this time she will never die.’

  Chapter 50

  Kill the lion in his blood.

  Father Arthmael is taking such broad strides across the grass towards the great tower that Regulus has to trot to keep pace with him. The boy cranes his head around, trying to snatch glimpses of the unfamiliar garden – the manor house with its many windows, the lavender bushes, the apple trees and the high wall. He is looking for a way out, an open gate that he could run to, but with a tightening in his throat he sees that this place is as firmly sealed as the abbey. Several times he stumbles in his haste, but the canon’s fingers burrow into his shoulder and he cannot fall.

  As they reach the door of the tower, Regulus cranes his head back as far as he can to try to see the top, but they are so close it appears the tower is falling towards them. He tries to back away, but Father Arthmael only grips him harder. The boy can sense the priest’s excitement, but his fear too. Regulus has felt this tension before in adults, like the time his father was pacing outside the cottage while inside his mother screamed in labour.

  A man comes lumbering across the grass towards them, a covered basket held in the crook of his arm. He is brawny and broad, like Regulus’s father. He is the first man the boy has seen since he was brought to the abbey who is not dressed in the white robes of the canons or the brown robes of the lay brothers. Though his expression is far from friendly, the sight of the green breeches and russet tunic eases Regulus’s anxiety. He resembles the people the boy used to see in the forest and marketplace, people who were once his whole world. He might have come to take him home.

  Regulus offers him a shy smile, but the man barely glances at him. ‘Is this the boy the master sent for?’

  ‘It is. This is Regulus. Is your master inside, Odo?’

  Odo grunts. ‘He’s not to be disturbed. Says you’re to settle the boy in the tower. He’ll come soon as it’s dark.’ He squints up at the afternoon sky, as if to judge exactly when that might be.

  ‘Here, you can carry this up,’ Odo says, thrusting the basket at Regulus.

  The boy obediently grasps it in both hands, staggering slightly. It is heavier than it looks.

  ‘You’ll find what the boy is to wear in the basket. There’s a bite to eat and drink in it too. Master’s orders, case he gets fretful.’ Odo eyes Father Arthmael doubtfully. ‘Master said you’d not be eating yourself.’

  ‘I must prepare with fasting and prayer, as Lord Sylvain is also doing, is he not?’

  Odo shrugs and, selecting the key from the great iron ring hanging at his belt, unlocks the door, standing aside for them to enter. Father Arthmael sweeps in. Regulus hesitates.

  ‘What are you waiting for, lad? Shift yourself.’ Odo’s hand shoots out, as if he means to shove the boy through the door. Then he jerks back as if Regulus is indeed a consecrated little king, who must not be touched by baser men.

  Taking a deep breath, Regulus edges inside and is relieved to see nothing alarming, just kegs and piles of wood. He smells the familiar odour of animal dung. He watches Father Arthmael mounting the wooden steps that run up the side of the wall. The door slams behind him, making him jump. The small chamber is plunged into semi-darkness and the kegs and timber take on new and menacing shapes. Regulus scurries after Father Arthmael, but it is not easy mounting the steep steps dragging the heavy basket.

  He passes through the first room, which he barely has time to notice, and finally staggers, sweating, through the second trapdoor into the chamber at the top of the tower. A ladder ascends to a closed tr
apdoor above him, but with profound relief he sees that Father Arthmael is not climbing that but is standing by one of the slit windows, staring out.

  For a moment, the boy looks around, puzzled. He can hear the forest, but he is inside a room. The sound is coming from a dozen or so tiny cages hanging from the beams above. In each one a single bird flutters and chirrups. Linnets and blackbirds, skylarks and robins, thrushes and magpies, all regard him with their bright eyes. He remembers what Felix told him about a black wizard who turns boys into birds. Is one of the birds Mighel? Felix never found a grave, but he found Mighel’s amulet, the one he always wore, the one that slipped from his neck as feathers burrowed out through his skin and Mighel shrank down and down until he was no bigger than his own hand.

  Father Arthmael called Regulus a wren. Will they turn him into one and lock him in a cage? Will boys batter him to death with sticks on St Stephen’s Day, breaking his tiny wings so that he cannot escape them, crushing his fragile skull until the blood drips from his beak?

  A wail of misery and fear erupts from Regulus. He lets go of the basket and tries to scramble back down the stairs. But before his head has disappeared beneath the edge of the trapdoor, Father Arthmael has crossed the chamber, seized the back of his robe and is hauling him bodily up into the room. Regulus struggles, but his arms are pinned firmly by his sides. The abbot kneels before him, so that he can stare directly into the boy’s eyes.

  ‘You are Regulus, the little king. Kings are not afraid. They never show fear and you have nothing to be afraid of.’