The Raven's Head (5 page)

‘Vincent, Comtesse, apprentice to Gaspard the scribe.’

She was trying unsuccessfully to suppress a grin and I suddenly realised how dishevelled I must look, having been dragged from my bed without time even to wash my face or comb my hair.

‘So what is an apprentice scribe doing in a still room?’ she asked.

‘I, too, came looking for Meli. I need physic for my master, Gaspard.’

At once her face was all concern. ‘He’s not sick, is he? My father is depending on him. Perhaps I should come and see.’

‘No, Comtesse. It’s . . . it’s only a touch of indigestion. He’s been working late, missing meals.’

‘For my father, I know,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ll see that good meat is sent up to tempt his appetite and you must see that he eats it. He mustn’t make himself ill. We desperately need his services. My mother is fretting so much, it has brought on one of her dreadful headaches. She’s sent me to ask Meli to prepare an unguent to rub on her temples. But I know the only thing that will really help is for this terrible anxiety to be lifted. Has Gaspard discovered anything yet?’

I hesitated. I knew he hadn’t – at least, I was pretty sure he hadn’t. But I couldn’t tell Amée that. I wanted to be her hero and I’d hardly be that if I brought her bad news.

‘I think he might have found something, Comtesse,’ I said. ‘But please don’t tell Monsieur le Comte yet, in case it proves false.’

Her face broke into such a glorious smile, it made my groin throb and my knee tremble. She was a beauty.

‘Does he seem encouraged, though?’ she asked eagerly.

Gaspard seemed completely moon-crazed, that’s what he seemed, but I wasn’t about to say that.

If only I could find the lost document, whatever it was, before he did . . . I pictured Amée flinging her soft little arms about my neck in gratitude and planting a dozen kisses on my mouth, her father insisting on bestowing his daughter’s hand on me in abject gratitude.

Yes, all right, I knew that was never going to happen! Even if I single-handedly rescued Amée from the jaws of a slavering lion or slew a fire-breathing dragon to save her, she’d still end up married to some wealthy nobleman, and I’d be lucky to be tossed a gold ducat for my pains, but if there was any justice in this world . . .

‘This document is very important to Monsieur le Comte,’ I began, hoping she’d assume I knew all about it and innocently tell me what Gaspard would not.

But back then I knew nothing about how to draw a man or woman into revealing their secrets. I didn’t know how to form the questions that would make them tell me more or how to read the subtle signs that would reveal a lie – a downward glance, a twitching hand, a rubbing of an ear. I hadn’t learned to utter the ambiguous phrases that would lead them to confide all, believing I knew all. Those skills I had yet to learn, for though I didn’t know it then, my whole future was to be constructed from those velvet lies and pretty deceptions.

As it was, Amée merely smiled sadly. ‘That document is important to all of us. Our whole future rests upon its discovery.’ She turned. ‘If you see Meli, tell her she is to attend my mother at once. And the moment Gaspard is certain he has found what my father needs, you must bring us word immediately.’

I opened my mouth, trying desperately to think of something to detain her, but the space where she had been standing was empty and only the cold dawn light filled the doorway.

Up in the turret, Gaspard was waiting for me with the impatience of a ravenous baby demanding the breast. God’s arse, what a revolting thought! Had some poor woman once been forced to give suck to a creature like Gaspard? Although, looking at the dried-up old crab apple, I should think his mother’s breast must have been the last one he ever got to lay his hands on.

But it was plain the old man was agitated. His eyes were red from dust and lack of sleep, but there was a wild excitement in them that was almost frightening. Though I often joked about him being mad, for the first time I began to fear he really had become crazed or even possessed. He tore the leather bag from my hand and limped across to the table, clutching it fiercely like a miser protecting a bag of gold.

He started to pour out the seeds, then seemed to remember I was still standing there.

‘What are you doing hanging around in here,
petit bâtard
?’ He gazed wildly around the room, then snatched up the blankets in which he wrapped himself at night. ‘They’re filthy, stinking. Why haven’t you washed them?’

He threw them at my head. A cloud of dust flew out, making me cough.

‘There, see? Is it any wonder my chest wheezes, sleeping in such filth? Take them to the wash house and see you get every mote of dust out of them, and yours too.’

‘I’ll get one of the maids—’

‘No, you won’t, you lazy brat. I’ll not have the master think we make work for others while you stand idle. Besides, it will do you good to get out in the fresh air. A lad of your age hanging around dusty old books all the time, it’s not natural. I thought you’d be only too eager to spend the morning bantering with the linen maids. Don’t think I haven’t seen you making sheep’s eyes at them from the turret.’

I gaped at him. In all the time I’d worked for him, he’d never once been concerned that I needed fresh air. If he’d had his way, I’d have been chained to the desk with leg-irons. First the goat-leaf seeds, now a sudden desire for clean blankets, the old crow was definitely up to something. I reckoned he’d found the document or thought he was close to it and was inventing reasons to get me out of the way. But for the moment there was nothing I could do except lumber down the stairs under the heap of smelly blankets.

I lugged them across the courtyard to the big washing pool near the drying green, where three maids were already pounding linens. Two of the girls were as broad and shapeless as milch cows in summer, with low-swinging udders to match. Their great hams wobbled as they bent over the washing. The other was a thin, scrawny little thing with pustules spattered over her pale face.

Even had I been vaguely attracted to any of them, flirting, as Gaspard had urged, was out of the question. They giggled when they saw me and laughed even harder as they watched my clumsy attempts to clean the blankets. That was when they weren’t giving exaggerated gasps of horror and pinching their noses when they saw how black the water turned. I’d no doubt the tale would be all over the château by nightfall.

I spread the blankets, only slightly cleaner, on the drying green and contemplated what to do next. It was clear Gaspard would be delighted if I stayed away all day. Part of me longed to do just that for I might not get the chance of another day’s freedom to enjoy myself until the ancient one was mouldering in his grave.

On the other hand, curiosity was eating me up, and curiosity is a demon who will not relinquish its hold on you until its voracious appetite has been satisfied. I’d have no peace until I discovered what Gaspard was trying to hide. So, I turned my back on freedom, crept back up the spiral staircase and, as silently as I could, I lifted the door latch.

And the air of the four quarters of the world must occupy three parts of the room that the death song of the swan may be distinctly heard.

Gisa is sitting in the narrow beam of sunlight that penetrates the dark interior of her uncle’s apothecary’s shop, grinding a root of black hellebore. She does not need to see her hands in order to do her work. She has pounded roots, dried herbs and minerals for her uncle so often that her fingers can feel just when the texture is right. But she is grateful for the warmth of the sun, hungry for it, for she seldom has the time to feel its touch on her cheek.

A shadow falls across Gisa’s lap. The girl glances up, frowning. A man is standing outside the shop, but she cannot see his face because the sunlight is behind him. Sighing, she lays aside the pestle and mortar and crosses the narrow room towards him. The shutters on the small shop have been lowered from the window to form a counter, which protrudes like a tongue into the street beyond.

Most customers are served through this window. They are admitted to the shop only when her uncle needs to inspect a wound or examine a bloodshot eye. Otherwise the door is kept barred for fear that curious children will sneak in or would-be murderers: on these shelves are stored more ways to dispatch a man into the next life than can be found in King Henry’s arsenal. Some of the potions and powders would kill a man gently with an endless sleep. Others would make him suffer all the agonies of Hell long before he descended into Satan’s realm.

The man at the window says nothing, asks for nothing, but as soon as the girl recognises the bulbous, pitted nose and the sharp green eyes, a cold stone rises up in her throat. She wants to call for her uncle, vanish until they have concluded their business, but she dare not keep him waiting outside. Reluctantly, she unfastens the door and the man sweeps through. The heavy folds of his black tunic almost catch in the door as Gisa hastens to close it behind him. He gazes down at her. A faint stench of urine hangs about him. He stands too close, always too close, and she wants to move away, but the edge of the table is pressing into her back, trapping her.

The light from the window flashes on the silver embroidery at the neck of his black tunic and around his black hat. ‘Osle’ – the townspeople call him, though never within his hearing –
the great black bird
. It is an old name from the elder faith, for the Christian saints are powerless to protect them from those ancient fears that cannot be caged by the words of the Church. The goodwives cover their children’s eyes as Osle passes, spitting on their fingers to deflect the malice of his gaze. They hurriedly cross the square to avoid being grazed by his shadow, though they are seldom put to this trouble, for he rarely comes to the town except to visit the apothecary’s shop and that in itself unnerves them.

‘My uncle is in the courtyard, Lord Sylvain,’ Gisa mutters. ‘I’ll fetch him.’ She tries to edge away, but he blocks her in.

‘Today is your birthday, is it not? Fifteen, a young lady now.’

She blushes, wondering how he could possibly know that. Her aunt and uncle have not remembered. Secretly she thinks herself a woman, but his words have turned her into an awkward child again. He stands too close. His gaze is too intense. There is nowhere safe for her to look, without turning her head away from him. She’s seen women do that when they are feigning indifference, but are really trying to seduce a man. She’s frightened he will think she is playing that game. She stares down at the black leather tassels on the purse that dangles from his belt. Each thong ends in a silver bauble in the form of a snake’s head. The merest twitch of his body makes them writhe. To her embarrassment, he follows her gaze and reaches for his purse, as if he thinks she is a street urchin begging for a coin.

‘I have a gift for you,’ he says.

He pulls out a small package wrapped in shining white silk.

Since she makes no attempt to reach for it, he lifts her hand and places the gift in her palm, closing her thin fingers around it. She feels the magical softness of the silk, but at once it grows sticky in her sweating hand.

He commands her to unwrap it and she does, though she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want this gift, whatever it may be, but she dare not offend him.

The white silk lies open, covering her hand. In the centre of the cloth is a brooch in the form of a white enamelled swan with a snaking arched neck. Its beak, which is fashioned from gold, is opened wide as if the bird cries out in agony.

‘The mute swan sings only as it dies. Did you know that, Gisa? The most pure, the most sublime beauty can only be achieved through death. But then,’ he sweeps his hand about the room, indicating the stacks of jars and boxes cramming the shelves, ‘who knows better than you and your uncle that perfect healing is to be found in the deadliest of poisons?’

Without asking for her permission, he takes the swan and pins it to her kirtle directly over her thudding heart.

For true whiteness is hidden under blackness and is taken forth from its belly.

I jerked awake on my pallet as Gaspard’s head hit the wooden desk. He cursed, pushing himself upright again. He must have nodded off where he sat. It was hardly surprising. He was exhausted, only his obsession keeping him going. I once read about a hermit who was so devoted he drove thorns into his knees and rolled naked in the snow to keep himself awake during his vigils, and when that failed he even cut off his own eyelids so that they wouldn’t thwart his resolve. I reckoned it was only a matter of time before Gaspard started slicing away.

The flames of the hanging oil lamp, swaying in the draught from the window, sent shadows and tiny lights flickering about the dark walls. For a few minutes more, Gaspard studied the book in front of him. Then, with a great sigh, he closed it and staggered over to the straw pallet I’d rolled out for him. Without even removing his shoes, he lowered himself with a groan and fell instantly asleep. I waited until I heard the steady rhythm of his wheezes. Then I tiptoed across the room and pulled a blanket over the old man’s thin body, tucking it in beneath his grey beard. He didn’t stir.

For the past two days, every time I’d returned from the latest spurious errand Gaspard had sent me on, I’d heard him scratching away with his quill behind the door. But always when I entered he’d hastily shift the book in which he was writing to the far side of the desk, barking some nonsense to distract me until he’d had time to dry the last few words with sand and close the page, then shove it under a sheaf of documents. The book was an old one, judging from what I could see of the cover. The leather bindings were torn and worn thin in places, revealing patches of the bare wood beneath, and most of the gold leaf on the winged ox that decorated the front was rubbed away, leaving only the outline of the beast impressed in the leather.