The Raven's Head (10 page)

‘You are an intelligent lad, quick-witted, observant. And it takes boldness to tackle the wolf in his own den. A young man with your gifts could rise rapidly if his talents were fully appreciated. I warrant you won’t remain an apprentice for much longer. But I think you want to stride further than old Gaspard’s feet will lead you. You want to be more than a mere scribe in my household, or you wouldn’t have risked all by raising this matter.’

A surge of relief rushed through me. He understood!

‘I could be of great service to you, Monsieur le Comte, if I had the chance.’

‘I don’t doubt that. But wits and ambition alone are not enough. If you seek advancement you must learn that those who can help you rise require two other qualities from the men they champion – discretion and loyalty.’

‘You’ll find no one more discreet or loyal than I am, Monsieur le Comte. I told no one, not a single person, what I knew. Not even Gaspard knows I’ve discovered his secret and I swear on the Holy Virgin no one will ever learn of it, if . . .’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘
If
. . . Yes, indeed, that tiny word on which have balanced the fates of whole kingdoms and the lives of thousands.’

His grey eyes bored into my own. ‘Very well, then. We shall forget this foolish attempt at blackmail for we both know this nonsensical talk of a forgery was just a youthful and misguided attempt to bring yourself to my attention.’

He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger, so that the blood-red garnet rippled in the firelight. ‘I believe that if any man is to earn another’s loyalty and trust, he must first demonstrate his own loyalty and trust in that person. So we shall offer trust to one another, you and I. I will entrust you with an errand that requires great discretion and secrecy. If you succeed, you will have earned my confidence and gratitude, and I am always generous in showing my gratitude, as you will have observed from the purse I gave Gaspard. Perform this task well and I promise you that you will never again have to return to that tower to waste your life burrowing among dusty books.’

‘Anything, I will do anything,’ I blurted out. ‘What is it that I’m to do? Only tell me and it will be done instantly . . . I mean perfectly. I won’t fail you, I swear.’

And in that moment I meant it. I was not going to be flogged. Instead I was actually going to be promoted. I felt almost giddy at the thought, imagining myself day and night at Philippe’s side, sitting at high table next to Amée in my new clothes – he’d obviously have to present me with new clothes: my limp rags weren’t fit even for the servants’ table.

He laughed. ‘Patience. I will send for you again in a day or so and explain exactly what is required of you. In the meantime, tell Gaspard to wait upon me here. But, first, to seal our bargain, drink with me.’

He lifted a flagon of wine from the table, poured the wine into one of his own pewter goblets and held it out to me. ‘Let us drink to your destiny. I predict it will be interesting, far more so than you could ever have dreamed.’

He should be discreet and silent, revealing to no one the truth of his works.

‘Boys, this is Regulus, your new companion. You are to look after him.’

Six pairs of young eyes gaze solemnly at the white-robed figure and back again to the small child, who shrinks beside him.

‘But be warned. If I hear any idle gossip, or even a whisper, that you have spoken of things about which you have been told to keep silent, I will punish not just the offender, but each and every one of you most severely. For he who listens to idle chatter is as guilty as the one who utters it.’

The White Canon allows the full force of his glare to fall on each of the faces in turn, noting those who quickly stare down at the rushes on the floor or dart an anxious glance at a companion. The boys believe he can see into their heads, which indeed he can, for though they would never believe it, he was once a child himself and he knows well what strange and foul creatures wallow in the filthy middens of a boy’s mind.

Regulus clutches the wooden bowl, leather beaker and bone spoon he has been given. He’s been told that if he loses them he will go hungry and thirsty, for he will have nothing to put his meat and drink in. He wonders if he must carry them all day and what will happen if his arms grow tired, which they already are, because he is gripping them so tightly. The canon pushes him forward.

‘Felix, make room for Regulus at the table. I leave him in your care. See you instruct him well, for if he transgresses, it will be your back that will smart for it.’

A thin, gangly boy of about eleven years with lank brown hair and bulging eyes shuffles his buttocks along the bench, leaving a gap between himself and the next boy. Felix beckons Regulus to the space with a jerk of his head. The little boy tries in vain to scramble over the bench and sit at the table, but though the bench is low, he is still gripping the bowl, beaker and spoon, which he is afraid to set down. The other boys giggle. Felix impatiently stands, grasps him under the armpits, swings him over the bench and plonks him down on it, as if he was an infant.

‘Put your bowl down,’ Felix instructs.

But Regulus hesitates. He’s hungry and he’s afraid to let go in case they refuse to feed him. He glances along the length of the table. Each boy’s bowl and beaker sit in front of him on the table. Still he worries. Suppose they snatch his.

‘Everyone is waiting, Regulus,’ the man with the frosted chin says. ‘Set your bowl and beaker on the table, like the others.’

He obeys, glancing up first at the man, then at Felix, for reassurance that he has done it correctly, but neither gives him any encouragement.

At a sign from the white-robed figure they all stand. Regulus is hauled to his feet by Felix. The boys bow their heads and press their hands together in front of them.

‘
Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine . . .
’

Frosty-chin leads and the boys join in, though some are merely gabbling sounds that no Latin scholar would recognise. They take their places once more, save two of the boys who fetch a pipkin of herb pottage. The bowls are passed up and Regulus watches anxiously as his is whisked away to be passed along the row.

‘It’s mine!’ He makes a grab for it, but Felix promptly cuffs him, pressing his finger to his lips and sternly shaking his head. Regulus anxiously marks the progress of his bowl, watching as a slice of old bread is dropped into the bottom and a dollop of the thick green porridge plopped on top. At last it is returned to him, with a slice of new bread. The boy takes a bite of the bread. He has never tasted anything quite like it. This is cheat bread, not by any means the finest bread that is made but when in your short life you have eaten nothing but ravel, full of bran and husks mixed with rye and beans, you may think yourself in Heaven when you first taste bread made from wheaten flour.

As the boys eat, a nervous-looking child stands at the low lectern in the corner, reading aloud. He rubs the metal amulet hung about his neck as if this will ward off disaster or the wrath of Frosty-chin, maybe both. Several times, the boy’s stomach rumbles loudly as he smells the food he is not yet permitted to eat. Whenever he stumbles over a word, he glances anxiously at the white-robed man, afraid that if his tongue trips again he will get no pottage.

Regulus does not notice the hesitations. He is not listening to the words. He is too intent on spooning the cabbage and pease pottage into his mouth as fast as he can. He has to be prevented by Felix from devouring the stale bread lining the bottom of his bowl, which to Regulus’s dismay is snatched from him and collected in a great basket. Felix whispers that it will be given to the hungry who come begging at the alms-gate, but the boy is still hungry himself. He wonders where this gate is and if he can go there to get his bread back.

A bell tolls. Once more the boys scramble to their feet and stumble through the words led by the canon.

‘
Benedictus sit Deus in donis Suis . . .
’

Frosty-chin surveys the room. ‘You are free to indulge in such pastimes as you wish for an hour before Nones but, remember, no noisy games. Some of the brethren sleep at this hour and if any are woken by your balls or chatter, you will all be made to labour for them during this hour every day for a week.’

He sweeps from the room, closing the massive door behind him. The boys hesitate, then, as one, advance on Regulus, forming a circle around him.

‘Where are you from?’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘Your parents dead?’

The questions fly at him and he can’t answer them. No one has ever asked him where he comes
from
for he’s always been there. There never was a past place, just a
here
and
now
and
is
.

‘
Regulus.
’
Felix pronounces it carefully, as if he was chewing a flavoursome morsel of meat. ‘Who gave you that name? Your father?’

That is the only thing the boy does know. He knows it is not his name.

‘Wilky . . . my name is Wilky.’

Felix’s bulging green eyes blink slowly. ‘Father John, was he the one who named you Regulus?’ Then, seeing the blank expression on the child’s face, he adds, ‘You know, the man who brought you here . . . Him who was sitting just there.’ He points to the chair at the end of the long table, which the white-robed figure has just vacated.

Regulus tries to think. Was it Frosty-chin who gave him this name? The night’s events are as jumbled and hazy in his head as a half-remembered dream.

Finally he nods. ‘And the man who cooks things in glass pots. He called me that too.’

‘Regulus,’ Felix repeats softly. He circles the child, frowning.

‘What’s it mean, Felix?’ one of the boys asks, sensing this name is a weapon to be used.

‘Don’t you ever listen to your lessons, Peter?’ Felix says. ‘Last week, remember. Regulus – ruler, king.’

The boys see the joke at once and grins spread across their faces. ‘Him, a king? That little maggot? What’s he meant to be king of, then?’

‘King of the beggars.’

‘King of the codwits.’

‘King of the turds.’

This game looks set to last a long time. The boys won’t easily tire of coming up with new titles.

Only one of the small gang is not joining in and that is Felix. He knows only too well that if Father John chooses you and Father John names you, there is a good reason. Father John does not make jokes, far from it. He is always serious, deadly serious, and if the boy has already been to the dungeons, he must be special. And that is an honour no boy wants, not in this place. He’s heard Father John speak the name
Regulus
before. They have been waiting for this boy for a long time.

‘That’s enough,’ Felix says suddenly. ‘Leave him be. You’ll get no chance to play any games if you don’t go now. Hour’ll soon be up.’

The boys stare at him, puzzled. Felix has never been known to stop teasing before. He’s usually the chief tormenter, but they’ve no time to ponder the matter. Their one free hour in the day is far too precious to be wasted in here. They race each other to the door.

Felix stares down at the little boy, who gazes up at him from liquid blue eyes. Felix shudders. He would not want to be named Regulus for all the food on the abbot’s table. Even at eleven years old he is already wise enough to know there are some titles in life you pray to every saint in Heaven you will never be granted.

Devours his tail till naught remains. This dragon, whom they Ouroboros call.

The summons came at dawn three days after I had confronted Philippe. I was beginning to think he had forgotten about me or had never had any intention of entrusting me with a task and had merely made promises to keep me quiet.

When old Gaspard returned from speaking with Philippe that night, he’d shuffled to his desk and ignored me as if I was one of the pigeons that flapped about the turret. I was used to the ancient one not speaking for hours at a time when he was absorbed in his work or his reading, but he always had something to say when he first returned to the tower, generally some complaint about me not working, but that night he didn’t even look at me. I knew Philippe must have told him all I’d said and he was angry, hurt even.

Well, it was his own fault. If he’d offered to share the purse with me or told me what he was doing, I wouldn’t have gone near Philippe, but if the old crow was determined to be so secretive and refuse to confide in me, his faithful apprentice, he could hardly blame me for reasoning it out for myself.

But I wouldn’t have to put up with Gaspard’s sulks or complaints or his vicious stick any more. Philippe had finally sent for me and I would never have to go back up that turret again. Gaspard could die up there, for all I cared, and probably would. In a few years someone would say,
I wonder what happened to old Gaspard?
And they’d find him, sitting mummified at his desk, the quill still in his hand, the ink turned to dust and the mice nesting in his beard.

‘Adieu,’ I said jauntily, as I turned at the door.

The ancient one lifted his head. He seemed to be struggling to speak, but nothing came out except a single word –
Vincent
– and, to my astonishment, I saw that tears were running down his papery old cheeks. Anyone might think the old crow was going to miss me. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to miss him. I bounded down those stairs with all the joy of a colt let out to pasture on the first day of spring.

‘I have a package I want you to deliver to a man by the name Albertus. A gift for the good service he has done me.’ Philippe indicated a leather pouch lying on the table between us. ‘His house is a mile or two beyond Ricey-Bas. The road through the valley will take you straight there. He’s a man who prefers his own company. You will know his house by the ouroboros inscribed upon the wall. It resembles a winged serpent devouring its own tail. You will tell no one where you are going and you will give this package only into the hands of Albertus himself. Do not entrust it even to one of his servants. Then hasten back here.’