The Raven's Head (18 page)

I dropped to my knees, running my hands over the cold stones trying to find a ring or some means of lifting a trap door. But I could feel nothing. A wooden mallet lay on top of one of the barrels, which was probably used to broach the sealed casks. I began to tap my way across the floor, until I heard it, the hollow echo beneath one of the flags. I ran my fingers around the edge, trying to find a finger-hold.

I was so engrossed that the footsteps outside had almost reached the hut before my mind registered the sound. With only a whisker of time to spare, I flattened myself behind the door as Barbot wandered in. She set her flagons on the floor and, pulling the wooden bung from the barrel, let the wine stream into one. She was so close that, even behind the door, I could smell the cooking fat on her hair and the rosemary she’d sewn into her gown to make some lover return to her.

But, to my horror, the door she’d thrown open began to swing closed under its own weight. As soon as she turned to leave she would see me standing there. I was still holding the wooden mallet. I raised it. I swear, I meant only to protect myself, threaten her into silence if I had to, but she must have sensed the movement behind her. Still crouching on the floor, she half turned her head. The mallet smashed into her temple even as she was opening her mouth to scream. Her eyes opened wide in shock. She crumpled onto the floor and lay still, the blood-red wine trickling over her neck.

I kicked the door closed and stepped over the prone body, not daring to look at her to see if she was alive or dead. I was trembling with the fear and horror of what I’d done. I began to gag and had to force myself not to vomit. I knew it would be only minutes before she was missed and someone, probably that drunken oaf who’d called for her earlier, would come looking.

Frantically, I searched though the jumble of nets and tools until I found myself grasping an iron mattock on a long wooden handle. I shoved the sharp end of the iron under one side of the hollow flagstone to prise it upwards. It was heavy, but I was able to lift it high enough to grasp the edge and pull it, grating, across the floor. Underneath, just as I’d hoped, was a dark hole. Cold, damp air rolled up as if from a well. I snatched the lantern from its hook and dangled it down inside. But I could see little except puddles of water glistening on the earth floor below me. I had no idea if this was simply a cellar or was indeed a way out.

Still gripping the lantern, I flung the mattock back onto the pile of nets and tools and eased myself over the edge of the hole, wincing as the sharp edge grated over my rib-cage.

‘Barbot! Where are you, girl? There’s customers want serving. If you’ve fallen asleep in there again, I swear I’ll swing for you this time, God’s blood, I will.’

I heard footsteps coming towards the hut. I dared not hesitate. I dropped into the mud. Then reaching up, I dragged the flagstone back over the hole. It fell into place just as the door of the hut was flung open.

Wherever there have been crudities and excrements they have been purged and destroyed by being suffused with its water and the body has been led back to clarity and perfection.

The great bell tolls – one, twice . . . The dozing boys stir fitfully. Some jerk awake and lie in the icy darkness counting silently –
three, four
. . .
knock at the door.
But there will be no knock, no warning, if he comes.

Little Peter curls himself into a ball and prays. Prays – as do they all – that if the door opens tonight and Father John comes padding softly along the row of boys, the canon will not stop at the foot of his pallet. Peter silently begs for it not to be his shoulder that Father John shakes, not be him who is led out through that door.
Not tonight, please. Take Felix, or Regulus or Mighel. Take anyone else, but not me!
But what chance do a boy’s stammered prayers stand against the army of Latin invocations from the white-robed priests? The Blessed Virgin will never hear his feeble plea above such a mighty surge.

Sometimes down in that shadowy dungeon, which is nearer Hell than Heaven, they make Peter drink bitter liquids till his guts burn as if he’s swallowed hot iron. If he gags, they clamp his mouth shut, tip his head back, so he is forced to swallow again what has risen up in his throat. Other times the liquid is sickly sweet. He does not mind that so much, except that afterwards his legs give way beneath him. He crumples to the floor and lies helplessly on the cold flags, staring upwards at the stone arches that twist like serpents, while the floor below him melts into a lake teeming with monstrous crabs that tear his skin with their pincers. He cannot fight them off. He screams, but there is no sound.

He never remembers being returned to his bed, and in the morning when he drags himself from his pallet, head pounding, legs as heavy as tree trunks, he wonders if he’s dreamed it, until he sees the other boys’ wary glances in his direction. Then he knows he was the one who was taken.

Peter shivers. He is cold beneath the thin blanket, but he no longer even admits that to himself. Last week he wished he could be warm and Father John knew what he’d wished for. He always knows what each boy is thinking, and he punishes each sinful thought.

That night there’d been no goblet in Father Arthmael’s hands. Father Madron stripped Peter of his shirt, and Father John pushed him naked into a wooden box, so small he could only fit if he sat with knees drawn up and head bent. The box grew warm, then hot. White steam gushed up through the holes beneath him until he was struggling to breathe, trying to claw his way out, sobbing in panic, tears and sweat running together down his cheeks. Then came the moment of utter relief when the door swung open and they dragged him out, slippery as an eel, into the cool air.

Holding him in a great basin, they scraped the sweat from his naked body with sharp slivers of black stone, which left shallow, stinging cuts across his back and thighs. His legs were scarlet from the watery blood running down them. He thought they would skin him, like he’d seen a flesher skin a goat.

‘Every drop,’ Father Arthmael urged. ‘Collect every drop of bloody sweat. It is a precious fluid, the dew of a child that purifies the soul, and I must begin the distillation at once, while it still contains the spirit.’

That night Peter remembered being returned to the dorter – the icy air on his wet hair as he was pulled through the courtyard, the smart of the coarse blanket on his newly washed cuts, the sobs he tried to stifle in the straw of his pallet. Father John had paused and turned back. Peter cringed, but the priest crouched and gently stroked the boy’s damp hair.

‘Hush now, sleep. It is over.’ He bent closer and whispered, ‘You must understand, Peter, Father Arthmael does not do such things from cruelty. He seeks the greatest secret a man can possess. He has studied and conducted his experiments for many years, testing each substance carefully, harvesting the living essences from the young, which are the seed and primal matter of the universe. And now he believes he is close, so close, to achieving what he seeks. Nothing good can be gained without sacrifice, Peter. Remember the suffering of Christ and all the saints. They submitted joyously to pain and you must follow their example. Dry your tears and give thanks to the Blessed Virgin that you have been chosen to play a part in this great work. And remember, Peter, you must say nothing about what happens in the laboratorium, not even to your fellows. I shall know if you do and I
will punish
.’

Peter shivers as the bell tolls again. Then he feels it. The blast of cold air as the door at the top of the dorter steps swings silently open. He shuts his eyes. If he cannot see Father John, then Father John cannot see him. The soft pad of sandals advances down the row of pallets towards him, measured, slow steps.

Not me! Not me! Take someone else tonight, please . . . please!

The footsteps pause. Peter’s eyes are screwed so tight they hurt. He waits. He grasps the blanket tightly over his chest as if it is a shield. He can hear the rasp of Father John’s breath in the darkness, smell the incense on his robe. The little boy waits for the hard fingers to clamp like a claw upon his arm.

Then he hears a gasp that is not his own, the rustle of the straw pallet next to him as another boy is pulled from his bed. But Peter dare not open his eyes. He hears two pairs of sandals on the stairs, feels the breeze from the door as it opens and closes. Only then does he release his breath and a surge of relief washes over him, like a warm bath.

Little Mighel knows better than to resist. He stumbles over the uneven flagstones, Father John gripping his shoulder, pushing him forward into the impenetrable darkness. But even though he knows full well where they are going, still he jerks back when they reach the heavy wooden door hiding the stairs that spiral down and down into the great red maw of that chamber. The child is seized with panic. He tries in vain to wrench himself from the hand that grasps him. He cannot help it, even though he knows there is no escape, knows that it will only lead to punishment and pain. Father John bends his head close to Mighel’s ear.

‘Come along, boy, you know there is nothing to fear. Father Arthmael is an abbot, the servant of God. It is your duty to obey him as you do me, for we know what is best for you. You have been here before, Mighel, and you know that the sooner you do as you are asked, the sooner you can sleep.’

Mighel has been here before and he does now what he did then. He pretends he is not here. They are not here. He reaches for the amulet of St Michael and the dragon hanging round his neck, the one his father gave him long, long ago, before he went to sea. His father told him it would always keep him safe. Nothing could hurt him as long as he held on to St Michael. His father promised, and his father never lied.

Mighel clutches the amulet in his fist so fiercely it hurts. St Michael will make the staircase and the dungeon vanish. He will slay Father John, Father Arthmael and all the canons with his spear and when Mighel opens his eyes he will be back in his own bed again, safe.

Father John turns the iron ring. The door swings open. The staircase has not vanished.

The wind carried it in its womb, its nurse is the earth.

I swung the lantern around and discovered I was in a low, wide tunnel, which branched off in three directions. The sides and roof were sweating beads of water, which dripped down into the slimy puddles on the floor. Wooden props had been wedged in at intervals to hold the roof up, but small mounds of stones and soil marked where there had been falls. I’d spent half my life up in a turret looking down on the earth, and now, in that tunnel, I felt like a skylark trapped in a rabbit warren. In spite of the chill, damp air, I was already gasping for breath and sweating in panic at the thought of the weight of rocks pressing down on me. It was all I could do to stop myself bursting back up through the trapdoor again.

Above me, I heard
Tantine
give a little scream. ‘Barbot! Barbot, you silly girl, what have you done now?’

She roared for someone – anyone – to come and help. There was a pause. Then it sounded as if a herd of cattle was stampeding above me. Clods fell from the roof, covering me with a shower of dirt. I had to move and quickly, too. If Barbot was still alive and started to talk or they began searching for her attacker,
Tantine
was bound to think of the tunnel.

But which way should I go? Moving around beneath that trapdoor had completely disoriented me and I no longer knew which way I was facing. Where was the town wall? Panic seized me: what if I took the wrong passage and got trapped?

I found myself gripping the wooden box that swung at my side. And as if I could feel the raven’s beak pointing the way, my thoughts cleared. The footsteps of the men summoned from the tavern were approaching from my right. I shuffled round so that the sounds of running feet were behind me. That meant I had my back to the courtyard, so if one of these tunnels did lead out under the town wall, it would most likely be the one in front of me.

Ducking as low as I could, I stumbled forward round the curve of the tunnel, praying that it would not get any narrower. I kept having to remind myself that if they could roll kegs of wine up this tunnel the walls would have to remain at least wide enough for that. But I did not like the way the floor was gradually sloping down. The last thing I wanted was to go deeper.

Was I under the wall yet? I must be. But that was far from comforting. All the height and weight of the towering stone wall were pressing down on this small tunnel, which, at that moment, seemed as fragile as a sparrow’s egg. I had to get out of there. I edged forward, but the gap had vanished and the feeble yellow light of the lantern struck only a wall of earth. There was nothing but a blank wall in front of me! This was a dead end. I was trapped and I found myself paralysed with fear. My legs would not go forward or back. Then I heard the grating echo of a stone being dragged across the flags. They’d opened the trapdoor. They were checking the tunnel.

I slipped and slithered in the slimy mud as I edged towards the wall ahead of me, hoping desperately to find a hollow in which to conceal myself. I heard the soft pad of feet, the splash of a puddle. Someone was creeping along the passage behind me. I suddenly realised the glow from my lantern was shining back up the tunnel, leading them straight towards me. With trembling fingers, I lifted one of the horn panels and snuffed out the candle. The tunnel was instantly plunged into darkness. I stood rigid, holding my breath, but the footsteps kept coming and I could just make out something red flickering along the wall. Whoever was approaching was carrying a burning torch.

Sick with fear, I turned away from the light and, sliding my right hand along the rough surface of the side of the passage, stumbled forward. I held out the other hand in front of me expecting any moment to collide with the end of the tunnel, but instead I felt the side wall against which I was pressing bend sharply right into a second branch of the tunnel, whose entrance must have been concealed in the shadows as I’d approached.