The Raven's Head (24 page)

After I had been rudely shoved aside for the third time, it occurred to me that the reason I was being treated like a beggar was that, after weeks on the run and days being drenched and wind-tossed at sea, I probably looked filthier than a dog-shit collector and doubtless smelt as bad. I knew I couldn’t attempt to sell the raven’s head if I appeared to be a man who couldn’t even pay for his next meal. They’d immediately suspect that the silver bird had been stolen and I could hardly prove it hadn’t.

So, there was nothing for it but to spend the very last of the coins I had carefully amassed on some new clothes. The best I could afford was a moss-green tunic with a reddish-brown tabard to wear over it. They were both much plainer than I’d hoped for, but at least they fitted me well and were not stained or torn. I’d no money left to buy new hose, but I hoped the tunic would cover most of the holes.

The salt spray had made my hair so sticky and matted, I couldn’t pull my stolen comb through it. It felt like a thorn bush growing out of my head. Much to the amusement of some small boys, I stripped almost naked in a quiet back alley and steeled myself to tip buckets of icy water from a well in the street over my head, in an effort to rinse the salt from my hair and skin. My teeth were chattering violently by the time I’d finished, but there was one good thing to be said for that vicious wind: it dried hair quickly.

Dressed and groomed as neatly as I could manage, I set about finding a likely-looking shop in which to sell the silver flask. I needed someone who had the money and good taste to pay for the bird, but was not so respectable that they would enquire too closely into its origins.

I found one such shop near the church of St James. A curious hairy creature with an imp-like face and almost human hands and feet squatted in a tiny cage that hung outside it. When anyone approached it shrieked and gibbered, rattling the cage and grimacing, stretching out its paws through the bars as if trying to drag the customer in. It certainly drew attention to the shop. I glanced in through the dark doorway. A man sat at a bench, repairing a large silver buckle. The shelves that lined the shop were crammed with all manner of objects, from copper platters to pewter goblets, silver bowls to candle spikes in the form of manikins or animals.

I swaggered inside, trying to exude an air of confidence. He glanced up as I greeted him. I swept my hand in a grand gesture around the shelves. ‘You are a skilled craftsman, Master. You fashioned all these?’

He grunted, unimpressed. ‘Some. Others I buy from the ships.’ He nodded towards a pair of copper bowls decorated with delicate silver trees and exotic birds with sweeping tails. ‘From India those are, finest we’ve ever had. Just the thing if you’re looking for a gift to impress.’

He laid the buckle aside. ‘Getting married, are you? Wedding gift for your lovely bride, is it? She’ll give you the wedding night of your dreams, if you buy this for her. Fair melt into your arms, she will.’ He pulled down a round silver mirror.

I stared into its highly polished surface. It had been quite some time since I’d seen my own reflection, and for a moment I fancied I was looking at a painting of a stranger. My skin had always been as pale as a grass blade trapped beneath a stone, from having been kept in the turret through the summer, but was now tanned, and my wispy beard was golden against my brown face.

The silversmith turned it over so that I could admire the back, which was engraved with what seemed to be a small cottage, a woman’s head hovering above it.

‘The Holy Shrine of the house of the Virgin Mary at Walsingham, that is.’ He leaned towards me, as if he was about to impart some great secret. ‘I tell you, they don’t sell anything half as fine as this in Walsingham itself and what they do sell will cost you three times as much for half the quality.’

‘You’re a man of exquisite taste,’ I said. ‘And you know good craftsmanship when you see it. I’d be most interested to hear your professional opinion of this.’

His face settled into a resentful scowl as soon as he realised I was selling not buying and, replacing the mirror, he returned to his seat behind the bench. He bent his head to his work, plainly indicating I should leave and stop wasting his time. But I refused to be discouraged. Glancing round to ensure the shop was empty, I turned my back to the door and pulled out the box. I carefully unwrapped the raven’s head and placed it on the bench directly in front of him, where he was forced to look at it.

‘Interesting piece,’ he said, with a casual indifference, but I could tell from the gleam in his eyes and the way his fingers darted towards it that he thought it far more than that.

He lifted it and examined it carefully, running his finger over the smooth polished beak. ‘Selling it, are you?’

I shrugged. ‘I might be persuaded to part with it, for a good price, though it has been in my family many years.’

‘I’d have a hard job selling it on. Ravens are unlucky. There’s not many would want this in their house.’

But the expression on his face was one of almost pure lust. I could see how much he coveted it and knew he was just trying to find an excuse to offer me far less than the bird was worth.

‘But the
head
of a raven protects a house and a kingdom,’ I said. ‘It is said that the great King Arthur didn’t die but became a raven so that he could watch over his people, and that King Brân could turn himself into a raven to spy on his enemies. When he died they buried his head on Tower Hill in London, facing France, to keep this sweet isle safe from invasion.’

‘Didn’t work, though, did it?’ the silversmith said sourly. ‘Louis the Lion took England just the same.’

‘Only part of it, and he was driven out from all in the end.’ The mention of King Louis brought my erstwhile master painfully to mind. ‘Besides,’ I added quickly, ‘everyone knows a raven on the roof brings prosperity to the house.’

The silversmith gave an appraising glance at my plain clothes. ‘If it’s that lucky, I’m surprised you want to sell it.’

‘I’m embarking on a long voyage,’ I said airily. ‘My uncle is a wealthy woad merchant in Picardy. His business has grown so much that he wants me to join him and help him expand still further. But, alas, silver and seawater don’t mix. I’d hate such a lovely object to be damaged or even stolen in my travels. So, reluctantly, I must part with it.’

The silversmith nodded. I couldn’t tell if he believed the tale or not, but I guessed he was prepared to accept any story, just as long as it was vaguely plausible. He doubtless found it helped business not to enquire too closely into the origins of some of the things he was offered for sale.

We began to haggle, like marketplace crones, him starting, as I knew he would, at a ridiculously low price and me at an outrageously high one. As we bargained he continued to examine the head, holding it close to a candle the better to admire the fine engraving. I could see how much he desired it. We had almost met at a price on which we could shake hands when he froze, then thrust the silver head back at me.

He turned away, flapping his hands as if he was trying to shoo away a wasp. ‘I can’t help you. I can’t buy it.’

Thinking this was just a tactic to bring the price down again, I tried to press him, holding out the head so that the beak turned to gold in the light of the flame. But I could tell something had changed. He was shrinking away from it, holding up his hand to shield himself from it, as if warding off the evil eye.

‘The signs,’ he muttered.

‘What signs?’

‘Haven’t you seen them? There . . . hidden in the feathers. Look at them closely with the candle behind them. Turn it at an angle. See? Can you see them now? The swan, the scorpion, the sun, the moon, the tomb itself. They’re all there. It’s the marriage of death!’

I peered at the raven’s head, trying to make sense of what he was saying. And then I suddenly saw them too. In daylight, the head appeared to be covered with nothing more than the intricately engraved feathers, but in this interplay of flame and shadow, some of the lines stood out in relief and I saw now that tiny symbols were hidden there – a flame, a lion, a boy.

I glanced up at him. He had taken several paces back from the bench, as if I was holding a live viper. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What do they mean?’

The silversmith shook his head. ‘Go! Go! Get it out of my shop,’ he begged. There was no mistaking the fear in his voice. This was no bargaining tactic.

Bewildered, I began to rewrap the head in the white woollen cloth. But then, as I was folding the last piece in place, the raven’s eye winked at me. I know you’ll say it was just a trick of the light, nothing more than shadow cast by the guttering candle flame, but I swear to you, on my own miserable life, I saw that eyelid move.

My hands were trembling so hard, I could scarcely get the head back into the box. I hurried from the shop. As I passed the gibbering imp in the cage, I heard the silversmith’s voice cry out behind me, ‘Get rid of it, boy. Hurl it into the sea. It will be your death if you don’t.’

Take his brain, grind it up with very strong vinegar or with a boy’s urine, until it turns black.

The manservant looms over Gisa as she proffers her name. He does not hide his contempt. He is a giant of a man, thighs thick as her body and neck corded like that of an ox. Coarse black bristles poke out from his eyebrows, chin, nose and ears, as if he is a hollow skin that’s been overstuffed with horsehair.

‘You are Master . . .?’ she asks, trying to placate him with the courtesy of a title.

His sneer deepens. He is not appeased.

‘Odo. Plain Odo. The
master
is waiting for you up in his laboratorium.’

He leads her through the walled courtyard and the Great Hall, with its painted walls, to a door at the back of the hall disguised as part of the wooden panelling. She emerges into the manor grounds, which appear to be entirely enclosed by a high wall. In most manorial grounds the eye would be drawn to the herb garden or the orchard, but here both herbs and trees alike cower beneath a grim, square tower, which stands alone in the centre of the grounds, its black shadow stretching out, like an accusing finger, to touch the walls of the manor house.

The tower has a flat roof and on top Gisa can just make out a metal cage, like the gibbets in which they hang the corpses of executed prisoners, though this one seems to be full of wood. She decides it must be a beacon of sorts, to be lit as a warning of invasion, like the one on the bell tower of the parish church. Will the French invade again? Aunt Ebba is certain they will and certain she will be ravished if they do.

Odo grunts, jerking his head towards the heavy oak door in the base of the tower. ‘I’ve unlocked it. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

‘Aren’t you going to tell him I’m here?’ Gisa asks.

The manservant’s hairy nostrils flare. ‘Announce you? As if you were a noblewoman?’ His tone makes clear which of them he believes is the superior. ‘I never go up there, not when he’s working. If he needs something heavy removed or brought in he gives instructions . . .
clear
instructions. There are rules. Those who don’t learn them fast are not here long.’

Odo turns back into the Great Hall, then seems to remember something else she must be told. ‘When the master’s dismissed you for the day, you’ll leave through there.’ He points across the garden to a narrow door set into the wall of the manor grounds. ‘I have the key.’ He says this as if he wishes her to understand that he controls every gate and door. He, and he alone, has the power to release her from this prison.

He retreats inside and the door to the Great Hall slams shut, but Gisa does not move. She has no desire to enter that tower, but as she glances up at the high windows, she thinks she sees movement. Perhaps Sylvain is standing up there looking down at her, watching, waiting.

Her legs have turned into twin pillars of salt. She has to drag them across the grass. As she reaches the entrance she hesitates. In spite of what Odo has instructed, she feels compelled to knock, but there is no response. Can Lord Sylvain even hear the beating of her small fist all the way up there? She twists the iron ring and pushes. The door to the tower is as stout as that of a great castle’s and she has to lean her full weight on it to open it. She edges inside, expecting . . . She has no idea what to expect. All the same, she fears whatever might be in there.

But she finds herself standing in nothing more alarming than a bare, dusty room, containing only a neat stack of logs, some sealed barrels and sacks of what smells like horse dung. A straight wooden staircase runs up one wall, leading to the open trapdoor in the wooden floor above.

Gisa calls out, but there is no reply. There is no rail or rope to hold, so pressing her hand against the wall to balance herself, she inches up the staircase and emerges through the trapdoor into a second chamber. Shelves run around this room, crammed with many small flasks and jars, and beneath are stacks of chests and boxes. Every jar and box is labelled, not just with words but also symbols in the form of circles, lines and crosses, with the signs of the sun or moon and the different houses of the zodiac.

Though Gisa does not understand the significance of the lines and circles, she knows the signs of the zodiac well, for every plant and mineral her uncle uses in his shop must be collected in accordance with astrological rules. Every illness is governed by a planet and therefore its cure is to be found in a herb ruled by the same planet or by the opposite one. These heavenly bodies govern the health and fortunes of the meanest beggars and greatest nations alike. They cannot be ignored, so Uncle Thomas says.

Gisa longs to examine the contents of the jars, but she hears footsteps crossing the wooden boards above her and, though she is trying to put off the moment for as long as possible, she dare not tarry. She must face Lord Sylvain sooner or later. In this chamber, too, a wooden staircase runs up the side of the wall and, with a lump in the centre of her chest, as if she has swallowed a great stone, she begins to climb.