The Raven's Head (27 page)

Father Madron leaves the threat of what will befall Felix unspoken and it is the worse for that.

‘Why can’t the lay brothers do it?’ Felix grumbles. ‘They’re the ones who are supposed to carry water and shit.’

Regulus is startled. He’s never heard Felix or any of the boys challenge Father John. They wouldn’t dare. Father Madron takes a pace forward, his face flushed. Regulus is afraid he is going to hit Felix.

‘The lay brothers are not permitted down here,’ he says, then adds, with an attempt at authority, ‘Besides, I dare say Father John selected you because he believes you might benefit from a lesson in humility and I see he was correct.’

It is Felix who flushes this time. He opens his mouth, but the mention of Father John seems to remind him that it is not wise to risk further defiance. Sullenly he heaves up one of the containers of dung, deliberately brushing it against the back of Father Madron’s white robe, leaving a thick brown stripe. The young canon appears not to notice. Peter and Regulus catch each other’s eye, a fit of giggles bubbling up in both of them.

Father Madron regards them suspiciously, but seems to conclude their laughter is caused by Felix being reprimanded. ‘There’s no cause for you two to smirk. You boys will not find your task any less instructive. Father John selected you both because you are the smallest. You two will clean the well of the furnace at the top and also underneath, where the fire usually burns. A vessel cracked in the well above and the contents ran through the holes into the fire chamber beneath. You’ll have to crawl through the stoking hole and scrape the inside clean so that the fire will burn clear. It’s been extinguished for many hours and the furnace is cold now. But you’d best strip off your clothes. They’ll get filthy and, besides, they might catch on something and trap you. Peter, you’re a little bigger. You’d better take the top. Regulus can crawl into the hole.’

Regulus stares at the tunnel that leads into the bottom of the furnace. He is not even sure it is wide enough to wriggle through. How big will it be inside? What if he gets stuck and can’t get out? He is close to tears.

‘You heard what I said,’ Father Madron snaps. ‘Take off your clothes or you’ll be in there all day.’

Regulus fumbles hopelessly with the knot that fastens the top of his tunic. Fear makes him clumsy. After watching him for a few moments, Father Madron slaps his hands away and begins to undress the boy himself. Regulus does not resist. He has been here long enough to know that it is useless.

Peter is already wriggling out of the last of his clothes. He does not want Father Madron to change his mind and send him through the hole.

‘Regulus, you’d better wait until Peter has finished, else the soot he dislodges will fall through the holes and choke you. You can fetch a besom and be ready to sweep up any dirt that falls out of the fire hole.’

Peter grimaces as Father Madron inserts his cold hands under his naked armpits and thighs and swings him up in his arms, depositing him in the well of the furnace. The young canon hands the boy a scraper and a brush. Peter, crouching awkwardly in the narrow space, sets to work. Powdery soot and burned fragments begin to tumble down the holes in the base and trickle out of the stoking tunnel beneath.

Clumsily, Regulus sweeps it into a pile, but the dust refuses to lie still, swirling up again each time he moves. His legs and hands are black with it.

Father Madron has moved to the other side of the pillar, where he is replacing bottles and boxes on the shelves, but each time Regulus looks up he sees the man’s head turned in their direction. He is watching them intently. Regulus thinks it is to ensure they are working hard. He will tell Father John if they are not. The boy tries to make the cloud of soot behave, but it will not lie still.

‘Wet it,’ Felix hisses.

Regulus flushes. He can’t piss on it. Not here, while Father Madron watches. But Felix dips his hand in the pail of water he carries and sprinkles it on the soot. It forms little clumps that cling together long enough for Regulus to collect them. He is grateful.

Soon, much too soon, Peter sings out that he has finished. Father Madron peers over the edge of the furnace to inspect his work, pointing out odd places he has missed, but finally he sets a stool beside the furnace and tells the boy he can climb out. He does not seem so eager to lift Peter out now that he resembles an imp from Hell, rather than a cherub.

Regulus laughs, for Peter’s eyes in his blackened face look startlingly white. He does not look like Peter at all but an actor in the Christmas mummers’ play. Peter grins back, but Regulus’s smile freezes as Father Madron takes the scraper and brush from Peter’s hand and gives them to him. He gestures to the narrow opening at the bottom of the furnace.

‘In you go, boy.’

Regulus edges towards the furnace. Father Madron pushes him down until he is crouching on the floor.

‘Lie down and wriggle in,’ Father Madron urges. ‘It’s not dark in there. There’s plenty of light from the holes.’

Regulus peers at the tunnel. It looks dark. ‘What if I get stuck?’

‘Peter will hold your ankles and pull you back out when you ask him to,’ Father Madron says. ‘The sooner you get started the sooner you’ll be out.’

Regulus feels something pressing on his backside, pushing him in. He thinks at first it might be the sole of Father Madron’s shoe, but then he feels fingers moving against his goose-pimpled skin and knows it is a cold hand pressing against him. He wonders if Father Madron has a birch, like Father John. He can almost hear the whistle of it above his naked rump. He crawls rapidly inside.

The tunnel is not long, two or three foot maybe. A faint light filters down into the fire chamber ahead of him. Regulus wriggles in a little further, though not too far in case Peter cannot touch his feet. He starts to cough. The stone is not hot, but it is still warm to the touch and that is enough to remind Regulus of where he is. Suppose someone lights a fire while he is in here? The scar round his finger suddenly burns, like it did that night he fell into the hearth. The flames of the torches on the walls are dancing over the holes above his head. He can’t breathe. He’s growing hotter. The flames are licking down the holes now. Sweat greases his naked body. He will be roasted alive. He starts to scream.

Something seizes his ankles, but in his panicked state that only makes him more frightened. He thinks they are trying to push him further inside, shut him in. He is kicking, thrashing, sobbing. He feels himself being hauled painfully backwards over the rough stone, until at last he is lying on the floor beneath the great vaulted ceiling, coughing and choking. The tears mingle with the sweat on his face, the warm blood from his scraped and stinging elbows and knees trickles over the soot-blackened skin.

Felix and Peter stare down at him, their faces wrinkled in concern. Felix swiftly presses his dung-grimed hand over Regulus’s mouth.

‘Stop bawling,’ he orders. ‘Madron’ll hear you. He’s just stepped out, but he’s bound to be back soon. Here, give me the scraper.’ He prises it from Regulus’s hand. The boy stares in surprise for he didn’t even realise he was still gripping it.

‘If I scrape off what I can reach from outside that will do. Madron can’t get his head in there, never mind his fat hairy arse, so if the bit just inside the tunnel looks clean, they’ll think the rest’s been done. Peter, go and keep cave by the door – listen out for him coming back. And, Regulus, you wipe that snot off your face, so he doesn’t see anything’s amiss.’

Both boys obey instantly and Felix works hard, so that when Peter comes scampering back to warn of approaching footsteps, a sizeable pile of ash, soot and fragments of some hard black substance lie outside the stoking hole. Just in time, Felix pushes the brush into Regulus’s hand and clambers up onto a stool to heave a bucket of clean water into the vat. As he predicted, Father Madron kneels down to peer into the entrance of the stoking tunnel, but the pile of debris appears to convince him that the job has been completed.

Once the boys have swept up, Father Madron releases them, sending them to the lavatorium to wash away the soot – ‘Thoroughly, mind. Ears too.’

He hands Felix three worn linen towels and a clay pot of soft soap, which stinks of rancid fat. Peter and Regulus are instructed to walk naked while Felix carries their clothes so that they do not soil them. Not that his clothes look much cleaner than their skin.

The wind is even sharper now. A fine misty rain is falling and both the little boys shiver, but Regulus doesn’t care. He feels almost elated at having escaped the chamber. Although he was terrified in the furnace, the vaulted room itself has lost some of its nightmare horrors. Without the glowing fires and the boiling, bubbling vessels, without Father John and Father Arthmael with the burning eyes, the cellar now seems little more than a big store room. Even the magpie stayed on its shelf, emitting only the occasional
chacker
of irritation. Regulus begins to wonder if the room was ever quite as frightening as he remembers, or if it has somehow got mixed up with a bad dream.

The boys’ teeth chatter uncontrollably as they rub the soft soap over themselves and splash icy water on their goose-pimpled skin. They quickly rub themselves dry, leaving more grime on the towels than in the tub of black scummy water, and try to pull clothes over damp skin.

‘Do we
have
to go back yet?’ Peter asks, plainly thinking that staying outside, even in this freezing rain, is preferable to returning to one of Father John’s Latin lessons.

Felix screws up his eyes as if he’s considering the matter, then gestures towards a dark corner where the branches of a tree will shield them should anyone happen to glance out of the upper windows. They scuttle across, and hunker down, wrapping their arms about their legs for warmth.

‘You know that big vat I had to empty and clean,’ Felix says. ‘Well, it wasn’t just water in there. It stank of shit and I reckon someone had been sick in it too.’

Regulus wrinkles his nose, but he’s come across far worse things left to fester in tubs. He is a son of a forester, after all.

‘That’s why I didn’t see it at first,’ Felix continues, ‘with the water being all cloudy, and I reckon they didn’t either. I only saw it ’cause it got caught on a jag round the edge of the drain hole. Saw the glint of it after the water was gone.’

He pauses dramatically, waiting for the question from his audience and they do not disappoint him. They know what storytellers expect of their listeners.

‘What was there, Felix?’

‘Did you find something?’

Felix lifts his foot and fumbles around inside his shoe. He is holding something in his clenched fist. Slowly, like a magician at a fair, he uncurls his fingers. Lying on his palm is a small amulet, hanging from a broken leather strap. He turns it over and the heads of the two little boys bump together as they lean in to peer at it.

‘Emblem of St Michael, that is,’ Felix says triumphantly. ‘See, there’s the dragon under his feet and the hand of God stopping him killing the monster.’

Peter thrusts his knuckles into his mouth. Felix is watching him closely. ‘You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?’

Peter nods solemnly, without taking his fist from his mouth.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Felix says. ‘It’s Mighel’s, isn’t it? He told me his father gave it him before he went off to sea. Right proud of it, he was. Said his father promised him it would keep him safe.’

Regulus jerks away as if he has been stung. The little tin emblem hasn’t kept Mighel from harm, like his father had promised, because he’s been taken by the wizard who turns boys into birds, else he’s dead. But he’s not safe. His father lied. All fathers lie. They say they are going to come to see you, but they don’t. It’s all a trick to make you behave, but even when you try to be good, they never, ever come. Anger boils up in Regulus and he almost blurts out his indignation, but he stops himself in time. Peter doesn’t know about Mighel, and Regulus can tell from his face he hasn’t guessed.

‘What’s St Michael doing in the vat?’ Peter asks. ‘Why didn’t Mig take it home with him?’

Felix glances sharply at Regulus. Regulus nods and lowers his eyes. Their secret pact holds.

‘I expect his mother hugged him when she came to get him,’ Felix says to Peter. ‘Probably hugged him so tight, the strap broke and it fell into the water. That’s what mothers do, don’t they, hug you till you can’t breathe?’

There is a look of aching hunger on the older boy’s face as if he is thinking of something sweet he knows he will not taste again.

‘’Sides,’ he adds, with forced cheerfulness, ‘he doesn’t need old St Michael and his sword to protect him now ’cause he’s safe at home, isn’t he? His mother’ll look after him now.’

For the womb of that woman is full of poison. So let there be dug a grave for the dragon and let the woman be buried therein with him.

‘What is it you want, disturbing me at this hour,’ Robert de Drayton demanded, ‘and in my own home too? You told my servant you’d important information for me. Come on then, cough it up. But I warn you, if this is some frivolous request for me to settle a dispute in your favour, you’ll find your back smarting at the whipping post for wasting the time of the bishop’s
prepositus
.’

I suppose Drayton imagined using the Latin title of
prepositus
instead of plain
bailiff
would make him sound more important, especially if he thought he was addressing an unlettered pot-boy. I was sorely tempted to answer him in a stream of fluent Latin, which, thanks to old Gaspard’s tutelage, I could easily have done. But I’d learned long ago in Philippe’s employ that it doesn’t sweeten the temper of these little puff-toads if they think you know more than them.

He was only lording it over me because he’d recognised me from the tavern. But even if he hadn’t known where I worked, a blind man in fog could have told him, for the clothes I’d selected so carefully when I’d first tried to sell the raven’s head were now stained with spilled food, pitted with holes from burning sparks and reeked of hot fat and sour ale. But if this evening’s work went well I would soon be dressed as a man of substance.