The Raven's Head (34 page)

‘Ask him today, I beg you. There isn’t much time before my boat sails and I couldn’t bear the shame if I broke my sworn oath to my poor friend.’

We were approaching the wall that surrounded the manor grounds. She quickened her pace again, making for the little bridge over the ditch that led to a low door in the wall.

‘I’ll wait by the main gate all day,’ I called after her. ‘I’ll maintain my vigil day and night if I have to, so that I may fulfil my vow to such a noble knight. I couldn’t live, knowing I had betrayed his trust.’

I glanced up at the sky, hoping it might threaten rain. It would encourage her to take pity on me, if she thought I was standing outside like a hound, miserable, wet and shivering. But the dew on the grass was already sparkling in the first rays of sun and if anything it looked set to be the first warm day of spring.

She glanced back at me and pressed her finger to her lips, inclining her head towards the door. I guessed that someone was standing behind it and hastily drew back out of sight as it was opened from within. Gisa slipped through and I heard the key grind in the lock and the beam rammed home to brace it. Whatever Sylvain was doing behind those walls, he certainly had no wish to have anyone burst in on him.

I made my way round to the main gate. The two great iron-studded doors in the courtyard wall were firmly shut, but I had no intention of tolling the bell for admittance. That great brute of a manservant had already slammed the door in my face once. I was not going to give him the satisfaction a second time. On the other side of the track was a small grove of birch and willow. There I found a moss-covered stump, which, though rotten with fungus, was marginally drier than the boggy grass, so I settled myself down on it to wait.

I’d had the foresight to thrust some bread, slices of dried apple and the end of a ham shank into my scrip the night before, and it was as well I had, for my stomach was complaining loudly about its missed breakfast. The bread was so hard it could have taken a man’s eye out if it had been fired from a sling. But after I’d gnawed what I could, I wiled away the time by chipping bits off to throw to the birds pecking at the leaf buds in the trees. They ignored the crumbs.

Hours shuffled past. Occasionally a boy came staggering along the track bent double beneath a load of fodder or a bundle of kindling. An ox-cart would rumble by, or an old woman totter past, clutching a chicken or an armful of herbs. They stared at me curiously and some laughed, gesturing towards the closed doors.

‘Your backside’ll have taken root and you’ll be pushing leaves out of your ears afore you see that door open.’

I smiled politely and ignored them. Midday came and went. After my early start that morning, I found my eyelids drooping and my head nodding onto my chest. I had repeatedly to shake myself awake. Then it was mid-afternoon and the distant bells for the None prayers were ringing. I was beginning to realise I was going to have to work a lot harder on persuading Gisa to speak to her master. But how?

Giving a woman a bunch of ribbons or a cheap necklace might be enough for most, but I’d seen the enamel swan brooch Gisa wore on her cloak and knew that nothing I could afford in the marketplace would even come close to matching that. Besides, I was pretty sure even a gold necklace wouldn’t work on her. Maybe if I asked her to come for a stroll along the river and spun her a story . . . My thoughts drifted into tales of wounded knights and holy quests, and I had almost drifted off to sleep again when something jerked me awake. It took me a few moments to realise it was the sound of the door opening.

The manservant lumbered out and peered up and down the track, like an ogre who’s caught the scent of human blood. I leaped to my feet and hurried towards him. His thick black eyebrows formed one continual line above his nose, which gave him a perpetual scowl.

‘You Laurent?’

‘
Master
Laurent,’ I corrected, in what I hoped was a tone of authority.

It produced only a sneer. ‘The master wants to see you.’

I was sorely tempted to make some sarcastic comment about him having told me Sylvain would never have me admitted, but I’ve learned you should never annoy servants. They have all kinds of subtle and devious ways of getting back at you, not least poisoning their masters against you. So I contented myself by stalking past him, as if I was grossly insulted at being kept hanging about for so long.

He led me through the courtyard and into the Great Hall, which was empty of people, but not of noise. A dozen cages hung in the breeze from the open casements, each containing some exotically coloured bird that was doing its best to out-sing its neighbours. A few fluttered hopelessly against the bars, trying to fly up into the wide blue sky they could see but not reach.

But the birds seemed colourless compared to the splendour of the hall. Here was a man who had wealth, but didn’t flaunt it in vulgarity. The wall paintings of the astrological houses, exquisitely executed in vivid reds, greens and blues, glittered with subtle touches of gold leaf. The great shell-like lavers on their stands were sculpted of finest bronze, and the iron candle spikes on the walls were in the form of horned stags or twisted nests of scorpions.

At one end of the hall was a raised dais, while at the other, below the hearth, was a long table on which stood a huge enamel and gilt cup, covered with a lid and studded with semi-precious stones, which would have been the envy of many a cathedral. But it was not decorated with scenes from the life of Christ. Grotesques that were half man, half woman wandered over the surface. There was a man with the sun in the place of his head and a woman with the moon instead of a face. One panel showed a king being boiled alive in a cauldron, while in another, a king and queen lay side by side in a tomb. I could make little sense of it, unless it depicted the life of one of those strange saints like St Christopher, who was born with the head of a dog and devoured men before he was converted.

‘You admire my chalice.’

I spun round. A man was standing on the dais behind me. He was dressed in a flowing black tabard, trimmed with fur and girdled at the waist. Beneath it his robe was white. Though he was in his own hall, his hands were encased in close-fitting gloves of black kid, decorated with strips of silver embroidery. His hair, if he had any, was concealed beneath a tight black coif fastened beneath his chin. He was a man whose age was impossible to guess.

I bowed. Without taking his gaze from me, he lowered himself stiffly into a chair placed ready in the centre of the dais. He was staring intently at my hair and then his gaze slid over the rest of my body, as if I was a horse he was appraising for bloodstock. For a moment there was an expression of greedy excitement in his eyes, like you see in the eyes of men when they are looking at a woman who arouses their lust. I felt my face growing hot. But it was gone in a flash and his face became expressionless again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and hard. ‘Gisa tells me that you approached her last night and again this morning seeking an audience with me, when you had already been refused admission by Odo. Did you think the girl would tell you something that Odo would not?’

‘My lord, I wouldn’t dream of asking any servant to betray the confidences of their masters. Indeed, what would be the point? If a servant was perfidious enough to do such a thing, whatever they said could hardly be relied upon. I trust the girl told you that I asked her nothing, save only that she might beg you to speak with me, since your manservant seemed disinclined to convey the message.’

He clasped his gloved fingers together and rested his chin upon them. ‘But you have been asking others about me in the town and sharing your own more
colourful
thoughts about me with them.’ His tone held no emotion, which made it only more chilling.

Who had told him? I couldn’t imagine any of the townspeople dropping into the manor to exchange pleasantries and gossip. Was he simply guessing? I tried to remain as calm as he was and not be flustered into hasty denials. I decided to treat it as a statement rather than a question and say nothing.

The birds had fallen silent and I became aware of the loud buzzing of flies. The source was a solitary bowl on the long table that might once have contained fruit of some kind, now rotted to a heap of brown slime covered with white mildew. Odo’s talents evidently didn’t run to clearing tables. I was surprised Sylvain tolerated such laziness in his servants.

We both waited. After a long pause, the baron raised his eyebrows as if I had surprised him.

‘Gisa said you’d sworn an oath to a knight to deliver a message. You doubtless thought she would find such a fable romantic. You underestimate her, Master Laurent. She is an intelligent girl, not a moonstruck milkmaid. She told me of your approaches because she knew I would wish to be informed about someone trying to gain access to this manor. And, I suspect, because she thought she might have been seen talking to you and was anxious to tell me before others did. My servants are chosen for their loyalty.

‘But let us put an end to this game, before I find you standing in my bedchamber in the middle of the night. What is it you want from me? Money to invest in some great enterprise, a ship of exploration, perhaps? Are you offering me a miraculous elixir, which I can possess for a fortune? Or are you another adventurer who claims to know the whereabouts of my lost daughter? I warn you, Master Laurent, I have heard them all, which is why I have given instructions that no more men, like you, are to be admitted to waste my time.’

‘And,’ I said, ‘that is precisely why the rumours about you multiply like mice in a tithe barn. They will devour all that you own if you cannot kill them. The townspeople say your daughter lies imprisoned in the tower while her suitors languish, chained up in your cellars, blinded and castrated. They speak of you conjuring demons and sending them out to wreak vengeance on any who cross you.’

Sylvain gave a snort of laughter. ‘You think I don’t know what is said? Mothers have always told their children stories of the black shuck and terrible tatterfoal that stalk the lanes after dark in order to frighten their offspring into returning home in good time for supper. For the same reason, if these wild tales frighten the townspeople into leaving me in peace, why should I care what is said of me?’

‘Because if these rumours continue to grow, peace is the one thing you will not be able to buy. Already there is talk of men storming the manor to rescue those they believe imprisoned inside and to cast you down from the top of the tower, so that you can work no more magic.’

Sylvain’s eyes flashed, but it was anger I saw in them, not fear. ‘And why do you warn me of this? Have you come to offer your services as a guard?’ He gestured contemptuously towards me. ‘Unless you have hidden strength in those skinny arms, I doubt you could fire an arrow far enough to reach a practice butt, or even draw a sword from its scabbard, never mind wield it in my defence.’

‘If you employed my services you would have no need of any guard to defend you,’ I told him. ‘I could put a stop to this before the men had even gathered. I could make them admire you, defend you even. I have done as much for many others. I can weave a tale that will explain all the mysteries men have conjured about you and this place. One that if spread around the town will make them leave you in peace for ever.’

‘A child’s tale! And for that you’d charge handsomely, I’ve no doubt.’ He pushed back the chair and rose. ‘I dare say you have been able to blackmail others, Master Laurent, discovered some crime, planted the seed of fear in them, then, like some saintly gardener, destroyed the deadly weed in one stroke so that they fall on their knees in gratitude. But you have overreached yourself this time. Go, frighten the puffed-up merchants or the clerics who are stealing taxes or fornicating with the bishop’s bastard daughter. But if you attempt to threaten me again, you will be joining those fictitious suitors who lie – what was it you said? – blinded and castrated in my cellar, except in your case I’d be only too willing to prove the rumours true.’

He turned abruptly and strode towards the door. But I’d been expecting that. I knew it would take more than the threat of a rampaging mob from the town to unnerve a man like Sylvain. I waited until he had his hand on the iron ring.

‘And if the rumours of magic should reach beyond the town, Lord Sylvain? If they should reach a bishop’s ears or the king’s court, they would certainly attract attention from the Church or the Crown who might consider them worth investigating. Young King Henry knows many in his kingdom still believe Louis of France to be the rightful King of England. Henry is certain that some are using sorcery to aid the French king’s cause and turn the English against him. He looks for traitors everywhere among his nobles and seeks to curb the power of the barons, who so ruthlessly tried to tame his own father. He mistrusts them all. So if he were to learn that one of those barons, who owns lands so close to the ports that trade with France, was practising the dark arts, he might send men to discover if these rumours were true. I fear that what his spies would be told by the townspeople would only make King Henry believe his fears were fully justified.’

The iron ring of the door fell from Sylvain’s gloved hand and dropped back into place, swaying as if an icy wind were blowing it. He turned back, his face pale with anger. The cold fury in his eyes almost sent me fleeing from the hall. I thought he was about to spring like a wild beast and tear my throat out with his teeth. I found myself stumbling backwards as he leaped from the dais. But I didn’t move quickly enough. His gloved fist struck out, catching me on the side of the head, knocking me into the great oak table. The last thing I remembered was his glittering eyes staring down at me and the flash of a steel blade in his hand.

The eagle flying through the air, the toad crawling on the ground, chained one to the other, are the magistery.

Lord Sylvain utters not one word when Gisa finally plucks up the courage to climb up to his workshop to tell him about Laurent. His expression betrays nothing of his thoughts. He works on as if she has not spoken and Gisa half wonders if she really has, or if she has only imagined what she would say.