The Raven's Head (42 page)

The child shuffles miserably towards him, his face pale with fear.

‘The fly, boy, who created it?’

‘G-God, Father Arthmael.’

‘And who determined its nature, how it would move?’

The boy hesitates. ‘God, Father Arthmael?’

‘And do you wish to eat this fly, boy?’

He shakes his head, looking even more terrified. Will Father Arthmael make him eat flies?

‘Then you are not killing for your sustenance. You are killing this fly because this dumb creature is doing what God ordered it to do. To kill a creature that is obeying the will of God is to set yourself against God. Is that what you wish to do, boy, set yourself against God?’

The child shakes his head so violently that it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap his own neck. Every boy in the room is muttering prayers of thanks that it was he who got caught and not them. The child stands there, helpless, his eyes brimming with tears of fear, but Father Arthmael flicks a finger to dismiss him and paces slowly behind the row of stupefied boys. He comes to a halt behind Regulus and lays a hand on his shoulder. Regulus starts violently.

‘Father John, with your permission, I would speak with this boy. Will you excuse him?’

It is not a request and every boy senses that but, nevertheless, Father John nods curtly.

Still with his hand on Regulus’s shoulder, Father Arthmael pushes him in the direction of the door, but the boy is so paralysed with fear that even this gentle pressure does not move him. He turns to look at Felix, beseeching him to intervene, but Felix shrugs helplessly. He can do nothing. He cannot help him. Regulus’s head sinks. His shoulders hunched, he allows himself to be guided to the door and out into the blinding sunshine.

As soon as the door is shut behind them, Father Arthmael removes his hand.

‘Come, Regulus, let us walk. The orchard, I think, would be pleasant on such a glorious day.’

Regulus isn’t hearing the words. He tries to remember all the things he’s done wrong, all his guilty secrets. There are too many of them to count. Is he going to be put in the carcer? Or is Father Arthmael going to tell him his parents are dead? Only last week one of the boys was called out to be told his mother was dead and made to spend the day alone in the chapel saying prayers for her soul. Regulus has long given up the hope that his parents will visit him. They’ve never come to see him. No one’s parents ever come. He knows that now.

Father Arthmael opens a gate in the orchard wall and ushers the boy inside. Regulus glances across at the little scar of earth in the far corner on which weeds are already beginning to feed. Why has Father Arthmael brought him here alone, to the place he is not allowed to go? Is he going to be buried here like Peter? Father Arthmael’s hands are folded inside his white sleeves, but he might pull anything from them.

‘Do you remember, Regulus, the first night you arrived here? You were brought down to my laboratorium and saw the furnaces and the distillation flasks. You must have wondered what great work was being undertaken there.’

The boy stares at white daisies in the grass at his feet. He did not wonder. He was afraid, confused. He only knows he was desperate to go home. He still is, though he has given up praying for that. Now he only prays to the Blessed Virgin to get him through the day without being punished and through the night without being taken from his bed.

‘I am engaged on a holy task, a sacred work of transmutation, transforming base and corrupt materials, the
prima materia
of chaos, into pure gold. The transforming stone is to be found hidden in the corruption of the grave, concealed in dung and filth. Do you understand?’

Of all the jumble of phrases only one makes any sense to the boy.

‘Are you looking for gold, Father Arthmael?’

A slight smile twitches the priest’s thin lips. ‘Ah, yes, there are some who seek that, but my goal is higher, purer. I seek the elixir that will give eternal life. If a man who is dying should drink it, he will stay exactly as he is at that moment. The Angel of Death will not be able to advance one more inch towards him. But if he should drink it while he is still in full vigour . . .’ Father Arthmael takes a deep breath, his chest swelling as he fills his lungs with the warm, scented air ‘. . . then he will remain in health and strength to the very end of time. Think what such a man might accomplish as his enemies grow feeble and wither with age. Time, Regulus, that is the gold that is far more precious than mere metal. For a man may be as rich as an emperor but what good is his wealth if he is separated from it by death?

‘You are a very special boy, Regulus, my little king. You bear the mark of the ouroboros, the sign of eternal life. And what is that circle, but the shadow of the sun itself.’ He lifts the boy’s hand and traces the red scar that entwines the small finger. ‘God marked you with the sign, so I would know you.’ He strokes the boy’s curls, gleaming red as fire in the bright sunshine. ‘Rubedo, the red death, from which comes forth the final resurrection, the precious elixir.’

Regulus stiffens. It is not just the priest’s fingers caressing his hair that makes him shudder, but the word
death
. He remembers what Felix told him, that all the dead brothers are buried here somewhere beneath his feet, lying under the grass with all that heavy wet earth pressing down on them, and the tree roots slithering towards them under the soil, burrowing into their flesh, drinking their blood to make the apples red. Regulus turns to stare at Peter’s grave in the far corner of the orchard. As the hungry trees sway in the wind, they seem to be sidling towards it, as if they can smell him.

Father Arthmael pats his shoulder as if he senses the boy’s fear. ‘No need to be alarmed, Regulus, it is a symbolic death . . . merely a way of describing a spiritual transformation.’

But the boy does not understand.

‘I brought you here to explain, so that you will not be frightened, for there is nothing to fear.’ He smiles, revealing crooked yellow teeth. He reminds Regulus of his father’s hound, Pouk, when he snarls at a stranger.

‘I am sworn to protect the souls of all my flock, including yours. You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

The boy is afraid, terrified, but he shakes his head, because he knows that is what Father Arthmael expects and he does not want to anger him.

‘Good, good. Now listen carefully. Soon we will be going on a short journey to another great house. There you will meet a man who is engaged upon the same work, but his purposes are not mine. Our sacred art purifies the soul, but only if that soul has the strength to resist the temptations it offers and this man could not. He has committed a terrible sin, one that he does not repent, and so has damned his soul. But never fear, I will be with you, Regulus, and I will protect you. You must trust me. I take you there because I cannot do what I must without him. But only one of us will succeed, only one of us survive. God will destroy him.’

Father Arthmael kneels on the grass and Regulus starts to kneel too, thinking that they are going to pray, but instead the abbot grasps the boy’s shoulders in his bony fingers and pulls him close. Regulus can smell the sour breath, see the black stubble on the chin and the tiny flecks of blood that stain the whites of his eyes.

‘When we are in this man’s house, you must listen only to me, Regulus, not to him. He is the devil and you know that you must never heed the devil. You must do only as I command, whatever I command. You are only a child and there is much you do not understand. Therefore you must trust me to tell you what is God’s will. You know that, don’t you, Regulus? Don’t you?’ he repeats, giving the boy a little shake.

‘Y-yes, Father Arthmael,’ he says, though it is not trust but fear that makes him say it. He fears Father Arthmael as he fears God, and why wouldn’t he? In his mind they are the same. He’s seen the painting of God on his throne in the chapel and both have the same grim expressions, the same unblinking, all-seeing eyes.

Pressing down heavily on the boy’s shoulder, the abbot levers himself to his feet and pats his head. ‘Good, good, Regulus. And if you do exactly what I ask, I shall send you to be with your brothers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Regulus’s little heart gives a tiny leap of hope. ‘To stay with them?’ he asks eagerly. ‘To stay with them for ever?’

‘For ever, little Regulus, just like Mighel.’

. . . brought a jar containing the hands, the heart, the eyes and the blood of a child, gave them to him, and then Francesco made an invocation to offer them to the demon.

As soon as Sylvain released me from the Great Hall, I tottered back up to my chamber as fast as my trembling legs would allow. A flagon of strong wine stood on the table next to the writing box. I’d probably have to down it all before I could even begin to sleep. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Each time I slept, I woke to find someone had been in my chamber, and the thought of Sylvain returning that night, as I lay helpless, was enough to keep me awake for a year.

What had I seen in the hall? I was certain I’d seen my own shadow or my own reflection, I no longer knew which. But surely it was nothing more than an artfully concealed mirror, a trick of the firelight – it had to be! That bitter smoke was enough to addle anyone’s wits. The noise of the birds’ wings – just a flock of swans passing over the house, or a clamour of rooks startled from their roost in the nearby trees. The blackening of the ring and the hair on the bag caused by soot from the fire-pot.

Now that I thought about it, I realised the whole play had simply been put on for my benefit to frighten me, a warning not to go wandering around. The girl had doubtless helped him do it, hiding somewhere to produce the noises or sending shadows capering across the room. They’d added henbane or dwale to the fire. Such herbs can make a man see goblins swimming in his ale or his wife turning into a goat.

Well, I wasn’t some ignorant marsh-dweller to be fooled by such tricks. I’d seen travelling players use a dozen better devices. They could make the mouth of Hell belch smoke and flames or the devil appear from nowhere in a flash of lightning. Why, even the conjurors at the fairs could make frogs explode in glass pots and eggs turn into doves that instantly flew away. But the question was, why should Sylvain go to such lengths to scare me while seeming determined to keep me there? Was he merely a bored noble who enjoyed playing malicious tricks on his guests?

I swung round on the bed to pour myself another goblet of wine, which, trick or not, I badly needed, for I was still trembling. It was only as I shifted the candle aside to reach the flagon that I noticed the shadow on the wall had not moved. I leaned closer. It wasn’t a shadow at all but black mould. It had spread. It was at least two feet higher up the wall than it had been that morning and it was now encircling the whole room, as if a pool of black liquid was being sucked up the walls. But mould couldn’t spread that quickly, not in a few hours. Perhaps it was just the light.

I held the candle closer and gingerly ran my finger across the black surface. I examined it under the candle flame. My fingertip was coated with a black slimy substance, and a line of dirty grey lime wash on the wall showed where my finger had rubbed the mould away. But even as I stared at the pale streak, the black mould crept back over it, like winter ice re-freezing on the surface of a pond.

Demons who resembled my shadow, amber turning black, birds shrieking – all that I could convince myself was some elaborate hoax, but this? How could Sylvain be doing this? The sight of that oozing black slime would have been enough to persuade even the most sceptical of men that now was the time to depart – and quickly.

My own clothes had not been returned to me and my pack was also missing, along with my purse. No matter. I would travel light. If I was to scale that wall, which seemed my best and, indeed, my only option, a pack would weigh me down. The robes I’d been given weren’t exactly suited to the task of climbing walls, but I could loop them up between my legs and in the darkness there’d be no one to see.

But if I was going to leave empty-handed, the one thing I could not afford to abandon was Lugh. It was the only thing I owned in the world. The raven’s head still stood on the old altar. I snatched it up and promptly dropped it with a curse. The metal was hot. I must have placed the burning candle too close to it. I took the wooden box from the table and, using the wool wrappings that still lay inside, I flipped the head into the box. The leather pouch in which I’d carried it had vanished, along with my clothes, so I pushed the box down the front of my robe and, as silently as I could, lifted the latch on the door.

I crossed the painted chamber and edged down the outside of the stairs, keeping close to the wall to guide myself in the dark. To my great relief, the door at the bottom was unlocked. I edged out into the darkness of the garden. Thick swathes of cloud drifted across the sky, glowing from above as they crept across the marbled face of the moon. In two of the casements of the Great Hall, single candles burned, no doubt set ready in case a servant should be wanted in the night, but all else was hushed and still. I’d never heard a dog barking in the manor, so I hoped that Odo was not in the habit of letting any beast roam free within the grounds at night, as was the custom in many large houses.

My sandal squished into something wet and soggy that oozed over my bare toes. A stench burst in my nostrils making me gag. That dead rabbit! It had still not been cleared away. I jerked my foot trying to fling off the maggots I could feel crawling on my skin. But I daren’t stop to wipe off the foul mess.

I edged along the side of the turret, hugging the wall as closely as I could, and as I rounded the corner I found myself in a section of garden that was not overlooked by any of the windows in the main house. Hidden from view, I could at last risk sprinting across the open stretch of grass towards the wall that surrounded the grounds. The cloud had glided away from the moon and a sheen of silver light gilded the top of the wall. It appeared to be only about a foot higher than my upstretched arm, but the stones were smooth and snugly fitted with no handholds.