The Raven's Head (43 page)

I hurried down the length of the wall, searching for something I could stand on. At the far end of the garden was an old apple tree and over the years the branches had been cut low and spread wide to make the fruit easier to pick. Its branches weren’t touching the wall, but from where I was standing, the gap didn’t look too great. I clambered up onto one stout branch and, grasping the one above to steady myself, began to edge along the rough wood towards the wall. My plan, if you can call it that, was to lean across, grab the top of the wall, then swing up and onto it.

I had taken two or three more shuffling steps before I both heard and felt an ominous cracking. The branch, though thick, was clearly rotten. I quickly began to shuffle back towards the safety of the trunk, gripping the branch above even more firmly in case the one I was standing on gave way.

I became aware of something hot against my chest. The heat was growing intense. My skin was burning and the pain was becoming agonising. I clutched at the front of my robe and my fingers touched the wooden box. It was so hot it was like grasping a log that had just been pulled from the heart of a fire. Gripping the box through my robe, I tried to drag it away from my skin, but as I touched it, it burst into flames.

I crashed to the ground, squirming frantically on the grass, trying to extinguish my burning robe. The silver head exploded from the box and rolled away. The raven began to scream so piercingly that the pain in my ears almost equalled the agony of my burned skin.

Just when I thought my ears would burst, the head fell silent. I lay sprawled on my back, gasping for breath. The skin on my chest and hand was smarting like that of a sinner in Hell. As soon as I could summon the breath to move, I rolled over onto my knees and tried to struggle up. But before I could raise myself up, a large boot descended on the small of my back, pushing me face down into the grass.

The man’s other foot was planted on the ground, next to my cheek. Even from that position, there was no mistaking that the great trunk of a leg belonged to Odo. But when I lifted my head and squinted up into the light of the lantern above me, the face I saw peering down was Sylvain’s.

‘Such shockingly poor manners, Master Laurent, to leave us without thanking us for our hospitality. Besides, you had promised me a story. You were insistent enough that I should employ you to write one. Surely you don’t intend to renege on our bargain.’

He bent and picked up the raven’s head, which was lying on the grass. The flames had turned it black, but Sylvain seemed to have no trouble touching it, as if it was quite cold.

‘Never trust your secrets to a raven, when you are not its true master, Laurent, or should I say
Vincent
? Lately, I believe, apprentice scribe and librarian in the employ of Philippe, Le Comte de Lingones. Philippe should have warned you that a raven will never serve a thief. And he should know for he stole it from me. It was an ancient creature, old long before it came to the Great Master and he in turn bequeathed it to his most able disciple, the true inheritor of the royal art and, believe me, that was not Philippe, never Philippe!’

Sylvain stroked the bird’s blackened beak thoughtfully. ‘A more fitting name for Lugh would have been Huginn or Muninn,
thought
and
memory
, for, like Odin’s ravens, there is not a single thought or memory you have confided to this bird that he has not in turn whispered in my ear. Perhaps you fondly believed you had brought the raven’s head to me, but surely you must have realised by now that it was the raven who brought
you
here. You are his prey, his gift of flesh for his true master.’

For of this secret shall know none other creature, but only you, as I make faithful protestation for all the time I here in life endure.

Gisa crosses the courtyard of her uncle’s apothecary’s shop. The casement above the shop is open and the murmur of voices drifts down onto the stones below – her aunt’s strident tone and another, one that is all too familiar. Gisa feels her stomach tighten and peers up at the window. Sylvain is sitting in the casement seat. He glances down at the sound of the gate closing and nods gravely to her, as if he is a king looking down on his subjects.

Her stomach lurches into her throat. Why is he here? Her footsteps falter. She doesn’t want to enter the shop, not with him sitting above her, but he might be waiting for her return, and will go on waiting. A tiny bubble of hope rises in her. Perhaps he’s come to say he does not need her tomorrow – better still, that he does not want her to return. ‘Please let it be so,’ she murmurs. ‘Holy Virgin, please let that be why he’s come.’

In the shop the shutters are fastened, and when she closes the door behind her, twilight crowds in, throwing a grey shroud over every bright thing. At first she thinks she is alone. Then, in the far corner, she catches a movement. Uncle Thomas is sitting on a low stool, as if he is in mourning. He raises his head from his hands and gestures silently up at the ceiling.

He looks dejected, but Gisa does not ask what is troubling him. Her aunt and uncle are not in the habit of discussing their affairs with her. She is a mere girl, a niece, a servant. And they have never once asked her how she feels, enquired if she is happy or why she is sad. Emotions in a child, if one must have them at all, should be concealed, for they are of no consequence to anyone.

He pats the table. ‘Come, child, sit. There is something I must tell you.’

The knot in her belly tightens still further. She knows any news will involve Sylvain. She slides onto a stool opposite him, her hands clenched in her lap, praying silently.
Let him say I am dismissed.

‘Lord Sylvain is most complimentary about the work you have done for him. That is good,’ Uncle Thomas says doubtfully. ‘It reflects well on this shop. But he tells me that the next phase of his work requires the distillations and sublimations to be tended regularly through the night as well as by day. A task he tells me that will be easier if two people keep watch alternately, one resting or eating while the other ensures that the decoctions are heated and cooled correctly at their various phases. He wishes you to remain at the manor tomorrow night until the work is completed. You will need to—’

‘Uncle, no! You promised! You said you’d insisted I must return here each night. You said it wasn’t seemly for a maid to sleep under a man’s roof.’

Peter! If she is closed up in the manor there will be no one to bring him food or drink, and he is tortured by thirst from the fever. He is only a child, a little boy trapped and helpless beneath the earth. Without her he will die and die alone.

Uncle Thomas shifts his buttocks on the stool. He does not meet Gisa’s eyes, but addresses her mouth as if it has its own mind.

‘I . . . have changed my mind. Now that we can see how much Lord Sylvain values your skills, your aunt sees no reason why you should not stay. The baron has a large house. He assures us you will have your own chamber at some distance from the male servants. Many widowers have serving maids and housekeepers who sleep in their house. Why, every priest—’

Gisa springs to her feet. ‘And even I know what night duties most housekeepers perform for the priest. Is that what I am to become, Sylvain’s mistress?’

‘Never, I assure you, Gisa,’ a voice murmurs behind her.

She spins round. Sylvain is standing on the stairs. Her uncle clambers to his feet, as Sylvain descends the last few steps, ducking his head to avoid the bunches of herbs and dried bones swinging from the beams.

Sylvain takes a pace towards Gisa and reaches out to caress the swan brooch, but she pulls away before he can touch it.

‘I told you before, my little swan, my work requires a
virgin
’s hand. Do you imagine I would destroy the very virtue I require most in my assistant?’ He smiles, but the smile does not reach his eyes and his tone is as cold and harsh as the east wind.

‘There are learned men in this land who would give all they owned, and indeed their very souls, to be permitted to assist in this great work, and I am entrusting it to you, a mere girl.’ He spits this last word at her, as if his tongue cannot bear the taste of it. ‘I believe it is time, Master Thomas, for your
niece
to understand fully the debt of gratitude she owes me.’

Uncle Thomas’s brow furrows in alarm and bewilderment. ‘But, my lord, all these years you have instructed us . . . We have done all that we can to shield her, as you asked.’ A guilty spasm crosses his face and his gaze darts to the ceiling above. ‘My poor wife may have mentioned that Gisa’s father was not a good man, but that is all, I swear. Surely there is no need—’

‘There is every need,’ Sylvain snaps. ‘If she will not come to me willingly, for the love of the great art I have tried to instil in her, then perhaps knowledge of the truth of what she really is will bend her stiff neck.’

Without warning, he grasps her throat with his long, cold fingers, pulling her towards him. ‘Will it, Gisa? Will the truth soften you?’

For the second time, Gisa wrenches herself away from him but, hemmed in by the table, she cannot retreat. Her chin jerks up defiantly. ‘I am no child. I do not need to be shielded from anything. So, what is it I must be told?’ She flings the words at him with as much venom in her tone as there had been in his own. But the malicious smile on Sylvain’s face makes her afraid she has said exactly what he wanted.

‘Where to begin? Your father – how did Mistress Ebba describe him? Ah, yes,
not a good man
. An unusually benign judgement from your wife’s lips, as I think you will own, Master Thomas. If she had called him
wicked, cruel and deceitful
, I think even that description might have been too kind. Your father spent his miserable life as little better than a leech. His chief amusement was to seduce wealthy women, luring them away from those who loved them, ruining their lives and reputations and, when he had extracted all the money he could from them, abandoning them, leaving them soiled and broken. But he did not confine his attentions to women. He charmed his way round their husbands as well, tricking them into investing in schemes that naturally lined no one’s purse but his own, not caring when he left them penniless.’

‘No!’ Gisa’s face is burning, her fists clenched. She wants to pound his mouth bloody to stop him uttering these cruel lies. ‘My father was a good, kind man. I remember him. I remember how he played with me and soothed me to sleep at night if I woke with a bad dream. He was nothing like the man you say he was.’

‘He was everything I describe and worse,’ Sylvain growls savagely. ‘If he had only conned a few gullible men or seduced silly women, you would not be here in this shop now, but you are, because his evil ran much deeper. In his greed he stopped at nothing. He set out to discover all he could about the king’s plans to defend this realm, then attempted to sell that knowledge to France for a heavy purse. Had he succeeded, England would have been helpless to defend herself against a French invasion. But, fortunately, he was discovered in time. He stood trial for high treason and he was hanged—’

‘It’s not true!’ Gisa shouts. But even as she denies it, some memory that has long lain sleeping in her mind is beginning to wake. She is chilled to her bones by the image that rears in her head, but still she cannot accept it. ‘Tell him, Uncle Thomas, tell him my father would never . . . He was innocent! They hanged the wrong man.’

Thomas does not look at her. He sits, hunched, his forehead resting on his hands and she sees he has become a withered, old man without her noticing.

‘They hanged the right man, Gisa,’ Sylvain says. His words burn like acid. ‘Many said that such a death showed him greater mercy than he deserved and he should have burned for his treachery. But there was another punishment imposed. All your father owned was naturally forfeit to the Crown, but he was also declared
attainted
. It is a sentence rarely passed for there are mercifully few men who have betrayed their sovereign king as foully as your father did. Do you understand what that means? Your father and all his offspring have tainted blood and have thus forfeited all the rights of a free man or woman. As his child, you may never own land or property or enter into any contract or indenture. And should any man be foolish enough to take you as his mate, any child that is born of your tainted womb will also be attainted, as will all their children, in perpetuity.’

He pauses, allowing the full weight of his pronouncement to bear down on her, but she can’t take it in. She knows that who she is, her whole life, has somehow been changed by that single word, but she cannot grasp what it will do to her.

‘No.’ She glares at him with cold fury. ‘This is a lie. It is you who are evil and cruel. I will never work for you again, never! I’d rather pay my uncle by treading dog-dung in a tanner’s yard.’ She tries to push past her uncle, flee the room, but Thomas pulls her back. His face is etched with misery and pain.

‘I know it is hard to hear, child, which is why you have been protected from the truth of it, but it
is
the truth Lord Sylvain speaks. And you owe him more than you can possibly understand. You were so young when your father . . .
left
you. You had no kin to care for you.’

‘But I did have family – you and Aunt Ebba,’ Gisa says, in bewilderment.

Thomas shakes his head. ‘I am not your uncle, I wish that I were, for I have grown fond of you over the years, but though it wounds me to say it, you were a stranger’s child, a friendless orphan. Alone, you would have starved to death in a week or been dragged into one of the town stews and used by men until it killed you. Lord Sylvain himself rescued you from the street and brought you here. He asked us to raise you as if you were our kin.’

‘In return for my patronage and a more than generous allowance,’ Sylvain says. ‘I thought it unjust that an innocent child should suffer for the sins of her father, however grave.’

He steps towards her, his poison-green eyes staring down into hers. His hands glide, soft as snakes, over the skin of her neck. She smells again the stench of urine and myrrh on his black robe. His finger caresses her lips. Then, as she opens her mouth to protest, he presses his hand hard against it, silencing her. ‘I saved you and I have cared for you better than any father. You owe me your life, little swan. And I always collect my debts.’