The Raven's Head (36 page)

Pipkin grunted as he ineffectually dabbed at me with a cloth that stank of raw onion. ‘Tell you what, I’ll fetch a bit of hollow horn with me next time. Then you can suck it down like a babe.’ His fat, calloused fingers fumbled with my left hand and I jerked it away indignantly, wondering what on earth he was doing. ‘Here, take this.’ He was trying to force whatever it was into my hand again. ‘It’s a leg of chicken. I reckon you can gnaw on that without sitting up. Only don’t tell the master. He said you was just to have broth, but what you’ve got down you wouldn’t keep a fly fed.’

There was no more to be got out of Pipkin, for either he didn’t know or wouldn’t tell. I learned only that I was being housed in a small chamber that had once been a private chapel in the manor, which, he told me, with a long-suffering sigh, was a good way from the kitchens and up a steep flight of stairs too.

I gnawed gratefully on the chicken leg after he’d lumbered out of the room. The pillow was unpleasantly wet, and cold, fatty broth does nothing to enhance the smell of sodden feathers, but that was the least of my concerns. I had plainly been here one night, maybe more, for it had been late afternoon when I’d spoken to Sylvain. The question was, how long would I remain and what exactly was Sylvain going to do with me when I was well, assuming that I did recover? But I soon gave up trying to think about it. Although I had not long been awake I found a great drowsiness creeping over me, a numbness that seemed to spread up from my feet. Before I could even begin to fight it, I had sunk into sleep again.

This was to be the pattern over the next few days, or was it weeks? I had no idea. I would wake to find that my bed linen or bandages had been changed, but had no recollection of it, save for vague snatches of distant voices, which might have been dreams. From time to time Pipkin arrived to feed me more broth, which I was managing to swallow without too much mess now that we had mastered the art of using the hollowed horn. I’d ask him questions, but his answers were so vague and rambling I could make nothing of them. Even Lugh was silent. Had they stolen him?

It was only when Pipkin was feeding me that I was convinced I was awake at all. Most of the time I was floating in some dark warm lake, or running through trees with flocks of ravens screaming after me, or wandering lost through a town, opening door after door only to find half-naked women with men’s heads growing from their bellies trying to pull me in.

Then one day, I don’t know how long after, I woke and for the first time there was nothing pressing on my eyes. I blinked and realised I could see light. Cautiously I moved my head. It took a while for my eyes to focus, but when they did I could see I was in a tiny circular chamber. There were no windows, and the only furniture was the bed on which I lay, a chair and a small table. A candle burned on what must have once been a stone altar of the chapel and by its light I could dimly make out a sun, moon and stars decorating the domed ceiling. The rest of the chamber had been painted white, though clearly not for some time: there was a patch of black mould at the bottom of the wall.

After gingerly touching my eyeballs several times to ensure they were firmly fixed in their sockets, I sat up. I regretted it at once, for I felt as if I was back on board the ship in a violent storm. The floor and walls were lurching up and down so violently, I thought I would vomit.

As I eased myself down, I realised I was using my right hand. The cast was gone. There was no pain. Lying on my back I lifted it up to examine it. For one terrible moment I thought someone had cut off my own arm and sewn on the arm of some old man or even a dragon. The skin was scaly, disgusting. I almost tried to fling it away from me, as if it was some dead thing, but the fingers were moving and it was suddenly terribly itchy.

‘The skin is thin. I advise you not to scratch it.’

The voice, coming out of nowhere, startled me so much I almost tumbled from the bed.

The latch on the door lifted and Sylvain entered.

‘I will give you a soothing oil to rub on the arm. In a few days the skin will recover.’

I shrank back, pulling the blankets over my naked chest. How had he known what I was doing? Could he see through walls? It occurred to me that Sylvain could have been in many times while I was sleeping. He probably had been, if he’d removed the bandages and cast.

He handed me a beaker. ‘Sip this slowly. You’re doubtless thirsty and you look a little dizzy. It’s only to be expected, after you’ve been lying here for so long.’

‘How long have I been here? I haven’t been able to tell day from night with my eyes covered.’

‘Nor could you anyway, in here. There are no windows and the walls are so thick you cannot hear the church bells. It was built so that the one who prayed here would not be aware of the passage of time or of the world outside. When we reach into the higher planes, we pass beyond time. Only the body is governed by time, but that, too, I will change.’

I could tell that I wasn’t going to get a straight answer from him. But in any case how long I’d been in the chamber hardly mattered. The only thing that concerned me now was how quickly I could get out of there.

‘Are you going to let me . . . am I free to leave?’

Sylvain walked slowly to the chair, drew it a little way from the bed and sat down before he answered.

‘Why should I wish to detain you? I didn’t ask you to come here. You came to me, Master Laurent, with a proposition. You wanted to construct a story that would satisfy the town’s curiosity about me. So, when you have recovered your strength, I suggest you begin. There is only one condition – that you reside in my house as my guest until your task is completed. You have a habit of talking in your sleep, Master Laurent, and I suspect you are over-fond of good wine. Oh, don’t worry, you will have all that you could wish to drink and eat, but in this way, if you begin to babble indiscreetly, it will be of no consequence.’

A tangled woolly fleece seemed to have taken the place of my brains and I was having immense trouble grasping what he said. But as the words slowly sank in, I began to realise he was offering me a job. Not only that, but I was to be entertained as his guest until I’d finished.

A distant part of me was screaming, Leave! Get out of here while you still can. He half blinded you, broke your arm. What might he do next? The man is dangerous, ruthless. Everyone warned you of that.

But he healed you. Tended you in his own house. He could have dumped you out on the road, left you to die there, and no one would have been the wiser. They’d believe you’d been set upon by robbers. Think of the money you could earn from this story and the comfortable living you’ll enjoy while you compose it. You could spin this out for weeks.

But I can’t think of a single word.

You will. You always do. He does not expect you to start until you are stronger.

Lugh! That was Lugh talking. I glanced round the small chamber. Then a glint of light caught my attention. Sylvain was holding the raven’s head in his hands. I could have sworn they had been empty when he had sat down. But my head was so dulled, I couldn’t be sure of anything.

He held the silver head up to the candlelight. ‘Exquisite! And the symbols so cunningly concealed. The raven that flies in the night. The bird that flies without wings. As soon as I saw it I knew you had been sent to me. You must forgive my suspicious nature, Master Laurent. I have been wronged by so many men that I find it hard to trust anyone and see only greed and malice in every heart. I was angry when you came to me, thinking you were nothing more than a common blackmailer. But now I see you came only with a desire to help me and I swear that your true intentions will be most fittingly rewarded.’

He rose and, crossing to the altar, placed the raven’s head upon it beside the flickering candle. The silver turned to gold in the yellow light and flashes of scarlet seemed to light up each of the symbols so they burned brightly in the shadows. Then they became nothing more than tiny reflections of the candle flame.

‘You will work in this chamber. Tomorrow I will have my servants bring you clothes, ink and parchment – all you require. You must be sure to tell them of anything you desire to make your stay more comfortable. In the day we will work, but in the evening we shall talk, you and I.’ And before I could utter a word, he swept from the room.

I tried to convince myself that I was delighted. I had got exactly what I wanted. But I couldn’t squash the little worm of disquiet that was wriggling deep inside me. How long had I been lying in that chamber? I reached up to touch my beard. Its length might give me some clue. Only then did it penetrate my fuddled mind that my beard was gone. I’d been freshly shaved and even my hair was shorter now than when I had arrived, I was sure of that. I was more than a little annoyed. I’d been fond of that beard.

My eyes were beginning to adjust properly to the light now. I gazed back up at the dome of the heavens painted on the ceiling above. It was only then that I noticed something else in the painted sky, directly above the bed. The sun, moon and stars were positioned in swirls around some object in the centre, like angels clustered round the throne of God. But this was no throne, nor was it God. It was a shining glass flask, shaped like a tear, with something black suspended at its heart. Clutching the edge of the bed for support, I shuffled to the altar to fetch the candle and examine it more closely. With a jolt that set my heart pounding, I saw that the black object inside the flask was the head of a raven. Its beak was opened wide as if it cried out a warning, and from its mouth a long forked scarlet tongue quivered in the flickering candle flame, like a viper poised to strike.

Dissolve the king or the queen in the red blood of children, then the sun and moon will take their bath in it, for this well is inexhaustible.

Sylvain is standing in the open doorway of the tower, waiting, as Gisa walks towards him across the garden from the door in the wall. Her shoes crush bitter chamomile and her skirts brush against the low hedges of sweet lavender and rosemary that frame the medicinal herbs. She doesn’t know why she should be so conscious of these fragrances today, when she has walked this route so many times, but something has changed. She shivers, glancing up, as the early-morning sun vanishes behind a cloud that resembles a great dragon. An omen, but is it good or bad? She doesn’t know.

She senses Sylvain’s excitement even before she draws close. There is tension in his frame. His fingers flex and clench, as if his hands might drop to the ground and scuttle off by themselves.

‘The raven who flies without wings in the blackness of the night and in the brightness of the day. It has begun! Death and life, corruption and resurrection, you will witness them all.’ His lips are drawn back from his teeth in an exultant grin, but there is a fevered determination in his eyes, as you see in the eyes of the naked beggars who slash themselves with sharpened flints and scream that the world is ending.

‘First there is something you must see. Come. Come!’

He grips her upper arm and marches her towards the manor house, but not to the path that leads across the garden to the Great Hall. Instead they turn the opposite way to the narrow turret built on the corner of the house. He leads her through the door and up a long spiral of stone steps, until they emerge into a bare chamber.

The walls of this room are painted with a dark landscape. On one side is a depiction of a tower, like Sylvain’s tower in the grounds, only much higher. A menacing storm-cloud hangs above it and a bolt of lightning strikes down at its roof. The sky in the painting is swarming with flying beasts – dragons, griffins and birds of every kind. There are eagles and hawks, screeching swans and crows with human faces, while peacocks trail their magnificent tails over the ground below.

Naked figures, male and female, as tall as the tower itself, wander through a landscape of rocks and mountains. Some are twined with serpents, others lead lions. Corpses clamber out of tombs. Babies, dangling from the fists of warriors, are being slashed with swords and great arches of blood from their wounds spurt into wells that overflow and run in streams across the earth.

Gisa spins round, unable to make sense of any of it. It must be a depiction of the Last Judgment, yet which are the righteous souls and which the sinners? Where is the throne of God and His angels? Here, Heaven and Hell have sprung up on earth and are at war.

But Sylvain ignores the paintings and eagerly beckons her over to the far wall, pointing to a squint hole. Putting his finger to his lips, he motions her to peer through. She is staring into a circular chamber. A man lies in a bed, his eyes closed, his hands limp. A linen sheet is drawn halfway up his bare chest, which rises and falls in deep sleep. Soft yellow candlelight glints on his golden hair. He looks familiar, but there is something odd about him too.

With a jolt she suddenly realises it is Laurent. But he is clean-shaven now. That is what looks so strange. The lower half of his face is paler than the tanned skin of his cheeks and forehead. She turns, her mouth open to speak, but Sylvain shakes his head warningly. She puts her eye to the hole again, unable to resist another glance. Laurent’s lips are slightly parted and his eyelids flutter, as if his eyes beneath are looking at things she cannot see.

She’d thought him long gone. Has he been lying here all this past week? Each morning and evening she has walked below this blind room without even knowing it existed, much less that he was in it. It is as if she has looked into the solid rock of a mountain and seen a new world hidden inside it. But why is he sleeping at this hour? Is he ill?

Sylvain lets her watch for a few moments more, then pulls her away and leads her back down the stairs and out into the grounds. She can feel his gaze on her face. What is he trying to read there?

‘Master Laurent is staying here. He is undertaking some work for me. You will enjoy his company, I think. But such pleasures cannot interrupt our work. Perhaps one evening you might wish to stay after we have finished to sup with Laurent . . .’