The Raven's Head (13 page)

I attempted to roll over and ease myself onto all fours. It wasn’t easy in the cramped space. It was all I could do to stop myself screaming at the pain in my ribs and back, and I couldn’t prevent the odd gasp and squeak escaping. But as I struggled forward, my foot slipped under me, hitting the tree-man’s leg. I froze, gasping for breath, but even the hard knock didn’t wake him. If it hadn’t been for his snoring, I would have thought him dead. Maybe he was dead drunk. I glanced down and saw that my sack of food lay across his legs. The leather bottle was on his chest and the crust of what looked like the remaining meat pie. He’d doubtless swigged the rest of the wine but, even so, the nuns’ piss in that bottle wouldn’t have been strong enough to send a baby to sleep.

At that moment the final fragment of memory slid into place. Just before the ambush I’d suddenly felt so drowsy . . . couldn’t see properly. I was dizzy, staggering as if I was drunk . . . but I wasn’t drunk! I’d been drugged, just as this man was now. Drugged by the food or drink Amée had given me.

But she couldn’t have known, not my beautiful, innocent Amée. Someone else must have put— Who was I trying to fool? She’d made a point of telling me she had packed the food sack herself, carefully selected the contents. Only she could have drugged it. Charles must have persuaded her to do it. He’d probably told her it was a joke and convinced her it would merely make me sleep so that he could steal the raven’s head and deliver it himself to gain Philippe’s favour and make me look a fool. I flushed with humiliation at the thought of the two of them laughing together at the stupid apprentice.

But Amée couldn’t have known what Charles was planning. She wouldn’t have smiled at me so gently and handed me that bag, knowing all the time she was sending me to my death. No girl could be that cold-hearted or cruel. And she wouldn’t have been deceiving only me, but her father, too. Unless . . .

Each new revelation was like a punch to my throbbing head, but the last was the hardest blow of all. Suppose Amée had
not
deceived her father. What if she had done exactly what he’d instructed her to do? How else could she or Charles have learned that he was sending me on an errand unless he’d told them? The cold truth drenched me and left me shivering. Charles and Amée had acted on Philippe’s orders. He had deliberately sent me on an errand from which I was never intended to return alive!

Three species will suffice thee for the whole magistery: the white smoke, the green lion, the stinking water.

Gisa stands in the Great Hall exactly where the manservant left her. She has not moved. She is afraid to, as if her slightest movement will be detected. She gazes around, trying to fix the details in her mind, as though her future might hang by a single hair of memory.

A small cage swings from an iron chain. A linnet sits huddled on its floor, its feathers fluffed out, its eyes closed. It looks so miserable that, for a wild moment, Gisa considers opening the door and setting it free. But how would it escape from the hall? Where would it go? They are both trapped.

In the centre of the floor, a fire crackles in the hearth, which is encircled by yellow and brown tiles and a ring of blackened stone. The blue smoke spirals lazily upwards to wander among the high beams and eventually trickles out of the small vent in the roof above. At one end of the hall a table and three carved chairs stand upon a dais. At the other end a long table and benches mark where lesser guests and servants dine. The long table is bare, save a bowl of apples spotted with black scab and soft brown patches, where the flesh is beginning to rot. Gisa wonders fleetingly why the servants have not removed them: surely a man as wealthy as Sylvain would not need to eat spoiled fruit.

But it is the walls that chiefly hold Gisa’s attention or, rather, what is on them. For the lime-washed walls above the dark green wainscoting are painted with the signs of the zodiac – the scorpion with its stinging tail, the lion with dagger fangs, the bull with fire and smoke pouring from its nostrils. Behind the dais, the wall is painted with the flaming ball of the sun, borne aloft on the back of a golden eagle, while at the opposite end of the hall the silver moon is carried in a cradle of ribbons trailing from the beaks of two swans.

Gisa’s hand strays to her shoulder, where the swan brooch holds her cloak in place. Her aunt Ebba had summoned her to her bedside and pinned it on, pinching her cheeks hard to bring some colour to their pallor. ‘If an apothecary’s family look sick, people will start to question his remedies,’ she said, blithely oblivious to her own bedridden state. ‘Now, remember, give the packages only into his hands, smile, curtsy and keep your eyes modestly lowered. Don’t meet his gaze like a brazen tavern slut.’

Gisa still holds the basket her uncle had placed in her hands. It is heavy. The sulphur and quicksilver were sent ahead with the boy, leaving her to bring only the dragon’s blood, but even so there are several pounds of it. She is afraid to set it down, knowing how valuable it is. Her uncle has told her she must wait until Sylvain has checked and weighed each piece, as he himself has already done.

A door set into the wooden wainscoting behind the dais opens silently. The smoke in the fire billows out in an arch, like a swan’s neck, before straightening again. Gisa had not noticed a door for the wall appeared solid. That unnerves her even more. She feels that doors might appear anywhere without warning. Slowly he emerges from the wood panelling, his arms unfolding, like the wings of a black insect, as he extends them towards her.

‘At last! I expected you days ago. You have it?’

‘My uncle took great pains to obtain it.’ She is always quick to defend him. ‘You asked for the best, sir. The purest.’

He nods and steps down from the dais. She takes a step back, but for once his gaze is fastened not on her but on her basket. His long fingers pluck it from her and put it on the table. Then he lifts out each of the packages wrapped in sheepskins to protect the precious contents. He unrolls one, then peels back the inner parchment wrapper to reveal the dark-red shards. A fine film of crimson powder covers the pieces, where the fragments have rubbed together. Sylvain lifts one and blows on it gently, ensuring the precious dust falls back into the parchment. It is far too costly for the wind to play with. He holds the piece up in the light of one of the candles. It glows deep red, translucent, like an emperor’s ruby. Gisa, as if she is drawn on a string, takes a step forward. She’s seen dragon’s blood before, but only as cakes of pressed powder, which were dull reddish-brown. She didn’t know it could be as beautiful as this.

‘
Edah amsellah
,’ the man whispers. ‘The tears of the dragon.’ He examines each package carefully. ‘Your uncle has bought well. These are of the finest quality.’ He takes a small pair of scales and tiny weights from a pouch hanging at his waist and, holding the scales between thumb and forefinger, weighs each piece as if it were a nugget of gold. He methodically records the weight on a wax tablet, careful even to collect the powder and weigh that too. For a long time he works in silence. Then, without taking his gaze from his work, he says, ‘Do you know where dragon’s blood comes from?’

Gisa says nothing. Her uncle says it is the dried blood of a slain dragon, which is why it is so hard to come by, and looking at these drops of glassy red, she believes him. But she fears her answer will sound foolish.

Sylvain’s gaze flicks briefly towards her. ‘There is an island of dragons far away in a distant sea, an island they call Dioscorida. But other monsters also inhabit this island. Elephants, which are giant beasts, taller than a house, with a long arm growing from their snout, tusks that curve up like boars’ fangs, but much longer, and ears that are so large their young may shelter beneath them, like tents. The dragons and elephants are both such mighty beasts that they continually fight each other for possession of the island. The dragons are more agile and they can fly. They bite the elephants and suck out their blood in a single swallow. But the elephants are so heavy that when they fall dead they crush the dragons beneath them so the blood of the dragon mingles with the blood of the elephant. And as it dies, the dragon weeps tears of blood, these tears.’ He lightly touches one of the dark-red jewels.

Then, dipping his finger into the crimson powder at the bottom of the parchment, he draws a wide circle in the centre of the long table. Without warning he bends and scoops Gisa up in his arms. She tries to push against him, but his grip is too tight and he is too strong. If this were a village lad, she would kick and scratch, but she is too afraid of offending him to offer any but token resistance. He lifts her onto the table.

‘Step into the middle of the circle,’ he instructs her. ‘Tread carefully. Do not disturb the ring of dragon’s blood.’

She is too afraid to move. She doesn’t understand what this means, what he means to do. Circles can enchant the body and mind. Circles can call up evil spirits and demons. If you stumble inside a faerie ring in the woods, you will be snatched away, taken to another realm from which you can never return.

As if he can read her thoughts, he says soothingly, ‘Dragon’s blood is one of the most powerful protectors against the deep darkness and all the foul demons that are born from it. You will come to no harm, I promise.’

Still she hesitates.

‘Do as I ask, Gisa,’ he says softly. ‘You do not wish to displease me. Your uncle has yet to be paid in full and this purchase will have cost him dear.’

He takes her hand to balance her and reluctantly she steps over the line of crimson powder. His skin is as cold as dead men’s fingers. She braces herself against the dread of what she might see, where she might find herself. Her body is rigid. Her breathing stops.

But nothing happens. There is no blinding flash of fire or flood of blackness, no demonic scream or owl’s screech. She is still in the hall. The fire still crackles. The candles still burn. He lets go of her hand and turns away from her, walking over to the hearth in the centre of the floor. He stands with his back to her and stretches his hands out flat over the blaze.

‘Now, Gisa, close your eyes tightly, and turn slowly on the spot until I tell you to stop. As soon as you stop, point up towards the walls, but do not open your eyes. Keep them closed tight.’

She revolves, careful to turn towards the right,
deiseil
, as the sun moves across the sky. To circle the other way, to circle
widdershins
, against the sun, would bring down a dark curse. But she is still afraid of what this turning may do, what she may turn into.

He has let her revolve three times and still he says nothing. Four, five, six, or is it seven, eight? She no longer knows. She is dizzy, disoriented, fears she will plunge off the table. But somehow she finds she cannot stop, not till he commands her.

‘Stop and point.’

She stops, staggering slightly, trying to keep her balance. She lifts her arm.

‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘Yes! I knew it was so. I knew you were the one.’

She can hear the rapture in his voice. He is pleased, thrilled even.

Unbidden, she opens her eyes and stares to where her finger is pointing. Her hand is reaching out to one of the zodiac signs upon the wall – Leo, the golden lion. Its jaws are stretched wide as if it means to devour the other signs. Its teeth are as sharp as scimitars and its tongue as red as the tears of the dragon.

‘The fifth rotation. Her lion, the
vas Hermetis
into which I must descend.’

He is speaking as if the room was empty and she had vanished. But she has not vanished. She stands awkwardly in the circle on the table, feeling sick and giddy. It has been nothing more than a harmless game, a game that children play. Except . . . except that when he lifts her from the table and sets her feet upon the floor, he suddenly grasps her shoulders, staring intently into her eyes.

‘You must keep yourself pure, Gisa, for this sacred work. If you so much as look at a man or boy, if you let them touch you or kiss you, I will know. I will be able to see it in your face.’

Sylvain caresses the white enamel swan at her throat. ‘You will sing only one song in your life, Gisa, and that will be when I demand it.’

For deadly I can be and poisonous.

I was jolted from sleep by the sound of an ox-cart rattling over the stones and women screeching their gossip to each other as they walked beside it, in voices loud enough to be heard right across town. Instantly, I felt again each and every blow those bastards had rained down on me. The bruises had stiffened overnight and had not been eased by my long walk through the forest or sleeping on the cold, hard ground. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I forced myself to crawl out of the bushes where I’d taken shelter and peered about me.

The sun had long risen, and the smoke from the hearth fires and furnaces in the town hung in a heavy grey cloud above it. The wind had died down but, if anything, this day seemed set to be colder than the last. My throat was as dry as one of Gaspard’s old ledgers and my belly rumbled, reminding me that I’d eaten nothing since that meat pastry the day before, and since the pie or the wine had been drugged, it was little wonder I was so thirsty.

Rage and indignation boiled in me again. Had Gaspard known what Philippe was planning? Had they been sitting cosily by the fire dreaming up ways to murder me? So that was why the old crow hadn’t been able to look me in the eye when he’d returned from Philippe’s solar that evening, and after all I’d done for him over the years. I’d cared for that shrivelled wart better than any son and done most of his work, too. Well, they’d pay for it now. I was determined to see both of them begging on the streets before I was through.

After I’d slipped, or rather limped, away from the tree-man’s shelter in the dark, I’d had time to think. I’d decided against returning to the river crossing. I knew if Charles proffered even the smallest coin to that sly ferryman he’d readily tell them I’d crossed back. It was probably him who’d told them which track I’d taken in the first place.