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    The Raven's Head


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      Copyright © 2015 Karen Maitland

      The right of Karen Maitland to be identified as the Author of

      the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

      Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

      Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

      This Ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2015

      All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

      eISBN: 978 1 4722 1507 9

      HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

      An Hachette UK Company

      338 Euston Road

      London NW1 3BH

      www.headline.co.uk

      www.hachette.co.uk

      Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      About Karen Maitland

      Praise for Karen Maitland

      About the book

      Also by Karen Maitland

      Map

      Epigraph

      Cast of Characters

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      Chapter 49

      Chapter 50

      Chapter 51

      Chapter 52

      Chapter 53

      Chapter 54

      Chapter 55

      Chapter 56

      Chapter 57

      Chapter 58

      Chapter 59

      Chapter 60

      Epilogue

      Historical Notes

      Glossary

      About Karen Maitland

      © John C. Gibson

      Karen Maitland travelled and worked in many parts of the United Kingdom before settling for several years in the beautiful medieval city of Lincoln, an inspiration for her writing. She is the author of The White Room, Company of Liars, The Owl Killers, The Gallows Curse, The Falcons of Fire and Ice and The Vanishing Witch. She has recently relocated to a life of rural bliss in Devon.

      Acclaim for Karen Maitland:

      Step back in time with Maitland’s dark tales

      ‘Karen Maitland neatly captures the spirit of primitive superstition’ Daily Express

      ‘Passion and peril. A compelling blend of historical grit and supernatural twists’ Daily Mail on The Falcons of Fire and Ice

      ‘A ripping tale . . . full of colour and detail’ Daily Telegraph on The Gallows Curse

      ‘Scarily good. Imagine The Wicker Man crossed with The Birds’ Marie Claire on The Owl Killers

      ‘Glorious . . . a thrillingly horrible vision of the Dark Ages’ Metro on The Owl Killers

      ‘Combines the storytelling traditions of The Canterbury Tales with the supernatural suspense of Mosse’s Sepulchre in this atmospheric tale of treachery and magic’ Marie Claire on Company of Liars

      ‘A richly evocative page-turner which brings to life a lost and terrible period of British history, with a disturbing final twist worthy of a master of the spine-tingler, such as Henry James’ Daily Express on Company of Liars

      About the book

      Never trust your secrets to a Raven, when you are not its true master . . .

      The Raven is waiting.

      France, 1224. Vincent stumbles upon a secret that could destroy his master and a naive attempt at blackmail leaves him on the run and in possession of a silver raven’s head.

      The Raven is coming.

      Vincent escapes to England but every attempt to sell the raven’s head fails and instead he makes his way from town to town, selling lies and stories to line his purse.

      The Raven is here.

      He hears of a Baron, a man whose reputation should make him a buyer for the head . . . or a story. Vincent demands an audience with Lord Sylvain, but it might be the last demand he makes. It doesn’t pay to deal with an Alchemist.

      Some might think the Raven was seeking passage home.

      By Karen Maitland

      The White Room

      Company of Liars

      The Owl Killers

      The Gallows Curse

      The Falcons of Fire and Ice

      The Vanishing Witch

      And know that the head of the art is the raven who flies without wings in the darkness and in the brightness of the day: in the bitterness that is in its throat the nigredo, the blackest of black, will be found.

      From Artis aurif, 1610 edition

      Take some ‘stone’. Divide it into four parts – air, fire, earth and water. I am unable to discover that it can be done in any way other than the following. A human being lives, dies, and depends upon blood. Likewise the stone. Consequently they say that this stone is a living stone, and therefore because there is no higher soul than a human being, they take the stone of a human.

      Avicenna, a Persian physician (AD 980–1037)

      One for sorrow

      Two for mirth

      Three for a funeral

      Four for a birth

      Five for heaven

      Six for hell

      The seventh takes your soul for the Devil to sell.

      One of several versions of a traditional rhyme for counting magpies, known as witch birds

      Cast of Characters

      England

      Hudde – an under-forester

      Meggy – Hudde’s wife

      Wilky – their five-year-old son

      Jankin – one of Wilky’s older brothers

      Pouk – the dog

      France

      Vincent – seventeen-year-old apprentice to Gaspard

      Gaspard – aged scribe and librarian in the household of Philippe

      Philippe, Le Comte de Lingones – wealthy nobleman in the French court of King Louis VIII

      Amée, La Comtesse de Lingones – Philippe’s daughter

      Estienne – Philippe’s deceased great-grandfather

      Hélène – Philippe’s deceased great-grandmother

      Charles – distant cousin of Philippe

      Albertus – friend of Philippe who lives in Ricey

      Langley Town, Norfolk

      Gisa – fifteen-year-old niece and ward of an apothecary

      Uncle Thomas – the apothecary, who owns a shop in Langley

      Aunt Ebba – the apothecary�
    ��s bed-ridden wife

      Langley Abbey

      Father Arthmael – abbot and leader of the Premonstratensians (White Canons)

      Father John – brother in charge of the boys at the abbey

      Felix – eleven years old and eldest of the boys being educated at the abbey

      Mighel and Peter – youngest and smallest of the boys at the abbey

      Father Madron – young Premonstratensian

      Langley Manor

      Lord Sylvain – baron and lord of the manor

      Odo – Sylvain’s manservant

      Pipkin – Sylvain’s cook

      Isolda – Sylvain’s daughter

      Hamon – Isolda’s lover

      All of the quotations that head the chapters in the novel are taken from the writings of early Christian and Islamic alchemists.

      Prologue

      There is a secret stone, hidden in a deep well, worthless and rejected, concealed in dung and filth.

      Only the long-eared owl watches in the forest tonight. And only the owl hears the hoofs of the two horses as they draw ever closer. It swivels its head to stare at the white-robed riders. Its great eyes blink. Then it launches itself on silent wings and is gone.

      An angry wind rattles the branches of the trees, muffling the creak of leather and the crunch of iron shoes as the horses pad through the dried leaves. The cottage hunkers down, invisible among the twisted trunks. But even these ancient trees cannot conceal the tiny croft from the horsemen who are threading their way towards it. For it is whispered that the white riders can see as clearly at night as ordinary men can see by day, and little wonder, for the riders are masters of the blackest of the black.

      In the cottage, the rush lights have long been extinguished and the fire damped down for the night. Behind the warped shutters, the family lie curled up around each other, sleeping. Only the dog lying by the hearth hears the approach of the two riders. It scrambles to its feet, the fur between its shoulder-blades raised. It sniffs at the crack beneath the door, then throws back its head and howls in fear.

      ‘Quiet, Pouk,’ Hudde mutters gruffly, sinking almost at once back into sleep.

      But Meggy elbows her husband in the ribs. ‘There’s something out there.’

      ‘Pigs come rootling for mast, is all,’ Hudde says, without opening his eyes. He turns over as best he can in the narrow bed, and pulls the rough blanket over his head, trying to shut out his wife and the whining hound.

      Outside, the two white riders swing themselves from their saddles, tether their horses a little way from the cottage and glide towards it, wading through a puddle of cold moonlight, their sandalled feet making no more sound in the dead leaves than the paws of wolves hunting.

      Inside the cottage the dog runs anxiously back and forth. Then, as if it senses the staff being raised on the other side of the door, it backs into the far corner and crouches there, shivering.

      The thump of the staff against the wood brings Hudde tumbling from his bed. He’s on his feet before the echo dies away. Meggy, too, scrambles up, gathering her brood of children in her arms and hushing them. They cling to her and to each other in the dark room.

      Their mother has often warned them that if they make a sound after they’ve been put to bed the lantern-man will come for them, reaching in through the window with his long arms to drag them out and carry them back to the marshes to drown them. They can only escape if they are quiet, for then he will not know there are children in the house and will pass on by. The children squeeze each other into silence, burying their faces in each other’s arms for fear that the lantern-man will hear them breathe. But the white riders are not to be fooled as easily as the lantern-man and once more a staff hammers on the door.

      Hudde snatches up his own stout stave.

      ‘Who is it comes calling in the dead of night?’ He sounds defiant, challenging, but Meggy knows him well enough to hear the apprehension concealed beneath the brave words. No human creature, save poachers or outlaws, would venture into the forest at this hour.

      ‘Peace be upon this house,’ a voice answers soothingly. ‘Pray let us in, Master Hudde, it is a bitter night.’ The man’s tone is gentle, noble even.

      Hudde relaxes slightly. He recognises the voice. The man has come here before. Perhaps he brings a message from Hudde’s master, though a message that cannot wait till morning must be grave news indeed. Hudde drags on a pair of breeches and, with a taper touched to the embers of the fire, he lights the lantern that hangs ready trimmed by the door. Meggy fusses anxiously about her children, scrubbing at sleep-drooled mouths with the corner of a blanket, as if God Himself has come calling and she is ashamed to show her children to him unwashed.

      No sooner has Hudde lifted the brace from the door than the two white-hooded figures step into the room, pressing the door closed behind them. The hound leaps forward with a growl, but the older of the two men merely turns and fixes the yellow eyes of the dog with an unblinking stare, holding out his hand flat above its head. The dog whimpers and, as if the man is pressing a great weight down onto it, sinks to its belly and shuffles back into the corner.

      Both men stand quite still, their hands folded into the white sleeves of their robes, the hoods of their cloaks drawn over their heads. The younger man is scarcely more than a youth, though he has already learned to keep his body composed, save for a twitch at the corner of his left eye that betrays a nervous excitement. The older man’s chin is frosted with white stubble beneath a purple-veined nose. His expression betrays nothing of his thoughts, but his eyes quarter every inch of the tiny cottage, as if he is determined to examine all and forget nothing.

      Hudde shuffles anxiously, wondering why the men don’t announce their business at once. Perhaps they’re expecting some meat or drink to be offered.

      ‘We have only small ale, sirs, and some bread . . . we have bread and cheese . . .’ He glances uncertainly at his wife, hoping that there is still some left from supper.

      The man bows his head, acknowledging the proffered hospitality. ‘My thanks to you, Master Hudde, but we require no refreshment. We have merely come for the boy. Make him ready to travel and we shall be on our way.’

      His gaze sweeps over the huddled children and settles, heavy as a millstone, upon a small boy, whose shaggy locks blaze flame-red against the duller amber and rust-browns of his siblings.

      Meggy’s arm shoots out to pull the child to her side, grasping him so tightly that he squeals. She glances at her husband, silently urging him to say something, but he’s just standing there dumbly, like one of his trees, so it’s left to Meggy to protest.

      ‘You’ve not come for him yet, surely.’ She tenderly brushes a tangle of hair out of the boy’s eyes.

      ‘The child was promised to us,’ the older man says. ‘Your husband came to us on St Stephen’s Day begging for more time to pay what he owed us for the grain we sold to him. The boy was offered in settlement. And, as agreed, you will receive food and coin every quarter day for the next seven years – that is,’ he adds carefully, ‘unless the boy dies.’

      Hudde winces. The shame of that day still burns in him. It had cost him every scrap of pride he had left to admit that he couldn’t pay what he owed. But he’d lost two months’ wages after that poacher had put an arrow through his shoulder. The wound had turned foul and his body had burned with a fever, which had left him weak as a nestling. He’d tried to explain his misfortune to this man, but he’d only stared at Hudde with cold, dead eyes as if he was no better than an averer, faking sickness to steal alms.

      Hudde had been certain his plea would be refused, but then a miracle had happened. The man’s gaze had alighted on little Wilky clinging to his father’s breeches. Ignoring Wilky’s brothers, he’d reached out an arm and drawn the child close, his fingers probing the boy’s head, limbs and body, as if he was inspecting a puppy for the potential to become a good hunting hound. With a deep sigh, he’d released Wilky, but he could barely tear his eyes from the boy.

      ‘In settlement of your
    debt, we will take the boy and educate him,’ the man announced curtly. ‘In addition, you will receive a modest sum until the boy is twelve, for you doubtless have other debts to pay.’

      Hudde was so bemused he thought at first they were asking him for money. The father pays the master to teach his son – that is always the way of it. It wasn’t until the coins were thrust into his hand and his fist was guided to make a clumsy X on the parchment that he realised they were paying him!

      He’d returned home giddy with relief and gratitude that they had cancelled the debt. But for days after he had brooded over the matter. He could not fathom why any man should give him money for the privilege of teaching his son. Eventually, unable to make any sense of it, Hudde had stopped trying to reason it out, just as a man abandons a tangle of cord that is so badly knotted it can never be undone.

      But now Hudde is finally goaded into speech. ‘Aye, I did promise him right enough. But . . . see, our Wilky’s nowt but five summers old. I thought he’d be with us another two years at least, maybe more.’

      ‘And what would be the point of that?’ the man says. ‘Can you afford to keep seven children through another hard winter? Suppose another accident should befall you. Safe in our care, the boy will be fed and clothed, and will be taught his letters. The sooner he begins, the faster he will learn.’

      ‘But he’s so young, so small,’ Meggy protests. ‘He needs me. Just another year, I beg you. Give me time to get him used to the idea. We’ll bring him to you ourselves, when he’s ready.’

     


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