The Raven's Head Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Karen Maitland
as broad and shapeless as milch cows in summer, with low-swinging udders to match. Their great hams wobbled as they bent over the washing. The other was a thin, scrawny little thing with pustules spattered over her pale face.
Even had I been vaguely attracted to any of them, flirting, as Gaspard had urged, was out of the question. They giggled when they saw me and laughed even harder as they watched my clumsy attempts to clean the blankets. That was when they weren’t giving exaggerated gasps of horror and pinching their noses when they saw how black the water turned. I’d no doubt the tale would be all over the château by nightfall.
I spread the blankets, only slightly cleaner, on the drying green and contemplated what to do next. It was clear Gaspard would be delighted if I stayed away all day. Part of me longed to do just that for I might not get the chance of another day’s freedom to enjoy myself until the ancient one was mouldering in his grave.
On the other hand, curiosity was eating me up, and curiosity is a demon who will not relinquish its hold on you until its voracious appetite has been satisfied. I’d have no peace until I discovered what Gaspard was trying to hide. So, I turned my back on freedom, crept back up the spiral staircase and, as silently as I could, I lifted the door latch.
Chapter 4
Norfolk, England
And the air of the four quarters of the world must occupy three parts of the room that the death song of the swan may be distinctly heard.
Gisa is sitting in the narrow beam of sunlight that penetrates the dark interior of her uncle’s apothecary’s shop, grinding a root of black hellebore. She does not need to see her hands in order to do her work. She has pounded roots, dried herbs and minerals for her uncle so often that her fingers can feel just when the texture is right. But she is grateful for the warmth of the sun, hungry for it, for she seldom has the time to feel its touch on her cheek.
A shadow falls across Gisa’s lap. The girl glances up, frowning. A man is standing outside the shop, but she cannot see his face because the sunlight is behind him. Sighing, she lays aside the pestle and mortar and crosses the narrow room towards him. The shutters on the small shop have been lowered from the window to form a counter, which protrudes like a tongue into the street beyond.
Most customers are served through this window. They are admitted to the shop only when her uncle needs to inspect a wound or examine a bloodshot eye. Otherwise the door is kept barred for fear that curious children will sneak in or would-be murderers: on these shelves are stored more ways to dispatch a man into the next life than can be found in King Henry’s arsenal. Some of the potions and powders would kill a man gently with an endless sleep. Others would make him suffer all the agonies of Hell long before he descended into Satan’s realm.
The man at the window says nothing, asks for nothing, but as soon as the girl recognises the bulbous, pitted nose and the sharp green eyes, a cold stone rises up in her throat. She wants to call for her uncle, vanish until they have concluded their business, but she dare not keep him waiting outside. Reluctantly, she unfastens the door and the man sweeps through. The heavy folds of his black tunic almost catch in the door as Gisa hastens to close it behind him. He gazes down at her. A faint stench of urine hangs about him. He stands too close, always too close, and she wants to move away, but the edge of the table is pressing into her back, trapping her.
The light from the window flashes on the silver embroidery at the neck of his black tunic and around his black hat. ‘Osle’ – the townspeople call him, though never within his hearing –
the great black bird
. It is an old name from the elder faith, for the Christian saints are powerless to protect them from those ancient fears that cannot be caged by the words of the Church. The goodwives cover their
Even had I been vaguely attracted to any of them, flirting, as Gaspard had urged, was out of the question. They giggled when they saw me and laughed even harder as they watched my clumsy attempts to clean the blankets. That was when they weren’t giving exaggerated gasps of horror and pinching their noses when they saw how black the water turned. I’d no doubt the tale would be all over the château by nightfall.
I spread the blankets, only slightly cleaner, on the drying green and contemplated what to do next. It was clear Gaspard would be delighted if I stayed away all day. Part of me longed to do just that for I might not get the chance of another day’s freedom to enjoy myself until the ancient one was mouldering in his grave.
On the other hand, curiosity was eating me up, and curiosity is a demon who will not relinquish its hold on you until its voracious appetite has been satisfied. I’d have no peace until I discovered what Gaspard was trying to hide. So, I turned my back on freedom, crept back up the spiral staircase and, as silently as I could, I lifted the door latch.
Chapter 4
Norfolk, England
And the air of the four quarters of the world must occupy three parts of the room that the death song of the swan may be distinctly heard.
Gisa is sitting in the narrow beam of sunlight that penetrates the dark interior of her uncle’s apothecary’s shop, grinding a root of black hellebore. She does not need to see her hands in order to do her work. She has pounded roots, dried herbs and minerals for her uncle so often that her fingers can feel just when the texture is right. But she is grateful for the warmth of the sun, hungry for it, for she seldom has the time to feel its touch on her cheek.
A shadow falls across Gisa’s lap. The girl glances up, frowning. A man is standing outside the shop, but she cannot see his face because the sunlight is behind him. Sighing, she lays aside the pestle and mortar and crosses the narrow room towards him. The shutters on the small shop have been lowered from the window to form a counter, which protrudes like a tongue into the street beyond.
Most customers are served through this window. They are admitted to the shop only when her uncle needs to inspect a wound or examine a bloodshot eye. Otherwise the door is kept barred for fear that curious children will sneak in or would-be murderers: on these shelves are stored more ways to dispatch a man into the next life than can be found in King Henry’s arsenal. Some of the potions and powders would kill a man gently with an endless sleep. Others would make him suffer all the agonies of Hell long before he descended into Satan’s realm.
The man at the window says nothing, asks for nothing, but as soon as the girl recognises the bulbous, pitted nose and the sharp green eyes, a cold stone rises up in her throat. She wants to call for her uncle, vanish until they have concluded their business, but she dare not keep him waiting outside. Reluctantly, she unfastens the door and the man sweeps through. The heavy folds of his black tunic almost catch in the door as Gisa hastens to close it behind him. He gazes down at her. A faint stench of urine hangs about him. He stands too close, always too close, and she wants to move away, but the edge of the table is pressing into her back, trapping her.
The light from the window flashes on the silver embroidery at the neck of his black tunic and around his black hat. ‘Osle’ – the townspeople call him, though never within his hearing –
the great black bird
. It is an old name from the elder faith, for the Christian saints are powerless to protect them from those ancient fears that cannot be caged by the words of the Church. The goodwives cover their