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
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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 de
bt, 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.’