All this she understood last night. All this is her past, but only now does the realisation explode in her head that it is not past and never will be. It is her future. I shall never be other than a servant in someone else’s employ. I shall never marry, never have children, because the blood that runs hot through my veins is tainted, poisoned, corrupt.
Her throat grows tight with tears that she learned long ago never to shed so they do not reach her eyes. She wants to run from the turret, run from Laurent and those ridiculous feelings for him that even now surge up in her. What right does she have to yearn for him, for anyone, to touch her, kiss her? She is filthy, leprous. She can never be loved. She shrinks away, suddenly afraid she will infect him too.
But there is no escaping. She and Laurent are trapped together until it pleases Sylvain to release them, and what will he do then? What will happen tonight in that tower, to Laurent, to the sleeping boy dressed in scarlet? Her gaze darts to the tomb in the painting. Will Sylvain really try to raise a corpse?
‘The body that Sylvain showed you?’ Gisa whispers. ‘Who was she? His wife?’
But Laurent isn’t listening to anything she is saying. He doesn’t even turn in her direction. He’s staring wildly into the windowless chamber. ‘The mould – look at the black mould. It’s reached the ceiling and it’s still spreading. I can see it growing. The slime is moving!’
Chapter 52
So here is Sol turned black, becoming with mercurius philosophorum one heart.
Another sharp caw made me spin round. Instinctively I looked to the place on the altar where Lugh always stood. Then I remembered he was gone. Sylvain had taken him.
‘You are observant, Laurent.’ The voice was as harsh as a raven’s croak. ‘The mould spreads rapidly, as I intend it should.’
I heard a sharp gasp from Gisa and turned to see the figure of Sylvain filling the doorway at the top of the stairs. For a moment I thought I saw two great ragged wings folding themselves against his sides. It must have been nothing more than the folds of his black cloak stirring. But all the same, with both chamber doors open, how the devil had he got up there without us hearing him?
Sylvain extended his hand towards the windowless bedchamber. ‘The mould creeps over every surface. Nothing can escape it. It smothers, it consumes, it reduces all things to earth, to dirt, to the filth from which all life springs. It is the nigredo, the black death of putrefaction. But buried in the filth is the precious stone of life.’
He took a step towards Gisa, who was closest to him, his gaze fixed on her face. She retreated back towards me. The expression in her eyes was not one of gratitude, much less affection. She was terrified. If she was knowingly assisting Sylvain in his black arts, it was far from willingly, not that that did anything to reassure me. She could just as easily kill me out of fear of Sylvain as out of loyalty to him, probably more so. Even that wretched bird, Lugh, had betrayed me to him. And women are far more treacherous than any man or bird. I wouldn’t trust Gisa further than a flea could spit.
The girl and I were both now standing in the old chapel in the flickering light of the single candle, Sylvain blocking the doorway. Had he deliberately herded us in there? I stepped sideways, hoping I could slip behind him and out of the door. But, as if he knew exactly what I planned, he pulled the door closed with a great echoing thump.
The damp musty odour of the mould was stronger than before. In the restless shadows cast by the candle flame it seemed to be oozing across the ceiling towards the image of the raven’s head painted in the centre. The bird’s beak was open, as if it was summoning the slime to it.
Sylvain dragged the chair against the closed door and lowered himself onto it. ‘Sit, both of you. Let’s make ourselves comfortable,’ he said, waving his hand like a genial host.
But we were not guests. We were prisoners in a turret, at least I was, and one that was rotting around us even as we stood. There being no other chairs in the room, Gisa sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. I certainly had no intention of meekly obeying orders. I had only one thought and that was to get out of there, any way I could.
‘Do sit, Laurent. I know you have many questions and I am here to answer them.’ Sylvain’s tone was that of some kindly old physician. ‘You have still not fully recovered your strength. You must conserve what little energy you have.’
That made an odd kind of sense, and now that he mentioned it, I discovered I was feeling shaky – my legs would hardly hold me up. Breathing in the damp mould was making my chest hurt, too. I found myself sinking down onto the bed. It couldn’t hurt to get the old man off his guard. Let him believe I was docile, and when he least expected it, I’d spring across the room, knock him from the chair and be out of that door before he had time to say ‘raven’.
‘Gisa, you were curious about the body I showed Laurent this morning.’
I jerked. Just how long had he been standing there listening?
‘And it is right that you should be curious, for her life touches yours in ways you cannot yet imagine.’ Sylvain gave me an icy smile. ‘Laurent wanted to write a story for me, didn’t you, Laurent? But he was having trouble knowing where to begin. So why don’t I begin it for you?’
I glanced at Gisa. But I couldn’t make out her expression in the flickering mustard light. Had they dreamed up this little entertainment between them?
‘The corpse that lies preserved in the charnel house is that of my poor daughter, Isolda. I wish you’d known her as a child, for she was beautiful both in body and mind.’ He wagged a long finger at us. ‘Ah, I know what you’re thinking – all fathers claim their daughters are jewels, even the ugly and stupid ones – but Isolda really was exquisite and the most precious thing I possessed after her mother left us. She and I were the whole world to each other. We needed no one else.
‘After the treachery of her mother, I was determined I would never allow another woman to betray me. Neither did I ever want another child to spring from my loins, for no man who has created perfection will risk producing something that might be flawed. Yet, in spite of my hostility, women continued to offer themselves to me.’
Sylvain laughed bitterly. ‘I’m under no illusion that it was my face which attracted them. It was purely my wealth they lusted after. Yet I confess that at times the temptation to lie with them was overwhelming and on several occasions I almost succumbed. I could not endure my own weakness. I had to ensure that my body would not also betray me.’
Sylvain rose, seized the front of his black robe and lifted it. Gisa turned her head away. Moments later, I was profoundly wishing I’d looked away too. For between Sylvain’s legs where his prick and cods should have been there was nothing but a puckered scarlet scar, shaped like a rose.
‘You did that to yourself?’ I gasped. ‘You cut off your own . . .’
Sylvain dropped his robe and sank back onto the chair. ‘The pain of a cut to the flesh is brief and quickly forgotten, unlike the pain of treachery,’ he said quietly.
‘But you wished to know about my daughter. Isolda was a joy to teach and she devoured knowledge. I instructed her in astrology and mathematics, the properties of metals and plants, and before long her skill was so great that she was able to assist me in every aspect of my work, but . . .’
I was barely able to take in what he was saying. That livid scar was seared on my eyeballs. It certainly accounted for why there was always a faint odour of urine lingering about Sylvain. But what kind of madman would do such a thing to himself? If I’d been afraid before, I was doubly so now. Anyone who is capable of taking a knife and slicing off his own member wouldn’t hesitate to hack another man into small pieces.
I tried to make myself concentrate on what Sylvain was saying. Better I listened to his ravings, however deranged, than dwell on what lay between his legs or, rather, what didn’t.
‘. . . I was foolish enough to permit Isolda to accompany me on journeys to buy rare ingredients from the merchants. I thought it would please her to s
ee new sights. And I reasoned that I could teach her how to appraise the quality of what she was buying, and to bargain so that she was not cheated. I knew the time would come, as it does to us all, when I would grow too old and infirm to travel with her.’
The muscle in Sylvain’s jaw suddenly tightened. ‘But there was one thing I neglected to teach her, that men will use many guises to cheat a woman out of something that is far more valuable than gold. On one of our travels, Isolda encountered a young man, by the name of Hamon, who lusted after her. I saw at once the base and depraved character of the man that lay beneath the charming surface, a man, in fact, who bore uncanny resemblance to you, Master Laurent.’
I spluttered indignantly, but Sylvain silenced me with a wave of his hand and continued. ‘Naturally I removed Isolda from his company at once. But, unknown to me, he continued to pursue her. Hamon persuaded her to deceive me, to write to him without my knowledge, to send messages, even to meet him. I discovered their perfidy, of course, and forbade her to see him, but by then she was already in his thrall and he convinced her to elope.
‘I spent months hunting for her and when I did finally track her down, it was too late. She was heavy with child. I tried to persuade her to come home, telling her that I would forgive her everything and all would be as before. But she refused to come with me, foolishly declaring she loved him. Hamon returned as I was trying to convince her to abandon him and we fought. Our quarrel so distressed my daughter that the pangs of labour came upon her and the midwife was summoned. But the birth was long and hard, and the child became wedged. The midwife feared she was losing both mother and baby. Do you know what the Church teaches these women? Do you know what they swear before the priests and abbots they will do?’
Sylvain rose and began to pace furiously around the chamber. Gisa shrank further back onto the bed.
‘The priests tell them that the child must be brought forth alive and kept alive just long enough for the midwife to baptise it, so that its soul may be saved for Christ, even if that should cost the life of the mother. I was not in the chamber with my poor daughter. Had I known what that ignorant old hag had determined to do, I would have cut her hands off. But I knew nothing of it until she had committed her foul deed. That midwife sliced open the belly of my daughter and pulled the living baby from her, then left her bleeding while she baptised the infant, just as the priest had instructed her to do. She murdered my daughter.’
Sylvain slammed his fist down onto the table. ‘She should have killed the baby! She should have cut it up inside Isolda’s womb as midwives do with a dead infant, so that it might be expelled without harm to the mother. If she had done that, my daughter would have lived.
‘The midwife hurried the baby away and gave it into its father’s arms. I didn’t care. I couldn’t bear to look at the mewling creature that had so selfishly taken the life of my beloved child. To me it was nothing more than a bloated tapeworm, feeding on her, sucking her strength, so that it could live. Hamon could do as he pleased with his brat.
‘But I would not let him have the body of my daughter. I preserved her carefully, as I showed you, and brought her home. I had her laid in the charnel house so that I could continue to gaze on her lovely face, for I could not bear to bury her in the cold earth to rot and be consumed by worms.
‘I returned to my studies alone, but as I pored over the books and charts we had once read together, I could still see her sometimes, sitting in the half-shadow, hear her soft breathing, smell the rosemary water on her hair. Then gradually, as if Isolda’s spirit was guiding my hand to the pages, the idea took shape that I possessed the knowledge to bring her to life again. I could resurrect her, if I could but make the stone of life. I have devoted my soul and my strength in every waking hour to the pursuit of this priceless treasure and tonight it lies within my grasp.’
Sylvain was no longer looking at us, but staring upwards at the raven’s head in the centre of the ceiling, his lips parted, his frame taut as a strung bow. There was a glazed expression in his eyes as of a man approaching the moment of ejaculation. He reminded me of the statues of saints I’d seen depicted at their moment of martyrdom. But I had the uneasy feeling that if Sylvain was contemplating death he didn’t intend it to be his own.
I glanced towards the door, aware that Gisa was doing the same. I guessed the same thought was racing through both of our heads. If we rushed it, could we get out, while Sylvain was distracted? The girl was closest to the door, but I couldn’t be sure she wasn’t on his side. Would she attempt to block me? Cry out a warning? I leaned forward, tensing myself, trying to judge the right moment. But just as I was about to spring at him, I heard footsteps on the stairs beyond, and not just one set. Several people were climbing up the spiral staircase towards us.
Sylvain must have heard them too, for he half turned his head towards the sound, then looked back at us with one of his chilling smiles. ‘Lie down on the bed, both of you, side by side.’
We sprang off it. Gisa ran towards the door, and Sylvain, instead of trying to catch her, stepped obligingly aside. I raced through the door after her, expecting any moment to feel Sylvain’s hands grabbing at me, but he made no move to stop me. Gisa reached the far door of the painted chamber first, but she was pushed back into the room as, first, Odo, then the youth without a tongue and finally Pipkin crowded through the door and stood there, blocking any hope of escape. Odo’s expression was as impassive as ever, but the youth was grinning broadly, the dark cavern of his tongueless mouth more unnerving than before.
‘I repeat – lie down on the bed, both of you,’ Sylvain said, behind us. ‘I wish to spare you as much pain as possible. The more willingly you submit, the easier you will find it. Death is but a gentle sleep if you surrender yourselves and do not fight it.’ His tone was as soothing as poppy syrup, but however softly a man pronounces the word death, it is a word that thuds into your brain as sharply as an arrow.
I caught Gisa’s arm and flung her as hard as I could at Odo, at the same time hurling myself between Pipkin and the lad, catching them off-guard. I tore down the spiral stairs, bouncing off the walls in my headlong dash, while the cries of rage from Odo echoed above me. But the steps were uneven in height and the stone worn smooth and slippery. It was almost inevitable that before long my foot should miss the step. I found myself crashing down onto the hard stone, tumbling over and over as I rolled down the stairs. First my shoulder then my knee banged painfully against the walls. I barely escaped dashing my brains out as I tumbled off the final step and smashed onto the hard flagstones in front of the door.
But I couldn’t afford to lie there nursing my bruises. I dragged myself to my feet and limped to the door, twisting the handle. I was certain that at any moment I’d hear Odo’s footsteps pounding down the steps behind me. But all I could hear were the shrieks and yells of the girl. She sounded terrified. I ought to go back and help her. But what would be the point? It would be four against one. Better to get out and run to the town to fetch a crowd of armed men.
I turned the handle again, first one way then the other, frantically shaking it as the truth sank in. It was locked. Of course, it was locked! Odo wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave it open. Even as I searched around, trying to find a trapdoor or any kind of hiding place, I knew it was useless. That was why they hadn’t bothered to chase after me. They knew I couldn’t get out. They could come for me at their leisure. And they did.
I might have been trapped, but I had no intention of making it easy for them. It took Pipkin to kneel on me and pin me to the floor, while Odo and the youth bound my hands behind my back, then my ankles, before they could half drag, half carry me up the stairs. I wriggled like an eel, until Odo threatened to pull me up by my feet, so that my head bounced on every step all the way up. Even in my fear and panic, I had enough sense to realise that my chances of surviving whatever Sylvain had planned would be worse than a lobster dropped in boiling water if I was battered half unconscious before he’d begun.
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Gisa was already pinioned to the bed when I was finally tossed down beside her. She was trussed up like me, except that her arms had been crossed over her chest in the manner of a corpse. Her eyes were wide with fear, but there wasn’t a trace of a tear in them and her lips were pressed tight, as if she was determined not to let so much as a squeak of terror escape her.
Odo and the youth threw a rope over our shoulders and another across our legs to ensure that we could not wriggle off the bed. Even as I felt them pulling the ropes tight, then tighter still, I couldn’t help noticing that the creeping fingers of black mould on the ceiling above my head had now joined together, so that only a slim circle of white remained around the raven head’s, like a halo around the moon on a frosty night.
When we were firmly trussed up, ready for the slaughterer’s knife, Sylvain nodded curtly to his three henchmen. They sidled from the chamber, the youth grinning and Odo expressionless, as if he was completely indifferent to whatever our fate might be. Only Pipkin, panting and sweating from his labours, darted an anxious but helpless glance towards us, as if he pitied us, though any fears he had for our future were nothing compared to my own.
When we heard the hollow echo of the door at the bottom of the tower slamming shut, Sylvain approached the bed. Gisa stiffened beside me. I glanced at his hands, searching for a weapon – a knife, axe, garrotte – but they were empty.
‘Just what are you intending to do with me?’ I tried to sound defiant. After all, when there’s a woman beside him, no man wants to sound as if he is about to start sobbing in abject terror, which I confess I might very well have done had Gisa not been there.
‘I am going to do nothing,’ Sylvain murmured. ‘Your death was set in motion the day you came here.’ He gestured to the walls. ‘As you observed, the mould is already closing in. I have been holding it back, but once I have left this chamber, its spread will accelerate. It will cover you, feed on you. Your skin, flesh and bones will putrefy into the black slime from which all life is generated. Your two bodies will melt into one, the ultimate union of male and female. And from the filth and decay of your marriage bed I will pluck the stone of life.’