Free The Raven's Head by Karen Maitland Page A

sending me, staggering under the weight of it, to deliver it to Charles. It was then that I saw my chance.
    I, being only an ignorant apprentice, somehow
misunderstood
the instructions and took the records directly to Philippe, on the pretext that I’d thought he’d want to go through them with Charles before he set out. To my relief and delight, I found him standing alone in his chamber, pouring over a long parchment scroll stretched out on a table. I managed casually to let slip that Charles hadn’t known which books he wanted and I’d been obliged to spend hours selecting them for him. I hoped my diligence would impress Philippe, while, of course, reminding him that Charles was a half-witted goose to whom no father should entrust a stray kitten, never mind his only daughter. But I was not congratulating myself for long.
    Philippe barely glanced at me and, with a flick of his finger, indicated that I could set the bag down near the door. He said he intended to send for Charles later that evening to give him his final instructions; Charles could take the records with him then and study them overnight.
    I derived considerable satisfaction from the thought of Charles having to lug that heavy bag all the way over to the Great Hall and spend the night wading through the mountain of dusty records. Not that he would, of course. He’d call for a servant to carry the bag and not give the ledgers a second glance. But I’d learned long ago that life was much more bearable if you indulged in the odd fantasy or two about the way things
should
be. But I had more pressing matters on my mind.
    Philippe dismissed me with a curt gesture and bent once more over the scroll on which were inscribed the details of roads and rivers. He was so accustomed to servants doing exactly what he asked that he had turned away without waiting to see if I had retreated. Like a conjuror, he imagined that, at a simple sweep of his hand, I would simply vanish. And his authority was such that I found myself obediently walking to the door, even as I was telling myself not to be such a fool. Here was my one chance to speak to him alone. I might never get another.
    I turned with my hand on the latch. Though I had been rehearsing this for days in my head, now that I was face to face with the man, I couldn’t think how to begin. My mouth felt as if it was full of sand and my legs were trembling.
    ‘My lord, I have to speak with you on . . . on another matter.’
    I saw a slight frown of irritation crease his brow, but still he didn’t bother to look round, his finger tracing down the length of the scroll. ‘What is it?’ he grunted. ‘Out with it.’
    ‘Some days ago you asked my master Gaspard to search . . . for a certain document.’
    ‘So,’ he said curtly, ‘who do you imagine I would ask to look for documents – my cook?’
    I came close to losing my nerve, but I forced myself to continue.
    ‘I believe . . .’ I swallowed hard, then said firmly, ‘I
know
the document he brought you was a forgery. In the book . . . the book of records from St Luke’s Church. That last account was not written by Father Vitalis.’
    Philippe’s back snapped upright. The scroll he’d been examining sprang back into a roll, jumped from the table and fell to the floor. He took a pace towards me, his expression so furious that I found myself pressing down on the latch ready to take flight.
    ‘Shut the door,’ he said, in a dangerously quiet tone. ‘Come closer.’
    I shuffled a couple of paces towards him. Living with Gaspard had taught me exactly how long a man’s reach is, but Philippe was a younger and much fitter man.
    ‘A book of church records.’
    I nodded briefly, trying to force myself to stand still.
    ‘And what makes you imagine that I would be interested in anything written in the church records?’
    His gaze was fixed so intently on me that, though I had been determined to look him in the eye as his equal, I found myself having to stare down at