The Raven's Head by Karen Maitland

man who brought you here . . . Him who was sitting just there.’ He points to the chair at the end of the long table, which the white-robed figure has just vacated.
    Regulus tries to think. Was it Frosty-chin who gave him this name? The night’s events are as jumbled and hazy in his head as a half-remembered dream.
    Finally he nods. ‘And the man who cooks things in glass pots. He called me that too.’
    ‘Regulus,’ Felix repeats softly. He circles the child, frowning.
    ‘What’s it mean, Felix?’ one of the boys asks, sensing this name is a weapon to be used.
    ‘Don’t you ever listen to your lessons, Peter?’ Felix says. ‘Last week, remember. Regulus – ruler, king.’
    The boys see the joke at once and grins spread across their faces. ‘Him, a king? That little maggot? What’s he meant to be king of, then?’
    ‘King of the beggars.’
    ‘King of the codwits.’
    ‘King of the turds.’
    This game looks set to last a long time. The boys won’t easily tire of coming up with new titles.
    Only one of the small gang is not joining in and that is Felix. He knows only too well that if Father John chooses you and Father John names you, there is a good reason. Father John does not make jokes, far from it. He is always serious, deadly serious, and if the boy has already been to the dungeons, he must be special. And that is an honour no boy wants, not in this place. He’s heard Father John speak the name
Regulus
before. They have been waiting for this boy for a long time.
    ‘That’s enough,’ Felix says suddenly. ‘Leave him be. You’ll get no chance to play any games if you don’t go now. Hour’ll soon be up.’
    The boys stare at him, puzzled. Felix has never been known to stop teasing before. He’s usually the chief tormenter, but they’ve no time to ponder the matter. Their one free hour in the day is far too precious to be wasted in here. They race each other to the door.
    Felix stares down at the little boy, who gazes up at him from liquid blue eyes. Felix shudders. He would not want to be named Regulus for all the food on the abbot’s table. Even at eleven years old he is already wise enough to know there are some titles in life you pray to every saint in Heaven you will never be granted.

Chapter 11
     
    Devours his tail till naught remains. This dragon, whom they Ouroboros call.
     
    The summons came at dawn three days after I had confronted Philippe. I was beginning to think he had forgotten about me or had never had any intention of entrusting me with a task and had merely made promises to keep me quiet.
    When old Gaspard returned from speaking with Philippe that night, he’d shuffled to his desk and ignored me as if I was one of the pigeons that flapped about the turret. I was used to the ancient one not speaking for hours at a time when he was absorbed in his work or his reading, but he always had something to say when he first returned to the tower, generally some complaint about me not working, but that night he didn’t even look at me. I knew Philippe must have told him all I’d said and he was angry, hurt even.
    Well, it was his own fault. If he’d offered to share the purse with me or told me what he was doing, I wouldn’t have gone near Philippe, but if the old crow was determined to be so secretive and refuse to confide in me, his faithful apprentice, he could hardly blame me for reasoning it out for myself.
    But I wouldn’t have to put up with Gaspard’s sulks or complaints or his vicious stick any more. Philippe had finally sent for me and I would never have to go back up that turret again. Gaspard could die up there, for all I cared, and probably would. In a few years someone would say,
I wonder what happened to old Gaspard?
And they’d find him, sitting mummified at his desk, the quill still in his hand, the ink turned to dust and the mice nesting in his beard.
    ‘Adieu,’ I said jauntily, as I turned at the door.
    The ancient one lifted his head. He seemed to be