The Raven's Head by Karen Maitland Page B

feed him. He glances along the length of the table. Each boy’s bowl and beaker sit in front of him on the table. Still he worries. Suppose they snatch his.
    ‘Everyone is waiting, Regulus,’ the man with the frosted chin says. ‘Set your bowl and beaker on the table, like the others.’
    He obeys, glancing up first at the man, then at Felix, for reassurance that he has done it correctly, but neither gives him any encouragement.
    At a sign from the white-robed figure they all stand. Regulus is hauled to his feet by Felix. The boys bow their heads and press their hands together in front of them.
    ‘
Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine . . .
’
    Frosty-chin leads and the boys join in, though some are merely gabbling sounds that no Latin scholar would recognise. They take their places once more, save two of the boys who fetch a pipkin of herb pottage. The bowls are passed up and Regulus watches anxiously as his is whisked away to be passed along the row.
    ‘It’s mine!’ He makes a grab for it, but Felix promptly cuffs him, pressing his finger to his lips and sternly shaking his head. Regulus anxiously marks the progress of his bowl, watching as a slice of old bread is dropped into the bottom and a dollop of the thick green porridge plopped on top. At last it is returned to him, with a slice of new bread. The boy takes a bite of the bread. He has never tasted anything quite like it. This is cheat bread, not by any means the finest bread that is made but when in your short life you have eaten nothing but ravel, full of bran and husks mixed with rye and beans, you may think yourself in Heaven when you first taste bread made from wheaten flour.
    As the boys eat, a nervous-looking child stands at the low lectern in the corner, reading aloud. He rubs the metal amulet hung about his neck as if this will ward off disaster or the wrath of Frosty-chin, maybe both. Several times, the boy’s stomach rumbles loudly as he smells the food he is not yet permitted to eat. Whenever he stumbles over a word, he glances anxiously at the white-robed man, afraid that if his tongue trips again he will get no pottage.
    Regulus does not notice the hesitations. He is not listening to the words. He is too intent on spooning the cabbage and pease pottage into his mouth as fast as he can. He has to be prevented by Felix from devouring the stale bread lining the bottom of his bowl, which to Regulus’s dismay is snatched from him and collected in a great basket. Felix whispers that it will be given to the hungry who come begging at the alms-gate, but the boy is still hungry himself. He wonders where this gate is and if he can go there to get his bread back.
    A bell tolls. Once more the boys scramble to their feet and stumble through the words led by the canon.
    ‘
Benedictus sit Deus in donis Suis . . .
’
    Frosty-chin surveys the room. ‘You are free to indulge in such pastimes as you wish for an hour before Nones but, remember, no noisy games. Some of the brethren sleep at this hour and if any are woken by your balls or chatter, you will all be made to labour for them during this hour every day for a week.’
    He sweeps from the room, closing the massive door behind him. The boys hesitate, then, as one, advance on Regulus, forming a circle around him.
    ‘Where are you from?’
    ‘When did you arrive?’
    ‘Your parents dead?’
    The questions fly at him and he can’t answer them. No one has ever asked him where he comes
from
for he’s always been there. There never was a past place, just a
here
and
now
and
is
.
    ‘
Regulus.
’
Felix pronounces it carefully, as if he was chewing a flavoursome morsel of meat. ‘Who gave you that name? Your father?’
    That is the only thing the boy does know. He knows it is not his name.
    ‘Wilky . . . my name is Wilky.’
    Felix’s bulging green eyes blink slowly. ‘Father John, was he the one who named you Regulus?’ Then, seeing the blank expression on the child’s face, he adds, ‘You know, the