‘There are many such companies,’ Matthias declared.
‘Aye.’ Ratcliffe scratched his close-cropped head. ‘It’s a miracle how a good idea seems to appeal to so many people.’ Ratcliffe played with his leather wrist brace and laughed to himself. ‘I am the second son of a second son.’ He gazed up at the banner now fluttering bravely in the evening breeze. ‘There are no more wars. What’s your name?’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘There are no more wars,’ Ratcliffe repeated. ‘King Henry is desirous of keeping the peace with everyone. The Turks now control Constantinople and Jerusalem, so it’s Spain for the likes of us.’
‘Spain?’ Matthias asked.
At St Wilfrid’s he’d heard the gossip of how the Tudor King was growing closer to this powerful kingdom and their warlike king and queen; Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile dreamt of uniting their kingdom which, if realised, would turn Spain into the greatest power in Europe.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Ratcliffe asked. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’
‘In a monastery,’ Matthias replied. ‘And I’m not joking.’
Ratcliffe looked up at the banner, an adoring look on his face.
‘It’s the last crusade, Matthias! Ferdinand and Isabella have collected a huge army and moved south to besiege Granada. If that falls, the Moors will be driven from Spain for ever. I have raised the company of St Raphael.’ He turned back and pointed to the campfire. ‘Twenty mounted men, ten hobelors and the same number of archers, though God knows where those idle buggers have gone. Probably drinking their wages in the nearest tavern.’ Ratcliffe poked Matthias in the chest. ‘You look like a fighting man. I can tell that from your chest and arms. The pay is not good, a shilling a quarter but there’ll be food, comradeship and fair shares of any plunder taken.’ He held out his hand again. ‘Well?’
Matthias shook it and laughed. ‘Sir Edgar, if I decided to go to Spain then it would be with you under the banner of St Raphael. Yes.’ He looked up at the standard. ‘That would be rather fitting: protection from one of God’s great archangels!’
He walked away even as Sir Edgar shouted that they would tarry here a while until all were assembled and then leave for Rye. Matthias raised his hand in acknowledgment and walked slowly back to the tavern. The prospect of fighting with a company of St Raphael, of going to Spain, appealed to him. Such a venture would be godly and take him away from a country where he was no longer welcome. Tewkesbury, Gloucester, Sutton Courteny, Oxford were all closed to him. He doubted if Dame Emma was still alive and he was not too sure of what reception the Hospitallers would give him. He stopped beneath the creaking tavern sign. Emloe and his gang would be waiting for him in London, even elsewhere. Yes, he’d be party to a crusade, to fight for Church and the Cross, whilst Ratcliffe looked a worthy man. Matthias was tired of his own loneliness.
He walked through the inn yard and up the stairs to his chamber. He opened the door and unseen hands pushed him deeper into the room. The door was slammed and bolted behind him. A tinder scraped, candles were lit. Matthias’ hand went to his dagger.
‘Don’t! Just stand there!’
The room was full of shadowy figures. Emloe stepped forward, pulling back his cowl, his arms pushed up the sleeves of his gown, his cadaverous face smiling and welcoming.
‘Matthias! We have waited many a week!’
Matthias stared round: there were at least six of them, two were carrying crossbows. He caught the glint of naked steel and heard the clink of chain mail.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Matthias, we have had people waiting at the ports for many a month. You know I have a finger in many pies, take a deep interest in what comes in and out of our kingdom. You weren’t at Winchelsea an hour before a messenger was speeding to London.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Matthias, must I spell it out as if you are a child? That night in my secret chamber.’ Emloe stepped closer. ‘Never have I seen such power, such a manifestation.’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘True, the house was burnt but nothing that cannot be replaced. You, however, Matthias, cannot be replaced. You are more precious to me than the costliest silk or rarest diamonds.’ Emloe’s voice took on a more mocking tone. ‘And we looked for you, here and there. What happened to my riders? Sent into deepest Gloucestershire, they were! It was months before I discovered their rotting corpses round that church!’ Emloe’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘What happened, Matthias? Did you release the power?’ He wagged a finger. ‘Then back and forth to the Hospitallers at Clerkenwell. Tush! Tush! We dare not seize you there.’ He spread his hands. ‘The good knights cannot be bribed and bought. They have a tendency to smite first and ask afterwards.’
Matthias pulled his cloak around him and glared at Emloe. He was not afraid, just angry, seething with fury. Emloe and the rest — James of Scotland, Fitzgerald, Prior Jerome, men who would not leave him alone — and now what? Trussed and bound, taken back like a puppet to London? Matthias’ hand went to the second dagger he wore strapped close to his belt. He slipped this easily from its pouch. Emloe was revelling in his good fortune.
‘So, what is it to be, Matthias? A knock on the head and bundled into some cart? Come back to London! Live like a lord! Wine, gold, any wench you want! A house? Favour at court?’ He waggled a finger. ‘I’ve been a good detective, Matthias. There are still warrants out for your arrest! That business at Oxford, and your name was among the list of rebels captured at East Stoke. And what happened at Barnwick? Who did let the Scots into that castle?’
Matthias idly wondered if this was the confrontation Dame Emma had spoken of. Was the Rose Demon here? Emloe smirked, lording it over him.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Matthias declared. ‘You want to see the power, Master Emloe?’
The warlock nodded.
‘You wish to see the demons rise? So you shall, and here’s my hand on it.’
Matthias stepped forward. As he did so, his hand came up, and before Emloe could even move Matthias struck the dagger deep, turning it into the man’s stomach. He pulled Emloe close, pushing in the dagger with all his strength.
‘Go down,’ he whispered. ‘And meet the demons!’
Matthias threw Emloe, gagging and choking on his own blood, to the floor.
Figures came out of the darkness but Matthias knocked them aside. He reached the door, fingers pulling at the bolts. Then he was out, racing down the stairs.
‘Murder!’
A scullion coming up the stairs was knocked sideways.
‘Stop him!’ a voice shouted. ‘Murder!’
By the time Matthias reached the cobbled yard, he could hear the shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’, the usual call when the hue and cry were being raised. Matthias raced along the alleyway. At the bottom he stopped and turned. His heart sank. He could see pinpricks of torchlight, people shouting, hurrying towards him. He thought of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe but realised the camp was too far away. He ran on into the marketplace and through the open door of a darkened church.
30
Matthias slammed the church door behind him and stared around. Torches glowed in their iron clasps on the pillars: candles and oil lamps dotted the darkness before statues in the side chapels. Matthias heard the cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ draw nearer. He pushed close the bolts of the door and walked swiftly up the nave into the sanctuary. He had hardly reached it when a small, balding man, dressed in a priest’s gown, came running through a side door. He lifted his spluttering torch and stared at Matthias.
‘What is it you want, young man?’
Matthias grasped the side of the altar.
‘My name is Matthias Fitzosbert, clerk. I demand sanctuary of Holy Mother Church!’
The priest sighed and lowered the torch.