‘Oh, not here!’
Matthias took a silver coin out of his purse.
‘Father, you know the law as do I. I demand sanctuary.’
The priest’s demeanour changed at the sight of the silver. He pocketed it quickly.
‘You can sleep over there,’ he declared, pointing to a shadowy alcove. ‘I’ll bring you some food, wine and blankets.’ He scratched his pock-marked nose. ‘You say you know the law but so do I. The mayor and bailiffs will come here. You can either surrender to them and stand trial,’ he paused, ‘or stay here forty days and ask to be exiled. Now, what is your crime, murder?’
Matthias nodded.
‘Yes, it always is,’ the priest sighed. ‘And you are going to tell me it was in self-defence.’
‘I did not want the man’s death.’
‘Well,’ the priest stretched out his hand, ‘my name is Father Aidan. The sanctuary is yours.’ He pointed to a side door. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t urinate or relieve yourself in here. There’s a small latrine outside fed by an underground brook. Remember this is God’s House and the Gate of Heaven. Keep it clean.’
‘Oh, Father?’
The priest turned round. Matthias held out a second silver piece. ‘There’s another one of these, Father, on two conditions. First, would you collect my baggage from the Cog of War tavern? They won’t refuse to hand it over to a priest.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t want any accidents happening to me,’ Matthias declared. ‘No one slipping in and out of the church.’
‘They wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh yes they would, Father. These men fear neither God nor man. I killed their leader.’
‘Very well.’ Father Aidan pointed down the church. ‘When I say Mass the front porch will be open, but after I’m gone you can bolt both doors from the inside.’ He took the silver coin. ‘You and your possessions will be safe.’ He paused as he heard the hubbub outside. ‘I’ll just remind our assembled brethren about the law of sanctuary. If they break it they are excommunicated.’ He waved his hand. ‘I know, I know. I heard what you said. They fear neither God nor man, but if they break into my church and commit violence, they’ll do a merry jig on the town’s gallows!’
Father Aidan may have been a mercenary priest but he was true to his word: the crowd assembled outside soon dispersed. He brought the rest of Matthias’ belongings from the Cog of War and made his uninvited guest as comfortable as possible.
The next morning, just after Mass, the mayor and bailiff arrived. They stood in the mouth of the rood screen while the town clerk recited in a rushed monotonous fashion Matthias’ rights. When he had finished, the Port Reeve stepped forward.
‘You murdered a man at the Cog of War. I know, I know,’ he raised his voice, ‘it was self-defence but there’s a whole host of witnesses say it wasn’t. So, you’ve got a choice, my murdering lad! You can surrender to us and, if you do, you’ll probably hang, or you can take an oath to leave the country by the nearest port. Now, in normal circumstances, that would be here in Winchelsea but I reckon that’s too close to be a fitting punishment,’ he continued sonorously. ‘So, for you, my bucko, it’s Rye. You can’t take a horse. You’ll have to walk there. You must carry a cross we give you. If you leave the King’s highway, you can be slain on the spot.’ He shrugged. ‘Though the friends of the man you killed will probably take care of that anyway!’
‘I know I can’t ride a horse,’ Mathias retorted, ‘but the law doesn’t say I can’t lead one.’
The Port Reeve stared back, brow puckered at this fine point of law.
‘Ah well, who gives a sod? Your horse and saddle are yours.’
The officials left. Matthias sat in the alcove and wondered what to do. He was determined not to wait for forty days before making his move. Father Aidan might be trustworthy but the longer he stayed, the more time Emloe’s gang had to plot and collect reinforcements. He recalled Sir Edgar Ratcliffe marching to Rye and made his decision. He rang the small handbell Father Aidan had given him. After a short while the priest, much the worse for wear by drink and still chewing on a chicken leg, knocked on the side door. Matthias let him in. The priest’s eyes glittered as Matthias held up another silver coin. He threw the chicken leg out of the door when a second coin appeared.
‘Ah no, not yet.’ Matthias drew his hand back. ‘Father, I intend to leave tomorrow morning just after dawn. I’d be grateful if you would inform the mayor, Port Reeve and bailiffs.’
The priest smiled.
‘I also want you to hire two of your burliest parishioners. They are to come well armed and ride behind me until I reach Rye.’
‘Agreed,’ Father Aidan slurred. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. So it’s dawn tomorrow! Make sure you are ready. I’ll bring some wine and chicken for you tonight. If you are going to walk, you’ll need all the strength God and man can give you.’
Once he left Matthias went back to the alcove. He packed his belongings and went through the contents of his saddlebag. He took out the scrap of parchment he had found at Barnwick covered in Rosamund’s handwriting. He held it to his face and kissed it, then put it inside a pocket of his jerkin. As he did, he noticed how soiled and dirty his clothes had become. He rubbed his unshaven cheek and chin.
‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘If you look like a cut-throat they might leave you alone.’
For a while he dozed, dreaming of Rosamund. When he awoke he felt she was close to him.
‘Stay with me!’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, don’t leave me!’
He went back to his saddlebag and found the piece of parchment Abbot Benedict had been working on. There was very little new. The old scholar had reached 1486: the words, ‘Santerre’, ‘Exeter Hall’ and ‘Amasia’ had all been deciphered in one long line. Then Abbot Benedict, as if he’d sensed death was close and realised Matthias needed this more than the past, had tried to jump. Matthias saw the name Rosamund. Abbot Benedict had got Barnwick wrong, as he had James Stewart’s name: each of these had a question mark beside them. Fitzgerald was translated ‘Fitzpatrick’. The other entries were even more vague. A mere collection of letters or words: Castile? Alhambra? Isabella? And a strange phrase: ‘Into the west to the “Beautiful Islands”.’ Matthias realised the old Abbot was anticipating his desire to travel to Spain. At the foot of the page Abbot Benedict had written a series of dates with numbers in brackets beside them: ‘1471 (7)? 1478 (14)? 1486 (21)? 1492 (28)?’ Matthias sat back and stared up at the glittering red sanctuary lamp.
‘What do these mean?’ he murmured.
Of course, he concluded: when he had been at Oxford he had learnt that seven was a sacred number. It was also agreed that seven, and its multiples, be regarded as decisive stages in a man’s life. At the age of seven, a child reached the age of reason, according to the theologians. At fourteen a boy was regarded as a young man: at twenty-one a full adult.
Matthias got to his feet. ‘I was just past my seventh birthday when I met the hermit,’ he murmured. ‘I was fourteen when I was sent to the abbey school. I was past twenty-one when my troubles began in Oxford.’
Matthias paused in his pacing. Now he was in his twenty-eighth year. He recalled the date: mid-July 1491. In February 1492 he’d pass his twenty-eighth birthday. Would this be a decisive time? Would the Rose Demon show his hand? But where? How?
After a while Matthias gave up this speculation and returned to planning what would happen tomorrow. Father Aidan came back with some food. He told Matthias that the Port Reeve had agreed to be here at dawn the following morning whilst two parishioners, in return for another piece of silver, could be persuaded to escort Matthias to Rye.
The following morning, when the church was still dark, Father Aidan escorted Matthias down on to the front porch of the church. The Port Reeve was standing on the steps. A short distance away two burly parishioners sat on tired-looking hacks. Between them stood Matthias’ horse, saddled and harnessed. Father Aidan took his baggage down to this. The Port Reeve stuck a crude crucifix and a small scroll of parchment into Matthias’ hand and gabbled through a proclamation.