‘You, Matthias Fitzosbert, are to journey by foot to the nearest town, the port of Rye. You are not to leave the King’s highway. You are safe from malicious attack provided you do not. You are to carry the crucifix at all times. You are to be in Rye, whatever the weather, within five days. You are to declare yourself to the Port Reeve, show him the enclosed proclamation and be on board ship within three days. You are never to return to England without a royal pardon. If you do, you will suffer summary execution. Given at Rye on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, the twenty-second of July 1491.’
The Port Reeve shoved Matthias down the steps.
‘Now piss off!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t come back!’
Matthias, despite such rough handling, shouted his farewell and thanks to Father Aidan. The priest lifted his hand in blessing and Matthias walked off, across the market square and down the narrow thoroughfare to the town gates. Everything was quiet. The sun was beginning to rise but the market horn hadn’t been sounded: the houses he passed were shuttered and silent. Here and there a dog barked, beggars and whores scuttled in the shadows. A sleepy-eyed guard opened the gates and, within the hour, Matthias was in the open countryside. Behind him his two guardian angels, coarse-featured, rough-voiced men, trotted slowly, fighting hard to control Matthias’ horse.
Matthias walked purposefully. He was glad to be free of the church. The day was a fine one. Birds swooped and warbled above him; on either side fields of golden wheat stretched to the far horizon. By mid-morning Matthias was tired and hungry. He and his guards paused to drink from a small brook and eat some of the bread and cheese Father Aidan had supplied. The two men were very taciturn, uneasy at what they were doing but their mood and faces brightened when Matthias promised them a shilling as soon as they reached Rye. They continued on their journey. One of the guards was hopeful that they could be in Rye that same day and Matthias agreed. The sky was blue, the sun strong, the trackway underfoot made easy going. Matthias thanked God it was summer, for heavy rains turned such trackways into mud-clogging morasses.
Matthias kept up a vigorous walk. As he did so, he tried not to concentrate on the aches in his legs and the dryness in his throat. He thought of Rosamund and the day they went out to the Roman walclass="underline" so short a time ago, yet, to Matthias, it seemed an eternity away. He felt a flurry of excitement at leaving England and being free of people who wanted to use him. Once again he recalled his mood before the battle of East Stoke, not frightened or fearful, but waiting. He was not frightened of death. Life was so bitter, what further horrors could it hold for him? He wondered if a time would come when the Rose Demon might leave him alone? Would he be allowed to live a normal life and, if he did, what should he be? Clerk or soldier? Merchant or scholar? Would he ever meet another woman? No one would ever replace Rosamund but life could be lonely and Matthias was tired of being by himself.
They forded a small river, Matthias stopping to bathe his hands and face in the clear water. The countryside then changed, the fields giving way to dark woods on either side. The sunlight was blocked out, the birdsong not so clear, yet Matthias was glad for the coolness. He wondered if they really would be in Rye by nightfall. He walked deeper into the forest, admiring how the sunlight showed up the different shades of green. He stopped to pluck a wild rose growing on the edge of the path. He heard a whirr like the flight of some bird, followed by a cry. He turned round to see both his guards fall from their horses, clutching at the arrows in their chests. Dark shapes slipped from the trees. Before Matthias could even move, these figures drew knives, quickly slitting his guards’ throats. Matthias whirled round. Other men, hooded and masked, crept on to the path, forming a ring around him. Matthias held his cross up though he knew the gesture was futile: it was struck from his hand. He was bundled on to his horse and led under the spreading branches of an oak tree. He struggled but his hands were bound behind him. A horseman rode up, his eyes glittering behind his mask.
‘Guilty of Emloe’s death!’ he rasped. ‘You’ll die the way you should!’
A piece of sacking was put over Matthias’ head. A noose tightened round his neck. He dug his feet more firmly into the stirrups. His horse, nervous, shied and reared. Matthias hung on grimly, digging in his knees even as Emloe’s gang tried to pull the horse clear and leave him to die of excruciating strangulation. Matthias panicked. He struggled with all his might. Men were shouting. He heard the rasp of steel. His horse reared in agony, then collapsed beneath him. Matthias hung suspended, the noose biting deep into his throat. He heard, as if above the roaring of waves, the sound of horses, and the rope was cut. He fell and hit something lying on the road. The sacking was pulled off, the cord round his neck swiftly cut. For a while he just lay gasping and retching. The cords binding his hands were also sliced. He realised he was lying on the corpse of his horse.
‘Bastards!’ he muttered. ‘He was a brave animal!’
‘Aye,’ a voice said. ‘If he hadn’t fought back, we wouldn’t have been in time.’
Matthias rolled over and stared into the smiling face of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. He struggled to his knees. The corpses of Emloe’s men littered the trackway and, by the sounds from the trees, others were being hunted and killed deep in the woods.
‘Nothing like a bit of exercise for my lads,’ Ratcliffe smiled, helping Matthias to his feet.
For a while Matthias let himself be tended: one of Ratcliffe’s retainers bathed his neck and wrists with coarse wine. Another took him to sit beneath the trees, from where he watched his horse being lifted and the saddle taken off. Eventually Ratcliffe’s men, with bloody swords and daggers, returned on to the trackway. Sir Edgar came and squatted before Matthias.
‘I am sorry we couldn’t save your friends,’ he retorted. ‘But we came as fast as we could. Your messenger said that she knew we were leaving today and that she was frightened you would be attacked.’ Ratcliffe dug into his purse and brought out three pure gold coins. ‘There’s nothing like a pretty face and a bag of gold coins to spur on a knight errant.’ He turned. ‘Did you get the bastards?’ he shouted.
A blond, surly-faced young man dressed in a black leather jerkin and red hose came swaggering across, thumbs pushed into his war belt. He had a cast in one eye which made him look sly.
‘City bullyboys,’ he declared. ‘They really should have kept to the alleyways. Two or three got away but the rest. .’ He pointed back to where Ratcliffe’s men were now stripping the dead. ‘They are as dead as those. Anyway, who’s he?’
‘I’ve told you,’ Ratcliffe replied. ‘A friend of mine. He’s the one the young lady told us about.’
The man hawked and spat, then swaggered back to join the plundering. Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes and watched him go.
‘Gervase Craftleigh,’ he said, ‘my lieutenant. He’d like to command this troop. A good fighting man, but mean-spirited and choleric.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Matthias asked. ‘What young lady?’
‘Oh.’ Ratcliffe pulled back his chain mail coif and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘We heard rumours about your little trouble in Winchelsea. Ah well, I thought, that’s the end of that: we’ve lost a good recruit. Then this morning, just before dawn a beautiful, red-haired woman came to our camp. Matthias,’ Ratcliffe shook his head, ‘she was exquisite: hair like fire, creamy skin, eyes full of life. She was with a man. It was dark, I couldn’t make out his features. Anyway, she said that you were leaving Winchelsea today but that she feared for your safety. Well, to cut a long story short, she offered me a small purse of gold and kissed me on each cheek, so we struck camp and marched as quickly as we could. We could see you were in difficulties.’ He gestured back to the road. ‘Thank God for your horse. He was rearing and kicking until the bastards killed the poor brute. What was it all about?’