Matthias told him about Emloe and his gang, depicting it as a blood feud. Ratcliffe heard him out and got to his feet.
‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘We are going to camp out under the stars tonight: you are welcome to stay.’
‘Can I still join your company?’ Matthias asked.
Ratcliffe pulled a face. ‘Matthias, we’ve signed articles. We are now a full free company, nothing can be decided without a full vote of the council. We’ll do that tonight.’
Matthias was given one of the horses from Emloe’s gang. The soldiers stayed for a while to drag the corpses from the road, Ratcliffe insisting that they gave them some sort of decent burial. By the time they had finished, it had grown dark. They continued their journey through the woods and camped in the lee of a small hill. For a while all was bustle: horse lines were set up, a latrine dug, campfires lit, whilst some of Ratcliffe’s men went hunting, bringing back a pheasant and a couple of rabbits. These were quickly prepared for roasting. Coarse wine was served, everyone sitting round the campfire congratulating themselves on a good day’s work. Matthias gathered they were not only richer by the gold from Morgana, for it must have been she, but Emloe’s men had also provided horseflesh, armour, clothing, not to mention the contents of the purses.
‘Well, gentlemen?’ Ratcliffe got to his feet, clapping his hands. ‘The man we saved wants to join us. I offered him a post before we all sealed articles and left Winchelsea. Now, this time tomorrow, he could well be on board our transport and sailing with us to Spain.’
A chorus of approval greeted his words.
‘We’ve all done good work today. So, perhaps before we continue, it’s only right to give thanks to God and our protector, St Raphael.’
‘St Raphael! St Raphael! St Raphael!’
The cry was taken up. Sir Edgar recited a Paternoster, an Ave, a Gloria and, in a fine tenor voice, launched into a Latin hymn to Raphael, the great archangel who stood before God’s throne. The rest of the company joined in: a fine harmonious sound which filled the silence of the night. Matthias realised that, in the main, he was in the presence of good men who regarded themselves as soldiers of Christ. He closed his eyes and said his own quiet prayer that he would be allowed to join them.
‘Well,’ Sir Edgar declared once the hymn was finished, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, is he a member of our troop or not? I say he is.’
The matter would have gone smoothly enough, the men already chorusing their ‘Ayes’, when Gervase Craftleigh sprang to his feet.
‘No!’ he cried.
The rest looked at him in silence.
‘I say no!’
‘Why?’ Ratcliffe queried.
‘We are all fighting men,’ Craftleigh declared pugnaciously. ‘We all know each other — well, to a certain extent — but who is this Fitzosbert? He’s a felon. He killed a man in Winchelsea and took sanctuary in a church. We did say,’ he added to a chorus of ‘Ayes’ and nodding heads, ‘that no felon would be allowed into the company of St Raphael.’ He smiled maliciously at Ratcliffe. ‘We have no place for him. Thank God we lost no men in our recent fight. Oh, and by the way, when will the gold the red-haired woman brought be distributed?’
‘When I say,’ Ratcliffe replied calmly.
‘Why not now?’
‘According to the articles,’ Ratcliffe reminded him, ‘all booty is distributed on a monthly basis. Those same articles also placed great trust in me. I am a knight and God’s own warrior, Master Craftleigh, I am no thief.’
Craftleigh, however, remained unabashed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘my vote is against Fitzosbert on two counts: he is a stranger and a murderer.’
‘I killed in self-defence!’ Matthias shouted.
‘In which case,’ Craftleigh sat down, ‘why didn’t you stand trial?’
‘You know the reason.’ Ratcliffe intervened. ‘The dead man was the leader of those assassins we killed on the road.’
‘Why did you kill him?’ Craftleigh glared at Matthias.
‘It’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘And not your business to know.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ratcliffe asked quietly.
Matthias got to his feet. ‘Take your vote!’ he said.
He wandered off down the hill, bathing his hot face and hands in a small brook. He heard the hum of conversation behind him, then silence. He splashed more water over his face. He turned at the sound of footsteps. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe crouched beside him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad.
‘The lads voted against you, Matthias. They would have taken you but Craftleigh is a troublemaker. He knows the famous articles, and so far the men-’ he shrugged — ‘they are still not too sure that I am truly their leader.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder and got up. ‘But you can keep the horse and we’ll take you into Rye. I am sorry I cannot do any more.’
Matthias stared up in the star-strewn sky. A full moon bathed the meadow and hillside in a silvery light. The cool water looked inviting. He saw a fish snaking amongst the reeds. He watched it curl and turn. His eyes grew heavy, he lay back on the grass and drifted off to sleep.
He began to dream immediately. He was lying in the camp, the fire was burning low. Across the red-hot embers Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, head back, mouth open, was sleeping like a baby. Matthias saw a shape move towards him. His hand went to his dagger, a thin Italian stiletto he always carried. He fumbled with his war belt but the dagger pouch was empty. In the dying light of the fire he saw Craftleigh lift a dagger — it was Matthias’ own — and with both hands plunge it into the chest of the sleeping Ratcliffe.
‘No!’ Matthias sat up.
The night breeze was cold. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Ratcliffe and his company preparing for the night. Matthias scrambled to his feet and went back to the fireside. His saddle and belongings were piled high: he picked up his war belt, the stiletto was missing. He glanced up; Ratcliffe was watching him curiously.
‘Sir Edgar, may I have a word, please?’ He took the knight out of earshot of the others. ‘My dagger’s gone,’ he declared.
Ratcliffe shrugged. ‘Matthias, I saved your life. I can’t account for every single item of your belongings.’
‘No, it was stolen,’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve had a dream, Sir Edgar. Tonight Craftleigh intends to kill you. He will stab you with my dirk. You will die and I will hang. Craftleigh will have the gold as well as the company of St Raphael.’
Ratcliffe, face tensed with rage, pushed Matthias away.
‘You are a liar!’ he hissed. ‘Perhaps Craftleigh is right. You’ve lost your dagger and now you try to blacken a man’s name and besmirch his reputation.’
‘Sir Edgar, listen. .’
Ratcliffe was striding off through the darkness. Matthias returned to the campfire. He took a small arbalest and loaded it. Someone pushed a cup of wine into his hand. He sipped it, it tasted a little bitter but he finished it, put the cup down and stretched out, resting his head on a saddle. He felt drowsy and, try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open.
He was roughly awoken by Ratcliffe. All around was uproar. Matthias pushed Ratcliffe away and half-raised himself. It was still dark. Men were running and shouting. Across the fire lay a corpse with a crossbow bolt embedded deep between the shoulder blades. Ratcliffe pulled Matthias to his feet. Someone threw wood on to the fire. Matthias glimpsed Craftleigh’s face, eyes staring, a trickle of blood snaking out of the corner of his mouth. A few inches from his splayed fingers lay Matthias’ dagger. Ratcliffe clasped Matthias’ hand.
‘How did you know?’ he asked.
Matthias still felt heavy-headed: his mouth was dry, his throat parched.
‘I meant to stay awake,’ he declared. ‘Someone gave me a cup of wine. .’