‘And will you take me to Tenebral now?’
‘No, not tonight. You were home late yesterday; that must not happen again. Will you tell your parents what you have seen?’
Matthias shook his head.
‘I suppose it’s best,’ the hermit replied drily.
‘And who was that man?’ Matthias asked. ‘The one you were talking to, who later died?’
‘Someone I knew from my past,’ the hermit retorted. ‘I had to say farewell before his end.’ The hermit pointed further up the forest path. ‘Look!’
Matthias peered down the long tunnel formed by the overhanging trees and glimpsed a small wayside tavern built of wood and wattle. Two horses stood tied to a post outside.
‘We’ll stop there,’ the hermit said. ‘A tankard of ale, something to drink. Would you like a sweetmeat, Matthias?’
The boy immediately forgot about Tewkesbury and clapped his hands. When they reached the tavern, the hermit lowered him gently from the saddle and told him to sit on the bench. He dismounted and tied the horse, then walked into the little taproom. He came out a short while later carrying a small trencher of sweetened bread baked in honey and a delicious drink of herbs mixed with watered ale. He placed these on to Matthias’ lap.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I will not be long.’
The hermit went back inside. Matthias leaned against the wall of the tavern and slowly chewed on the honey-drenched morsels. He sipped at the pewter cup, staring across the trackway, watching the squirrels scramble up the trunks of trees whilst, above them, a magpie chattered noisily. The sun was still warm. Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy but, curious why the hermit had not returned, he put the trencher down and stared through the unshuttered window.
The taproom was gloomy but, as Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed, he saw the hermit. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, his back to him, talking to two people. One looked like a monk, cowled and hooded. The other was a beautiful young woman, the fairest Matthias had seen. She had lustrous, flaming red hair. Large earrings glittered in the darkness, a gleaming necklace hung round the swanlike neck. She was whispering earnestly to the hermit. Now and again the woman would pause and lean across to her hooded companion as if to ask for confirmation. The hooded one would simply nod. She said something to the hermit, who laughed. She turned and saw Matthias staring at her through the window. She raised her hand prettily. Matthias blushed, looked away and returned to his sweetmeats. After a short while the hermit came out and, without a word, untethered his horse and lifted Matthias into the saddle. They left the tavern.
‘Before you ask, Creatura,’ the hermit laughingly teased, ‘they are friends I know.’
‘Who was the woman?’
‘Her name is Morgana. She is part-English, part-Spanish.’
‘She’s beautiful.’ Matthias chattered on. ‘She’s like a princess I saw. It was in a Book of Hours Baron Sanguis loaned Father. A beautiful princess being attacked by a savage dragon. She was defended by a brave knight.’
‘And am I the dragon?’ the hermit asked.
‘No,’ Matthias replied. He leant back against the hermit’s chest. ‘You are the knight.’
Matthias stared at the trackway; the jogging horse, the warmth of the hermit’s body and what he had drunk at the tavern made him heavy-eyed. He fought against it but eventually he was in a deep sleep full of dreams: beautiful princesses, knights covered in blood fighting to the death, dragons, executioners, wolf’s-heads and forest outlaws garbed in Lincoln green. He woke with a start. It was dusk, they were in the woods leading down to Sutton Courteny. The hermit reined in.
‘Are you well, Matthias? You should have slept on. This is dusk, the Watching Hour.’
‘I want to pee,’ Matthias replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll wet my breeches.’
The hermit laughed and let him down. The boy ran into the bushes and undid his points. When he had finished, he shivered. He was glad the hermit was taking him home. It was growing dark and cold. He had seen enough. He wanted his mother, to say his prayers, to sit by his father near the fireside and chatter. He glanced over at the hermit. For the first time ever Matthias felt frightened of him. In the dusk he looked taller, more sombre, as if horse and man were one creature.
‘What’s the matter, Matthias?’
The boy just took a step back. He couldn’t understand his fear.
‘I want to go home,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m frightened!’
The hermit dismounted and walked towards him. When Matthias stood stock-still the hermit crouched down. The boy relaxed at those friendly, twinkling eyes and merry mouth.
‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Matthias?’
‘It was strange.’ The boy drew closer. ‘It’s dusk and the wood is quiet.’
‘This is the most dangerous hour,’ the hermit replied, catching Matthias’ hand and stroking it gently. ‘This and the hour before dawn.’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Matthias replied, recalling a sermon his father had given last Palm Sunday. ‘They say just before dusk Christ was buried and just before dawn he rose from the dead. So, about these times, ghosts walk.’
The hermit led him back to the horse. ‘Then it’s also time little boys were home and in bed,’ he remarked.
They continued on their journey. The hermit tried to make him go back to sleep but Matthias was now too alert.
‘Then close your eyes,’ the hermit said, ‘and do not be frightened by what you might see.’
The horse jogged on. Matthias, of course, kept his eyes wide open. He felt the night breeze spring up, rustling the trees around him, then, through the gathering gloom, he saw a figure coming towards them.
‘I wonder who that is,’ Matthias murmured.
The boy peered again. It wasn’t one, it was two, no three, four, five figures walking in single file, slowly, in step. Matthias began to shiver. There was something dreadfully wrong with them. They didn’t walk, they shuffled. He felt the hermit tense.
‘Look away, Matthias,’ he whispered. ‘Do not look at them as they pass. They can do us no harm.’
He tried to cover the boy’s eyes with his hand. Matthias knocked it away: these figures approaching posed danger. He’d played in these woods and he knew no one ever came here after dark unless they had to. Journeymen and pedlars always stayed in the village, and why would any of his father’s parishioners be walking here at this hour? And why were they walking in single file like mourners at a funeral? And the wood was so quiet. . It should be full of birdsong, with rabbits, foxes, stoats and weasels scurrying about. The horse became restless, neighing and whinnying. The hermit leant down, gently pushing Matthias aside, and whispered some strange words. The horse became more docile though it still remained tense, ever ready to shy. The line of figures grew nearer. Matthias looked up at the hermit’s face, it was passive, eyes half-closed. Then the figures were upon them. Matthias looked quickly, his mouth went dry, his heart began to thud.
‘Edith!’ he exclaimed.
The blacksmith’s daughter was one of the line, face white as snow, eyes rimmed with black. She walked, eyes sightless, behind her a face Matthias didn’t recognise. He also glimpsed the features of the man the hermit had been talking to in the abbey at Tewkesbury. Again the face was as white as a coffin cloth, dark staring eyes. And weren’t those the two soldiers? The ones who had attacked him the previous night? But they looked more dreadful, they had their chins up and he could see the cuts in their throats. The horse began to shy, then reared up as Matthias covered his face and began to scream.
For a while all was confusion: the horse whirling round, the terrible faces staring at him. The hermit remained calm, talking fast. This time Matthias recognised he was speaking in Latin.
Abruptly all went quiet. The horse stopped, its head drooping with exhaustion. Matthias couldn’t stop shaking but he felt the hermit’s hand on the back of his neck, stroking him gently. Birdsong broke out high in the trees. Matthias took his hands away from his face. The trackway was deserted. He could see nothing. A rabbit loped across the path and, above him, a nightingale began to serenade the setting sun. The hermit was talking softly, gently stroking him. Matthias calmed down, the sick feeling in his stomach disappeared. He twisted, the saddle horn catching his thigh, and stared up at the hermit.