‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I saw Edith, but she’s dead. That man, that man in Tewkesbury, he too is dead. Edith’s body lies before the altar. It is to be buried tomorrow!’
‘Open your mouth, Matthias.’
The boy obeyed and the hermit popped a sugared almond into his mouth. Matthias chewed it, his throat became wet whilst the sweetness seemed to fill his mouth.
‘Do you like it?’ the hermit asked.
The boy smiled and nodded.
‘It was nothing,’ the hermit continued in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Nothing at all, Matthias. The day has been long. Perhaps I should not have shown you the things I did. And, when you are half-awake at this time of shadows, the mind plays strange games.’
‘But the horse was frightened. .’
The hermit gathered his reins and urged the horse on.
‘That’s because you were frightened, Matthias,’ he replied soothingly. ‘Creatura, you screamed loud enough to wake the dead.’ The hermit laughed quietly to himself.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ Matthias asked.
‘Perhaps. But tonight, Matthias, sit by your fire, chatter, fill your stomach with bread and soup. Enjoy the warmth.’
They rode on. At the edge of the village, the hermit reined in and lowered Matthias to the ground.
‘Run home, Creatura!’
The boy stared up. He knew the hermit had tears in his eyes. He could see them glistening and was ashamed at what he had felt when he had first woken up in the wood.
‘I love being with you,’ he stammered. ‘I really do. It’s exciting.’
The hermit leant down and gently stroked the top of Matthias’ head.
‘And I love you, Creatura. Now run like the wind. Your mother is waiting.’
5
As soon as he entered the village Matthias sensed something was wrong. It was quiet, the doors and shutters of the Hungry Man were firmly closed, though chinks of light peeped through the slats. Matthias heard a creak and, peering into the gloom, saw a corpse hung from the scaffold, twirling and turning in the evening breeze. He closed his eyes and ran past this. Further up the street, near the small cesspit covered by wooden boards, his foot caught on a piece of armour lying near the raised rim of the pit. He ran on but stopped as he approached the cemetery wall. He could hear voices and glimpsed torchlight amongst the trees. He took the long way round. The front door to his house was off the latch. He pushed this open and ran down the passageway.
‘Mother! Mother!’
Christina was sitting by the fireside. She looked better, more colour in her cheeks. She scooped him into her arms, her lips brushing his cheeks. Matthias felt the wine on her breath and noticed how bright her eyes were.
‘You should have stayed here!’ she exclaimed, pushing him gently away towards his own stool. ‘There has been a great battle.’
Matthias bit his tongue before he gave away how close he had been to it.
‘A great battle,’ Christina continued excitedly. ‘Horsemen, soldiers coming out of the woods, some wounded, others without a scratch on them.’ She put down the piece of embroidery, an altar cloth for the Lady Chapel. ‘And then others followed. The first ones caught one of Queen Margaret’s men and hanged him on the gallows. At the far end of the village, just near the great meadow, they trapped three more and killed them out of hand. Your father and the Preacher are now busy digging the graves.’
‘The Preacher? Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.
Christina’s smile faded. ‘A wandering monk, friar or priest — I don’t know what.’ She waved her hands irritably. ‘He arrived about three hours ago and has been closeted with your father. Simon the reeve and John the bailiff have also been here.’ She laughed behind her hands. ‘We drank some wine, a little too much. Now, go and wash your hands in the rain butt.’
Matthias did so, slightly alarmed at his mother’s mood, her air of frenetic gaiety. She set the table and served him a platter of dried pork, onions, some leeks covered in cream, and bread which tasted hard. Matthias ate slowly. His mother said she was tired and would lie on the bed. Matthias heard her go upstairs. After he had eaten he cleared the table and sat in his mother’s chair in front of the fire, half-dozing. He jumped as his father pushed back the front door with a crash and came down the passageway. Matthias leapt out of the chair. His father embraced him carefully.
‘I haven’t washed yet.’ He gently pushed his son away, lifting his hands, flecked with clay and mud.
Matthias, however, was staring up at the Preacher, who stood just within the doorway. The boy’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a smile but he did not like this man. His black, greasy hair hung in ringlets down to his shoulders; his face was lean and swarthy with cruel eyes and a hooked nose. He reminded Matthias of one of Baron Sanguis’ kestrels.
‘Good morrow, Matthias, Christ’s blessing!’ The Preacher held out a hand and gently squeezed Matthias’.
The boy thought his face would ache with the smile. He was glad when the Preacher let go, although the man’s eyes followed him as he went back to his chair.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’
Matthias, eager to break the Preacher’s gaze, wanted his father to stay, not go out to the rain butt in the garden.
‘Why, hasn’t your mother told you? Men from the battle fled here. They were killed, one still hangs on the gallows. John the bailiff will cut the body down and bury it later tonight.’ Parson Osbert’s face looked tired. ‘We are men, not dogs. The corpses can’t be left to rot in a filthy ditch. God knows, I buried them without knowing their names. Tomorrow I’ll remember them when I celebrate the Mass for poor Edith.’ The parson gestured at the Preacher. ‘Our guest here helped me. You have a strong arm, sir, but now we must clean off the dirt.’
The Preacher followed the parson out to wash his hands and face. Christina came downstairs, heavy-eyed. She sat in a chair. Matthias’ unease deepened. Something was about to happen, but what? His father and the Preacher returned. More wine was poured, Christina using their best pewter cups. They sat for a while in a semicircle round the fire, discussing the battle, the Preacher praising Parson Osbert’s generosity.
Then he began to tell tales of his wanderings. Matthias sat open-mouthed as the Preacher described the great cities along the Rhine, Turkish galleys in a sky-blue sea, the white marble palaces of kingdoms in the middle of golden deserts. All the time he kept watching Matthias, studying him carefully.
‘Now,’ he concluded, ‘I have come to Sutton Courteny.’
‘The Preacher,’ Parson Osbert explained, ‘has learnt about Edith’s murder. He knows of similar deaths in the neighbourhood, across the valley outside Tredington. Also around Berkeley, Gloucester, even as far south as Bristol-’
‘Tell me about the hermit,’ the Preacher interrupted harshly. ‘You know the hermit, don’t you, Matthias?’
The boy nodded.
‘Then tell me about him. What does he do?’
Matthias glanced at his mother, who sat slumped in her chair, staring into the fire. He realised he had to be careful.
‘Come on, boy.’ Parson Osbert squeezed his son’s shoulder.
‘He’s a holy man,’ Matthias declared. ‘He lives in the old church in Tenebral. He paints on the walls: a large rose. He cares for animals and birds. He showed me foxes and he knows where the badger digs his sett.’ Matthias did not like the look of disdain on the Preacher’s face.