‘The place stank of death,’ Mariotta declared, stopping to rest her shoulders. She smoothed down her brown smock. She admired the new sandals on her dusty feet, then glanced sideways at her husband. She had bought these when he had been asleep, snoring his head off in an outhouse. That young squire, who had caught her eye in the tavern, had been ever so grateful. Mariotta closed her eyes. Thank God, her red-faced, irascible husband never discovered the secret source of such wealth. He, however, was now swaying on his feet, burping loudly, patting his stomach.
‘We’d best stop for the night,’ Mariotta declared.
Her husband went to release the large fardel he carried on his back.
‘Not here,’ Mariotta scolded.
She pushed him on and, grabbing the ropes, pulled the barrow. Further up the lane, Mariotta espied a gap in the hedge: sheep grazed in a meadow which ran down to a stream glinting invitingly in the rays of the setting sun. Cursing Thurston under her breath, Mariotta pulled her barrow into the meadow; he staggering after her. The sheep hardly lifted their heads. Mariotta found a suitable place to camp and went off amongst the trees looking for kindling. Thurston sat, head drooping, eyes heavy. He heard a sound and got up. He felt cold.
‘Mariotta!’ he called. Getting no answer, he released the burden on his back and staggered into the trees. ‘Mariotta!’ he yelled. ‘Where are you?’
Suddenly the ground dipped. Thurston found himself on the rim of a small dell. He couldn’t understand what he saw. Mariotta was lying on the grass, head turned away. A figure crouched over her. The figure moved. Mariotta’s throat was all gashed. Thurston screamed and ran towards her. The squire Mariotta had met turned and poor Thurston ran straight on to the dagger he held.
7
The news of Thurston and Mariotta’s murder, as well as others in the wooded, secret places along the River Severn, seeped into Sutton Courteny. It chilled the hearts of those involved in the hermit’s death. In the corners of the Hungry Man people began to whisper how they had been responsible for spilling innocent blood. Neighbours drew apart. Friendships failed and a sense of guilt haunted the village. Parson Osbert, although many said his hands were clean of any man’s blood, only felt more guilty. Not that he had done anything wrong, but that he had failed to do anything right.
The gossips and the whisperers were quick to point out how God’s hand seemed to have turned against the village. Christina, Parson Osbert’s woman, fell ill. She kept to her bed, a pale ghost of her former self. Fulcher the blacksmith was kicked in the groin by a horse and, for days, his smithy lay cold at a time when everyone wanted to have their horses tended. Simon the reeve was gored by a bull, not grievously, but enough to put him ill in bed so he could lie and reflect on what he had done. John the bailiff was no more fortunate: he was attacked by outlaws, soldiers from the defeated Lancastrian army, who badly mauled him. Joscelyn the taverner became a little too fond of the ale he sold: one night there was a fire in his cellar which destroyed his best madeira sack, mead and ale. Other mishaps occurred. The sun proved very strong; the crops began to burn, mysterious fires being started in the long meadow and in other places around the village. Tempers became short. Knives were drawn in the fields, in the tavern and even, on one occasion, outside the church.
A violent thunderstorm broke at the beginning of June. Lightning, jagged bolts of fire from heaven, split trees and fired a hay rick. The heavy rains afterwards beat down the corn and turned the fields, ripe for harvest, into a soggy mess. Oh yes, the gossips muttered, God’s vengeance was making itself felt. Matters were not helped by young girls having dreams of devils coming out of the earth; by goblins and elves turning the milk sour; whilst a strange howling was heard from the woods at night which frightened the children and stampeded the cattle and sheep.
Worse was to come. In the second week of June, Baron Sanguis and his hatchet-faced son returned from the King’s war on the eastern shores. The Manor Lord rode through the village, his standard-bearer going before him, his son a few paces behind. Following in their dust, retinues of armed men, not to mention the clerks, bailiffs and scriveners from Baron Sanguis’ household. The Manor Lord, with his iron-grey hair and hard, sunburnt face, looked neither to the left nor the right. Dressed in his half-armour, despite the heat, and slouched in the high saddle of his destrier, Baron Sanguis progressed like a conquering hero along the village high street.
The villagers gathered at the hanging stone, brought presents to greet their lord. Baron Sanguis rode on, not even deigning to look, and the villagers’ hearts sank: Sanguis knew that something dreadful had happened during his absence. The manor lay to the north-west of the village, a sprawling, moated mansion protected by its high curtain wall, a small village in itself. Baron Sanguis had been away since the previous autumn and, on his return, the manor quickened into life. Other retainers followed him, carts full of possessions. For three days there was silence, then Sanguis’ clerks and bailiffs moved into the village. Monies were owed: tolls were due: levies to be raised on this or that. Who had been picking apples from Baron Sanguis’ orchards? Who had allowed pigs to forage in his woods? And what about the tithes owing to the Church? And were the villagers prepared, according to ancient custom, to work this autumn in the Manor Lord’s fields? What marriages had taken place? What births? Had all dues been paid? The flint-eyed clerks knew their master’s rights, as they moved from house to house with quill, ink horn and the manor accounts.
Parson Osbert stayed in his house, Matthias with him. A great chasm had grown up between the boy and his father since the hermit’s death. They hardly ever talked. The priest seemed to have caught some of his wife’s languid torpidity and, if it hadn’t been for Blanche, a merry-eyed widow from the village, clothes would not have been washed, food cooked or the house cleaned. Christina was now a recluse, lying in her bed, only eating when forced by her husband or Blanche. She hardly talked but sat staring like a madcap, lips moving wordlessly, lost in her own private hell.
Now Baron Sanguis had returned, Parson Osbert’s fears only increased. On the Sunday, two weeks after the Baron’s return, the summons came. Parson Osbert made a special effort.
‘Soon it will be the feast of Corpus Christi,’ he announced, smiling at Matthias. ‘So, I might as well bathe and change my clothes for that, as well as meeting Baron Sanguis.’
He did so, carefully shaving his face, even rubbing a little oil into his thinning hair.
‘Will you go with me, Matthias?’ Parson Osbert’s face was almost pleading.
‘Of course, Father,’ the boy dutifully replied.
Parson Osbert sighed with relief. Matthias knew the reason why. For some strange reason Baron Sanguis had a liking for the priest’s son. If he was present, perhaps the Manor Lord’s fury might be curtailed.
By the time they entered the great hall of the manor, Parson Osbert was in a state of fright: he clasped Matthias’ hands so tightly the boy winced in pain. The priest stood inside the double doors of the hall. The Manor Lord sat behind the great table on the dais at the far end. His face was hidden by the great, ornate silver saltcellar. The tables down either side of the hall were empty; the Baron sat in solemn majesty: his one and only son, Robert, on his right, seneschal Taldo on his left. Parson Osbert could see that his lord had profited in his support of the Yorkists. Glaziers had put glass in the windows on each side of the hall — these gleamed like freshly fallen water in the bright sunlight. The walls had been freshly washed in pink paint. The banners which hung from the rafters glowed in their brilliant colours, whilst the shields and weapons which decorated the walls had all been newly cleaned and painted.