‘You’d best come forward!’ Baron Sanguis boomed.
The priest, still clutching Matthias’ hand, walked quickly up the hall. He felt strange. There were no rushes but thick Turkey carpets on the floor, which deadened any sound. Parson Osbert felt as if he were walking in his sleep. If that was the case, he thought, as he paused before the dais and bowed, then Baron Sanguis was a nightmare. The Manor Lord sat erect in his high-backed chair, elbows resting on its arms: his hair had been freshly cut, shorn well above the ears, but this only emphasised the harshness of his face: black-pebble eyes and a nose which seemed to cut the air. The Baron smoothed his long, grey moustache, which fell at least two inches beneath his chin. He played with the rings on his fingers or tapped the gold medal which hung on a silver chain round his neck. His son, attired like his father, gazed just as bleakly, though seneschal Taldo, a friend of the priest, smiled weakly and raised his eyes heavenwards. Baron Sanguis looked up at the banner bearing his arms, three black crows on a golden field.
‘My son carried a banner like that at Barnet.’ His voice rose. ‘When I was fighting for my king and lord!’
Parson Osbert bowed. ‘Sir Henry, I am so pleased you have returned safe and sound, rightfully covered in honours and glory.’
‘Yet, while I’m gone-’ the Manor Lord was now leaning across the table — ‘while I’m gone,’ he bellowed, ‘my villagers take rights unto themselves, acting like the Manor Lord! Seigneurs of the soil, are they?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘By what right,’ he shouted, ‘did they hold a court in your church and condemn a man to death? By what right did they lay claim to the power of the axe, the tumbrel and the rope? Did you know that, according to the law, they and you have committed murder? You could all hang!’
‘My father didn’t agree with it!’ Matthias spoke up.
Baron Sanguis turned his head and breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. His face softened and his hand went out as if he wanted to stroke Matthias’ head. Even Robert smiled, whilst Taldo beamed, relieved at the break in the tension.
‘My father didn’t agree to anything!’ Matthias repeated. ‘It was the Preacher!’
‘You!’ Baron Sanguis jabbed a finger in mock anger at Matthias. ‘You should be a soldier, a knight!’
Parson Osbert closed his eyes and quickly thanked God that he had brought Matthias. Baron Sanguis liked to act the bully but the priest knew that he had a good heart and could be quickly mollified. The Manor Lord dug into his purse and pushed some pennies across the table.
‘That’s for you, boy,’ he declared. ‘Buy some sweetmeats. Ah,’ he waved his hand, ‘I know, I know, I know, you, Parson Osbert, objected and your boy was the only one who had the courage to speak up.’ He pulled a face. ‘So stop quivering!’ He pointed to the end of the table. ‘Sit down. Let’s have some wine.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘The boy can have a cup of apple juice.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s been in the cellar, it’s cold and strong so, not too much.’
Once they were settled, Parson Osbert told his lord exactly what had happened. The Manor Lord heard him out, steepling his fingers on the table, now and again whispering to his son. Robert always gave a curt reply. When Osbert had finished, he sat sipping the white wine which Taldo had served. The Manor Lord beat his fist on the table as if it were a drum.
‘This is what I’ve decided, priest. The villagers will pay a fine of twenty shillings. You will not pay it. I have also sent a messenger to London. I have friends.’ He preened himself. ‘At court, my Lord of Hastings.’
Parson Osbert bowed. Hastings was the King’s personal friend. After the royal brothers, George and Richard, he was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
‘I have asked him to send down a royal clerk, someone to investigate this business. The real culprit is the Preacher.’ Baron Sanguis ticked the points off on his finger. ‘He had no right to hold a court. He had no right to condemn.’ His hands fell away. ‘And, for all we know, boy, the Preacher himself could be the assassin?’
Matthias’ heart leapt with joy. For the first time since the hermit’s death, he smiled. He also forgot Baron Sanguis’ advice, drank his apple juice a little too fast and had to be carried home by his father.
Rahere, the royal clerk, swaggered down the King’s Steps at Westminster and into the waiting barge. The wherrymen, dressed in the royal livery, took one look at the chancery ring on his left hand and the red sealed warrant in the other and ushered him to the cushioned seat in the stern as if he were the King himself. Royal clerks ruled the roost. They were the King’s lawyers, his money-men, the searchers out of his prerogative. They had the power of the Chancery and, on their advice, a man rose or fell. This clerk looked the part: tall, elegantly dressed in a soft, woollen tunic, hose of the same colour and texture and high-heeled morocco boots, he gathered his cloak about him and lounged in the stern. Now and again he’d turn his head to study a Spanish caravel, a two-masted ship of the Hanse or the long, wolflike galleys from Venice as they made their way up and down the Thames.
Rahere was young and ambitious; with his black-raven hair, smooth, olive-skinned face and lustrous eyes, he had even caught the attention of the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. Rahere was one of her henchmen, being sent hither and thither on royal business. Now he had received a fresh charge. He had been appointed the King’s Commissioner in the Western Shires, with powers of life and death. He was to search out the person responsible for the dreadful murders which had been committed outside Tewkesbury and bring the culprit to summary justice.
Rahere played with the hem of his pure wool cloak, deftly brushing off some crumbs which were clinging to his thick, burgundy-coloured tunic. I will act the part, he thought. I will take the swiftest, sleekest horse and sumpter pony from the royal stables and ride through the shires like a King’s Justice. Rahere smiled. Like a King’s Justice! He would be the King’s Justice, girt with sword and carrying a royal pennant. Every knee would have to bow.
Rahere looked up at the sky. The summer sun was beginning to set. He would celebrate his good fortune in Southwark with a tasty meal; good wine, venison soaked in claret — and afterwards? Beneath his cloak, Rahere’s hand stole to his groin and plucked at his protuberant codpiece. A fresh whore from one of the stews: some young palfrey he could strip, mount and ride through the night. A young girl who would be fresh and quick beneath him. Rahere smacked his lips.
‘You’d best pull harder!’ he snapped.
The wherrymen bent over their oars, quietly cursing this pompous young lord. Their barge turned, making its way through the little bumboats which always thronged around the great ships, offering the sailors everything: fruit, almonds, sweetmeats, roasted chicken, apples, pears and, if the officers didn’t mind, some of the painted whores who always paid to tout their services from such boats. Rahere studied these surreptitiously. Now and again he’d turn to admire one of the King’s cogs; the royal men-of-war beginning to assemble in the Thames. Now the war was over, Edward of England was determined to teach the French not to support his enemies.
At last the royal wherry reached Southwark, just between the inn called the Bishop of Winchester and the Priory of St Mary Overy. To his left, Rahere could see the mass of London Bridge and the long, jutting poles bearing the severed heads of Lancastrian traitors. Rahere smiled. That was what was so good about being a clerk. Whoever won, men like himself were always valued: scholars from the Halls of Oxford or Cambridge who knew the law and the secrets of the Chancery. Rahere tossed a coin and went up the water-soaked steps and into the crowds milling along the quayside.