He heard a sound and whirled round. People were standing in the shadows at the back of the church.
‘Who’s there? Come forward!’
Dark shapes shuffled towards him, slowly, stumblingly. Parson Osbert’s hand went to his throat. He stared in horror. Eight, nine persons all in their shrouds, all people buried in his graveyard: Edith, Simon the reeve, Joscelyn the taverner! Parson Osbert screamed and, running down the steps, fled out into the darkness.
The Eve of All-Hallows dawned gloomy and damp. Black, heavy rain clouds massed over Sutton Courteny and, by mid-morning, a heavy downpour had begun. Not even the oldest inhabitant of the village could recall such heavy rains. The water fell in drenching sheets. The small brook, already swollen, broke its banks. Trackways and paths were turned to a muddy morass and the village was effectively cut off. All hopes of any festivities planned for the evening died with the downpour. The bonfires and beacons which ringed the village were reduced to nothing more than a soggy pile of wood and kindling. No fires were lit to ward off the evil spirits. By noon the situation had become even worse. No work was done in the fields. Everyone was confined to their homes.
In the taproom of the Hungry Man, Matthias realised matters were coming to a climax. He could sense the tension. Rahere sat brooding in a corner, cloak wrapped about him, just staring out of the window. He’d hardly murmured a word since he had risen early that morning. Matthias tried to engage him in conversation but the clerk just shook his head and returned to staring at the sky.
Over the last few weeks, Rahere had distanced himself from the villagers. Once their leader, even their hero, the peasants now distrusted him. Rahere didn’t care. Matthias knew the clerk looked forward to this day but never understood the reason why. The boy himself had been kept busy. He’d heard about the strange deaths but any desire to return home had been quickly curbed by fresh reports of his father’s strange behaviour and drunken ways. Something was about to happen and Matthias realised all he could do was watch and wait.
As the day drew on, the occasional villager called in to buy some ale but the atmosphere remained bleak. Fulcher, who had taken over the running of the tavern, had none of the welcoming charm of Joscelyn. Indeed, the tavern was a stark reminder of the tragedies which had befallen the villagers over the last few days.
Rahere abruptly stood up. ‘The rain is going to get worse,’ he decided. ‘Fulcher, the covered wagon?’
The blacksmith came out of the scullery, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth.
‘It’s out in the yard,’ he retorted.
‘There’ll be no festivities tonight,’ Rahere declared. ‘But I have arranged with Baron Sanguis that the children will not be disappointed.’ He plucked a gold coin out of his purse. Fulcher’s surly face became more lively. ‘I want you to go round the village,’ Rahere told him, ‘before the trackway to the manor becomes too clogged. Collect all the children, take them to Baron Sanguis. He will give them a treat; mummers’ games, entertainment, apple juice and sweetmeats.’
He tossed the coin at Fulcher. The blacksmith caught it deftly.
‘Will the boy be going?’ Fulcher pointed across to where Matthias sat, wide-eyed in expectation.
Rahere smiled. ‘No, no, he won’t!’
Fulcher lumbered out of the room. Matthias heard voices out in the yard grumbling and complaining as grooms hitched the horses to the traces.
‘Do come back, Fulcher!’ Rahere called. ‘I have another surprise for you!’
‘Why can’t I go?’ Matthias walked across the taproom.
Rahere grasped his shoulders. The clerk’s eyes glittered.
‘Sleep, Matthias,’ he urged. ‘It’s best if you slept for a while.’
Rahere went to the buttery and came back with a goblet.
‘It’s watered wine,’ he explained and, before Matthias could object, the clerk held it to his lips.
Matthias sipped. He wanted to sit before the fire and ask Rahere what was happening but his eyes grew very heavy. He clambered up the stairs, curled up like a puppy in the clerk’s chamber and fell fast asleep.
Whilst Matthias slept, Fulcher returned. The blacksmith was in a hurry. He had delivered the children to Baron Sanguis and had just about been able to urge the horses to pull the covered cart back into Sutton Courteny. The blacksmith was frightened. It was only mid-afternoon yet the clouds hung black and low. Daylight was fading and, as he unhitched the horses in the yard, he realised the wind was rising. Doors to the outhouses creaked; bits and pieces left in the yard tumbled about as if driven by some unseen hand. Within the hour the wind storm was driving full force. The villagers were terrified. The rain continued to fall in sheets whilst the wind, which had sprung from nowhere, rattled their houses, howling like a lost soul as it beat against the shutters.
Accidents began to happen. John the bailiff, going out to ensure the tiles of his roof were secure, was hit by a piece of flying masonry, the stone smashing like a crossbow bolt into the back of his head. In the ploughman’s house the wind fanned sparks from the fire, which caught the rushes. The crackling flames quickly spread, trapping Piers and his wife where they were hiding in their bedchamber. Fulcher saw an ostler, trying to run for shelter into one of the outhouses, sent flying by a piece of lead piping the wind had dragged loose. Similar scenes occurred throughout the village and, despite the rain and driving winds, the people braved the elements; some, the fortunate ones, made their way out to the manor. Others began to throng into the Hungry Man. They were soaked to the skin; clutching a few paltry possessions, they huddled like sheep in the taproom.
‘You can’t stay here,’ Fulcher declared. ‘I have an ostler seriously injured upstairs.’
The villagers gathered there trembled as they heard the wind. It howled round the tavern like some terrible beast which had hunted them and was now determined to break in. The clamour of the wind and the noise downstairs awoke Matthias from his deep slumber. He gazed heavy-eyed: the clerk sat at the foot of the bed watching him intently.
‘What’s the matter?’ the boy muttered, drawing his knees up.
‘It’s a storm,’ Rahere replied softly. ‘A wind storm. The villagers are fleeing. A few have stayed in their homes.’ He played with the ring on his finger, his eyes never leaving those of Matthias. ‘Some have gone to the manor house but the rest are downstairs.’
‘And what will happen?’ Matthias asked. He chewed at his lip. He felt as if he should be frightened but he was half-asleep and drowsy.
‘We are going to the church. Don’t worry, Matthias. Nothing is going to happen to you. Put your boots and cloak on.’
Matthias noticed the clerk had his cloak already wrapped around him, fastened by a chain at the neck. It covered him completely but, as he moved, the boy heard the clink of weapons and the jingle of the chain mail shirt beneath. The clerk helped him dress and they went down to the taproom. Rahere’s arrival stilled the clamour and the acrimonious dispute about to break out. The clerk clapped his hands and stood on a stool.
‘None of us can stay here,’ he declared.
He paused as the door was flung open and a dishevelled, wide-eyed Parson Osbert staggered into the taproom, wiping the rain from his unshaven face.
‘You should come to the church.’ Parson Osbert swayed on his feet. ‘I confess I have failed you. I have drunk too deeply.’ His eyes caught those of Matthias. ‘I have sinned before Heaven and before you but this storm is not the elements. It is God’s punishment and we should shelter in God’s house.’
‘The priest speaks the truth,’ Rahere said. ‘The church is built of stone. Fulcher, gather provisions from the buttery.’
The blacksmith hastened to obey, then Parson Osbert led them out into the high street. The journey to the church, taken so many times by all of them, proved to be a veritable calvary. The wind shrieked and howled, knocking and buffeting them. One of the tapsters from the Hungry Man was knocked senseless by a flying tile but no one went to assist him. An old woman was hit by a sign and she was left bloody-headed, crouching in a doorway, hands flapping. The others dare not stop. The wind made them turn their faces for it caught their breath. Parson Osbert, however, determined to do his duty, led them on.