Matthias was carried by the clerk. He then realised something quite terrible was about to happen. Now and again the clerk would look down at him. Matthias caught the same look he had seen in the hermit’s eyes: soft, tender, sad. He also noticed how the wind did not seem to trouble the clerk. Rahere walked as if it were a summer’s day, effortlessly, the wind scarcely touching him.
They entered the lych-gate, and the parishioners saw how the storm had flattened crosses and gravestones. Fulcher, despite the wind, stopped and stared across the rain-soaked cemetery. He opened his mouth to speak but the wind caught his words. The blacksmith staggered on, terrified by what he had seen. He was sure the black angel on top of old Pepperel’s tomb was now standing like some infernal imp, its wings spread. Fulcher cursed the wine he had drunk: like the rest, he threw himself through the main door of the church, into the shelter and sanctuary of the nave.
Parson Osbert locked and bolted the doors behind them. He then went round the church and, assisted by Rahere, pulled the shutters across and barred them, plunging the church into darkness. Parson Osbert, overcoming his fears, lit the candles in the nave, those in the Lady Chapel as well as the tall ones on the high altar. At first the villagers lay around the nave, gasping, recovering their breath and their wits as well as trying to dry their hair and clothes. They welcomed the candlelight until the wind seeped through cracks and vents and made the flames dance. The church became an eerie vault, filled with flickering light and dancing shadows.
Fulcher had brought wineskins and leather panniers full of bread, dried meat and cheese. The food was shared out, and gave some momentary cheer. The villagers congratulated each other on their safe arrivaclass="underline" how they were pleased their children were in Baron Sanguis’ manor and that the storm would soon abate. It did not. The wind now howled and lashed the church, rattling the door, buffeting the shutters. Even the bell in the steeple began to toll, driven backwards and forwards by the raucous gusts.
Outside darkness fell and then, abruptly, the storm subsided, the wind abated. The villagers helped themselves to more food and began to talk of returning to their homes.
Fulcher the blacksmith, full of wine and determined to relieve his bladder, opened the corpse door and went out into the cemetery. He undid the points of his breeches and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He heard a sound, glanced around, then staggered back, not caring that he was wetting his own boots and clothing: shadowy, cowled figures stood like statues around the cemetery. One under a yew tree, another on a fallen headstone. Fulcher rubbed his eyes but, when he looked again, the figures were still there, hidden in their crumbling cloths. The blacksmith, whimpering with terror, fled back to the church, locking and barring the door.
Parson Osbert saw the man’s fear and opened the door grille and looked out. He, too, saw the figures and realised that the villagers would never leave this church alive. He snapped the grille shut. He didn’t bother to comfort Fulcher, who crouched sobbing at the foot of a pillar. So far, the others had not noticed the blacksmith’s terror. Osbert went to kneel before the sanctuary screen. He looked over his shoulder and glimpsed Matthias further down the church. Rahere the clerk was giving him something to drink. Osbert closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.
‘I confess,’ he began, ‘to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned most grievously in thought, word and deed.’
He paused as Rahere the clerk swept by him, crossing the sanctuary into the small sacristy. Osbert closed his eyes. He was ready. The work he had done over the last three days he would give to his son. He made the sign of the cross, took out a piece of parchment from his pouch and went where his son now sat at the base of a pillar. The boy looked pale and sleepy-eyed but he didn’t flinch when his father knelt beside him.
‘Matthias.’
The boy looked up. He saw the softness in his father’s eyes but he was too tired, too drowsy.
‘Matthias, I love you.’
The boy smiled weakly.
‘I am sorry.’ The priest chose to ignore the tapping on the shutters outside. ‘I am sorry for what I have done but I love you and Christina loved you. I do not know what is going to happen now.’ He ignored the clamour of the people, who were exclaiming in horror at the tapping on the shutters. ‘You will survive,’ Parson Osbert continued. He thrust the piece of parchment into Matthias’ hand. ‘Keep that safe. No, don’t look at it now, put it in your pouch.’
Parson Osbert took his son’s face and kissed him on the forehead.
‘May the Lord keep you in His peace.’ He blessed his son, got to his feet and walked towards the sanctuary.
Fulcher came running up.
‘Can’t you hear it?’ he demanded.
Parson Osbert stopped. The tapping on the shutters had increased but he also heard the tinkling of the corpse bell fastened over old Maud Brasenose’s grave. Parson Osbert swallowed hard. He turned to face his parishioners. Even as he did so, the tapping grew louder, more insistent. Similar knocks and raps could be heard on the side door and the main door of the church. Peter the cobbler stared through the window. He shrieked and drew away, fingers to his mouth.
‘They are in the graveyard!’ he whispered. ‘People in shrouds! The dead are all about us!’
The knocking and clamouring rose in a crescendo. The villagers in the church screamed and, as if of one mind, they came to huddle before their priest.
‘I can do nothing,’ Osbert declared. ‘But I bid you-’ he looked round the church: Matthias was now fast asleep -
‘I bid you say an act of contrition. I will give you absolution.’
He ignored their cries and protests. He recited the words to shrive them from their sins. He had barely finished when he saw Fulcher staring in horror at something behind him. Osbert turned slowly as if in a dream. Rahere was standing in the mouth of the rood screen: his cloak was doffed, his hair tied in a knot behind him. In one hand he bore a sword, in the other an axe. Osbert drew his own knife and ran screaming towards him. .
PART II
The Rose keeps its secret
Old English saying
Before they wither,
Let us crown ourselves with roses.
10
Amasia, slattern of the Blue Boar tavern near Carfax in Oxford, rolled over on her narrow cot bed. She stared down at the man sleeping beside her. He lay on his back, head slightly tilted, breathing deeply. Now and again his lips moved, lost in some dream or nightmare. Amasia clutched the soiled bedsheet around her. She sat up and ran a finger gently down the man’s face. She would have to admit, Matthias Fitzosbert was a handsome student, a dark, lean face, clean shaven. When awake, his eyes were light green, sometimes sad, but when he laughed or smiled, the crinkles transformed his rather sombre face. His hair was jet-black and oiled, though Amasia noticed tufts of grey about his ears. She stared down at the silver cross Matthias always wore round his neck on its strong copper chain. He never took that off. Amasia touched it gently.
She was only seventeen summers old, so she thought, and she was in the habit of entertaining many students: Matthias and his friend, the young Frenchman Santerre, were her favourites. She made a face and puckered her mouth. No, that wasn’t right! Santerre, with his devil-may-care smile, snow-white skin and shock of red hair? Well, she could take or leave him. He was too cutting and she felt he was always laughing at her. Amasia could not stand people who secretly laughed behind their hands but never shared the jest with her. However, one thing she had learnt from Matthias was that, though she was a slattern, she had a dignity she should defend. He had told her so on that night four months ago when he had hit the drover, drunk as a sot, who pushed his dirty hand down her smock and grabbed her breasts. Matthias, not the tavern keeper, had come to her aid. He’d given the man a beating he would never forget before throwing him on to the muddy cobbles outside.