The first Genesis was from Chapter 6, Verse 2: ‘The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.’ And a text from Chapter 14 of the prophet Isaiah. ‘Art thou also become weak as we? Art thou become like unto us? Thy pomp is brought down to the grave. . How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground.’
The next text was from the Book of Tobit, Chapter 3, Verse 8, about a young woman Sarah: ‘She had been married to seven husbands whom Asmadeus, the evil spirit, had killed before they had lain with her.’ Finally, there was a quotation from the Gospels, which had very little to do with the ones which went before. The words of Christ to his disciples: ‘If anyone loves me, I shall love him and my Father will love him. And my Father and I will come and make our home with him.’
Matthias sighed, rolled the parchment up and slipped it back into his pouch. He had never really understood what his father had meant by these messages. Over the years Matthias’ interest in demonology, the activities of witches and warlocks, had deepened. In his heart he recognised that the events which had occurred at Sutton Courteny during those few months of 1471 could not be explained in human terms. During his years of scholarship, where he could, Matthias had consulted the secret books of writers on demonology. At Oxford he attended the schools, listened to lectures and studied the works of Peter the Lombard, Abelard, Bonaventure, the great commentators on philosophy, theology and scripture. In Duke Humphrey’s library, however, Matthias read the works of authors which, if the University authorities found out, would certainly bring him under suspicion of being a heretic or a warlock. The writings of the alchemist John de Meung, the ‘Opera’ of Arnaud de Villeneuve the occultist. The treatises of Simon bar Yokhai, master of the secret cabal. These scholars, as well as the orthodox ones such as Aquinas, Augustine, Origen and Tertullian, provided a bleak perception of man’s reality: a constant battle between good and evil; of Satan and other demon lords waging eternal war against man and all God’s creation.
Matthias had remained both cynical and confused by what he read: most of it was the work of fertile imaginations. Even at Oxford, students were only too keen to become involved in secret rites, a pretext for dancing naked in some wood under the stars and fornicating freely with whores. Moreover, these writings did little to explain the events at Sutton Courteny. Why did they happen? What was so important about a sleepy little hamlet in Gloucestershire that could provoke such terrible events and lead to so many hideous deaths? Stories and legends abounded yet Matthias had found no one who could really explain such events. Everyone in that church had died, apart from himself. He had been heavily drugged and slept during the entire massacre.
No one had explained why he’d survived. Many believed Parson Osbert had given him a potion and so saved his life. Matthias had always wondered about the friendship shown to him by Rahere and the hermit. Why was he singled out for such tenderness? Were they really responsible for the blood-drained cadavers and, if so, why did they kill in such a barbaric fashion? How was it the hermit and the clerk, complete strangers to each other and so contrasting in their appearance and background, were reflections of the same personality? What had turned the minds of his parents in such a turbulent way? What was their relationship with the hermit? Such questions vexed Matthias’ mind, nagged his soul, yet the passing of time and all his studies had yielded no real answers.
Once Matthias had entered the household of Baron Sanguis nothing else mysterious had happened, except when he had lodged with the monks at Tewkesbury, just after his fourteenth birthday. The brothers had gossiped how, in the gallery outside the boys’ dormitory where Matthias slept, they could smell, even though it was mid-winter, the rich, heavy aroma of roses. Matthias had kept silent, as he always did, during those few weeks in the winter of 1478. He had fallen ill but then the phenomenon had passed and his life had continued. Indeed, only his youth and the humdrum tenor of the years after the sinister events of that All-Hallows Eve had kept him sane. Matthias dare not mention his fears to others and, in time, he half-believed that night was just a horrifying phantasm, something dreamt in a nightmare. He had held on to this; his way of keeping the door to that dark past of his soul firmly locked, until today.
Matthias closed his eyes: why, he wondered, why now?
He opened his eyes and drained his wine cup. He stared through the open doorway. He felt slightly drunk but more comfortable. He would seek out Santerre, his friend and companion. Perhaps there was some rational explanation of what had occurred? Matthias went out to the alleyway. It was darker than he thought, the place now empty, the drunken students long disappeared, only the corpse still hung from its makeshift scaffold, twirling in the brisk evening breeze. Matthias closed his eyes and said a prayer, the same one his father had taught him.
‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. .’
Matthias opened his eyes and walked purposefully down the alleyway. Somewhere, deep in the city, a bell tolled for Compline. A dog barked and Matthias jumped as a screeching cat scampered across his path. He passed the scaffold, averting his eyes.
He was scarcely by it when he heard a voice whisper: ‘Creatura bona atque parva: Matthias, my little one.’
The voice of the hermit! Matthias broke out into a cold sweat. He turned slowly, one hand going to the crucifix round his neck, the other to the hilt of his dagger.
‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva. .!’
Matthias stood rooted to the spot. He stared at the corpse. Had the dead man spoken? Matthias rubbed his eyes and stepped back. He breathed in and, as he did, instead of the fetid alleyway smell, he caught the fragrance of roses as if he were standing in some woodland glade.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
The smell of roses disappeared. Matthias became aware of the dirt and muck of the alleyway, the corpse dangling at the end of its rope. Turning on his heel, Matthias fled down the alley. He ran blindly, head down, straight into a group of scholars who came round the corner laughing and shouting.
Matthias apologised and stepped back. The scholars would have let him by but one came forward. Matthias recognised the golden-haired, baby-faced young man who had cursed him earlier in the day.
‘Well, well, well.’ Golden Locks pushed Matthias up against the wall. ‘What do we have here? A man who hurries and scurries about? Shouts abuse, shoves and pushes and won’t even join in a little sweet singing?’
‘Leave him be!’
‘No, no.’ The scholar drew his knife; its tip pricked Matthias’ chin. ‘I think this young man needs to be taught some manners.’
‘I am sorry,’ Matthias mumbled. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘He meant no offence!’ Golden Locks mimicked.
The other students now crowded round. Their faces were sodden with drink, the ale heavy on their breath.
‘I know what we’ll do,’ Golden Locks declared, his blue eyes rounding in mock innocence. ‘This impudent boy wouldn’t sing to the corpse on the gallows. Now, that’s bad manners, isn’t it?’
‘True,’ another replied.
‘He should respect the dead. So, what we’ll do is this,’ Golden Locks continued. ‘We’ll take you back there and introduce you. A few hours tied to our dead friend will teach you manners and proper decorum. Would you like that?’ he lisped.