‘I am a scholar,’ Matthias retorted.
‘Even when it comes to reading books which are on the University Index? Men like the Bohemian, John Hus?’
‘Hus was a great scholar.’
‘The Church says Hus was a heretic. Here, in England, they say Wycliffe, and his followers the Lollards, are no different. Rokesby hints that you are a Lollard.’
Matthias closed his eyes and groaned. Santerre was correct: the Lollards had been persecuted for their emphasis of Scripture, their rejection of the power of the priests as well as a greater part of the Church’s teaching on Hell and Purgatory. If Rokesby persisted in his allegations, Matthias might have to appear before the Chancellor’s Court.
‘We should leave.’
Matthias looked up in surprise. Santerre had a piece of bread in his hand, looking at it carefully, his face tense, eyes watchful.
‘We should leave,’ the Frenchman repeated. He put the bread down. ‘Matthias, how many years have you known me?’
‘Over three, ever since I came to Oxford.’
‘That’s right. I am Henri de Santerre. My family owns chateaux and fertile vineyards in the Loire Valley. I have studied at the Sorbonne in Paris and now here in Oxford.’
Matthias nodded. The Frenchman often talked about his family estates, the sunshine, the vines, the brown-skinned girls.
‘A new life,’ Santerre said. ‘Come to France with me, Matthias. I have wealth enough for both of us.’
‘Was that why you were looking for me last night?’ Matthias asked.
‘Why, of course. Also because Rokesby has threatened you.’
Matthias pulled a face. He pushed away the trencher. He no longer felt hungry.
‘Rokesby is a lecher born and bred. He sits in the Blue Boar and watches Amasia like a cat does a mouse and, when he can, it’s a hand up her dress or clutching her breast like someone would grasp an apple.’ Matthias got to his feet, walked to the window and stared down at the garden. ‘Agatha’s dead,’ he said, not turning his head. ‘You know her, the little, blonde-haired girl who could dance like a firefly. She was murdered out in Christ Church Meadows.’
‘Yes, so I have heard.’ Behind him, Santerre refilled the goblets. ‘Rokesby was talking about it last night-’
‘He can talk away,’ Matthias interrupted testily. ‘But it brings back memories.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you know about me, Frenchman?’
Santerre pulled a face.
‘I mean, really know about me?’ Matthias insisted. ‘You’ve hired a chamber here because Rokesby is about to start a persecution. You want me to flee with you to France.’
‘Not flee,’ the Frenchman contradicted. ‘Last autumn I gained my bachelor’s. Where I study, or what I do is a matter of my own concern. I intend to leave in the summer anyway.’
Matthias’ heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t known that and, to be honest, the Frenchman was the only real friend he had. He went back to staring at the herb garden below him.
‘I was born in the village of Sutton Courteny in Gloucestershire, ’ Matthias told him. ‘My parents died when I was young. Baron Sanguis, the local lord, became my guardian. He sent me to the abbey schools of Tewkesbury and Gloucester.’
‘And then you came to Oxford?’
‘Yes, I came to Oxford. I am fluent in Latin and Norman French. I even know some Greek. I can converse with a clerk or a courtier. I am considered a good scholar. I can sing with the best of them, whether it be the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ or one of the goliard songs of Provence. I can play the rebec and the lyre. Sometimes I drink too much.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘But that’s not me.’
‘Then who are you?’
Matthias returned to the table and sat down. He drank deeply from the cup, then began to tell Santerre everything that had happened at Sutton Courteny. The Frenchman sat still as a statue, ignoring both the food and the wine. Matthias, however, kept slurping at his cup: sometimes he’d stop, his voice choked with emotion, tears rolling down his cheeks. He spoke in short, harsh sentences about the hermit, the battle of Tewkesbury, the Preacher and the arrival of Rahere the clerk. At the end, when he came to describe the events of All-Hallows Eve 1471, Matthias closed his eyes, trying to curb the panic in his stomach. He was aware that his face had become damp with sweat whilst his hands felt cold and clammy. He paused in mid-sentence.
‘And what happened then?’
Matthias opened his eyes. He steadied himself against the table. Santerre had moved away. He was standing with his back to him, staring down at the garden. The Frenchman looked round and smiled.
‘Finish the story, Matthias.’
‘I don’t really know. God be my witness, Santerre. I don’t really know. Rahere gave me something to drink, a heavy opiate. When I awoke I was in Baron Sanguis’ manor house. The old lord and his son came to see me. I could tell from their faces, as well as those of the servants, that something horrifying had happened. I wanted to go back but Baron Sanguis refused. He said the village was deserted, his tenants would not return there. They had petitioned and he had agreed fresh plans for a new village.’
Matthias filled his wine cup. He was drinking so fast, he was glad the wine was heavily watered. He pushed some meat into his mouth but found it difficult to chew or swallow.
‘I was kept a prisoner in the manor. Oh, I was given everything I wanted: toys, books, a tutor. The sheriff came from Gloucester. I remember it was a few days before Christmas. He and a thin-faced scribe asked me what I could remember and I told him about my father and other parishioners huddling into the church. However, they never told me what they knew. It was only later, well after Candlemas, the gossip began to seep through.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Apparently on All Saints’ Day, the first of November, Baron Sanguis and his men had ridden down to the church. They went through the village, it was deserted. Quite a few had fled. Those who’d remained. .’ Matthias shook his head. ‘They said it was dreadful. A corpse here, a corpse there, all killed by accidents, caused by the storm they said. My father’s house was empty. In the churchyard, every cross and tombstone had been hurled down. Some of the graves looked as if they had been disturbed.’
‘And the church?’ Santerre asked.
‘Oh, the church housed the real horrors. The windows were shuttered, the doors locked and barred.’ Matthias closed his eyes. ‘No, one window had been forced, a small aperture leading into the sacristy. One of Baron Sanguis’ men got in. They heard him screaming, so terror-struck he could hardly turn the key in the lock or lift the bars. Once inside they found out why: at least two dozen people must have taken refuge there, men and women; all had wounds to their heads or chests. The church stank of blood. In places it ran ankle-deep down the nave. The corpses were strewn about, some had drawn knives or tried to hide but the killers had hunted each down.’
‘And yourself?’
‘I was rolled up in a blanket in one of the transepts, deeply asleep. At first they thought I was dead or in some deep swoon. They found my father just near the sanctuary.’ Matthias looked up. ‘He was the parson. I am, Monsieur Santerre, the by-blow of a priest. He had died quickly, a swift blow from an axe to his head.’
‘And who was responsible?’
‘They said it was Rahere the clerk. They claimed the storm must have turned his wits, unhinged his mind. But how could one man kill so many people?’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Oh, he had left the church by the window. A tinker found his body in the woods. He was a mass of wounds from head to toe. Some of my father’s parishioners had resisted.’ Matthias paused. ‘Do you know, Santerre, I have never been back there.’
‘And since then?’