‘I live my life. I learnt very quickly to take each day as it comes and not to dwell on the past. If I did, I’d become madcap or witless.’
Santerre turned. He leant against the wall and crossed his arms.
‘And what do you believe now?’
‘I don’t really know. I attend Mass but I feel as if I am watching someone else pray. I listen to the priests talking about the goodness of God and then I think of my parents: Christina a broken reed, my father wandering drunkenly round the graveyard. I remember those corpses, lives snuffed out like candle wicks.’ Matthias paused. ‘When I go out to the streets or ride through the fields, I really do envy the people I pass. They live their lives, they marry, they are happy in what they do.’
‘Self-pity is dangerous!’
‘Oh, it’s not self-pity. I am more confused, that’s one of the reasons I came to Oxford. Perhaps, in a place of learning, I’d find the answers but I still don’t know what happened at Sutton Courteny or why. Baron Sanguis never really talked about it. The sheriff sent letters to London yet everyone seemed determined to forget it as quickly as possible.’
‘But you can’t?’
‘No, I can’t.’ Matthias sipped at the wine cup. ‘And that’s when I come to life. My mind quickens. My will takes a purpose. Something happened at Sutton Courteny, something outside our ordinary experience. I want to know what. I don’t believe that spirits are little imps or Satan is a goat with cloven hooves and a black cloak. They are fables to frighten children. Only one thing I have found, the legend of the incubus, a spirit who can move from body to body, take over a personality, work through that individual.’
‘Possession?’
‘Perhaps. My father left me some texts, scribbled jottings he pushed into my hand the night he died. I think he knew the truth. One of the quotations is from St John. It talks about Christ promising that, if someone loves Him, He and His Father will come and make Their home in him.’ Matthias shrugged. ‘If God can make a home in our hearts, fill our souls, why can’t some other spirit?’
‘But the murders?’ Santerre asked.
‘Now that is a mystery. Except in one respect. Nature teaches that, if I wish to live, I must eat and drink. The Church teaches that, if I am to live spiritually, I must eat the Body of Christ and drink His Blood. What happens, Santerre, if this incubus must kill, must drink human blood? A diabolical reflection of the Church’s teaching?’
‘And you think that’s what happened to Agatha?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Matthias gnawed his lip. ‘All this is conjecture,’ he sighed. ‘Sometimes, I think I can’t understand any of it, especially when I look at myself. Why was I singled out by the hermit and the clerk?’
‘So why not leave with me?’ Santerre sat down and leant across the table. He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘Start again, Matthias, leave these dreams, these nightmares behind.’
Matthias got to his feet and stretched. He came back and gripped Santerre by the shoulder.
‘I have never told anyone what happened to me in Sutton Courteny. If I did, they’d either laugh or think I’m a madcap or worse, report me to the Church authorities. I thank you for last night and the offer you made this morning. But why should I flee? Because Rokesby muttered his threats? Or a girl is killed in Christ Church Meadows?’
‘Listen!’ Santerre replied. ‘If this so-called incubus has now returned to haunt you, if I accept your theory he now possesses someone else, what happens if this person is Rokesby?’
‘Impossible!’ Matthias retorted.
‘Is it?’ Santerre asked. ‘He seems to know a great deal about you. What you read. Where you go. He takes a deep interest in your affairs.’
‘That’s because he lusts after Amasia and I made fun of him in the schools.’ Matthias rubbed his mouth and stared out of the window. He’d rejected Santerre’s proposition out of hand, but might there be some truth in it?
‘It could even be me,’ Santerre joked.
‘I don’t think so.’ Matthias walked to the door. He opened it and stared down the gallery. ‘I have known you, what, three years? I’ve seen you take the Sacrament at Mass. That’s one thing I do remember. The hermit never took the Sacrament and, on reflection, neither did Rahere.’
‘When the clerk died,’ Santerre asked, ‘what would have happened to this being?’
‘I don’t know. The philosopher Albertus Magnus said an incubus must, within a certain period of time, find lodgings elsewhere, rather a homespun way of putting it. Yet, even of that I am not too sure.’ Matthias leant against the door. ‘According to Aquinas, literally thousands upon thousands of angels fell with Lucifer. We know from the gospels that one possessed man had so many demons in him, he took the name of Legion. This does not fit what I know: one being moving from the hermit and, in time, to Rahere, then to someone else.’ Matthias breathed in. ‘What I intend to do is continue to live each day as it comes. Agatha was murdered but I am totally innocent of her death. Rokesby is different. I cannot allow him to stir up trouble against me. What hour is it, Santerre?’
‘By now, no later than ten.’
Matthias stroked his bruised face. ‘I’ve drunk a little too much and I’m sore from last night’s manhandling. I’m going to return to my chamber and sleep. Rokesby will be in the schools now but, this afternoon, he will be back in his lodgings. Where are they?’
‘I don’t know,’ Santerre replied. ‘But I’ll find out.’ He looked anxious. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to confront Rokesby. I am going to challenge him and, if possible, make my peace with him.’
‘And the murder of the girl?’
‘What can I do,’ Matthias shrugged, ‘except see what happens?’
It was late afternoon when the Frenchman shook Matthias awake.
‘You’d best come,’ he smiled. ‘I have found out where Rokesby lives. He has a chamber not very far from here. It’s on the corner of Vinehall Street, near Peckwater’s Inn. I saw him stagger in there less than an hour ago, carrying more ale in his belly than a brewer’s barrel. Are you sure you wish to meet him?’
Matthias got off the bed and followed Santerre down the ladder. He sat on the stool, pulled on his boots and splashed water over his face.
‘Carpe diem!’ he quipped. ‘Seize the day! It will only fester. Rokesby is arrogant. He can be mollified.’
They left the hall and made their way along the High Street, pushing through the throngs of students who, the morning schools now finished, clustered round the open doors of taverns or strolled past the stalls, much to the anxiety of their owners. These watched the ragged-arsed students, notorious for their light fingers and skill at stealing. On the corner of Vinehall Street Lane, one such student had been caught. A furious quarrel was brewing between proctors and beadles of the University and a group of traders, who clamoured for the students to be taken immediately to the Bocardo, the city gaol. The fray stirred up the usual deep-seated animosity between town and gown. Other students began to gather, rusty swords and daggers pushed in their belts, whilst the traders were shouting at their apprentices to arm themselves with quarterstaffs and clubs. Pickpockets and foists looked for easy takings. A group of whores, their saucy faces garishly painted, their gaudy dresses causing a swirl of colour, also drew near for, when tempers rose, passion provided easy custom.
Santerre pushed his way through, turning to grasp Matthias’ belt as the two became separated.
‘Whatever you decide, Englishman,’ he joked. ‘I think it’s time I left this city. I really wish you’d come with me.’
They reached the bottom of the lane. Santerre led Matthias down a small alleyway and across a weed-strewn courtyard. An old woman was sitting on a stool, sunning herself, munching on her gums. She pointed to a staircase.
‘You’ll find Master Rokesby in his chamber,’ she shrilled. ‘Supposedly studying but drunk as a sot!’
They thanked her and climbed the stairs. Rokesby’s door was half-open. The chamber inside smelt stale; manuscripts lay piled on the floor. Dust-covered hangings draped the walls, soiled clothing lay thrown about. The room was well furnished, the stools and chests finely made, but it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Rokesby sat at a table beneath the window. He was dozing, head falling forward. Matthias coughed. He didn’t wish to startle this lecturer, who had a foul temper and nasty ways. Matthias coughed again.