‘Why, Matthias,’ her voice was soft, slightly stumbling, ‘I was told to expect you.’
A touch on his hands, soft and cool, and he was inside the chamber, the door closing behind him. She moved away from him, languorously, every movement elegant, like a dancer. She gestured at the window seat in a small bay which overlooked the back of the tavern. He sat down on the cushions, still bemused, and accepted the goblet of white wine she pushed into his hands. The chamber was the best the tavern could offer, the woodwork black and gleaming, the plaster white as snow. Coloured cloths hung on the walls, a red and gold tester covered the broad four-poster bed.
‘Santerre,’ Matthias began, ‘Santerre told me to come, to wait here.’ Matthias couldn’t stop stammering, the woman was studying him so closely.
‘There’s no hurry,’ she replied smilingly. ‘You are to wait. Just for a short while.’ She clinked her own goblet against his. ‘To better days, Matthias.’
He drank. The wine was cool, fresh in his mouth and tongue. A memory stirred.
‘I saw you,’ he gasped. ‘I saw you years ago in a small alehouse.’
She laughed deep in her throat and came to sit beside him. Matthias grew embarrassed. He regretted so impulsively obeying Santerre’s request.
‘You have not aged.’ He found it difficult to speak; he drank deeply from the goblet.
‘What is age? What is time, Matthias?’ Morgana replied.
Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy.
‘I have waited so long for this,’ she continued. ‘To meet you.’
Matthias looked at the cup.
‘Aye, the wine is drugged,’ she replied coolly. ‘You are to sleep, Matthias. You have to: that’s why Santerre did what he did today. Rokesby was to have you murdered. He knew you better than you thought. Whilst the other students were at Abingdon, Santerre included, secret Matthias, quiet Matthias, would stay and study. The assassins will come but it’s not you they’ll find. It will be Santerre.’ She touched his brow. Again coolness, as if his hot skin were being dabbed with ice-cold water. ‘Monseigneur wants to show you how much he loves you.’
Matthias tried to rise but she pushed him back as if he were a child. The cup rolled out of his hands, his head went forward and he fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke he was lying fully clothed on the bed. He felt refreshed, relaxed. For a few moments he stared up at the tester until he realised where he was and what had happened. He struggled to rise, the curtains of the bed were pulled back and Morgana was beside him.
‘Sleep on,’ she urged. ‘Tomorrow morning, at first light, we are to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘For a while, Sutton Courteny.’
Matthias lay back on the bed. He glanced down at his feet, his boots were still on. He got off the bed.
‘Matthias, what are you doing?’
‘Relieving myself. I also need something to eat and drink.’
He was through the door before she could stop him. He heard her calling his name but Matthias continued down the stairs. He guessed it must be just before midnight. He hurried through the streets, brushing aside the beggars and drunks. He felt refreshed and alert after his deep sleep but resentful of the opiate; it awoke memories of the church at Sutton Courteny, sleeping whilst terrible events occurred. Matthias paused at the corner of the Turl from where he could watch the main doorway of Exeter Hall. Something had happened: a proctor stepped through the gateway and had a few words with the two men-at-arms posted outside. Matthias drew back into the shadows. As he had come from the Golden Lyre, he’d passed soldiers wearing the livery of the city. They’d been busy putting chains up across the streets leading to the gates and postern doors of Oxford. They had not bothered him. Matthias now realised that they were more intent on stopping and examining people leaving the city rather than those coming in.
Matthias slipped along an alleyway, keeping to the shadows, until he reached the Blue Boar tavern. He waited at the back near the piggery. Sure enough, after a while, Amasia came out carrying a bucket of slops. He called her name and she came over, reluctantly at first but, when Matthias identified himself, she put the bucket down and, running across, pushed him back into the shadows.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Her face was pale, eyes staring. Matthias could see she had been weeping. ‘Santerre is dead!’
Matthias closed his eyes. Was that planned? he thought. Would it have been Santerre who turned up at the Golden Lyre or someone else?
‘He was found murdered in your room,’ Amasia hurried on. ‘Two other corpses as well. I learnt of this from gossip: the news is spreading through the city.’
‘Who are the others?’ Matthias asked.
‘Hired killers, or so they think, former soldiers. God knows, there’s enough hiding out in the woods between here and Woodstock.’ She grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, they are saying you are responsible.’
‘Me, hire killers?’
‘No. They say it’s connected with the death of Rokesby. He, too, has been found stabbed in his lodgings. An old woman saw you and Santerre go up there earlier today. The Chancellor’s men have seized Rokesby’s papers. They found information about you. Dantel,’ Amasia referred to a student they both knew, ‘he says warrants have been issued for your arrest.’
Matthias stared up at the stars, cursing his own foolishness. He now regretted leaving Santerre and, if he tried to return to the Golden Lyre, he would be arrested.
‘Can you hide me?’ He gripped Amasia’s shoulders. ‘I swear I am innocent of all their deaths! I–I can’t tell you what is happening.’ He held her close and stroked her hair. ‘Amasia, I swear by all that is holy, I am not responsible for Rokesby’s death or that of Santerre!’
‘But they are saying Rokesby suspected you of heresy, of dabbling in the black arts. The taproom has been full of such gossip.’
‘Can you hide me?’
Amasia turned and pointed to an outside stair.
‘Go up there,’ she said. ‘It will take you on to the top gallery near my room. I’ll go ahead and unlock the door.’
She hurried back into the tavern. Matthias waited, then climbed the rickety staircase. He tapped on the door, no answer. He tapped again.
‘There he is!’
He whirled round: in a dim pool of light below stood the tavern keeper, joined by scullions and tapsters. They had all armed themselves with staffs, swords, daggers, one even wielded a spit iron. Beyond the door he heard the patter of feet: Matthias realised Amasia had betrayed him. He hurried down the steps but the tavern master and his throng hastened forward, blocking any escape. Matthias’ hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. One of the tapsters lifted a bow, an arrow notched to the string. Beyond him Matthias could see Amasia, her face turned away.
‘You are a lying bitch, Amasia! Couldn’t you have at least tried?’
‘She’ll share the reward!’ tavern master Goodman shouted. ‘She knows who gives her bed and board!’ The man licked his lips and raised the lantern he carried. ‘Amasia is mine now, master scholar. She’ll have other duties from tonight.’ He walked forward, a long stabbing dirk in his hand. ‘Now you can take your belt off and come quietly or we’ll kill you. Dead or alive your head is worth the same.’ He nodded to the people behind him. ‘But the boys here say you were a good customer.’
Matthias undid his belt and let it drop. The mob closed in. He was kicked and punched. His hands were thrust behind his back, tied, and he was led in triumph through the taproom where he was pelted with bits of meat, and out into the dark alleyway beyond. He was cuffed and shoved through the streets, down Broad Place to the entrance of a huge, forbidding house with steel bars over its arrow slit windows, the Bocardo, the city prison.