by Paul Doherty
‘Now, now, let’s see what we have here?’
A tinder was struck and a piece of candle flared into light. Matthias preferred the darkness: in the candlelight the soldiers’ faces, unshaven and dirty, were twisted and evil, their eyes glittering. One of them grasped Matthias’ genitals.
‘We have a boy! We have a boy, Petain, fresh and soft!’
Coarse fingers pulled at Matthias’ legs and cheeks. The other soldier turned him over on to his face. Matthias, rigid with terror, moaned softly as the man dug a finger between his buttocks.
‘Soft and pert,’ he whispered. ‘Any port in a storm eh, comrade?’
‘Hush!’
Both soldiers stopped. Matthias could now hear it. Someone was running towards them.
‘Matthias!’ The voice was low, unmistakably that of a young girl. ‘Matthias, where are you?’
‘Oh, twice fortunate!’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘Keep him there, Petain!’
Matthias was rolled over on his back as one of the soldiers, knife drawn, disappeared in the direction of the voice. The soldier left holding the candle leant down and jabbed Matthias’ chest.
‘Your sister?’ he whispered. ‘Your sister come to join the fun, has she?’ His teeth were yellow and cracked, his breath foul. ‘We will play Pass The Fardel. We’ll get some pleasure out of this!’
A soul-chilling scream cut the silence.
‘In Satan’s name!’
The soldier slapped Matthias and hurried into the trees. The boy just lay there whimpering like a puppy. He heard the soldier crashing and stumbling. He turned on his side. Something like a shadow, moving dark and fast as if some giant hawk were flying over the trees, caught his eye. The noise of the retreating soldier stopped. Again a blood-chilling scream shattered the night air and Matthias began to shake. Closing his eyes he tried to pray. He felt something warm press his cheek. The hermit was crouching over him. He carried the piece of tallow candle the soldiers had dropped. He lit this, his eyes and face a mask of concern.
‘Did they hurt you, Creatura?’ he whispered. ‘Did they hurt you, little one?’
‘They touched me,’ Matthias stammered. ‘They said they were going to!’ He began to shake.
The hermit put the candle on a crook of a tree. The ropes round Matthias’ hands and feet were slashed. The hermit picked him up like a mother would a baby. He held him close, rocking gently to and fro. Then the hermit lifted his head. He spoke sharply to the darkness in a tongue Matthias could not understand, like a wolfhound growling against the moon. Matthias stared up in alarm.
‘Don’t worry, little one,’ the hermit whispered. ‘I’ve cursed those evil ones. They will do no more terror in their journey to wherever they are destined. But, come now.’
He lifted a water bottle to Matthias’ lips. The juice it contained tasted sweeter than water. It cleansed Matthias’ mouth and brought the warmth back into his body. He felt invigorated, like he did when he splashed in a pool on a bright summer’s morning with the rest of the boys.
‘I must go.’ Matthias struggled to his feet.
‘And this time I shall go with you.’
The hermit extinguished the candle, took him by the hand and led him back on to the path. Despite the attack, Matthias now felt calm and refreshed. The hermit was telling him about the stars as Matthias hopped and skipped beside him. When they reached the edge of Sutton Courteny, the hermit crouched down and embraced him again.
‘Go on, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘Go through the village. But, remember, tomorrow, just after dawn, I’ll be waiting.’
The boy sped away like an arrow. The door to the Hungry Man was shut but candlelight and music poured through the unshuttered windows. Here and there a dog barked but Matthias was not afraid. He reached the church, opened the lych-gate and took a short cut across the cemetery. Usually he would never take such a path at night. The villagers were always telling stories of the ghosts and spirits which lived there, especially about the bell.
Years ago, Maud Brasenose, the widow of a wealthy peasant, had a great fear of being buried alive. So the priest at the time agreed that a bell be fixed in a small holder on the top of her tomb, attached, through a hole in the coffin, to her hand. Accordingly, if she woke and found herself buried alive, she only had to ring the bell. The stone still stood, the bell and chain now rusted. However, at midsummer or Samhain Eve when the fires were lit, some fool, full of ale, would always come down to the cemetery and try to ring the bell even though it was encrusted with rust. Or again, there was the black angel which adorned the tomb of Thomas Pepperel, a wealthy spicer who had moved from Tredington and spent his last years at Sutton Courteny. Parson Osbert had declared that, when the angel had first been carved, it had been white as snow but Pepperel had been cheated: the stone was of poor quality and had turned a horrid black so it looked as if some demonic imp, rather than an angel, guarded poor Pepperel’s tomb.
Matthias’ route took him over the wall and into the small vegetable plot which lay in front of the priest’s house. The windows were shuttered but he glimpsed chinks of light. Still full of courage, he knocked on the door, there was a slap of sandals, the door opened and his father stood staring down at him.
‘Oh, Matthias, where have you been?’
‘I’ve been to Tenebral.’ The boy decided it was best not to lie.
‘Come in. Your mother and I. .’
Parson Fitzosbert seized his son’s hand and led him down the stone-paved passageway into the small parlour. Matthias’ courage began to ebb. Oh, he was pleased to be home. The straw on the passageway floor was crisp and clean, sprinkled with fennel and rosemary. Small rushlights burnt in their shiny metal holders. The parlour was warm and inviting. Oil lamps hung from the great beam which ran down the length of the chamber. A fire leapt in the great hearth and the cauldron, hanging up on a hook above it, gave off the fragrant smell of freshly cooked meat.
Christina, his mother, was sitting at her spinning wheel under the light of a lantern. She looked busy but Matthias saw her face was still white, dark rings round those lustrous eyes. She put down the spindle and held out her hands. Matthias ran to her, snuggling his face deep into her woollen dress, savouring her lovely smell, a mixture of cooking, sweat and the fragrant herb water Christina always used to wash herself. Her fingers, long and cool, stroked his hot cheeks.
‘I was worried, Matthias, so very, very worried.’
Christina let him go and he stood up to face his father. Parson Osbert stared sadly down at him. Matthias abruptly realised how his father was beginning to age. Folds of skin hung loose on his neck; his cheeks looked a little sunken, those gentle eyes now lined with care.
‘Now you are home, Matthias, perhaps we can eat!’
He caught the reproof in his mother’s words and stammered an apology. He was only too pleased to be caught up in the preparations for the evening meal. He washed his hands in the water tub which stood outside the buttery. He then set the wooden pegged table with trenchers, knives, horn spoons, pewter mugs and the large jugs of strong ale drained from the barrel, a cloth cover tied round the rim, which stood on a small stool beneath the window.
His father muttered something about going to the church, and left.
Christina opened the small cupboard built next to the fire and brought out a tray of freshly baked manchet loaves, which filled the parlour with a spicy smell. She rolled these in a linen napkin and put them on the table, then went to sit at the fireplace, stirring the stew with a ladle. Matthias, all his tasks done, sat at the table and looked mournfully at her.
‘You’ve been out to Tenebral, haven’t you, to see the hermit?’
Matthias nodded.
‘Your father was worried,’ she continued, and she pointed to the hour candle where it burnt in its niche. ‘One more ring and he’d have had to go down to the Hungry Man for help.’ She turned, ladle in her hands. ‘He was very worried,’ she insisted. ‘There are soldiers in the area, mercenaries, wolve
s in human clothing.’
‘I was safe,’ Matthias stammered. He was shrewd enough not to fuel his mother’s fears.
‘And the hermit?’ she asked softly, turning her back on him.
‘He was very kind.’ Matthias had long learnt that to tell his parents what they wanted to hear was the best way to calm their anxieties. ‘He showed me flowers.’
‘Did he talk about the rose?’ Christina grew rigid. She stopped stirring the cauldron.
‘What’s this about a rose?’ His father came into the kitchen. He took off his boots and tossed them into a corner. Neither Christina nor Matthias answered. ‘The church is all locked up.’ Parson Osbert smiled and clapped his hands. ‘And no lovers lie in the cemetery’s long grass. God’s acre, as I keep telling my parishioners, is for those buried in the peace of Christ, not for wanton lust.’
On any other occasion this would have been the signal for Christina to quip back but tonight she remained silent. The parson’s smile faded.
‘Let’s eat. Matthias, tell me what you did today.’
Once the benediction was said, Matthias was only too happy to fill the silence with his chatter, especially about the foxes. He mentioned nothing about the rose or the hermit’s sayings and, bearing in mind what was going to happen tomorrow, certainly nothing about the two soldiers who had accosted him in the wood.
‘Can I go back tomorrow?’
His mother dropped her spoon. She smiled apologetically and picked it up.
‘Please, can I go back tomorrow?’ Matthias persisted.
‘Why?’ His father asked.
‘The hermit is going to show me a kingfisher.’
Matthias blinked to keep back the tears. He was lying to this gentle man who was his father, and to his mother who looked so careworn. He fought the guilt, the lies slipped so smoothly from his tongue. He had to go. But how could he tell them the truth? It would only hurt them.
‘No, you can’t.’ His father wiped his bowl with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. ‘It’s dangerous.’ He grasped his son’s hand, continuing in a rush, ‘A journeyman has told us the news. Queen Margaret and her army are in full retreat along the Severn. The King and his forces are hurrying behind, breathing threats and slaughter. God knows what will happen when the armies meet!’
Matthias was about to protest, lie again that he would go nowhere near the battle, but found he could not do that.
‘Let the boy go.’ Christina raised her head and stared across the table. ‘Let the boy go,’ she repeated.
Matthias noticed how her face was even paler than before, those generous lips now one thin line. Her eyes looked dull.
‘He’ll be safe,’ she said. She got up from the table and began to collect their pewter bowls. ‘The hermit’s a soldier, isn’t he? Or was one. Now he’s a man of God. He’ll keep the boy safe.’ Her voice was devoid of any emotion.
Matthias noticed how she kept her back to him whilst she spoke. His father released his hand and leant across.
‘So, you can go,’ he whispered. ‘But you are to be back before dark.’
Matthias, pleased that he had obtained his father’s permission, fairly skipped down from the table. Determined to put things right by being as helpful as he could, he took the rest of the pots into the buttery, swept the floor round the table, arranging everything as it should be. His mother came over and, crouching down, caught him in her arms. She held him close, speaking over his shoulder to his father who sat at the table, his Book of Hours in his hands.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said softly. ‘I feel tired.’ She kissed Matthias again, then her husband on the brow, and left the room.
Once she had gone, Matthias sat on a stool, all his gaiety seeming to have drained away. The fire looked weak, the light of the candles and oils mere splutterings whilst his father, eyes closed, lost in his own devotions, was distant, rather cold.
‘What is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias asked.
Parson Osbert opened his eyes. He sighed and put the Book of Hours down.
‘I don’t know.’ He paused, half-cocking his head for sounds from their chamber above. ‘I don’t know, Matthias. When I came here I was a young priest.’ He ran his hand across the smoothness of the table. ‘The day I climbed the pulpit to give my first sermon I saw her sitting beneath me. She is beautiful, Matthias, but, on that morning, with the sunlight streaming through the window and catching her face, I thought she was an angel.’ He beckoned his son across and grasped him by the wrists. ‘As you grow older, Matthias, you will hear whispers in the village. I am a priest. I was not to become handfast and what I did is condemned by the Church. I live with a woman but, God be my witness,’ his eyes filled with tears, ‘I love her more than life itself and I would leave Heaven for Hell to find her there.’
‘But what is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias found he couldn’t stop trembling. ‘Is she sickening?’
‘I don’t know.’ His father rubbed his eyes. ‘Sometimes she wonders if we did wrong. Whether this place is accursed.’
He smiled wanly and pointed across to a small aperture built below the window. Inside it was a yellowing, aged skull. Nobody knew why it was there. The priest’s house had stood since the reign of the first Edward, almost two hundred years ago. The skull had been built into the brickwork: all Matthias could ever see were the teeth, face bones and dark holes where the eyes had been. Parson Osbert chewed his lip. Christina had strange fancies. She now believed the skull was a source of evil. He had remonstrated with her, explaining that, from the little he knew, the skull was really a sacred relic, the remains of a priest who had been killed here many centuries ago by marauding Danes.
‘Father, Father, what’s the matter?’
The priest looked at his son’s pale, attentive face. He felt a great surge of affection. Perhaps I’ve not been a good priest, he thought, but in Matthias I have been truly blessed.
‘Your mother is tired, Matthias, just tired. Come now, let’s say our prayers.’
Matthias brought his hands together and bowed his head, his lips moved soundlessly as he recited the Paternoster and Ave Maria.
Parson Osbert stared across at the black crucifix against the wall. What was really wrong with his wife? She seemed agitated, constantly dreaming as if her body were here but her mind elsewhere. The parson’s face became grim. He knew he had enemies in the parish council. Fat Walter Mapp, the local scrivener — he was not above, during Sunday Mass, circulating a piece of vellum filled with malicious questions, such as why their priest preached to them but kept a woman and his bastard son as a burden on the parish. Osbert closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. A gentle soul, he had never really hated, but Mapp, with his pig-like eyes, fleshy nose and slobbering mouth. . Parson Osbert crossed himself and quickly said a prayer for Walter Mapp.
‘Father, I’ve finished my prayers. Shall I go to bed?’
The priest smiled. ‘And what is the last thing, Matthias, you must say before you go to sleep? And the first thing you must repeat when you wake in the morning?’
Matthias took a deep breath.
‘If you get it right,’ his father added, ‘there’s a sweetmeat in the buttery. .’
Matthias closed his eyes. ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well.’ His voice grew loud and vibrant. ‘The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Matthias paused to recall the words. ‘And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy strength. And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’
The parson kissed him on the brow. ‘Oh, holiest of boys,’ he grinned. ‘Take the sweetmeat and go to your chamber.’
Matthias, the sweetmeat firmly in his mouth, scampered up the stairs. These were narrow and winding: Matthias always pretended he was a knight climbing a castle to rescue a maiden. He was most fortunate. Unlike other boys of his age, he had a small chamber, a little garret to himself under the eaves. It contained a cot, a desk, a battered leather chest and some pegs on t
he wall for his clothes. The small casement window, which overlooked the cemetery, was covered in horn paper. His mother had left it open. The room smelt fragrant but rather cold. Matthias climbed on to the bed. He was about to close the window when he glimpsed, in the moon-dappled cemetery below, a shadow beneath one of the yew trees, as if someone were standing there staring up at him. Yet, when he looked again, the shadow was gone.
In Margaret of Anjou’s camp, pitched within bowshot of the great Abbey of Tewkesbury, the Lancastrian Queen and her generals were holding counsel late into the night: Sir Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, with Sir Thomas Tresham, John Wainfleet and the Queen’s two principal commanders, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset and Lord Wenlock. They all sat along the trestle table hastily erected in the Queen’s gold-fringed, silken tent. On the floor around them were piled chests, coffers and panniers, lids thrown back or buckles undone, their contents spilling on to the muddy floor. Sir Raymond Grandison stared at these, then at each of his companions. They were arguing feverishly amongst themselves on what steps they should take next. Deep in his soul, however, Sir Raymond knew it was all finished. At the top of the table Margaret of Anjou, once a renowned beauty, sat slumped in her chair, her veil awry, her famous blonde hair now faded and mixed with iron-grey streaks. Her long face was haggard, eyes so bright, the Hospitaller wondered if the Queen were ill with a fever. She kept playing with the rings on her fingers or moving the pieces of parchment around on the table. On a chair beside her, her son Prince Edward, his blond hair uncombed, sat with a sulky expression on his smooth-shaven, spoilt face. Wenlock Sir Raymond dismissed with a contemptuous look. He did not trust that little fat soldier who, over the years, had fought for both York and Lancaster. In reality, the only person Wenlock served was Wenlock himself, and the Hospitaller wondered if he could be relied on tomorrow. Now and again the Queen would stretch across the table and grip Beaufort’s arm. Grandison wondered about the rumours that Beaufort was also her lover and, possibly, the true father of Prince Edward.
Beaufort coughed to catch his attention.
