by Paul Doherty
‘This is my church! This is my cemetery!’ he declared. ‘I must protest at the proceedings: the prisoner needs some spiritual comfort.’
The Preacher shrugged and stepped back. One of the young men pulled back the bolts. Parson Osbert stooped and went in. He wasn’t long and came out shaking his head. Christina took the bread and wine in. Matthias looked around the cemetery. He saw a wild rose bush and, using his small dagger, cut a shoot off. The rose was full-blown, still wet from the morning dew. The door to the death house was flung open; Christina, her face soaked with tears, came out. She brushed by her husband and ran across the cemetery.
‘You’d best go in, boy,’ Parson Osbert whispered. ‘But don’t be long.’
‘Will the lad be safe?’ a villager asked.
‘If the hermit wished to hurt him,’ Osbert snapped, ‘he would have done so already.’
The death house was dark. Matthias waited until the door slammed behind him, then he ran across. The hermit, sitting in the corner, embraced him warmly.
‘You spoke for me, Matthias,’ he murmured. ‘You spoke for me!’
The boy gave him the rose. ‘I thought you’d like this. It’s not as good as the one you drew in the church.’
The hermit took the rose. He laid it on the ground and, moving like a cat, he went and knelt before the boy.
‘Do not cry for me, Matthias. Promise me you won’t cry for me. Now go!’
The boy stared at him in puzzlement.
‘Go on!’ the hermit smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Matthias. Death is never an end to anything. Please! They will listen at the door. Please go! They’ll only become suspicious.’
Matthias left. His father had also gone. Someone said he was in the church. Matthias groaned: some of the village boys were coming towards him. They would only tease and taunt him about what had happened so, like a rabbit, he scuttled amongst the gravestones, climbed the cemetery wall and ran to the other end of the village. Here the lane snaked past the hedgerows towards the great road south to Bristol.
For a while Matthias hid in a ditch, thinking about what had happened. Now and again he would look at the sky and notice the black smoke rising like a plume from the village. He felt hungry so he stole back to his house. The kitchen was untidy, the platters unwashed, there was no sign of his parents.
Matthias ate some salted bacon and bread from the buttery then went into the cemetery. The place was now empty, the door to the death house flung open. Matthias walked into the village. He caught the smell of wood smoke and something else, like fat boiling over the fire. He turned the corner and stared in horror down the high street. Fulcher had done his job well. The old bear-baiting post had been taken out and put on a small makeshift platform. The hermit had been lashed to this, dry brushwood piled high around: the flames had already caught hold. As Matthias pushed his way through the crowd, he could just make out the hermit’s face behind the wall of flame. Yet something was wrong. The fire roared but the prisoner bound to the stake did not squirm or cry out. The villagers, too, were silent.
‘Is he dead?’ someone asked.
‘Has he fainted?’
Matthias sniffed, wrinkling his nose. He could not understand it: the fire must have caught the hermit’s body.
‘Has he swooned?’ someone shouted.
As if in answer, the hermit started to sing, his voice loud and clear through the flames. A chill swept through the assembled villagers. Men who had served in the King’s wars and seen others die in different horrible ways, stared aghast. The flames roared higher, hiding the hermit’s face. Still the song was sung, the words clear and full on the air: at first in French, ‘La Rose du Paradis’, the second verse in English. The voice was strong and vibrant like a man sitting on a summer afternoon carolling his heart out. Some of the villagers ran away. Others crossed themselves. A few fell on their knees. The singing died away. The stench of burning flesh became unbearable. Matthias, whose shoulder had been gripped by Joscelyn the taverner, broke free and fled up an alleyway.
Matthias ran blindly, not stopping till he found himself in the woods. He crouched at the foot of a tree, then made his way along the trackway to Tenebral. He went into the church. The sanctuary was full of sad reminders of his friend: a piece of leather, scraps of bone and meat from his cooking. Any meagre possessions had already been stolen by the villagers. Matthias gazed in awe at the beautiful rose painted on the wall: the runes, the strange marks beneath, had grown in number, as if the hermit had spent his last night etching out these signs. Matthias walked slowly out on to the porchway. The breeze caught his face. He heard the whisper: ‘Oh Creatura, bona atque parva!’
He stared around, no one was there.
Matthias left the church, vowing he would never return, and hastened along the trackway. He turned the corner and almost ran into the Preacher who, with his scrip on his back and a stout ash pole in one hand, was striding along.
‘Murderer!’ the boy screamed.
The Preacher hawked and spat, narrowly missing Matthias’ face.
‘Your friend is dead. I am off to Tewkesbury where the good brothers will give me sustenance!’
Matthias made an obscene gesture at the Preacher’s receding back. The boy didn’t know what it meant but he had seen the men at the Hungry Man make it when tax collectors or royal purveyors were about. Matthias hoped the Preacher would turn but the man strode round the bend of the trackway.
By the time Matthias returned to the village, the fire was out. The platform against the bear-baiting post had crumbled under the searing heat. Simon the reeve was piling the ash into one great mound.
‘We’ll throw it into one of the cesspits,’ he declared, not lifting his face.
Matthias went across to the grassy verge. He picked some of the wild flowers growing there and tossed them on the top of the burning ash. The flowers began to scorch. Matthias thought of throwing on some more: he glimpsed a bone, yellow and blackened amongst the cinders, so he walked away.
The Hungry Man was full of customers, the villagers carousing, celebrating as if they had won a great victory, drinking deeply of the taverner’s newly brewed ale, eager to forget the memories of the day. Matthias spied his father amongst them, his face flushed, eyes glittering. Parson Osbert beckoned his son over. Matthias glared back, then hurried on.
The following evening Thurston the tinker and his pretty wife, Mariotta, left the town of Tewkesbury. Their small barrow was full of scraps, pieces of armour and other items they had collected after the battle. Mariotta pulled the cart, the ropes biting into her shoulders, whilst her husband, full of ale, staggered beside her. Mariotta didn’t mind. The day had been a prosperous one. They could take the armour to a forge, have it beaten flat and make a good profit. Mariotta was pleased to be out of the town. The corpses of those killed in the battle were now laid out on the steps of the churches, naked as white worms. Around the town, corpses hung from the signs of inns or on the gallows near the market cross, whilst severed heads adorned the pikes above the gates.
‘The place stank of death,’ Mariotta declared, stopping to rest her shoulders. She smoothed down her brown smock. She admired the new sandals on her dusty feet, then glanced sideways at her husband. She had bought these when he had been asleep, snoring his head off in an outhouse. That young squire, who had caught her eye in the tavern, had been ever so grateful. Mariotta closed her eyes. Thank God, her red-faced, irascible husband never discovered the secret source of such wealth. He, however, was now swaying on his feet, burping loudly, patting his stomach.
‘We’d best stop for the night,’ Mariotta declared.
Her husband went to release the large fardel he carried on his back.
‘Not here,’ Mariotta scolded.
She pushed him on and, grabbing the ropes, pulled the barrow. Further up the lane, Mariotta espied a gap in the hedge: sheep grazed in a meadow which ran down to a stream glinting invitingly in the rays of the setting sun. Cursing Thurston under her breath, Mariotta
pulled her barrow into the meadow; he staggering after her. The sheep hardly lifted their heads. Mariotta found a suitable place to camp and went off amongst the trees looking for kindling. Thurston sat, head drooping, eyes heavy. He heard a sound and got up. He felt cold.
‘Mariotta!’ he called. Getting no answer, he released the burden on his back and staggered into the trees. ‘Mariotta!’ he yelled. ‘Where are you?’
Suddenly the ground dipped. Thurston found himself on the rim of a small dell. He couldn’t understand what he saw. Mariotta was lying on the grass, head turned away. A figure crouched over her. The figure moved. Mariotta’s throat was all gashed. Thurston screamed and ran towards her. The squire Mariotta had met turned and poor Thurston ran straight on to the dagger he held.
7
The news of Thurston and Mariotta’s murder, as well as others in the wooded, secret places along the River Severn, seeped into Sutton Courteny. It chilled the hearts of those involved in the hermit’s death. In the corners of the Hungry Man people began to whisper how they had been responsible for spilling innocent blood. Neighbours drew apart. Friendships failed and a sense of guilt haunted the village. Parson Osbert, although many said his hands were clean of any man’s blood, only felt more guilty. Not that he had done anything wrong, but that he had failed to do anything right.
The gossips and the whisperers were quick to point out how God’s hand seemed to have turned against the village. Christina, Parson Osbert’s woman, fell ill. She kept to her bed, a pale ghost of her former self. Fulcher the blacksmith was kicked in the groin by a horse and, for days, his smithy lay cold at a time when everyone wanted to have their horses tended. Simon the reeve was gored by a bull, not grievously, but enough to put him ill in bed so he could lie and reflect on what he had done. John the bailiff was no more fortunate: he was attacked by outlaws, soldiers from the defeated Lancastrian army, who badly mauled him. Joscelyn the taverner became a little too fond of the ale he sold: one night there was a fire in his cellar which destroyed his best madeira sack, mead and ale. Other mishaps occurred. The sun proved very strong; the crops began to burn, mysterious fires being started in the long meadow and in other places around the village. Tempers became short. Knives were drawn in the fields, in the tavern and even, on one occasion, outside the church.
A violent thunderstorm broke at the beginning of June. Lightning, jagged bolts of fire from heaven, split trees and fired a hay rick. The heavy rains afterwards beat down the corn and turned the fields, ripe for harvest, into a soggy mess. Oh yes, the gossips muttered, God’s vengeance was making itself felt. Matters were not helped by young girls having dreams of devils coming out of the earth; by goblins and elves turning the milk sour; whilst a strange howling was heard from the woods at night which frightened the children and stampeded the cattle and sheep.
Worse was to come. In the second week of June, Baron Sanguis and his hatchet-faced son returned from the King’s war on the eastern shores. The Manor Lord rode through the village, his standard-bearer going before him, his son a few paces behind. Following in their dust, retinues of armed men, not to mention the clerks, bailiffs and scriveners from Baron Sanguis’ household. The Manor Lord, with his iron-grey hair and hard, sunburnt face, looked neither to the left nor the right. Dressed in his half-armour, despite the heat, and slouched in the high saddle of his destrier, Baron Sanguis progressed like a conquering hero along the village high street.
The villagers gathered at the hanging stone, brought presents to greet their lord. Baron Sanguis rode on, not even deigning to look, and the villagers’ hearts sank: Sanguis knew that something dreadful had happened during his absence. The manor lay to the north-west of the village, a sprawling, moated mansion protected by its high curtain wall, a small village in itself. Baron Sanguis had been away since the previous autumn and, on his return, the manor quickened into life. Other retainers followed him, carts full of possessions. For three days there was silence, then Sanguis’ clerks and bailiffs moved into the village. Monies were owed: tolls were due: levies to be raised on this or that. Who had been picking apples from Baron Sanguis’ orchards? Who had allowed pigs to forage in his woods? And what about the tithes owing to the Church? And were the villagers prepared, according to ancient custom, to work this autumn in the Manor Lord’s fields? What marriages had taken place? What births? Had all dues been paid? The flint-eyed clerks knew their master’s rights, as they moved from house to house with quill, ink horn and the manor accounts.
Parson Osbert stayed in his house, Matthias with him. A great chasm had grown up between the boy and his father since the hermit’s death. They hardly ever talked. The priest seemed to have caught some of his wife’s languid torpidity and, if it hadn’t been for Blanche, a merry-eyed widow from the village, clothes would not have been washed, food cooked or the house cleaned. Christina was now a recluse, lying in her bed, only eating when forced by her husband or Blanche. She hardly talked but sat staring like a madcap, lips moving wordlessly, lost in her own private hell.
Now Baron Sanguis had returned, Parson Osbert’s fears only increased. On the Sunday, two weeks after the Baron’s return, the summons came. Parson Osbert made a special effort.
‘Soon it will be the feast of Corpus Christi,’ he announced, smiling at Matthias. ‘So, I might as well bathe and change my clothes for that, as well as meeting Baron Sanguis.’
He did so, carefully shaving his face, even rubbing a little oil into his thinning hair.
‘Will you go with me, Matthias?’ Parson Osbert’s face was almost pleading.
‘Of course, Father,’ the boy dutifully replied.
Parson Osbert sighed with relief. Matthias knew the reason why. For some strange reason Baron Sanguis had a liking for the priest’s son. If he was present, perhaps the Manor Lord’s fury might be curtailed.
By the time they entered the great hall of the manor, Parson Osbert was in a state of fright: he clasped Matthias’ hands so tightly the boy winced in pain. The priest stood inside the double doors of the hall. The Manor Lord sat behind the great table on the dais at the far end. His face was hidden by the great, ornate silver saltcellar. The tables down either side of the hall were empty; the Baron sat in solemn majesty: his one and only son, Robert, on his right, seneschal Taldo on his left. Parson Osbert could see that his lord had profited in his support of the Yorkists. Glaziers had put glass in the windows on each side of the hall — these gleamed like freshly fallen water in the bright sunlight. The walls had been freshly washed in pink paint. The banners which hung from the rafters glowed in their brilliant colours, whilst the shields and weapons which decorated the walls had all been newly cleaned and painted.
‘You’d best come forward!’ Baron Sanguis boomed.
The priest, still clutching Matthias’ hand, walked quickly up the hall. He felt strange. There were no rushes but thick Turkey carpets on the floor, which deadened any sound. Parson Osbert felt as if he were walking in his sleep. If that was the case, he thought, as he paused before the dais and bowed, then Baron Sanguis was a nightmare. The Manor Lord sat erect in his high-backed chair, elbows resting on its arms: his hair had been freshly cut, shorn well above the ears, but this only emphasised the harshness of his face: black-pebble eyes and a nose which seemed to cut the air. The Baron smoothed his long, grey moustache, which fell at least two inches beneath his chin. He played with the rings on his fingers or tapped the gold medal which hung on a silver chain round his neck. His son, attired like his father, gazed just as bleakly, though seneschal Taldo, a friend of the priest, smiled weakly and raised his eyes heavenwards. Baron Sanguis looked up at the banner bearing his arms, three black crows on a golden field.
‘My son carried a banner like that at Barnet.’ His voice rose. ‘When I was fighting for my king and lord!’
Parson Osbert bowed. ‘Sir Henry, I am so pleased you have returned safe and sound, rightfully covered in honours and glory.’
‘Yet, while I’m gone-’ the Manor Lord was now leaning ac
ross the table — ‘while I’m gone,’ he bellowed, ‘my villagers take rights unto themselves, acting like the Manor Lord! Seigneurs of the soil, are they?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘By what right,’ he shouted, ‘did they hold a court in your church and condemn a man to death? By what right did they lay claim to the power of the axe, the tumbrel and the rope? Did you know that, according to the law, they and you have committed murder? You could all hang!’
‘My father didn’t agree with it!’ Matthias spoke up.
Baron Sanguis turned his head and breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. His face softened and his hand went out as if he wanted to stroke Matthias’ head. Even Robert smiled, whilst Taldo beamed, relieved at the break in the tension.
‘My father didn’t agree to anything!’ Matthias repeated. ‘It was the Preacher!’
‘You!’ Baron Sanguis jabbed a finger in mock anger at Matthias. ‘You should be a soldier, a knight!’
Parson Osbert closed his eyes and quickly thanked God that he had brought Matthias. Baron Sanguis liked to act the bully but the priest knew that he had a good heart and could be quickly mollified. The Manor Lord dug into his purse and pushed some pennies across the table.
‘That’s for you, boy,’ he declared. ‘Buy some sweetmeats. Ah,’ he waved his hand, ‘I know, I know, I know, you, Parson Osbert, objected and your boy was the only one who had the courage to speak up.’ He pulled a face. ‘So stop quivering!’ He pointed to the end of the table. ‘Sit down. Let’s have some wine.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘The boy can have a cup of apple juice.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s been in the cellar, it’s cold and strong so, not too much.’
Once they were settled, Parson Osbert told his lord exactly what had happened. The Manor Lord heard him out, steepling his fingers on the table, now and again whispering to his son. Robert always gave a curt reply. When Osbert had finished, he sat sipping the white wine which Taldo had served. The Manor Lord beat his fist on the table as if it were a drum.
