by Paul Doherty
‘They said you had been here before,’ Matthias replied. ‘About eight years ago, before I was born.’
‘But I was kind to them. I tended some of their sick. Yet, when I asked them for food, they drove me away.’
‘So, why did you come back?’
In answer the hermit scooped Matthias up in his arms. ‘I came back because I came back,’ he announced. ‘Now, Matthias, I am going to show you something.’ He put the boy gently back on the ground.
‘A trick?’ Matthias asked, his eyes round in wonderment.
‘A trick? What kind of trick? That’s sorcery,’ the hermit replied. ‘As it is to have white doves in your ear!’
‘Don’t be-’
The hermit stretched his hand out. Matthias felt something feathery and warm against his ear. The hermit dramatically drew his hand back. Matthias stared in astonishment at the small white dove nestling in the palm of the hermit’s hand. The hermit stroked its down feathers gently with a finger. The bird quietly cooed.
‘Watch it fly, Matthias,’ he whispered.
He threw the bird up and, in a flash of white, the dove climbed, wings outstretched, speeding up against the sky. Matthias watched it go but screamed at the black shape which seemed to strike out of nowhere: white feathers floated gently back into the church followed by one, two drops of blood. When he looked up again, the hawk and its victim had vanished. The hermit, however, his face impassive, glared up at the sky. He said something in a language Matthias couldn’t understand and made a cutting move with his hand.
‘Life preys upon life,’ he declared. ‘Come, Matthias, let me show you something else.’
He took the child by the hand and led him out of the ruined church along the old high street. With the hermit holding his hand, Matthias wasn’t at all frightened. Now and again they would stop and the hermit would crouch down and point out different flowers: lilies, cowslips, the deadly belladonna and the blue-belled monkshood.
‘Be careful of these latter two, Creatura. A deadly venom runs in their veins. But look!’ The hermit pointed towards a bush. ‘See, a goldfinch and, further down, a kingfisher rests before it returns to the mere. But, today, you must see this.’
He led Matthias into the ruined courtyard of what must have been Tenebral’s tavern. The hermit put a finger to his lips.
‘Shush now!’
They walked on tiptoe towards an outhouse. Matthias peered in: at first he could see nothing but then, against the far wall, in what must have been a recess for store jars, he glimpsed movement — small, reddish bundles of fur — and realised the hermit had brought him to a fox’s den. The vixen, apparently oblivious to these spectators, licked one of the cubs whilst they, full of mischief, pounced and darted upon each other. Matthias had seen many a fox. He had heard the villagers after Sunday Mass loudly moan that one had taken a cockerel or goose from their pen. This, however, was different. He had never seen baby foxes so close up, so full of life. He would have stepped forward but the hermit gripped his shoulder.
‘No, no, let it be.’
For a while they stood and watched. The vixen abruptly looked up, staring towards the door, and a look of pure fear crossed her face. She knocked her cubs back into the recess, then curled up at the entrance, head on her front paws, whimpering quietly. The hermit led Matthias away.
‘Come on, Creatura, it’s time we ate.’
On the way back to the church the hermit stopped to search amongst the bushes. He gave a cry of triumph and brought out a rabbit caught in his snare. He slung the carcass over his shoulder and, whistling softly, led Matthias by the hand, listening carefully to the boy’s chatter.
Once more in the church, he took Matthias into the old sanctuary. The boy stared round. There was no sign of any altar or any vestige of the sacred mysteries which had been celebrated there. In the corner was a bed of flock and a wooden peg stool. The floor was clean, though scattered around were pots of paint and, whilst the hermit gutted and skinned the rabbit, Matthias stared in awe at the huge rose his friend was painting on the wall. It was like no rose he had ever seen: the leaves were red-black, the heart was gold, the stem silver. The boy put his hand out. He was sure that if he touched the rose, he would feel its soft texture and catch its perfume.
‘Do you like it, Creatura?’ the hermit asked.
‘It’s beautiful,’ the boy replied. ‘It’s so large.’
‘It’s the world,’ the hermit explained. ‘Each leaf, each petal closing in on itself. That’s why I paint it.’
‘But there are no thorns?’
‘The rose is the flower of Paradise,’ the hermit said. ‘When it grew in the meadows of Heaven it had no thorns. It only sprouted them when it fell into the hands of wicked men.’
Matthias heard a tinder strike. He looked over his shoulder: the rabbit was skinned, gutted and pierced through by a small spit which the hermit now placed over a bed of glowing charcoal. Matthias blinked. He had seen his mother and father light a fire but never with such speed. The hermit could do everything so quickly, so skilfully. The hermit winked at him and began to turn the spit: as he did so, he sprinkled herbs and a little oil from a small jug along the rabbit’s flesh.
‘Look at the rose, Matthias. What do you feel?’
‘I feel as if I could smell it.’
‘Then do so. . Go on!’ the hermit urged.
Matthias, laughing, put his nose up against the wall.
‘I can smell the rabbit!’ he giggled, wrinkling his nose. ‘And the plaster’s damp.’
‘No, no, think about the rose, Matthias. Smell it now!’
The boy did so and exclaimed in surprise: the sweetest, most fragrant of perfumes seeped from the painting. He clapped his hands. ‘I can smell it! I can smell it! It’s beautiful!’
The hermit laughed and went back to turning the rabbit on the spit. Matthias, however, studied the wall. This time, at the hermit’s urging, he touched one of the petals and felt its soft wetness against his fingers.
‘It’s a trick, isn’t it?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, Creatura, it’s a trick!’
The boy noticed a series of marks on the wall, strange carvings, like the letters of his hornbook, but jumbled up and broken.
‘What are these?’ he asked.
‘Runes,’ the hermit replied. ‘An ancient writing.’
‘And what do they mean?’
‘Too many questions, Creatura. In time, in time. Now,’ the hermit pointed across the sanctuary to a small pannier. ‘Enough questions, we must eat. Go over there and see what you can find.’
Matthias opened it up and gasped in surprise: wrapped in a linen cloth were fresh manchet loaves, a small pot of butter and a jar of honey.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘In Tredington,’ the hermit replied. ‘I went across there.’
‘Do you know a boy there?’ Matthias asked.
‘I know no boy, Creatura, except you. Now, bring the food across.’
‘You shouldn’t go to Tredington,’ Matthias declared. ‘Father says they are our. .’
‘Enemies?’
Matthias shook his head.
‘Rivals?’
‘That’s it: rivals! We have disputes with them over the great meadow and pannage rights in the woods.’
‘And yet there’s enough for everyone,’ the hermit replied. ‘Do you love your father?’
Matthias, crouching before the fire, nodded solemnly.
‘But he’s a priest,’ the hermit teased. ‘He has taken vows never to know a woman.’
Matthias just blinked owlishly back.
‘Will you. .’ the boy pointed further down the wall to the faded paintings of angels, ‘will you paint them as well?’
The hermit, crouching, looked over his shoulder at the faded portraits: a group of angels each with a musical instrument: lute, flute, sackbut, shawm and rebec.
‘What are they supposed to be?’ he teased.
‘Angels, of course!’
Matthias replied.
‘Are they now?’ The hermit’s eyes looked sad. ‘I tell you this, Matthias, they look nothing like angels.’
He took the rabbit off the spit, broke the flesh with his fingers, and handed over the most succulent pieces. Matthias gnawed the sweet, soft flesh.
‘Do you know about angels?’
The hermit’s eyes were now very sad.
‘In the beginning,’ he replied, ‘before the Spirit moved over to the darkness, only the angels existed before the face of the Almighty. Think of them, Matthias, an army of brilliant lights, genius, pure will. However, in beauty and power, they were nothing compared to the great five.’ He put the piece of meat down and counted the names off on his fingers. ‘Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Lucifer. .’
‘And?’ Matthias asked.
The hermit was staring at the fire. Matthias shivered at the cold blast of wind which blew through the church.
‘And who?’ he whispered.
‘The Rosifer.’ There were tears in the hermit’s eyes. ‘All beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Magnificent as an army in battle array. Glorious leaders of a glorious host.’
‘Lucifer’s the Devil,’ Matthias broke in quickly, wanting to break the tension as well as display his knowledge.
‘Lucifer is Lucifer.’ The hermit was now rocking gently backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Brother and soul mate, great friend and comrade-in-arms to the Rosifer.’
‘Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.
‘Oh, Creatura, he was the rose-carrier. God’s gardener who laid out Paradise for Adam and Eve.’
‘They committed a sin, didn’t they?’ Matthias asked, remembering a painting from the parish church. ‘That’s why,’ he continued in a rush, ‘Jesus came from Heaven to save us from our sins. Do you believe that?’
The hermit looked up towards the sky, scored by red flashes of sunset.
‘See, Matthias,’ the hermit whispered. ‘See Christ’s blood streaming in the firmament.’
Matthias watched him curiously and recalled never seeing the hermit pray or attend Mass.
‘So, you do believe in Jesus?’
‘The Beloved,’ the hermit replied. ‘Oh yes.’
‘And Mary, his mother?’ Matthias was now repeating the catechism taught him by his father.
‘God’s pure candle,’ the hermit replied. ‘Who brought forth the light of the world.’
‘Do you believe,’ Matthias asked, half-imitating his father’s sermons, ‘that the Lord Jesus came to save us from our sins?’ The boy nibbled on a piece of rabbit flesh.
‘He didn’t come to save you from your sins.’ The hermit was now half-smiling. ‘In the end, Creatura, remember this. All begins and ends with love. All things are done for love. All things go right for love. All things go wrong for love. Heaven and Hell are not places, but states of mind and will.’ His voice sunk to a whisper. ‘Love eternally offered and eternally refused. Pardon eternally issued but never accepted. In Heaven because of love or driven out because of love.’
‘What are you talking about? Do you want some honey?’ The hermit blinked. Stretching across the fire, he ruffled Matthias’ black hair.
‘I love you, Creatura. But come, soon it will be dark. I have something else to show you. So, finish your food.’
Matthias did so, staring warily around the ruined church. The sun was beginning to set. Soon it would be dark and he had to return to Sutton Courteny. He pushed more rabbit into his mouth, followed by the butter and honey. He tried to talk but the hermit laughed and pressed his finger against his lips.
‘Shush, you chatter like a jay!’
The hermit got up, brushing the crumbs from his brown robe. He walked down the church. Matthias looked at the rose on the wall — it seemed to glow as if a great fire burnt behind it. He shook his head, got to his feet and scampered after his friend. The hermit grasped him by the hand and led him out of the village, walking vigorously. Matthias stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath. The hermit, laughing, picked him up and put him on his shoulder, reminding Matthias of a statue he had seen of St Christopher carrying the boy Jesus. They reached the top of the hill. The wind caught at their hair, making Matthias gasp as the hermit lowered him to the ground. The boy stared down into the gathering darkness.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The hermit crouched beside him. ‘Follow my finger, Matthias. Tell me what you see.’
Matthias narrowed his eyes and peered carefully. At first nothing, but then he caught a flash of colour. Concentrating carefully he saw that, protected by the trees, a great troop of horse, men-at-arms and carts were making their way along the valley below. Now and again, in the fading rays of the setting sun, he caught the shimmer of armour or a brave banner fluttering in the evening breeze.
‘Margaret of Anjou’s army,’ the hermit explained. ‘The Lancastrians are in retreat. She and her generals — Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, Lord Wenlock, and Lord Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, are fleeing for their lives-’
‘Oh yes,’ Matthias interrupted. ‘She is the Red Rose, is she not?’
‘Aye, you could say that. They flee from the followers of the White Rose.’ The hermit pulled Matthias around and pointed further back along the valley. ‘In hot pursuit comes Edward of York and his war band.’
‘What will happen?’ Matthias asked, his stomach clenching with excitement.
‘Margaret Anjou and her army are tired. They have tried to cross the Severn but the bridges are either held or destroyed. They can go no further. Ah, these men of war and their armour, their proud banners of azure, gold bars, martlets, ruby-red chevrons; tomorrow they will all be drenched in blood.’
‘There will be a battle?’ Matthias asked.
‘Yes, there will be a battle. Queen Margaret will have to stop at Tewkesbury.’
Matthias recalled the great abbey which nestled on a small hill overlooking the market town.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked.
The hermit winked. ‘I could say,’ he whispered, eyes staring, ‘that I am a sorcerer but I was a soldier, too, Matthias. The Queen’s army is exhausted. They will stop to take provisions from the abbey whilst Beaufort, her leading general, will think it’s good to fight with the Severn at his back.’
‘I have never seen a battle.’
‘Would you like to see this one?’
Matthias’ eyes rounded. ‘Could I, really?’
‘Tomorrow, at dawn, come back to me.’ The hermit held Matthias’ arms and squeezed gently. ‘Before first light, steal out of your house and meet me.’ He smiled and, drawing Matthias closer, kissed him on the brow. ‘This time I won’t play games. I won’t hide or play tricks upon you. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘Why do you want to see the battle?’ Matthias asked.
The hermit’s face suddenly became grave, even angry. He looked over his shoulder, staring down through the darkness at the retreating army.
‘Edward of York will come on fast,’ he murmured, ‘like the horsemen of Asia. The ground will shake with the hooves of his cavalry. A man born for killing is Edward of York. The Lancastrians are dead.’ He looked back at Matthias. ‘I have a friend I wish to see. Someone who has been looking for me for many a day. I want to see him and I want him to see you, Matthias. So, promise me-’
‘They say it’s dangerous.’
‘Now, why is that, Creatura?’
‘Oh, not the battle, the people who have been killed outside Tredington and Tewkesbury.’
The hermit rose abruptly to his feet.
Matthias pulled a face. Adults always dismissed you when they didn’t want to talk any more.
2
The hermit took Matthias back through the derelict village to the edge of the forest. He stopped and crouched down.
‘Remember what I taught you today, Creatura bona atque parva. Life feeds on life. The rabbit feeds on grass and we fed on the rabbit. The dove feeds on corn and the ha
wk kills it. Even in the spiritual life, only life itself can make the spirit fresh and strong.’
Matthias nodded solemnly. The hermit smiled, his eyes bright with mischief.
‘You don’t understand, do you, Creatura?’
‘I am sorry, I don’t,’ the boy stammered.
‘Go.’ The hermit kissed him on each cheek. ‘Go on now, Matthias. Run like the wind and, if you remember my second lesson, for you there can be no fear.’
Matthias trotted down the path into the wood. He was so engrossed in what the hermit had said, so puzzled, he was deep into the darkness before he fully realised where he was. Then he stopped. Why didn’t the hermit come with him? He stared up where the branches formed a canopy against the sky. Surely he could have come to the wood with him? Matthias became aware of a stirring in the undergrowth, the flutter of birds’ wings and those mysterious, indistinguishable sounds of the night. His fears came flooding back, about the witches who hung like bats in the trees from dusk till dawn. Or the ghosts of women who dropped on the necks of the unsuspecting.
‘You can only tell them,’ Joscelyn the Taverner had loudly intoned from where he sat in an inglenook in the corner of the Hungry Man, ‘oh yes, you can only tell them because their feet are back to front.’
Matthias hurried on, his mind now full of stories of Black Vaughan and his ghostly henchmen who prowled the forests of the Severn valley. Matthias closed his eyes, but he stumbled so he opened them again. The moonlit trackway lay ahead of him and he grew fearful of what his father and mother might say about where he’d been, and at this hour. The bracken cracked and the shapes sprang out of the darkness: two men, soldiers, stinking of sweat, urine and stale wine, their boiled leather jackets hard and coarse, their dirt-smeared leggings now cut and torn by the brambles. Yet, they were armed, broad leather war belts round their waists. They seized the boy as swiftly as the hawk had the dove. A dirty, smelly hand across his mouth stopped Matthias screaming. He was dragged off the track into the trees. The two men, as they carried him, lashed his hands and feet. They threw him on to a bed of bracken. All Matthias could see were dark shapes, bearded faces framed by torn chain mail coifs.