by Paul Doherty
By the time they reached the abbey they were splattered in blood from head to toe. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, had lost all his hauteur. A weary, dispirited man, he slid from his horse and almost ran through the small door into the abbey nave. He threw his sword on the ground, wrenching off pieces of armour, throwing his bloody gauntlets into the dark transept. Others joined him, not only from his own party but other Lancastrians who knew that the sanctuary of the church was their only refuge and defence against summary execution. The nave began to fill with injured men, some groaning over terrible wounds in their stomachs or shoulders, others seeking news about companions or relations. They cursed Somerset — one even spat in his face — though others took comfort that Wenlock’s cowardice had received its just deserts. Men sprawled about, lying on the floor or resting against the pillars. Sir Raymond stood in the centre of the nave and stared down at the gorgeous rood screen which sectioned off the sanctuary. He knelt, crossed himself, closed his eyes and was halfway through the Ave Maria when he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the cobbled close outside, followed by shouts and yells. One of Somerset’s squires came running into the church, blood seeping from a cut on his left arm.
‘Yorkists!’ he screamed.
The tired Lancastrians picked up whatever weapons they could, forming themselves into a shield wall. A party tried to bar the door but the Yorkist soldiers burst in. The battle began again and the cathedral filled with the sound of scraping steel and the shrieks of wounded and dying men. No quarter was asked and none given. Sir Raymond, with his back to a pillar, fought off two Yorkist bowmen. Their quivers were empty but, armed with spear and sword, they came at him like two wolves snarling and jabbing. Sir Raymond despatched both, one with a thrust to the chest; the other stumbled over his companion’s corpse, and Sir Raymond took his head off like a gardener would snip a rose. The head rolled down the nave whilst Sir Raymond drew away from the blood-gushing, severed neck. The fighting was frenetic. Individual duels and hand-to-hand combat now ranged the whole length of the nave.
Sir Raymond was about to help Somerset when the great bell of the cathedral began to toll. From the sanctuary came a procession of monks led by their abbot carrying his crucifix in one hand, a handbell in the other. He banged the steel cross on the paving stone and began to clang the bell. The sound of fighting died away. Men locked in deadly combat stepped back and stared in awe at the might of the Church. The Abbot was dressed in full pontificals — a gold chasuble inlaid with mother-of-pearl and, on his head, a mitre of the same texture. He rang the bell again.
‘This is God’s house!’ his voice boomed through the church. ‘And you have stained it with the blood of your brothers. So, hear this. Any man who lifts his hand in anger is accursed, bound and tied under the most dreadful sentence of excommunication!’
His words created a chilling pool of silence.
‘Cursed be he,’ the Abbot intoned, ‘who disobeys my decree! Cursed be he in life! Cursed be he in death! May he die unshriven and remain outside the pale of Christ’s mercy!’
He handed the bell to one of the monks. Beaufort came forward and knelt before him.
‘Father Abbot, we seek sanctuary.’
‘The abbey does not have the right to give sanctuary to rebels and traitors!’ a Yorkist shouted.
The Abbot stared down at Beaufort. Sir Raymond, who had walked across to join the Duke, heard the Abbot’s whisper.
‘He speaks the truth. My Lord of Somerset, for I know it is you, I cannot give you sanctuary here. Edward of York has won the battle. He is our crowned king. His lawyers will say you are traitors and have no right to shelter here.’
‘Are we to be slaughtered like cattle?’ Somerset snarled.
The Abbot lifted his head. ‘Sanctuary or no, no man has a right to draw his sword in God’s house. My Lord of Somerset and his party are my guests here. The rest will withdraw or suffer the rigour of excommunication!’
The Yorkists protested but the Abbot’s stern face, as well as the realisation that the Lancastrians would fight to the death, gave them wiser counsel. Muttering threats, the Yorkists collected their wounded and dead, then left. At the Abbot’s request, the Lancastrians piled their own weapons in a heap in one of the transepts. Lay brothers brought wine and bread from the refectory whilst the infirmarian and his assistants moved amongst the wounded. Somerset went to sit on a bench just near the rood screen. He put his head in his hands. Sir Raymond sat beside him.
‘Father Abbot was right,’ the Hospitaller began. ‘Edward of York will show us no compassion.’
Beaufort lifted his head. ‘The Queen must have been captured,’ he declared. ‘The Prince is dead. Warwick is dead, the House of Lancaster is finished. Sickly, white-faced Henry Tudor, what hope does he have?’ He offered the wine cup cradled in his hands to the Hospitaller. ‘Sir Raymond, before we die, I would ask you one question? Why did you, a knight of the Church, support Margaret of Anjou?’
‘I thought you’d win. I really did and, if you had, my Lord of Somerset, I would have asked for your help in hunting down a demon.’
Sir Raymond got to his feet and walked into the lonely Lady Chapel. He was kneeling on the prie-dieu before the statue of the Virgin when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and almost fainted as he recognised his brother, Otto. Further down the transept, crouching in the shadows, was a small boy, fist to his mouth, dark eyes rounded in a pale face.
‘Otto!’ He clasped his brother. ‘Otto!’
He felt his brother’s arms but his brother stared impassively back.
‘Look at me, Sir Raymond! Stare into my eyes!’
The Hospitaller did so, his heart skipped a beat, his blood ran cold. The hair, the face, the arms, the body, these were his brother’s — but those eyes! The same hateful stare as that Byzantine princess.
‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You!’
He would have collapsed but the hermit helped him to sit on the cushioned kneeler of the prie-dieu.
‘You have been hunting me,’ the hermit declared. ‘Otto has gone. I am here. I see through his eyes. I speak through his tongue and his heart beats for me.’
Sir Raymond turned away.
‘How?’ he asked weakly.
‘Have you not read your Scriptures?’ the hermit mocked gently. ‘How the demons can enter a man and make their home there?’
‘But why?’
‘That is not for you to know.’
‘No, why do you hate us?’
‘I do not hate you, Sir Raymond. Truly, I thank you. You rescued me from the vault but then you failed me. You broke your pledge and let me be taken. What is worse, you pursued me and sent others hunting me along the highways and byways of Europe. I will not be interfered with!’
Sir Raymond saw the fury blazing in the hermit’s eyes.
‘I am not some rabbit or fox to be hunted. Always remember, Sir Raymond: when you declare war on Hell, Hell declares war on you.’ Lifting his finger he brushed some of the blood from Raymond’s face and licked it carefully.
‘Here in God’s house!’ Raymond felt his courage return. ‘You dare to come into God’s house!’
‘Have you not studied your Scriptures, Sir Raymond?’ the hermit taunted again. ‘Read the Book of Job. Satan is allowed to come before the throne of God and, according to the Gospels, even into the presence of Christ.’ The hermit gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘Do you think we are like that, Sir Raymond? Dirty little imps with the faces of monkeys and the heads of goats? Don’t you realise we are pure spirit, powerful, brooding for all eternity? We have not withdrawn from Heaven, Heaven has unjustly withdrawn from us.’ He would have touched Sir Raymond’s face again but the Hospitaller flinched. ‘Heaven and Hell are the same. Think of that before you die.’
‘And the boy?’ Sir Raymond asked. ‘Another of your victims?’
‘More sacred than life itself,’ the hermit replied. ‘He is nothing to you.’
The Hospitaller got to his feet, ref
using to be cowed.
‘There are others,’ he said.
‘Ah, you mean the Preacher?’ The hermit shrugged. ‘I will take care of him as I have taken care of others. Once he is dead the hunt will end. Farewell, brother!’
The hermit, turning on his heel, walked back through the shadows and collected the boy.
Sir Raymond went back to his prayers. He felt cold as if his heart had turned to stone. He did not care about his companions or their endless speculation. Instead he prayed, preparing himself for death. When the Yorkist captains returned later in the day with warrants for their arrest, Sir Raymond did not struggle as the others did, but allowed his hands to be lashed behind his back. He was pushed out of the main door, blinking at the strong afternoon sunlight.
Just beyond the abbey close a great table had been set up, covered by a green baize cloth. Behind the table soared a black-draped scaffold. On it stood the executioner, his face masked, a huge two-sided axe in his hand, one foot resting on the block and, beside that, a great wicker basket. The townspeople thronged about, held back by a line of archers wearing the royal livery. Each prisoner was taken before the table, Somerset first. Two men were seated there. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his henchman John Howard of Norfolk, their faces still bearing the marks of recent battle. They shouted questions, jabbing their fingers at the fallen Duke. Somerset just shook his head. Gloucester, his pale, pinched face framed by red hair, sprang to his feet, screaming how the Beauforts were responsible for the death of his father. Somerset brought his head back, hawked and spat, the globule of phlegm hitting Gloucester on his cheek. Gloucester bent down and picked up one of the captured standards of Margaret of Anjou and wiped his face. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. The soldiers hustled Somerset away, up the steps to the scaffold. He refused the blindfold offered by the executioner, lay down and placed his head on the block.
Sir Raymond saw the axe lifting, a flash of sunlight, the blade fell with a thud. He looked away as the executioner picked up the head and showed it to the cheering crowd. Other trials followed. Some prisoners pleaded for mercy and were taken away. Others, Sir Raymond noticed with wry amusement, were greeted as long-lost friends, their bonds cut, and he realised there had been traitors in the Lancastrian ranks. A few, like Somerset, refused to bend the knee and the scaffold behind the makeshift court dripped with blood.
Eventually his turn came. His arms pinioned by two archers, he was pushed up against a table and stared into the catlike eyes of Richard of Gloucester. The Duke’s prim lips formed a thin, bloodless line; his face bore cuts whilst his right hand was swathed in bandages.
‘A Hospitaller.’ John of Norfolk lounged in his chair. He scratched a blood-veined, red cheek, his blue, watery eyes staring contemptuously at Sir Raymond. ‘What’s a Hospitaller doing amongst the forces of Lancaster?’
‘What’s a farmer from Norfolk doing amongst those of York?’ Raymond retorted.
Norfolk sat straight in his chair. He took his dagger from his belt and dug into the green baize cloth.
‘You are in no position to taunt, Hospitaller.’
‘What position is that?’ Sir Raymond replied.
‘Come, come, come!’ Richard of Gloucester forced a smile. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, is it not? You’ll bend the knee and accept the King’s pardon?’
‘From now on,’ Sir Raymond replied slowly, ‘I’ll bend the knee to neither York nor Lancaster. A curse on both your houses!’
‘You want to die?’ Norfolk jibed.
Sir Raymond smiled. ‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘Why?’ Gloucester asked curiously.
‘I broke my vow,’ the Hospitaller replied, staring up at the executioner. ‘I broke my vow to a prince better than you, to my superiors, to my God. I have failed. I deserve to die. I can do no more!’
Richard of Gloucester sat back in his chair and flinched at the hostility in the Hospitaller’s gaze.
‘You and your sort,’ Sir Raymond added softly, ‘are soon for the dark. You squabble about the fold whilst the sheep are ravished by wolves.’
‘Enough!’ Gloucester banged on the table with his fist. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, you are a traitor taken in arms against the King. You have offered nothing in your defence.’ His face lost some of its hardness. ‘God knows why you want to die but, God knows, I will not stop you. Take him away!’
Sir Raymond was hustled up the steps of the scaffold. It was higher than he had thought and, above the crowds, he could catch the breeze coming in from the meadows. He gazed up at the sky.
‘It will be a beautiful evening,’ he murmured as the executioner forced him down on his knees.
Sir Raymond closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. He heard his name called. He looked up and stared into the crowd. The hermit was standing in the front row, staring across at the scaffold, beside him the boy whom Sir Raymond had only glimpsed in the shadows. The hermit had his hand on the lad’s shoulder. Sir Raymond stared at him and felt the sweat break out on his body.
‘It cannot be!’ he whispered.
‘It is,’ the executioner replied.
He forced the condemned man to lie down. Sir Raymond closed his eyes but all he could see was the hermit’s face and that of the young boy. He heard a roar and the axe fell.
‘Why did you take me there?’ Matthias twisted round in the saddle and stared up into the hermit’s face.
‘I told you, I had to see someone before he died.’
‘But how did you know he would be in Tewkesbury, in the cathedral? Are you like the crone Margot? Can you see into the future?’
The hermit laughed, a merry chuckle deep in his chest, and he gently stroked Matthias’ hair.
‘Creatura, Creatura, I would love to tell you that I can see the future and all its glory as well as what present you will receive on your birthing day.’ His voice became grave. ‘But that’s not true. Margaret of Anjou was doomed to lose. The House of York is strong as long as Edward its prince rules but, there again, that might not be as long as they think. I knew the Lancastrians would lose the battle and, if they did, though it was foolish to fight, they would have nowhere to flee for sanctuary but the abbey. So I went there to wait.’
Matthias closed his eyes. He would never forget today. He would not dare tell his parents what he had seen. That terrible bloody fight up the nave, men hacking and screaming at each other. And then the executions, though he had seen men die before; poachers and outlaws jerking and dangling on Baron Sanguis’ gallows, but nothing as bloody as that!
‘I know what you are going to ask me, Creatura,’ the hermit said, guiding his horse along the woodland path. ‘Why did you have to see it? But that’s the nature of life. Struggling, fighting, dying. In the trees around us, life struggles for existence. The death of one animal is the life of another. The world of man is no different.’
‘And will you take me to Tenebral now?’
‘No, not tonight. You were home late yesterday; that must not happen again. Will you tell your parents what you have seen?’
Matthias shook his head.
‘I suppose it’s best,’ the hermit replied drily.
‘And who was that man?’ Matthias asked. ‘The one you were talking to, who later died?’
‘Someone I knew from my past,’ the hermit retorted. ‘I had to say farewell before his end.’ The hermit pointed further up the forest path. ‘Look!’
Matthias peered down the long tunnel formed by the overhanging trees and glimpsed a small wayside tavern built of wood and wattle. Two horses stood tied to a post outside.
‘We’ll stop there,’ the hermit said. ‘A tankard of ale, something to drink. Would you like a sweetmeat, Matthias?’
The boy immediately forgot about Tewkesbury and clapped his hands. When they reached the tavern, the hermit lowered him gently from the saddle and told him to sit on the bench. He dismounted and tied the horse, then walked into the little taproom. He came out a short while later carrying a small trencher of
sweetened bread baked in honey and a delicious drink of herbs mixed with watered ale. He placed these on to Matthias’ lap.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I will not be long.’
The hermit went back inside. Matthias leaned against the wall of the tavern and slowly chewed on the honey-drenched morsels. He sipped at the pewter cup, staring across the trackway, watching the squirrels scramble up the trunks of trees whilst, above them, a magpie chattered noisily. The sun was still warm. Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy but, curious why the hermit had not returned, he put the trencher down and stared through the unshuttered window.
The taproom was gloomy but, as Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed, he saw the hermit. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, his back to him, talking to two people. One looked like a monk, cowled and hooded. The other was a beautiful young woman, the fairest Matthias had seen. She had lustrous, flaming red hair. Large earrings glittered in the darkness, a gleaming necklace hung round the swanlike neck. She was whispering earnestly to the hermit. Now and again the woman would pause and lean across to her hooded companion as if to ask for confirmation. The hooded one would simply nod. She said something to the hermit, who laughed. She turned and saw Matthias staring at her through the window. She raised her hand prettily. Matthias blushed, looked away and returned to his sweetmeats. After a short while the hermit came out and, without a word, untethered his horse and lifted Matthias into the saddle. They left the tavern.