by Paul Doherty
‘Brethren!’ His voice echoed round the church. ‘Today we intend to sing the Requiem Mass and perform the funeral obsequies for a child of this village, Edith, daughter of Fulcher our blacksmith.’ He paused as Fulcher’s wife put her face in her hands and sobbed noisily. ‘The events of the last few days have shattered the peace and harmony of our village. There has been a great battle outside Tewkesbury. Once again the roads are full of soldiers but there are other evils. Edith is not the only person to have died, been murdered, in such terrible and mysterious circumstances. I have news that similar deaths have occurred throughout the shire. I have agreed that the Preacher here-’ Parson Osbert gestured to where the Preacher stood at the foot of the pulpit, staring down the nave, his eyes moving slowly from one face to another — ‘this man of God has news on this. In normal circumstances I would have gone to see Baron Sanguis but our lord is still absent, and these affairs cannot wait.’
Parson Osbert made the sign of the cross and came down the steps. The Preacher now mounted the pulpit. Matthias watched expectantly. This mysterious stranger seemed taller, broader, more powerful than he’d been the night before. For a few moments the Preacher just stared round the church.
‘Satan!’ His voice thundered, making Matthias jump. ‘Satan, as the Good Book says, goes about roaring like a lion, seeking whom he may devour!’
The villagers stared up at him. The reference to the Devil or works of Hell always caught their attention.
‘The murder of this child,’ the Preacher continued, ‘is not the bloody-handed work of anyone who knew her. These deaths, as Parson Osbert has told you, have occurred elsewhere. I ask you now to search your memories. Have such deaths ever occurred before?’
With his hands clasped on the pulpit, the Preacher reminded Matthias even more of a hunting kestrel on its perch.
‘There were deaths eight years ago.’ Joscelyn the taverner spoke up. ‘Not in the village but between here and Tewkesbury.’
‘Horrible murders!’ another cried. ‘Throats gashed, corpses drained. Even then we thought it was the work of night walkers!’
The Preacher stilled the growing clamour with one wave of his hand. ‘And I ask you,’ he was now enjoying himself, ‘who was here in your village at that time?’
Again silence. Matthias tensed. He looked up at his mother. She was now white as a ghost. She sat as if carved out of stone, her eyes never leaving the Preacher. Matthias closed his eyes to pray.
‘The hermit!’
Matthias opened his eyes with a start.
‘The hermit!’ Joscelyn the taverner shouted. ‘He was here, where he is now, in the ruined church at Tenebral!’
‘But he’s a holy man.’ Simon the reeve got to his feet.
‘Holy?’ the Preacher retorted, glaring down at the reeve. ‘No one is holy but God!’
‘I mean. .’ Simon the reeve swallowed hard. He was used to holding his own at such meetings and refused to give up so easily. After all, he knew his letters and could write, was skilled in the hornbook and the ledger. He did not like this stranger entering their village and telling them what to do. Yet the Preacher’s eyes seemed to burn into him. ‘I mean,’ he stammered, ‘he did no one any harm, except beg for food.’
‘Hush! Listen now!’ The Preacher’s voice dropped. He leant against the pulpit, then lifted one hand, fingers splayed. ‘Eight years ago,’ he jabbed the air, ‘these murders occurred, the hermit was here. Eight years later,’ he continued, holding another finger up, ‘and the murders begin again. The hermit can wander hither and thither. No one knows where he goes or what he intends.’ He pointed up to the crucifix behind him. ‘And if he’s a man of religion why does he not come here to church? At Christmas? At Easter? On Lady Day? At Pentecost?’
The Preacher’s voice was now booming through the church. Matthias felt like crying out. He could not believe this. His friend the hermit? Who could make doves appear in his hand? Who was so gentle and kind? Matthias would have screamed out, but his mother, sitting so still, put her hand across his mouth and looked down at him: in that look Matthias knew something was dreadfully wrong.
‘Then let’s arrest him now!’ Simon the reeve shouted.
‘We have no power,’ John the bailiff pointed out, getting to his feet. ‘Baron Sanguis is Lord of the Manor. He has the right of the tumbrel, axe and rope!’
‘Well, it’s too far to go to Gloucester!’ another shouted. ‘Whilst the sheriff could keep us hanging about until Michaelmas!’
The Preacher held up both hands. ‘But you do have the right,’ he intoned. ‘Vox populi est vox Dei: the voice of the people is the voice of God. This is not a matter for the Crown. It is a matter for Holy Mother Church. As the Bible says, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” We can arrest him.’
By now the villagers were nodding and whispering amongst each other. Fulcher the blacksmith got to his feet. The great burly man bowed to the Preacher and turned to face his neighbours.
‘The Preacher speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘Think now, good people, who would murder poor Edith in such a barbarous way? No woman would, and every man was in the fields preparing for the harvest.’
Fulcher’s words drew a chorus of agreement. Matthias felt himself sweating, heart beating faster than he had thought possible. His mother’s grip on his wrist grew even firmer.
‘However,’ Fulcher continued, ‘my daughter lies here in the parish coffin: her soul is with God but the earth waits for her body. Let us complete what we have begun. I say the funeral Mass should be said, our plans laid and tomorrow, just after dawn, we go out to Tenebral.’
The villagers clapped, getting to their feet. The Preacher smiled and nodded, proud at how quickly he had gained mastery over these strangers.
‘But what happens if he’s warned?’ a voice shouted from the back.
‘But who will warn him?’ the Preacher retorted. His gaze slid quickly to Matthias. ‘I say this: let your young men guard the path through the woods to Tenebral. That is enough.’
His words won general agreement. Parson Osbert returned to the sacristy to don his vestments and the people stayed to hear the Requiem Mass for poor Edith. After this was completed Fulcher and five other men carried her coffin out to the cemetery. The lid was unscrewed, the sheeted corpse taken out and lowered quickly into the earth. Parson Osbert blessed, sprinkled with holy water and incensed Edith’s last resting place. The soil was then thrown in. A wooden cross was driven deep into the earth. Afterwards most of the parishioners streamed out of the graveyard back into the village to break their fast and gossip at the Hungry Man.
Parson Osbert and the Preacher joined them. Christina hurried back to her house, her hand still gripping that of Matthias. Once inside she locked and bolted the door. She took Matthias into the small parlour where again she sealed the room, shutting and barring the windows and door. Matthias was now frightened. The chamber was dark. His mother seemed so agitated, muttering wordlessly to herself. Now and again she would stop to scratch the side of her face. Then, as if she were too hot, she snatched the wimple from her head and undid the clasps of her dark burgundy dress. A small jug of water, used to freshen the flowers in their wooden boxes, stood on the window sill. She seized the jug and started dabbing at her neck. Matthias ran up.
‘Mother!’
Christina stared at him.
‘Mother!’ Matthias insisted. ‘What is wrong? What is going to happen?’
Christina clutched her stomach and breathed in deeply.
‘Matthias, your father and I talked about this last night. You are not to go out to Tenebral again. You are not to meet the hermit.’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘The Preacher is wrong. He lies!’
‘Just do it!’ Christina screamed at him, the skin of her face drawn tight. ‘Oh, Matthias, just do it! Leave him alone!’
She hurried to the door, fumbled with the lock and, throwing this open, ran down the passageway. Matthias, shaking, went to follow her. He c
ould hear her sobbing in the small solar so he quietly left the house. He slipped across the cemetery to his secret place, the small stone death house at the far side of the church. Matthias crept in. He crouched, thumb in mouth, trying to make sense of what was happening. He knew the hermit was strange. He said things which Matthias did not understand. But a murderer? A man violent like those soldiers? Matthias closed his eyes.
‘Remember this, my soul,’ he murmured, ‘and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Then he finished the prayer. ‘And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’
Matthias’ eyes flew open. He should remember that. What would the hermit expect him to do? What would he want?
Matthias heard his mother calling, her voice carrying faintly across the cemetery. He lay down on the bed of soft bracken he’d once made there, crossing his arms, bringing his knees up. He felt tired, a little cold. His eyes grew heavy and for a while he dozed. He woke with a start, some bird crashing in the bushes outside.
The boy stole out of his secret place and stretched, enjoying the warm sunlight. He had made his mind up. He climbed the cemetery wall but, instead of taking the highroad, he took a narrow trackway which snaked behind the houses of the village. He ran furtively, pinching his nose now and again at the sour smell from the cesspits which stood at the bottom of each plot of land. When he approached the rear of the Hungry Man, he had to be more careful. Joscelyn and two of his sons were there, raising new casks from the cellar. Once they had gone Matthias continued on his way. Soon he was in the woods but this time he wasn’t afraid. He saw the guards the villagers had sent out. However, they had brought a small tun of ale with them and seemed more keen on emptying that, laughing and teasing each other. Matthias scrambled through the bushes, his hands and face stung by the nettles, and scratched by the prickly holly. At last he was past them and, forcing his way through the undergrowth, made his way back to the path which led to Tenebral.
He approached the ruined church, calling his friend’s name but there was no reply. Matthias slipped in under the crumbling doorway and stared. The hermit was kneeling in the sanctuary, hands extended, before the rose painted on the wall. Matthias held his breath. A strong red light, like that of the sky just before the dawn, came from the painting and bathed the hermit in its mysterious glow. And the hermit? It seemed as if he were at least a good yard from the ground, kneeling in midair, hands extended. There was no sound. Nothing but this bright, rose-coloured light and the hermit embracing it. Matthias stepped back. His foot caught on some dry wood, it cracked, shattering the silence. Matthias stared down in horror. When he looked up again the light had gone, the hermit was just standing on the edge of the sanctuary, smiling down at him.
‘Matthias, I did not know you were coming. Creatura, you move so softly.’
‘What was that light?’ Matthias asked, coming forward.
‘What light?’ the hermit teased back. ‘Matthias, you’ll make a great poet or troubadour.’ He saw the puzzlement in the boy’s face. ‘A troubadour is a singer of songs,’ he explained. ‘A dreamer of dreams. A teller of tales.’
‘Are you a murderer?’ Matthias asked harshly.
‘Creatura!’
The hermit sat down at the foot of a crumbling pillar, resting his head against the ivy which wound round it. He tilted up his face and, from under heavy-lidded eyes, studied the boy.
‘They say you are,’ Matthias blurted out, coming forward. ‘They say you killed Edith and others. Now and eight years ago.’
‘Who says that?’
‘The stranger, a preacher.’ Matthias now ran towards him. He tugged at the hermit’s robe. ‘They are going to come here tomorrow morning. They are going to arrest you. They call you a witch. They’ve put guards on the path through the woods.’
‘And you came to warn me?’ The hermit stretched out his legs and patted his lap. ‘Sit here, Matthias.’
The boy did so. The hermit put his arms round him.
‘I’m not supposed to be here. My mother, she told me not to come.’
‘But you came, didn’t you, Matthias?’ The hermit was now whispering in his ear. ‘I can see the cuts on your hands and face. You came here to warn me, didn’t you?’ He stroked Matthias’ hair. ‘Oh Creatura, come.’ He got up and led Matthias into the sanctuary.
Matthias stared at the rose on the wall, brighter, more breathtakingly beautiful than ever. There were now more runes or strange marks carved beneath it. The hermit told him to sit down on a stone. He himself sat on the floor opposite and studied the boy.
‘I’m going to tell you things,’ he smiled, ‘that you may not understand now, but in years to come you will. Look around you, Matthias. All you see is a ruined church. However, as I have said before, there’s more to reality than your life or what you see, feel or touch. In the heavens,’ he looked up towards the sky, ‘I have seen souls, as many as snowflakes, yet each is a brilliant flash of lightning. I have seen spirits of the great nine circles: cherubim, seraphim, angels and archangels. They wheel and turn before the throne of God.’ He touched Matthias’ cheek. ‘I said you might be a poet. A long time ago, in Italy, there was a great poet.’ He leant forward, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘A man called Dante. He wrote a poem about earth, Hell and Heaven.’ The hermit pointed over his shoulder at the rose. ‘According to Dante, just before you enter the presence of God,’ he held his hand up, ‘He who is All Holy, you go through the Paradise of the Rose on which the Trinity — Father, Son and Holy Spirit — meditate and reflect for all eternity-’
‘Have you seen this?’ Matthias broke in. He couldn’t fully understand what the hermit was saying. Yet his words evoked memories. His father’s sermons and the paintings in the parish church showed the great angels of God going about their divine work.
The hermit was now looking at a point above Matthias’ head.
‘Like Dante,’ he replied slowly, ‘I have seen the Paradise of the Rose. Like him I have glimpsed the love of God.’ He paused. ‘They say God is love but the preachers and the priests don’t know what love is. A Greek writer who lived centuries ago, Dionysius the Areopagite, he came close to the truth. He said love was the search for harmony.’ The hermit’s eyes now filled with tears. ‘The priests have it wrong, Matthias. They prattle about love but they don’t understand the first thing about it.’ He held the boy’s gaze. ‘You can lose Heaven for love, be damned for love, and for all eternity turn your face against the Lord God because of love. It’s the one thing, Creatura, which the intellect and will makes its own decision about. You can force a man to hate you. You can break him on the wheel, hang him on the gallows or bribe him with gold and silver. Take him into the seventh heaven and show him all the mysteries but you cannot make anyone love you.’ He sighed, it was like a breeze echoing round the sanctuary. ‘And if you love, even if it’s not requited, even if it creates an eternal hunger in you, no one, not even the Lord God, can force you to give it up. So, Creatura bona atque parva, do you love me?’
‘Yes,’ Matthias said in a rush. He wanted to ask questions but sensed this was not the time or the place.
‘Then remember what the apostle Paul said.’
Matthias caught the humour in the hermit’s voice.
‘Love covers a multitude of sins.’ He rose to a half-crouch and stretched out his arms. ‘So come, Matthias, here in our secret place, one last embrace.’
This time the hermit squeezed him tightly, holding him so close the boy could feel the man’s tears wet on his cheek. The hermit released him.
‘Go now, little one. Go on!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Show me how fast you can run.’
Matthias did so. He felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to stay. When he reached the ruined lych-gate, he stopped and turned round but the hermit had gone. Matthias ran into the woods, following his secret way, creeping past the guards, now shouting and laughing as they filled their tankards and discussed, yet again, the Preacher’s strange sermon. Matthias returned to
the village, slipping back into his house. He fled to his chamber and, lying on his bed, wondered what would happen to the hermit.
At Tenebral the hermit, who had taken the name of Otto Grandison, was already preparing for what would happen the following morning. He lay face down in the sanctuary, the tears streaming down his cheeks, his body trembling with sobs as he whispered into the darkness.
‘I have loved and I will not lose,’ he said. ‘I have tried one way and I have failed. I will return!’
He lay stock-still waiting for the answer but the only image which filled his soul was of the beautiful woman, hair bright as the sun, her hands stretched out to take the thornless rose.
Then another image followed: the small, dark face of the boy, proof that, at last, if he searched long enough for love, love would respond.
6
The chronicler at Tewkesbury described the villagers’ attack on the hermit at Tenebral in the most colourful language. According to the old monk, who blew on his knuckles and scratched the parchment with his quill, the night before was riven with protests. A blazing comet was seen in the sky, the stars dripped blood and a screech owl was heard in the woods around the village. Strange beasts appeared, plodding through the night: men with the heads of dogs; ghostly hunters speeding through the trees. Black Vaughan and his demon riders pounded along moonlit trackways. An angel perched on the spire of the church and, in the graveyard, ghosts were seen, their grey empty shapes moving amongst the tombstones and lichen-covered crosses. Strange knockings were made on doors. The patter of invisible feet was heard in passageways. When the sun rose, Tenebral was bathed in a fiery reddish glow of Hell.
Of course these were legends. The arrest of the hermit was a simple, even pathetic affair. Matthias, forbidden to leave the house, had spent the previous evening avoiding both his father and mother as well as the sinister, chilling presence of the Preacher. The men of the village, armed to the teeth, with arbalests, longbows, spears, hatchets, dirks and daggers, marched towards Tenebral like a phalanx across a battlefield. The hermit was waiting: standing under the ruined lych-gate, he did not struggle when they bound his hands. Some of the younger men beat him with sticks and drew blood from his nose and mouth yet he offered no objection. They tied the other end of the rope to Fulcher’s great horse and dragged him like a sack of dirt into the village.