by Paul Doherty
‘Life and death,’ the clerk declared.
‘But they cut at you,’ Matthias said. ‘I saw them cut you with sword and dagger.’
‘You probably saved my life,’ Rahere replied. ‘They may have been after the horse but one of them, with a spark of kindness, balked at killing a child.’
‘They struck at you,’ Matthias repeated.
The clerk now retied his hair at the back of his head. He brushed the dust and stains from his cloak, jerkin and hose.
‘Two things, Matthias. First, if you strike at a man on a horse, your sword is going upwards: it loses a great deal of its force. Secondly,’ he threw his cloak over his shoulder and pulled up his jerkin. Matthias glimpsed the bright steel mesh beneath. ‘Milanese steel,’ the clerk explained. ‘Light as a feather but stronger than iron. Now come, boy. Let’s ride in triumph to your village. I’ll leave you at your house and then I’ll go to Baron Sanguis. I’ll tell our good lord to clear his forest paths.’
They continued on their journey. Only as they entered Sutton Courteny did Matthias remember the clerk’s words: ‘Run like the wind!’ That’s what the hermit had always said to him.
8
The Chronicler of Tewkesbury, when he came to describe the bloody and horrific events which occurred in Sutton Courteny around the Feast of All Saints 1471, noted that the beginning of the end was the Preacher’s trial in the nave of the parish church of Sutton Courteny on the feast of St Benedict. The proceedings were much different from the last time. Baron Sanguis sat enthroned in a chair placed just before the entrance to the rood screen. On his right, his grim-faced son, on his left Taldo the seneschal. In a corner, perched on a stool, quill in hand, one of his scribes. Before him a new jury had been empanelled.
The proceedings were dominated by Rahere the clerk. He stood, dressed in black from head to toe, a silver gilt war belt round his slim waist. The sword and dagger hanging there slapped threateningly against his thigh. On his black leather boots he had the affectation still to wear his spurs, which clinked and jingled at every step. The high-collared tunic with the white linen bands beneath came up just beneath his chin: his black oiled hair hung down to his shoulders. As he moved backwards and forwards, turning now and again to address Baron Sanguis, sometimes the jury, sometimes the crowd, they all watched fascinated. Matthias thought he was beautiful. The clerk reminded him of a black, languorous cat holding court over a group of mice. The women of the village gazed hot-eyed and whispered amongst themselves how this handsome young clerk from London had an eye for a pretty face and was already known for his sweet words. Rahere seemed to sense this. Like an actor in a play, he pitched his words and spun his web. At first he described himself, showing his commission on creamy-coloured parchment, the red wax still bearing clearly the imprint of the King’s Great Seal. He’d reproved the villagers for taking the law into their own hands and paused to allow Baron Sanguis to announce the fine. The villagers nodded. In the circumstances, they whispered, their manor lord was being compassionate. Matthias stared at his father, crouching in the same place he had during the previous trial, on the steps of the Lady Chapel. Parson Osbert had made an effort this morning to wash, shave and change his clothing though he still looked pale and woebegone.
Rahere the clerk now took up the story again, listing the dreadful deaths which had occurred in the area. He spoke in clear English, now and again lapsing into figures of speech common in the area. Matthias could tell Baron Sanguis and his son were fascinated. At last the clerk stopped speaking and jabbed a finger towards the corpse door.
‘In my view,’ he proclaimed, ‘the man we are about to confront is the true murderer: the spiller of innocent blood. Bring him in!’
Taldo got up and hurried to the door. A short while later the seneschal returned followed by Baron Sanguis’ burly bailiffs. The Preacher, his arms pinioned, was dragged between them into the church and forced to kneel facing the villagers. Matthias stared. Was this the man who had frightened him? The Preacher’s hair was tinged with grey, his hard face slack, globules of spit smeared the unkempt beard round his half-open mouth, his eyes were vacant as he gazed around. He was forced to kneel whilst Rahere summarised the accusations laid against him. When he came to answer, the Preacher could only shake his head.
‘I have been ill!’ he whimpered. His hands, released from their bonds, tapped either side of his head. ‘I cannot remember where I have been or what I have done. It’s as if I’ve been asleep.’
‘Do you deny the charges?’ Rahere asked crisply.
‘I don’t know who I am or where I have been.’ He coughed. ‘I have done ill, great evil.’
‘The man you condemned, the hermit, was innocent.’
‘Oh yes, oh yes, but I am confused.’
Rahere shrugged and glanced at Baron Sanguis.
‘What say ye?’
The Baron turned to the jurors.
‘Guilty!’ they chorused.
‘And the sentence?’ Rahere asked.
‘To be hanged on the common gallows!’ Baron Sanguis snapped. ‘Let his body be gibbeted as a warning to others who think they can come here and usurp my power!’
The villagers clapped and cheered.
‘Sentence to be carried out immediately!’ Baron Sanguis added.
The Preacher’s head went down. He started to sob. The jurors stood up, congratulating themselves. Matthias, squatting in the front, watched Rahere crouch down and drag back the Preacher’s head. He pushed his face only a few inches from that of the prisoner. Perhaps only Matthias heard the word ‘YOU!’ come from the Preacher’s lips before he dropped on all fours, head down like a dog.
Baron Sanguis’ bailiffs came forward. The prisoner was dragged out through the cemetery. A horse was waiting with a leather-covered sledge attached by wooden shafts. The Preacher was forced to lie on this. He was stripped naked except for his linen breeches, and the horse, its bridle held by Rahere, made its slow journey up the high street towards the waiting gallows. Parson Osbert stayed in the Lady Chapel, face in his hands.
Matthias decided to follow the crowd. They were throwing rubbish, dung and dirt at the Preacher stretched out on the makeshift sledge. The rutted tracks of the highroad scarred his back and made him scream in pain. At the Hungry Man Matthias stopped. He did not wish to go any further. Instead he stood on a table outside the tavern. The crowd reached the gallows. The Preacher was released, his hands lashed behind his back. The bailiffs pushed him up on to the horse. A noose was fitted round his neck.
‘Let it be done!’ Rahere’s voice broke the stillness. ‘Let the King’s justice be done!’
The horse was led away. The Preacher danced, jerking like a doll at the end of the rope, twisting and turning, his legs kicking. Matthias fled inside the Hungry Man and sat in the darkened taproom. He was still there when the men returned from the gallows. He was about to slip away when a hand caught at his shoulder. He glanced up. Rahere was smiling down at him.
‘It had to be done, boy,’ he murmured. ‘It had to be done.’ He leant down. ‘Enough of royal justice,’ he whispered. ‘Will you show me the woods?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Matthias stepped back. He felt weak, slightly sick. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he promised. ‘But my father needs me.’
Rahere tapped him on the shoulder. ‘An obedient son,’ he murmured, ‘brings pleasure to all!’
Matthias left the Hungry Man and ran up the highroad. Matthias found his father in the kitchen at home, sitting before the hearth, staring into the ashes. He was already on his second goblet of wine. Matthias tried to talk to him but his father just shook his head. Matthias stole up the stairs. The door to his parents’ bedchamber was open. He went inside. It was dark and stale. He narrowed his eyes. His mother was lying on the bed. She had her back to him. He went across.
‘Mother, Mother, it’s Matthias.’ He tapped again but she didn’t stir. ‘Mother, it’s Matthias. Are you well?’
Again no reply. He tiptoed out and went up
the stairs to his own little garret. He lay down on the bed. Images flitted through his mind. The hermit, arms extended; the Preacher, dancing at the end of the rope; Rahere smiling down at him. Matthias drifted into sleep. He was awoken violently: his mother, grasping him by the shoulders, was shaking him up and down, banging his head against the feather-filled bolster. Matthias stared in horror. Christina’s face was white as a sheet, a blueish tinge high in her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark circled. She was glaring sightlessly at him, lips moving.
‘Mother!’ Matthias moaned. ‘Mother, what is wrong? You are hurting!’
Christina had a madcap, vacant look. Her nails were digging deep into his shoulder. Matthias closed his eyes and started to cry. He heard a pounding on the stairs and his father was dragging Christina away, arms locked tightly round her. Christina struggled. She began to cry and then went limp. Osbert let her slip gently to the floor, placing her back against the wall. She sat, legs out, her bare feet dirty, her hands crossed. Her head went slack, a trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of her mouth. She lifted her face, her eyes puffy with tears.
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Matthias, I am very sorry.’ She held a hand out to her husband. ‘Take me back to my bed,’ she murmured. ‘Some food. Hear my confession.’
Matthias, alarmed, swung his legs off the bed.
‘Stay there, Matthias!’ Osbert ordered. Picking his wife up, he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.
Matthias waited for a while, looking through the window. He had slept longer than he had thought. He felt hungry and went down to the kitchen. He ate some fruit and cheese, finished his father’s wine, then returned to his own room. The wine and the shock made Matthias feel depleted. He’d never felt such tiredness before. His legs and arms seemed to weigh like lead and, throwing himself on to the bed, he fell fast asleep.
Matthias awoke cold and stiff just after dawn. He felt stronger, refreshed. He went downstairs. His father sat on his mother’s chair. Matthias’ heart lurched: Osbert had aged, his face was pale and drawn and he was rocking himself backwards and forwards, his hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. Matthias became frightened. He didn’t want to be here any more. He just wanted to flee.
‘Your mother is dead.’ Osbert didn’t even turn his head. ‘I heard her confession last night. She died in the early hours!’ He drew his hands from his sleeves. ‘Gone!’ he added, fingers clawing the air. ‘Like a candle going out!’
Matthias began to tremble. His world was falling apart. His mother was dead, his father was sitting there like a madcap, talking to himself.
‘Perhaps she’s just asleep.’
Matthias couldn’t think of anything else to say. Osbert turned his head, lips curled in a sneer.
‘Asleep? You stupid little boy. She’s dead! My Christina is dead! Your mother is dead and all you can say is that she’s asleep!’ Osbert’s shoulders began to shake. He put his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Matthias backed towards the door. He couldn’t make sense of this. His mother would never die. He was in a dream.
‘Where are you going?’ The priest staggered from the chair and pounced threateningly on him. ‘Where are you going, brat? You little bastard!’
‘Father!’ Matthias screamed.
The priest blinked.
‘Father, I don’t know!’
The priest breathed in deeply, closing his eyes; he crossed himself three times.
‘This hermit of yours? This hermit of yours?’ he repeated.
‘He’s dead,’ Matthias whimpered.
The priest muttered something to himself. Then: ‘I want to go there,’ he declared. ‘Go on, boy! Get your cloak, put your boots on and don’t run away!’
Matthias hurried to obey. When he came downstairs his father was all ready; a water bottle filled with wine in one hand, a greasy leather bag in the other. ‘Food and drink,’ he explained.
They went to the stable. Parson Osbert brought out the little palfrey he kept there. Matthias thought he’d lift him up into the saddle but the parson hung the leather bag on the saddle horn and mounted.
‘Run beside me, brat!’
Along the high street Parson Osbert stopped, hammering at the door of Widow Blanche. He told her, in harsh, halting sentences, what had happened, and would she dress the corpse and watch the house until he returned? After that the parson rode on. He stopped at the gallows and stared at the Preacher’s body, now coated with pitch and tar. It hung, head askew, neck still clenched by the rough, thick hemp. Again Parson Osbert muttered something to himself and, with Matthias trotting beside him, entered the woods, following the path to Tenebral.
Matthias did not know what kind of morning it was. He did not seem to be able to hear or see anything. His mother was dead. Christina would never talk to him again. Now his father rode like a madcap, while he himself scampered along like some mongrel dog.
Matthias’ head and stomach pained him. He was aware that it had rained the night before. There were puddles on the trackway. The trees overhead still dripped water. He had to pause to catch his breath, to relieve the stitch in his side but his father rode on. Matthias, sobbing and gasping, followed. He didn’t bother to keep up but left the forest path, making his way along his secret trackway into Tenebral. The tendrils of the morning mist still seeped through its broken-down houses, hanging like a cloud around the old church.
Matthias waited at the lych-gate. His father came up and dismounted. He gripped the boy’s shoulder.
‘I told you to stay with me!’ he snapped. ‘Now, mind the horse!’
The parson strode up the pathway to the church. Matthias didn’t follow. He was frightened. He’d caught a look in his father’s eye of something he had never seen before. He must have stayed an hour until his father came out of the ruins.
‘Matthias, come here to me, boy!’
Matthias stood stock-still. Parson Osbert stepped forward. Matthias cringed at the look on his father’s face.
‘I am not what I appear, boy.’ The parson was trying to keep his voice sweet and low yet Matthias sensed a terrible danger. He was sure that if he went into the church, he would never leave alive. He noticed his father had taken off his belt, this was tightly wrapped round his right hand.
‘It’s the runes,’ Parson Osbert explained, as he began to edge forward. ‘I am not as simple as people think, Matthias. I am a scholar. I can read French and Latin. But that rose and the runes, you must know what they mean?’ He held his left hand up, fingers splayed. ‘Do you know what they mean, Matthias? Do you know what they say? Come and tell your father.’
Matthias couldn’t move. His mouth was dry. He edged backwards. The docile palfrey caught his fear and began to tug at the reins.
‘We’ll look at the pictures.’ Parson’s Osbert’s head came forward. Matthias could see how tight his throat was, the Adam’s apple bobbing there. ‘We’ll look at the pictures and then I’ll go to Tewkesbury.’
He hurried forward, head rigid, eyes intent on Matthias. The boy found it impossible to move.
‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert.’
At the side of the church, behind his father, stood Rahere the clerk. The priest paused. Rahere walked slowly towards him. He was dressed for hunting in a dark-green jerkin and hose of the same colour. As he moved, his hand went to the dagger in his belt.
‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert. Good morrow, Matthias.’
He moved between them, his back to Matthias. Parson Osbert’s fingers went to his lips, eyes flitting left and right, as if he suddenly realised where he was and what he was doing.
‘I heard the news in the village,’ Rahere said. ‘My condolences on the death of Christina. She was a good woman.’ He smiled over his shoulder at Matthias. ‘She must have been, to have a son like you. So, Parson Osbert, if your wife lies dead at home, why are you both here in this ruin?’
Matthias couldn’t exactly see what was happening but his father seemed fr
ightened, moving his head backwards and forwards, blinking as he tried to break free of the clerk’s gaze.
‘We are on our way to Tewkesbury,’ he gabbled. ‘I called off to see, well, to see Matthias’ secret place.’
‘Why Tewkesbury?’ the clerk asked softly. ‘Your wife’s corpse is not yet cold.’
‘I have business there.’ The parson was now agitated, licking his lips, moving from foot to foot. ‘Yes, I must go there.’
He moved sideways but the clerk moved with him.
‘And Matthias?’ Rahere asked. ‘He doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury, does he?’
‘No, no, he doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury,’ the parson echoed.
‘So you had better leave now.’
The parson nodded his head and, brushing by the clerk, snatched the reins and clambered on to his palfrey. He kicked his heels in, hurrying off along the trackway which would take him down the road to Tewkesbury. Rahere watched him go before turning to Matthias. The boy noticed how the clerk’s face was pale, a coating of sweat on his brow.
‘I’m frightened,’ Matthias said. ‘I’m cold and I’m very frightened.’
Rahere took his cloak off, wrapped it round the boy, picked him up and carried him round the old cemetery walls to where his horse had been hobbled in a cluster of trees.
‘You are coming back with me to Sutton Courteny,’ the clerk said. ‘I have the best room at the Hungry Man.’
The journey back was silent. When they arrived at the tavern, the scullions and tapsters were still heavy-eyed, the fires had not yet been lit. Joscelyn the tavern master came hurrying up, curious about the bundle Rahere carried in his arms. The clerk whispered an explanation. Matthias didn’t hear and he really didn’t care. He was shivering so much, his stomach was curdling and he felt a burning sensation in the back of his throat. Rahere had taken the large and spacious chamber on the first floor overlooking the high street. He put Matthias on the bed, went across to his saddlebags and took out a phial. He poured its contents into some wine and forced the cup between the boy’s lips. Matthias tried to protest. He was sure his stomach wouldn’t hold it but the clerk held him tight.