by Paul Doherty
‘You are a lying bitch, Amasia! Couldn’t you have at least tried?’
‘She’ll share the reward!’ tavern master Goodman shouted. ‘She knows who gives her bed and board!’ The man licked his lips and raised the lantern he carried. ‘Amasia is mine now, master scholar. She’ll have other duties from tonight.’ He walked forward, a long stabbing dirk in his hand. ‘Now you can take your belt off and come quietly or we’ll kill you. Dead or alive your head is worth the same.’ He nodded to the people behind him. ‘But the boys here say you were a good customer.’
Matthias undid his belt and let it drop. The mob closed in. He was kicked and punched. His hands were thrust behind his back, tied, and he was led in triumph through the taproom where he was pelted with bits of meat, and out into the dark alleyway beyond. He was cuffed and shoved through the streets, down Broad Place to the entrance of a huge, forbidding house with steel bars over its arrow slit windows, the Bocardo, the city prison.
Its gaoler took custody of Matthias, thrusting the tavern master and his gang back out of the gates, shouting they would have to apply to the Justices for the reward. Once they were gone, the gaoler and the turnkeys had their turn: a punch to the face, blows to the stomach. Matthias winced and groaned but held his tongue. He knew that scholars were the favourite prey of such men. He was then stripped of his boots, jerkin and wallet. Cold and beaten, Matthias was led through a maze of passageways, down rotting steps and into the dungeons beneath the house. An iron-barred, steel-covered door was thrown open and he was thrust inside.
The cell was dank, cold and smelt like a midden-heap; no windows, no furniture, whilst the straw and rushes on the floor were black and slimy: they sometimes moved and shifted as rats scurried across. The only light was a small grille in the door which gave a view back down the torch-lit gallery to where the gaoler sat behind a table.
Matthias cleared a space in the corner and crouched down, wrapping his arms round his chest. He tried to make sense of the day’s happenings. Santerre taking him to that tavern, the meeting with Rokesby, that beautiful, mysterious woman at the Golden Lyre. Matthias realised that it had been planned. On the one hand he resented Santerre but, on the other, knew that this being, whoever or whatever it was, had taken upon itself to protect him. Rokesby had been full of venom. It would only have been a matter of time before Matthias had been either attacked, beaten or even killed, or hauled before the Chancellor’s court to answer God knows what charges.
He dozed for a while. The passageway was quiet. The gaoler eventually brought in a mess of pottage to eat. He said Matthias was their only guest in the condemned felon’s row and did Matthias feel fortunate?
‘Can I have a candle?’ Matthias asked.
‘Of course you can.’ The gaoler’s sallow face creased into an ingratiating smile. ‘And perhaps some wine, some venison and a soft four-poster bed?’
The gaoler waddled off down the corridor, laughing to himself, shoulders shaking. He sat down on his chair.
‘This is not one of your halls, young sir!’ he yelled. He picked up a piece of parchment. ‘The Justices will sit tomorrow and then you’ll hang!’
Matthias went back to his thoughts. He knew he would not be missed at the University. Santerre had been his only friend. He refused even to contemplate dying on the gallows at Carfax, the crossroads at the centre of Oxford. Nevertheless, as the night drew on, despair bit into his soul. What hope could he have?
Just after dawn, one of the University proctors, a pasty-faced, sandy-haired young man, came down to visit him. The man was apparently terrified of the gaolers, so timid and nervous he bleated a few questions at Matthias and then scurried out. Matthias was given a piece of coarse rye bread and a stoup of brackish water. From his cell he could faintly hear the bells of the city and he reckoned it must have been just after nine when the gaoler and turnkeys took him out of his cell and pulled a hood over his head. He was hustled out of the Bocardo. Feet cut and scarred by the cobbles, Matthias was hoisted up and tossed like a sack into a cart. Jolted and bruised he was thrown about. Now and again he would strain his ears but all he could hear were the cries and shouts of the hawkers, the faint murmur of the crowd. Matthias closed his eyes and prayed. Not so much for life but that he wouldn’t end it slowly strangling at the end of a rope, being jeered and hooted by some mob in the market place.
At last the cart stopped. The mask was removed and he was bustled through the porch of St Mary’s church. The benches had been cleared from the nave: a large table set up before the rood screen, and behind this sat the three Justices. At a desk on either side of them were two scriveners. The crowds had been allowed in and people were flocking up the transepts to get a good view of the proceedings. Soldiers and bailiffs from the city were busy putting up a cordon of long pieces of white rope. Matthias had to wait for a while. The gaolers on either side of him whispered cold comfort, that the three Justices who would try him were not known for their mercy or tolerance. The sandy-haired proctor came up and offered his help. Matthias took one look at the watery eyes, dripping nose and slack mouth. He shook his head.
‘I’ll defend myself,’ he declared.
At last the court bellman walked up the nave tolling his bell.
‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’ he bawled. ‘All ye who have business before His Majesty’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer, sitting in the King’s city of Oxford, draw close!’
‘That’s you, my boy,’ the gaoler whispered.
One of the scriveners stood up. ‘Bring forward the prisoner!’
Matthias recalled the trial of the Preacher at Sutton Courteny. As he walked through the nave he looked at the crowd but saw little pity there. To them it was a mummers’ show and what happened to Matthias was of little interest. About three yards from the Justices’ bench the gaolers stopped. Matthias studied the men who were to try him for his life: cold, implacable merchants, dignitaries from the city. They would hold their commission directly from the King. The one on Matthias’ right looked as if he were asleep, head cradled in his hand; the Justice on his left was busy studying a document, a long piece of parchment. The principal Justice, white-haired, sharp-nosed, with eyes as hard as glass, looked Matthias from head to toe.
‘This should not take long,’ he began. ‘Your name?’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘How do you plead?’
‘How can I? I don’t know what I am accused of?’
This brought guffaws of laughter from the transept. All three Justices now moved in their throne-like chairs. Matthias knew that, whatever he said, they had already reached their verdict.
‘Are you,’ one of them called out, ‘a clerk in minor orders?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘So, you can’t plead benefit of clergy?’
Matthias shrugged.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, read out the indictment!’
One of the clerks stood up and in a loud voice began to read the charges. Matthias’ heart sank. Whoever had prepared the case had done so hastily and found the easiest way was to accuse Matthias of everything. Heavy reliance was placed on certain writings found in Rokesby’s chamber: Matthias Fitzosbert was a traitor, being a secret supporter of the usurper Richard III, later killed at Bosworth. He was a heretic, a sorcerer and an occultist, not accepting the authority and wisdom of Holy Mother Church. He was a conspirer, a leader of a secret coven, a felon and a murderer, responsible for not only the murder of John Rokesby, Master of Arts and lecturer in the city of Oxford, but also of Henri Santerre, student and scholar in the said university! At last the clerk finished. The Justice in the centre seat folded his hands and leant forward.
‘Well, Fitzosbert, now how do you plead?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘I did not kill Santerre.’
‘Does that mean you are guilty of the rest?’
‘I did not say that.’
‘You did not deny it.’
‘I deny everything.’
‘Dearie, dearie m
e!’
The Justice on Matthias’ left picked up a piece of parchment.
‘Is it true that you have read books on Lucifer and Satan, and have studied the trials of witches and warlocks?’
‘Yes, I have but. .’
‘And were you present when Master Rokesby was killed?’
‘Yes, yes, I was. .’ Matthias flailed his hands. ‘What is the use?’ he cried. He turned to the left and stared at the people thronging the transept. ‘I am innocent but I have been found guilty so why should I provide sport for others?’
The crowd fell silent. Matthias looked to the right: a movement caught his eye. A figure stepped out from behind one of the pillars: a woman muffled and cowled but the hood was pushed back for a few seconds. Matthias recognised the flame-red hair of Morgana. She moved away. Another face caught Matthias’ attention, a small, squat, square-jawed, clean-shaven man, his hair tonsured like that of a priest. He was dressed in a dark blue robe lined with squirrel fur. He was staring at Matthias differently from the rest, as if fascinated by what he saw. He, too, stepped back into the crowd.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert!’
He looked towards the Justices: all three now had a square of black silk covering their heads. Matthias went cold. He had heard how Henry Tudor was issuing commissions, allowing Justices to investigate, judge and sentence but he never knew that his case would be despatched with such alacrity.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert, are you listening to us?’ The Chief Justice spoke. ‘We have examined the evidence and we have heard what little defence you can offer. In our view the charges are proven. You are a traitor, a heretic and a murderer. We sentence you to be burnt to death at Carfax within the octave of this sentence being delivered!’
Matthias’ jaw dropped. To be burnt! To be lashed to that blackened stake. He recalled the hermit burning in Sutton Courteny. He closed his eyes and swayed. The gaolers held him fast.
‘God have mercy on your soul!’ the Justice added. ‘Take him away!’
13
Matthias was returned to the Bocardo. Being a condemned felon, he was loaded with chains before being thrown into the back of the cart. The sentence had been so harsh, even the hardened gaolers felt sorry for him.
‘If you can find some money,’ the chief gaoler declared, sharing a loaf of bread with him, ‘we’ll buy a bag of gunpowder and tie it round your neck. The heat then blows your throat apart and you die quicker, better that, than feeling your flesh bubble and your eyes turn to water.’
‘Or,’ his assistant added. ‘If you pay us, when the smoke gets really thick, one of us here can come through and strangle you.’
Matthias burst out laughing, throwing his head back he guffawed until the tears ran down his dirty face. The gaolers stared impassively. Such solemn looks on their villainous faces only made matters worse — Matthias found he couldn’t stop laughing. He realised how long it had been since he had laughed so heartily and so deeply.
‘I am sorry,’ he gasped, popping the rest of the bread into his mouth, ‘but here I am, gentlemen, about to die a horrible death for crimes I did not commit. The only comfort I am offered is a bag of gunpowder or a garrotte string. I do thank you,’ he added hastily seeing their annoyance. ‘I am very grateful.’ He stared at a point over their heads. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I will not die.’
‘Why?’ The turnkey became aggressive. He drew back, remembering that Matthias was supposed to have magical powers. ‘You don’t think you’ll get a pardon, do you? I doubt it.’
Matthias leant against the wall. ‘I agree, I don’t think I’ll get a pardon.’ He smiled at his gaolers. ‘But we’ll see.’
He later regretted his remarks. The chief gaoler was now deeply suspicious. Matthias was manacled and the gaoler kept the cell door open whilst sitting down at the end of the torch-lit passageway watching his prisoner intently. The chains fastened to his gyves were long and loose. Matthias was able to move round the cell and drive off the snouting, sleek-coated rats when they became too bold. Nevertheless, as one day passed into another, Matthias began to despair. He did his best to counter this by going back to his childhood and sweet memories of Christina and Osbert. However, it was the hermit who intruded into his thoughts: showing him the foxes; freeing the dove in the ruined church; riding back with him from Tewkesbury.
On the third evening after Matthias was sentenced the gaoler, perhaps to keep the prisoner subdued, was generous with the wine. Matthias slept, though his mind was plagued by nightmares. He was back in Tenebral, standing in the nave of the ruined church. The sky above was red, as if scored by the flames from a great fire. A group of men were riding up the path, their destriers black as night, heads and faces covered by chain-mail coifs. All around him came a loud chanting, as if an army were intoning the Dies Irae, the sequence from the Mass of the dead. The riders moved slowly, the banners they carried fluttering in the wind. Their leader, his face hidden behind a helmet on which a falcon stood, wings outstretched, stopped. He put his steel gauntlet on Matthias’ shoulder, squeezing it tightly; his other hand went to lift the visor. Matthias struggled to turn his face away. At the same time he wanted to cover his ears from the sombre chanting which was growing louder. He opened his eyes: the gaoler was shaking him vigorously, the torch he carried crackling, sending out acrid fumes.
‘Master Fitzosbert, oh Lord be thanked! I thought you were dead. You have a visitor. A priest has come to shrive you.’
Matthias struggled back against the wall and stared down the passageway. In the poor light he made out the man he had seen in St Mary’s church just before he had been sentenced.
‘Do you want a priest?’ the gaoler asked. He crouched down. ‘It can help. When it comes to being taken out, you’ll not be so fearful.’
The gaoler withdrew as the priest came into the cell. As he did so, he dropped a coin into the gaoler’s hand.
‘Lock the door,’ he muttered. ‘A man’s confession is between him and God.’
The door slammed shut, the key turned. The priest, despite his fine, woollen robes, sat down on the rushes next to Matthias.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ Matthias declared.
The priest stared coolly back. Matthias studied his visitor. A youngish man, his auburn hair was neatly tonsured. Close up, his face was not pleasant: the square jaw was offset by narrow, close-set eyes and a rather spiteful cast to the thin lips, as if the man disapproved of everything he saw and heard.
‘Father, are you really here to shrive me?’ Matthias asked. ‘And, if you are, how do I know you are a priest?’
‘My name is Richard Symonds. I am a priest of Oxford.’
The man undid his cloak, revealing his long, black cassock as well as a small silver cross on a copper chain round his neck. He opened the large pouch on his belt and drew out a letter. The turnkey had lit the cresset torch in the cell. Matthias, with a rattle of chains, studied the document carefully. It was a licence, signed and sealed by the Bishop of London, giving one Richard Symonds the faculty to preach, celebrate Mass and hear confessions in London and in the counties of Oxford and Berkshire.
‘You have a parish, Father?’
‘No, I am a tutor in Lord Audley’s household.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And you are right, I am not here to shrive you. I come to ask for your help.’
Matthias lifted his hands in a jangle of chains.
‘Father, I’m dirty, unshaven and, in about four days, I’m going to be burnt to death. How can I help you?’
‘I was at your trial. They said you were a Yorkist.’
‘They also said I was an assassin and a sorcerer.’
‘But you do have powers, don’t you?’
Symonds’ head came forward, his eyes gleaming, lips parted. Matthias wondered if the priest were not a little insane: something about the eyes, that slight tilt to the head. A secretive man, Matthias thought, constantly engaged in subtle schemes.
‘Father, if I had such powers, I wouldn’t be sitting
here.’
‘She said you’d be diffident.’
Matthias’ heart skipped a beat.
‘Who said that?’
‘Morgana. She approached me after the trial. She said you were a Yorkist, not a murderer, a man of great power.’
‘What do you propose?’ Matthias asked wearily. ‘And speak low, for the turnkey is very suspicious.’ He smiled weakly. ‘He thinks I’ll sprout wings and fly away.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s already searched me and is richer by two coins.’
Symonds edged a little closer. ‘I shall speak and speak quickly. Edward IV of blessed memory died three years ago. Two years later his brother Richard of Gloucester, having assumed the crown, was defeated at Market Bosworth, by Henry Tudor.’
‘And I understand George, Duke of Clarence, the third brother,’ Matthias added drily, ‘died rather mysteriously in the Tower. As did Edward IV’s two boys, the Princes. People said they were murdered by their Uncle Richard so that is the end of the House of York.’
‘I cannot speak for any of them,’ Symonds replied. ‘The fate of the Princes is a mystery but Henry Tudor is a usurper.’ He drew himself up, his eyes glittering: a fanatic, Matthias thought, a man obsessed with a cause.
‘The Yorkists are dead,’ Matthias declared. ‘And the power of Henry Tudor is more than manifest. You saw it at my trial.’
‘One Yorkist prince still lives,’ Symonds whispered dramatically. ‘Edward of Warwick, Clarence’s son.’
The doings of kings and princes did not interest Matthias but he tried to recall what Baron Sanguis had told him.
‘He’s in the Tower!’ Matthias exclaimed. ‘Warwick was kept prisoner by his Uncle Richard as well as Henry Tudor.’