by Paul Doherty
Later that day Matthias was woken by a rap on the door. Brother Paul pushed through the usual tray of bread and water followed by a second one, a bowl of diced meat, hot and covered with a rich, thick sauce, bread, a small jug of wine and marzipan chopped up and wrapped in a linen cloth. Matthias ate ravenously. He felt better, though the panic returned. How long would this go on? If Jerome was so powerful, so malicious, Brother Paul might soon be taken care of. Matthias did not want to die a lingering death or writhe in agony from some deadly poison.
On the following morning, therefore, he was surprised when the door was flung open. Brother Paul and two others came into the prison house. One of them carried Matthias’ belongings in a heap: clothes, saddlebag and war belt. These were piled just within the doorway. Brother Paul pushed a small purse of coins into his hands. Looking through the doorway, Matthias glimpsed his horse all saddled and harnessed.
‘You are to go now, Matthias,’ the guestmaster declared. ‘God’s judgment has been made known.’
Matthias stared back in puzzlement.
‘Prior Jerome had an accident this morning.’ One of the other monks spoke up. ‘He climbed the tower of the abbey church and, coming down, slipped and broke his neck.’
‘The brothers consider this God’s judgment,’ Brother Paul declared. ‘Prior Jerome’s accusations against you are false yet the brothers do not wish you to stay. You are to leave immediately. Don’t worry,’ he pointed to the saddlebags, ‘I found the parchments you asked for in Abbot Benedict’s room. You will find everything in order. Now, you must be gone. Some of the older brothers wish to bring in the sheriff.’ He looked back through the doorway. ‘Three deaths in one week, all in mysterious circumstances.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder. ‘The sheriff might detain you till he knows more about your past, Matthias. So, it’s best if you go now.’
Matthias hurriedly changed. Brother Paul helped him put his belongings into a bundle tied with some cord. These and other possessions were fastened securely to his saddle.
Matthias clasped the guestmaster’s hand.
‘I cannot thank you enough, Brother Paul.’
‘Yes you can.’ The guestmaster smiled back. ‘Four of the lay brothers are to take you on to whatever road you wish.’ He raised his hand. ‘Au revoir, Matthias.’
A short while later, escorted by four burly lay brothers, Matthias left the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s. He felt tired and depleted, not sure of what to do. When he came to the crossroads, the lay brothers stopped and looked expectantly up at him.
‘Rye or Winchelsea?’ one of them asked.
Matthias recalled Brother Paul’s warnings about people asking about him in Rye so he turned his horse towards the Winchelsea road.
‘Oh.’ The lay brother proffered a small, sealed parchment. ‘Brother Paul asked us to give you that. You are to go now,’ he added flatly, ‘and we are to make sure you never come back.’
‘Of that,’ Matthias declared, ‘there is no worry.’
And, digging in his spurs, Matthias cantered along the lonely trackway which wound through fields of ripening corn towards Winchelsea. When he was out of sight he reined in. He ate some of the food and drank a little of the wine he’d been given, then opened the guestmaster’s letter.
Brother Paul to Matthias Fitzosbert, greetings. I have not long to live. My body decays. Take the writings from Tenebral. They have little import. They were my memorial to you, Creatura bona atque parva. Brother Paul.
Matthias folded the manuscript and stared up at a bird wheeling in the blue sky.
‘When?’ he murmured. ‘When did the Rose Demon come?’ Matthias smiled to himself. Of course, he reasoned, now he understood Brother Paul’s bold defiance of Prior Jerome: his stalwart defence, the bringing of food and, of course, Prior Jerome’s fall. Matthias realised it was no accident. The steps up the tower of the abbey church were steep and sharp-edged. If a man was pushed, he would find it difficult to keep his balance. Such a fall would shatter bone and sinew, as it did for Prior Jerome.
Matthias put the parchment away and continued on his journey.
He arrived in Winchelsea late that evening. Even before he entered the town he caught the salty tang of the sea, the smell of fish mixed with tar. A prosperous place, Winchelsea, with its winding alleys and streets, was a thriving port; the best place, Matthias reasoned, for a man to lose himself. He stabled his horse and took a chamber at the Cog of War inn just within the town walls. He was well supplied with silver and began to plan for the future.
He felt safe enough, and spent the first week wandering the town. He became interested in the different companies of soldiers, wearing no particular insignia, who camped out on the open commons beyond the city walls. One night he went and wandered through the campsites. One banner caught his attention: a golden angel, on a blue background, a shield in one hand, a sword in the other. Matthias, intrigued, drew closer to study it.
‘Why the interest, sir?’ A figure came out of the darkness.
The standard was set well away from where a group of men squatted round the fire: one of them was idly turning a spit. The air was rich with the sweet smell of roasting rabbit.
‘The insignia interested me,’ Matthias replied.
‘I chose it myself,’ the man said proudly. ‘St Raphael.’ He stretched a hand out. ‘My name is Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. I am from Totton in Yorkshire.’
Matthias shook his hand. Ratcliffe was a young man with a strong, boyish face which he tried to hide by growing a luxurious moustache and beard. He was dressed in a leather tunic open at the collar. Beneath this were military black hose pushed into leather riding boots on which spurs clinked merrily.
‘There are many such companies,’ Matthias declared.
‘Aye.’ Ratcliffe scratched his close-cropped head. ‘It’s a miracle how a good idea seems to appeal to so many people.’ Ratcliffe played with his leather wrist brace and laughed to himself. ‘I am the second son of a second son.’ He gazed up at the banner now fluttering bravely in the evening breeze. ‘There are no more wars. What’s your name?’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘There are no more wars,’ Ratcliffe repeated. ‘King Henry is desirous of keeping the peace with everyone. The Turks now control Constantinople and Jerusalem, so it’s Spain for the likes of us.’
‘Spain?’ Matthias asked.
At St Wilfrid’s he’d heard the gossip of how the Tudor King was growing closer to this powerful kingdom and their warlike king and queen; Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile dreamt of uniting their kingdom which, if realised, would turn Spain into the greatest power in Europe.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Ratcliffe asked. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’
‘In a monastery,’ Matthias replied. ‘And I’m not joking.’
Ratcliffe looked up at the banner, an adoring look on his face.
‘It’s the last crusade, Matthias! Ferdinand and Isabella have collected a huge army and moved south to besiege Granada. If that falls, the Moors will be driven from Spain for ever. I have raised the company of St Raphael.’ He turned back and pointed to the campfire. ‘Twenty mounted men, ten hobelors and the same number of archers, though God knows where those idle buggers have gone. Probably drinking their wages in the nearest tavern.’ Ratcliffe poked Matthias in the chest. ‘You look like a fighting man. I can tell that from your chest and arms. The pay is not good, a shilling a quarter but there’ll be food, comradeship and fair shares of any plunder taken.’ He held out his hand again. ‘Well?’
Matthias shook it and laughed. ‘Sir Edgar, if I decided to go to Spain then it would be with you under the banner of St Raphael. Yes.’ He looked up at the standard. ‘That would be rather fitting: protection from one of God’s great archangels!’
He walked away even as Sir Edgar shouted that they would tarry here a while until all were assembled and then leave for Rye. Matthias raised his hand in acknowledgment and walked slowly back to the tavern. The
prospect of fighting with a company of St Raphael, of going to Spain, appealed to him. Such a venture would be godly and take him away from a country where he was no longer welcome. Tewkesbury, Gloucester, Sutton Courteny, Oxford were all closed to him. He doubted if Dame Emma was still alive and he was not too sure of what reception the Hospitallers would give him. He stopped beneath the creaking tavern sign. Emloe and his gang would be waiting for him in London, even elsewhere. Yes, he’d be party to a crusade, to fight for Church and the Cross, whilst Ratcliffe looked a worthy man. Matthias was tired of his own loneliness.
He walked through the inn yard and up the stairs to his chamber. He opened the door and unseen hands pushed him deeper into the room. The door was slammed and bolted behind him. A tinder scraped, candles were lit. Matthias’ hand went to his dagger.
‘Don’t! Just stand there!’
The room was full of shadowy figures. Emloe stepped forward, pulling back his cowl, his arms pushed up the sleeves of his gown, his cadaverous face smiling and welcoming.
‘Matthias! We have waited many a week!’
Matthias stared round: there were at least six of them, two were carrying crossbows. He caught the glint of naked steel and heard the clink of chain mail.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Matthias, we have had people waiting at the ports for many a month. You know I have a finger in many pies, take a deep interest in what comes in and out of our kingdom. You weren’t at Winchelsea an hour before a messenger was speeding to London.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Matthias, must I spell it out as if you are a child? That night in my secret chamber.’ Emloe stepped closer. ‘Never have I seen such power, such a manifestation.’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘True, the house was burnt but nothing that cannot be replaced. You, however, Matthias, cannot be replaced. You are more precious to me than the costliest silk or rarest diamonds.’ Emloe’s voice took on a more mocking tone. ‘And we looked for you, here and there. What happened to my riders? Sent into deepest Gloucestershire, they were! It was months before I discovered their rotting corpses round that church!’ Emloe’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘What happened, Matthias? Did you release the power?’ He wagged a finger. ‘Then back and forth to the Hospitallers at Clerkenwell. Tush! Tush! We dare not seize you there.’ He spread his hands. ‘The good knights cannot be bribed and bought. They have a tendency to smite first and ask afterwards.’
Matthias pulled his cloak around him and glared at Emloe. He was not afraid, just angry, seething with fury. Emloe and the rest — James of Scotland, Fitzgerald, Prior Jerome, men who would not leave him alone — and now what? Trussed and bound, taken back like a puppet to London? Matthias’ hand went to the second dagger he wore strapped close to his belt. He slipped this easily from its pouch. Emloe was revelling in his good fortune.
‘So, what is it to be, Matthias? A knock on the head and bundled into some cart? Come back to London! Live like a lord! Wine, gold, any wench you want! A house? Favour at court?’ He waggled a finger. ‘I’ve been a good detective, Matthias. There are still warrants out for your arrest! That business at Oxford, and your name was among the list of rebels captured at East Stoke. And what happened at Barnwick? Who did let the Scots into that castle?’
Matthias idly wondered if this was the confrontation Dame Emma had spoken of. Was the Rose Demon here? Emloe smirked, lording it over him.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Matthias declared. ‘You want to see the power, Master Emloe?’
The warlock nodded.
‘You wish to see the demons rise? So you shall, and here’s my hand on it.’
Matthias stepped forward. As he did so, his hand came up, and before Emloe could even move Matthias struck the dagger deep, turning it into the man’s stomach. He pulled Emloe close, pushing in the dagger with all his strength.
‘Go down,’ he whispered. ‘And meet the demons!’
Matthias threw Emloe, gagging and choking on his own blood, to the floor.
Figures came out of the darkness but Matthias knocked them aside. He reached the door, fingers pulling at the bolts. Then he was out, racing down the stairs.
‘Murder!’
A scullion coming up the stairs was knocked sideways.
‘Stop him!’ a voice shouted. ‘Murder!’
By the time Matthias reached the cobbled yard, he could hear the shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’, the usual call when the hue and cry were being raised. Matthias raced along the alleyway. At the bottom he stopped and turned. His heart sank. He could see pinpricks of torchlight, people shouting, hurrying towards him. He thought of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe but realised the camp was too far away. He ran on into the marketplace and through the open door of a darkened church.
30
Matthias slammed the church door behind him and stared around. Torches glowed in their iron clasps on the pillars: candles and oil lamps dotted the darkness before statues in the side chapels. Matthias heard the cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ draw nearer. He pushed close the bolts of the door and walked swiftly up the nave into the sanctuary. He had hardly reached it when a small, balding man, dressed in a priest’s gown, came running through a side door. He lifted his spluttering torch and stared at Matthias.
‘What is it you want, young man?’
Matthias grasped the side of the altar.
‘My name is Matthias Fitzosbert, clerk. I demand sanctuary of Holy Mother Church!’
The priest sighed and lowered the torch.
‘Oh, not here!’
Matthias took a silver coin out of his purse.
‘Father, you know the law as do I. I demand sanctuary.’
The priest’s demeanour changed at the sight of the silver. He pocketed it quickly.
‘You can sleep over there,’ he declared, pointing to a shadowy alcove. ‘I’ll bring you some food, wine and blankets.’ He scratched his pock-marked nose. ‘You say you know the law but so do I. The mayor and bailiffs will come here. You can either surrender to them and stand trial,’ he paused, ‘or stay here forty days and ask to be exiled. Now, what is your crime, murder?’
Matthias nodded.
‘Yes, it always is,’ the priest sighed. ‘And you are going to tell me it was in self-defence.’
‘I did not want the man’s death.’
‘Well,’ the priest stretched out his hand, ‘my name is Father Aidan. The sanctuary is yours.’ He pointed to a side door. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t urinate or relieve yourself in here. There’s a small latrine outside fed by an underground brook. Remember this is God’s House and the Gate of Heaven. Keep it clean.’
‘Oh, Father?’
The priest turned round. Matthias held out a second silver piece. ‘There’s another one of these, Father, on two conditions. First, would you collect my baggage from the Cog of War tavern? They won’t refuse to hand it over to a priest.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t want any accidents happening to me,’ Matthias declared. ‘No one slipping in and out of the church.’
‘They wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh yes they would, Father. These men fear neither God nor man. I killed their leader.’
‘Very well.’ Father Aidan pointed down the church. ‘When I say Mass the front porch will be open, but after I’m gone you can bolt both doors from the inside.’ He took the silver coin. ‘You and your possessions will be safe.’ He paused as he heard the hubbub outside. ‘I’ll just remind our assembled brethren about the law of sanctuary. If they break it they are excommunicated.’ He waved his hand. ‘I know, I know. I heard what you said. They fear neither God nor man, but if they break into my church and commit violence, they’ll do a merry jig on the town’s gallows!’
Father Aidan may have been a mercenary priest but he was true to his word: the crowd assembled outside soon dispersed. He brought the rest of Matthias’ belongings from the Cog of War and made his uninvited guest as comfortable as possible.
The next morni
ng, just after Mass, the mayor and bailiff arrived. They stood in the mouth of the rood screen while the town clerk recited in a rushed monotonous fashion Matthias’ rights. When he had finished, the Port Reeve stepped forward.
‘You murdered a man at the Cog of War. I know, I know,’ he raised his voice, ‘it was self-defence but there’s a whole host of witnesses say it wasn’t. So, you’ve got a choice, my murdering lad! You can surrender to us and, if you do, you’ll probably hang, or you can take an oath to leave the country by the nearest port. Now, in normal circumstances, that would be here in Winchelsea but I reckon that’s too close to be a fitting punishment,’ he continued sonorously. ‘So, for you, my bucko, it’s Rye. You can’t take a horse. You’ll have to walk there. You must carry a cross we give you. If you leave the King’s highway, you can be slain on the spot.’ He shrugged. ‘Though the friends of the man you killed will probably take care of that anyway!’
‘I know I can’t ride a horse,’ Mathias retorted, ‘but the law doesn’t say I can’t lead one.’
The Port Reeve stared back, brow puckered at this fine point of law.
‘Ah well, who gives a sod? Your horse and saddle are yours.’
The officials left. Matthias sat in the alcove and wondered what to do. He was determined not to wait for forty days before making his move. Father Aidan might be trustworthy but the longer he stayed, the more time Emloe’s gang had to plot and collect reinforcements. He recalled Sir Edgar Ratcliffe marching to Rye and made his decision. He rang the small handbell Father Aidan had given him. After a short while the priest, much the worse for wear by drink and still chewing on a chicken leg, knocked on the side door. Matthias let him in. The priest’s eyes glittered as Matthias held up another silver coin. He threw the chicken leg out of the door when a second coin appeared.