‘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.
‘Ah no, not yet.’ Matthias drew his hand back. ‘Father, I intend to leave tomorrow morning just after dawn. I’d be grateful if you would inform the mayor, Port Reeve and bailiffs.’
The priest smiled.
‘I also want you to hire two of your burliest parishioners. They are to come well armed and ride behind me until I reach Rye.’
‘Agreed,’ Father Aidan slurred. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. So it’s dawn tomorrow! Make sure you are ready. I’ll bring some wine and chicken for you tonight. If you are going to walk, you’ll need all the strength God and man can give you.’
Once he left Matthias went back to the alcove. He packed his belongings and went through the contents of his saddlebag. He took out the scrap of parchment he had found at Barnwick covered in Rosamund’s handwriting. He held it to his face and kissed it, then put it inside a pocket of his jerkin. As he did, he noticed how soiled and dirty his clothes had become. He rubbed his unshaven cheek and chin.
‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘If you look like a cut-throat they might leave you alone.’
For a while he dozed, dreaming of Rosamund. When he awoke he felt she was close to him.
‘Stay with me!’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, don’t leave me!’
He went back to his saddlebag and found the piece of parchment Abbot Benedict had been working on. There was very little new. The old scholar had reached 1486: the words, ‘Santerre’, ‘Exeter Hall’ and ‘Amasia’ had all been deciphered in one long line. Then Abbot Benedict, as if he’d sensed death was close and realised Matthias needed this more than the past, had tried to jump. Matthias saw the name Rosamund. Abbot Benedict had got Barnwick wrong, as he had James Stewart’s name: each of these had a question mark beside them. Fitzgerald was translated ‘Fitzpatrick’. The other entries were even more vague. A mere collection of letters or words: Castile? Alhambra? Isabella? And a strange phrase: ‘Into the west to the “Beautiful Islands”.’ Matthias realised the old Abbot was anticipating his desire to travel to Spain. At the foot of the page Abbot Benedict had written a series of dates with numbers in brackets beside them: ‘1471 (7)? 1478 (14)? 1486 (21)? 1492 (28)?’ Matthias sat back and stared up at the glittering red sanctuary lamp.
‘What do these mean?’ he murmured.
Of course, he concluded: when he had been at Oxford he had learnt that seven was a sacred number. It was also agreed that seven, and its multiples, be regarded as decisive stages in a man’s life. At the age of seven, a child reached the age of reason, according to the theologians. At fourteen a boy was regarded as a young man: at twenty-one a full adult.
Matthias got to his feet. ‘I was just past my seventh birthday when I met the hermit,’ he murmured. ‘I was fourteen when I was sent to the abbey school. I was past twenty-one when my troubles began in Oxford.’
Matthias paused in his pacing. Now he was in his twenty-eighth year. He recalled the date: mid-July 1491. In February 1492 he’d pass his twenty-eighth birthday. Would this be a decisive time? Would the Rose Demon show his hand? But where? How?
After a while Matthias gave up this speculation and returned to planning what would happen tomorrow. Father Aidan came back with some food. He told Matthias that the Port Reeve had agreed to be here at dawn the following morning whilst two parishioners, in return for another piece of silver, could be persuaded to escort Matthias to Rye.
The following morning, when the church was still dark, Father Aidan escorted Matthias down on to the front porch of the church. The Port Reeve was standing on the steps. A short distance away two burly parishioners sat on tired-looking hacks. Between them stood Matthias’ horse, saddled and harnessed. Father Aidan took his baggage down to this. The Port Reeve stuck a crude crucifix and a small scroll of parchment into Matthias’ hand and gabbled through a proclamation.
‘You, Matthias Fitzosbert, are to journey by foot to the nearest town, the port of Rye. You are not to leave the King’s highway. You are safe from malicious attack provided you do not. You are to carry the crucifix at all times. You are to be in Rye, whatever the weather, within five days. You are to declare yourself to the Port Reeve, show him the enclosed proclamation and be on board ship within three days. You are never to return to England without a royal pardon. If you do, you will suffer summary execution. Given at Rye on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, the twenty-second of July 1491.’
The Port Reeve shoved Matthias down the steps.
‘Now piss off!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t come back!’
Matthias, despite such rough handling, shouted his farewell and thanks to Father Aidan. The priest lifted his hand in blessing and Matthias walked off, across the market square and down the narrow thoroughfare to the town gates. Everything was quiet. The sun was beginning to rise but the market horn hadn’t been sounded: the houses he passed were shuttered and silent. Here and there a dog barked, beggars and whores scuttled in the shadows. A sleepy-eyed guard opened the gates and, within the hour, Matthias was in the open countryside. Behind him his two guardian angels, coarse-featured, rough-voiced men, trotted slowly, fighting hard to control Matthias’ horse.
Matthias walked purposefully. He was glad to be free of the church. The day was a fine one. Birds swooped and warbled above him; on either side fields of golden wheat stretched to the far horizon. By mid-morning Matthias was tired and hungry. He and his guards paused to drink from a small brook and eat some of the bread and cheese Father Aidan had supplied. The two men were very taciturn, uneasy at what they were doing but their mood and faces brightened when Matthias promised them a shilling as soon as they reached Rye. They continued on their journey. One of the guards was hopeful that they could be in Rye that same day and Matthias agreed. The sky was blue, the sun strong, the trackway underfoot made easy going. Matthias thanked God it was summer, for heavy rains turned such trackways into mud-clogging morasses.
Matthias kept up a vigorous walk. As he did so, he tried not to concentrate on the aches in his legs and the dryness in his throat. He thought of Rosamund and the day they went out to the Roman wall: so short a time ago, yet, to Matthias, it seemed an eternity away. He felt a flurry of excitement at leaving England and being free of people who wanted to use him. Once again he recalled his mood before the battle of East Stoke, not frightened or fearful, but waiting. He was not frightened of death. Life was so bitter, what further horrors could it hold for him? He wondered if a time would come when the Rose Demon might leave him alone? Would he be allowed to live a normal life and, if he did, what should he be? Clerk or soldier? Merchant or scholar? Would he ever meet another woman? No one would ever replace Rosamund but life could be lonely and Matthias was tired of being by himself.
They forded a small river, Matthias stopping to bathe his hands and face in the clear water. The countryside then changed, the fields giving way to dark woods on either side. The sunlight was blocked out, the birdsong not so clear, yet Matthias was glad for the coolness. He wondered if they really would be in Rye by nightfall. He walked deeper into the forest, admiring how the sunlight showed up the different shades of green. He stopped to pluck a wild rose growing on the edge of the path. He heard a whirr like the flight of some bird, followed by a cry. He turned round to see both his guards fall from their horses, clutching at the arrows in their chests. Dark shapes slipped from the trees. Before Matthias could even move, these figures drew knives, quickly slitting his guards’ throats. Matthias whirled round. Other men, hooded and masked, crept on to the path, forming a ring around him. Matthias held his cross up though he knew the gesture was futile: it was struck from his hand. He was bundled on to his horse and led under the spreading branches of an oak tree. He struggled but his hands were bound behind him. A horseman rode up, his eyes glittering behind his mask.
‘Guilty of Emloe’s death!’ he rasped. ‘You’ll die the way you should!’
