Parson Fitzosbert seized his son’s hand and led him down the stone-paved passageway into the small parlour. Matthias’ courage began to ebb. Oh, he was pleased to be home. The straw on the passageway floor was crisp and clean, sprinkled with fennel and rosemary. Small rushlights burnt in their shiny metal holders. The parlour was warm and inviting. Oil lamps hung from the great beam which ran down the length of the chamber. A fire leapt in the great hearth and the cauldron, hanging up on a hook above it, gave off the fragrant smell of freshly cooked meat.
Christina, his mother, was sitting at her spinning wheel under the light of a lantern. She looked busy but Matthias saw her face was still white, dark rings round those lustrous eyes. She put down the spindle and held out her hands. Matthias ran to her, snuggling his face deep into her woollen dress, savouring her lovely smell, a mixture of cooking, sweat and the fragrant herb water Christina always used to wash herself. Her fingers, long and cool, stroked his hot cheeks.
‘I was worried, Matthias, so very, very worried.’
Christina let him go and he stood up to face his father. Parson Osbert stared sadly down at him. Matthias abruptly realised how his father was beginning to age. Folds of skin hung loose on his neck; his cheeks looked a little sunken, those gentle eyes now lined with care.
‘Now you are home, Matthias, perhaps we can eat!’
He caught the reproof in his mother’s words and stammered an apology. He was only too pleased to be caught up in the preparations for the evening meal. He washed his hands in the water tub which stood outside the buttery. He then set the wooden pegged table with trenchers, knives, horn spoons, pewter mugs and the large jugs of strong ale drained from the barrel, a cloth cover tied round the rim, which stood on a small stool beneath the window.
His father muttered something about going to the church, and left.
Christina opened the small cupboard built next to the fire and brought out a tray of freshly baked manchet loaves, which filled the parlour with a spicy smell. She rolled these in a linen napkin and put them on the table, then went to sit at the fireplace, stirring the stew with a ladle. Matthias, all his tasks done, sat at the table and looked mournfully at her.
‘You’ve been out to Tenebral, haven’t you, to see the hermit?’
Matthias nodded.
‘Your father was worried,’ she continued, and she pointed to the hour candle where it burnt in its niche. ‘One more ring and he’d have had to go down to the Hungry Man for help.’ She turned, ladle in her hands. ‘He was very worried,’ she insisted. ‘There are soldiers in the area, mercenaries, wolves in human clothing.’
‘I was safe,’ Matthias stammered. He was shrewd enough not to fuel his mother’s fears.
‘And the hermit?’ she asked softly, turning her back on him.
‘He was very kind.’ Matthias had long learnt that to tell his parents what they wanted to hear was the best way to calm their anxieties. ‘He showed me flowers.’
‘Did he talk about the rose?’ Christina grew rigid. She stopped stirring the cauldron.
‘What’s this about a rose?’ His father came into the kitchen. He took off his boots and tossed them into a corner. Neither Christina nor Matthias answered. ‘The church is all locked up.’ Parson Osbert smiled and clapped his hands. ‘And no lovers lie in the cemetery’s long grass. God’s acre, as I keep telling my parishioners, is for those buried in the peace of Christ, not for wanton lust.’
On any other occasion this would have been the signal for Christina to quip back but tonight she remained silent. The parson’s smile faded.
‘Let’s eat. Matthias, tell me what you did today.’
Once the benediction was said, Matthias was only too happy to fill the silence with his chatter, especially about the foxes. He mentioned nothing about the rose or the hermit’s sayings and, bearing in mind what was going to happen tomorrow, certainly nothing about the two soldiers who had accosted him in the wood.
‘Can I go back tomorrow?’
His mother dropped her spoon. She smiled apologetically and picked it up.
‘Please, can I go back tomorrow?’ Matthias persisted.
‘Why?’ His father asked.
‘The hermit is going to show me a kingfisher.’
Matthias blinked to keep back the tears. He was lying to this gentle man who was his father, and to his mother who looked so careworn. He fought the guilt, the lies slipped so smoothly from his tongue. He had to go. But how could he tell them the truth? It would only hurt them.
‘No, you can’t.’ His father wiped his bowl with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. ‘It’s dangerous.’ He grasped his son’s hand, continuing in a rush, ‘A journeyman has told us the news. Queen Margaret and her army are in full retreat along the Severn. The King and his forces are hurrying behind, breathing threats and slaughter. God knows what will happen when the armies meet!’
Matthias was about to protest, lie again that he would go nowhere near the battle, but found he could not do that.
‘Let the boy go.’ Christina raised her head and stared across the table. ‘Let the boy go,’ she repeated.
Matthias noticed how her face was even paler than before, those generous lips now one thin line. Her eyes looked dull.
‘He’ll be safe,’ she said. She got up from the table and began to collect their pewter bowls. ‘The hermit’s a soldier, isn’t he? Or was one. Now he’s a man of God. He’ll keep the boy safe.’ Her voice was devoid of any emotion.
Matthias noticed how she kept her back to him whilst she spoke. His father released his hand and leant across.
‘So, you can go,’ he whispered. ‘But you are to be back before dark.’
Matthias, pleased that he had obtained his father’s permission, fairly skipped down from the table. Determined to put things right by being as helpful as he could, he took the rest of the pots into the buttery, swept the floor round the table, arranging everything as it should be. His mother came over and, crouching down, caught him in her arms. She held him close, speaking over his shoulder to his father who sat at the table, his Book of Hours in his hands.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said softly. ‘I feel tired.’ She kissed Matthias again, then her husband on the brow, and left the room.
Once she had gone, Matthias sat on a stool, all his gaiety seeming to have drained away. The fire looked weak, the light of the candles and oils mere splutterings whilst his father, eyes closed, lost in his own devotions, was distant, rather cold.
‘What is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias asked.
Parson Osbert opened his eyes. He sighed and put the Book of Hours down.
‘I don’t know.’ He paused, half-cocking his head for sounds from their chamber above. ‘I don’t know, Matthias. When I came here I was a young priest.’ He ran his hand across the smoothness of the table. ‘The day I climbed the pulpit to give my first sermon I saw her sitting beneath me. She is beautiful, Matthias, but, on that morning, with the sunlight streaming through the window and catching her face, I thought she was an angel.’ He beckoned his son across and grasped him by the wrists. ‘As you grow older, Matthias, you will hear whispers in the village. I am a priest. I was not to become handfast and what I did is condemned by the Church. I live with a woman but, God be my witness,’ his eyes filled with tears, ‘I love her more than life itself and I would leave Heaven for Hell to find her there.’
‘But what is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias found he couldn’t stop trembling. ‘Is she sickening?’
‘I don’t know.’ His father rubbed his eyes. ‘Sometimes she wonders if we did wrong. Whether this place is accursed.’
He smiled wanly and pointed across to a small aperture built below the window. Inside it was a yellowing, aged skull. Nobody knew why it was there. The priest’s house had stood since the reign of the first Edward, almost two hundred years ago. The skull had been built into the brickwork: all Matthias could ever see were the teeth, face bones and dark holes where the eyes had been. Parson Osbert chewed his lip. Christina had strange fancies. She now believed the skull was a source of evil. He had remonstrated with her, explaining that, from the little he knew, the skull was really a sacred relic, the remains of a priest who had been killed here many centuries ago by marauding Danes.
