the marks of recent battle. They shouted questions, jabbing their fingers at the fallen Duke. Somerset just shook his head. Gloucester, his pale, pinched face framed by red hair, sprang to his feet, screaming how the Beauforts were responsible for the death of his father. Somerset brought his head back, hawked and spat, the globule of phlegm hitting Gloucester on his cheek. Gloucester bent down and picked up one of the captured standards of Margaret of Anjou and wiped his face. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. The soldiers hustled Somerset away, up the steps to the scaffold. He refused the blindfold offered by the executioner, lay down and placed his head on the block.
Sir Raymond saw the axe lifting, a flash of sunlight, the blade fell with a thud. He looked away as the executioner picked up the head and showed it to the cheering crowd. Other trials followed. Some prisoners pleaded for mercy and were taken away. Others, Sir Raymond noticed with wry amusement, were greeted as long-lost friends, their bonds cut, and he realised there had been traitors in the Lancastrian ranks. A few, like Somerset, refused to bend the knee and the scaffold behind the makeshift court dripped with blood.
Eventually his turn came. His arms pinioned by two archers, he was pushed up against a table and stared into the catlike eyes of Richard of Gloucester. The Duke’s prim lips formed a thin, bloodless line; his face bore cuts whilst his right hand was swathed in bandages.
‘A Hospitaller.’ John of Norfolk lounged in his chair. He scratched a blood-veined, red cheek, his blue, watery eyes staring contemptuously at Sir Raymond. ‘What’s a Hospitaller doing amongst the forces of Lancaster?’
‘What’s a farmer from Norfolk doing amongst those of York?’ Raymond retorted.
Norfolk sat straight in his chair. He took his dagger from his belt and dug into the green baize cloth.
‘You are in no position to taunt, Hospitaller.’
‘What position is that?’ Sir Raymond replied.
‘Come, come, come!’ Richard of Gloucester forced a smile. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, is it not? You’ll bend the knee and accept the King’s pardon?’
‘From now on,’ Sir Raymond replied slowly, ‘I’ll bend the knee to neither York nor Lancaster. A curse on both your houses!’
‘You want to die?’ Norfolk jibed.
Sir Raymond smiled. ‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘Why?’ Gloucester asked curiously.
‘I broke my vow,’ the Hospitaller replied, staring up at the executioner. ‘I broke my vow to a prince better than you, to my superiors, to my God. I have failed. I deserve to die. I can do no more!’
Richard of Gloucester sat back in his chair and flinched at the hostility in the Hospitaller’s gaze.
‘You and your sort,’ Sir Raymond added softly, ‘are soon for the dark. You squabble about the fold whilst the sheep are ravished by wolves.’
‘Enough!’ Gloucester banged on the table with his fist. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, you are a traitor taken in arms against the King. You have offered nothing in your defence.’ His face lost some of its hardness. ‘God knows why you want to die but, God knows, I will not stop you. Take him away!’
Sir Raymond was hustled up the steps of the scaffold. It was higher than he had thought and, above the crowds, he could catch the breeze coming in from the meadows. He gazed up at the sky.
‘It will be a beautiful evening,’ he murmured as the executioner forced him down on his knees.
Sir Raymond closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. He heard his name called. He looked up and stared into the crowd. The hermit was standing in the front row, staring across at the scaffold, beside him the boy whom Sir Raymond had only glimpsed in the shadows. The hermit had his hand on the lad’s shoulder. Sir Raymond stared at him and felt the sweat break out on his body.
‘It cannot be!’ he whispered.
‘It is,’ the executioner replied.
He forced the condemned man to lie down. Sir Raymond closed his eyes but all he could see was the hermit’s face and that of the young boy. He heard a roar and the axe fell.
‘Why did you take me there?’ Matthias twisted round in the saddle and stared up into the hermit’s face.
‘I told you, I had to see someone before he died.’
‘But how did you know he would be in Tewkesbury, in the cathedral? Are you like the crone Margot? Can you see into the future?’
The hermit laughed, a merry chuckle deep in his chest, and he gently stroked Matthias’ hair.
‘Creatura, Creatura, I would love to tell you that I can see the future and all its glory as well as what present you will receive on your birthing day.’ His voice became grave. ‘But that’s not true. Margaret of Anjou was doomed to lose. The House of York is strong as long as Edward its prince rules but, there again, that might not be as long as they think. I knew the Lancastrians would lose the battle and, if they did, though it was foolish to fight, they would have nowhere to flee for sanctuary but the abbey. So I went there to wait.’
Matthias closed his eyes. He would never forget today. He would not dare tell his parents what he had seen. That terrible bloody fight up the nave, men hacking and screaming at each other. And then the executions, though he had seen men die before; poachers and outlaws jerking and dangling on Baron Sanguis’ gallows, but nothing as bloody as that!
‘I know what you are going to ask me, Creatura,’ the hermit said, guiding his horse along the woodland path. ‘Why did you have to see it? But that’s the nature of life. Struggling, fighting, dying. In the trees around us, life struggles for existence. The death of one animal is the life of another. The world of man is no different.’
‘And will you take me to Tenebral now?’
‘No, not tonight. You were home late yesterday; that must not happen again. Will you tell your parents what you have seen?’
Matthias shook his head.
‘I suppose it’s best,’ the hermit replied drily.
‘And who was that man?’ Matthias asked. ‘The one you were talking to, who later died?’
‘Someone I knew from my past,’ the hermit retorted. ‘I had to say farewell before his end.’ The hermit pointed further up the forest path. ‘Look!’
Matthias peered down the long tunnel formed by the overhanging trees and glimpsed a small wayside tavern built of wood and wattle. Two horses stood tied to a post outside.
‘We’ll stop there,’ the hermit said. ‘A tankard of ale, something to drink. Would you like a sweetmeat, Matthias?’
The boy immediately forgot about Tewkesbury and clapped his hands. When they reached the tavern, the hermit lowered him gently from the saddle and told him to sit on the bench. He dismounted and tied the horse, then walked into the little taproom. He came out a short while later carrying a small trencher of sweetened bread baked in honey and a delicious drink of herbs mixed with watered ale. He placed these on to Matthias’ lap.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I will not be long.’
The hermit went back inside. Matthias leaned against the wall of the tavern and slowly chewed on the honey-drenched morsels. He sipped at the pewter cup, staring across the trackway, watching the squirrels scramble up the trunks of trees whilst, above them, a magpie chattered noisily. The sun was still warm. Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy but, curious why the hermit had not returned, he put the trencher down and stared through the unshuttered window.
The taproom was gloomy but, as Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed, he saw the hermit. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, his back to him, talking to two people. One looked like a monk, cowled and hooded. The other was a beautiful young woman, the fairest Matthias had seen. She had lustrous, flaming red hair. Large earrings glittered in the darkness, a gleaming necklace hung round the swanlike neck. She was whispering earnestly to the hermit. Now and again the woman would pause and lean across to her hooded companion as if to ask for confirmation. The hooded one would simply nod. She said something to the hermit, who laughed. She turned and saw Matthias staring at her through the window. She raised her hand prettily. Matthias blushed, looked away and returned to his sweetmeats. After a short while the hermit came out and, without a word, untethered his horse and lifted Matthias into the saddle. They left the tavern.
‘Before you ask, Creatura,’ the hermit laughingly teased, ‘they are friends I know.’
‘Who was the woman?’
‘Her name is Morgana. She is part-English, part-Spanish.’
