‘She’s beautiful.’ Matthias chattered on. ‘She’s like a princess I saw. It was in a Book of Hours Baron Sanguis loaned Father. A beautiful princess being attacked by a savage dragon. She was defended by a brave knight.’
‘And am I the dragon?’ the hermit asked.
‘No,’ Matthias replied. He leant back against the hermit’s chest. ‘You are the knight.’
Matthias stared at the trackway; the jogging horse, the warmth of the hermit’s body and what he had drunk at the tavern made him heavy-eyed. He fought against it but eventually he was in a deep sleep full of dreams: beautiful princesses, knights covered in blood fighting to the death, dragons, executioners, wolf’s-heads and forest outlaws garbed in Lincoln green. He woke with a start. It was dusk, they were in the woods leading down to Sutton Courteny. The hermit reined in.
‘Are you well, Matthias? You should have slept on. This is dusk, the Watching Hour.’
‘I want to pee,’ Matthias replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll wet my breeches.’
The hermit laughed and let him down. The boy ran into the bushes and undid his points. When he had finished, he shivered. He was glad the hermit was taking him home. It was growing dark and cold. He had seen enough. He wanted his mother, to say his prayers, to sit by his father near the fireside and chatter. He glanced over at the hermit. For the first time ever Matthias felt frightened of him. In the dusk he looked taller, more sombre, as if horse and man were one creature.
‘What’s the matter, Matthias?’
The boy just took a step back. He couldn’t understand his fear.
‘I want to go home,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m frightened!’
The hermit dismounted and walked towards him. When Matthias stood stock-still the hermit crouched down. The boy relaxed at those friendly, twinkling eyes and merry mouth.
‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Matthias?’
‘It was strange.’ The boy drew closer. ‘It’s dusk and the wood is quiet.’
‘This is the most dangerous hour,’ the hermit replied, catching Matthias’ hand and stroking it gently. ‘This and the hour before dawn.’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Matthias replied, recalling a sermon his father had given last Palm Sunday. ‘They say just before dusk Christ was buried and just before dawn he rose from the dead. So, about these times, ghosts walk.’
The hermit led him back to the horse. ‘Then it’s also time little boys were home and in bed,’ he remarked.
They continued on their journey. The hermit tried to make him go back to sleep but Matthias was now too alert.
‘Then close your eyes,’ the hermit said, ‘and do not be frightened by what you might see.’
The horse jogged on. Matthias, of course, kept his eyes wide open. He felt the night breeze spring up, rustling the trees around him, then, through the gathering gloom, he saw a figure coming towards them.
‘I wonder who that is,’ Matthias murmured.
The boy peered again. It wasn’t one, it was two, no three, four, five figures walking in single file, slowly, in step. Matthias began to shiver. There was something dreadfully wrong with them. They didn’t walk, they shuffled. He felt the hermit tense.
‘Look away, Matthias,’ he whispered. ‘Do not look at them as they pass. They can do us no harm.’
He tried to cover the boy’s eyes with his hand. Matthias knocked it away: these figures approaching posed danger. He’d played in these woods and he knew no one ever came here after dark unless they had to. Journeymen and pedlars always stayed in the village, and why would any of his father’s parishioners be walking here at this hour? And why were they walking in single file like mourners at a funeral? And the wood was so quiet. . It should be full of birdsong, with rabbits, foxes, stoats and weasels scurrying about. The horse became restless, neighing and whinnying. The hermit leant down, gently pushing Matthias aside, and whispered some strange words. The horse became more docile though it still remained tense, ever ready to shy. The line of figures grew nearer. Matthias looked up at the hermit’s face, it was passive, eyes half-closed. Then the figures were upon them. Matthias looked quickly, his mouth went dry, his heart began to thud.
‘Edith!’ he exclaimed.
The blacksmith’s daughter was one of the line, face white as snow, eyes rimmed with black. She walked, eyes sightless, behind her a face Matthias didn’t recognise. He also glimpsed the features of the man the hermit had been talking to in the abbey at Tewkesbury. Again the face was as white as a coffin cloth, dark staring eyes. And weren’t those the two soldiers? The ones who had attacked him the previous night? But they looked more dreadful, they had their chins up and he could see the cuts in their throats. The horse began to shy, then reared up as Matthias covered his face and began to scream.
For a while all was confusion: the horse whirling round, the terrible faces staring at him. The hermit remained calm, talking fast. This time Matthias recognised he was speaking in Latin.
Abruptly all went quiet. The horse stopped, its head drooping with exhaustion. Matthias couldn’t stop shaking but he felt the hermit’s hand on the back of his neck, stroking him gently. Birdsong broke out high in the trees. Matthias took his hands away from his face. The trackway was deserted. He could see nothing. A rabbit loped across the path and, above him, a nightingale began to serenade the setting sun. The hermit was talking softly, gently stroking him. Matthias calmed down, the sick feeling in his stomach disappeared. He twisted, the saddle horn catching his thigh, and stared up at the hermit.
‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I saw Edith, but she’s dead. That man, that man in Tewkesbury, he too is dead. Edith’s body lies before the altar. It is to be buried tomorrow!’
‘Open your mouth, Matthias.’
The boy obeyed and the hermit popped a sugared almond into his mouth. Matthias chewed it, his throat became wet whilst the sweetness seemed to fill his mouth.
‘Do you like it?’ the hermit asked.
The boy smiled and nodded.
‘It was nothing,’ the hermit continued in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Nothing at all, Matthias. The day has been long. Perhaps I should not have shown you the things I did. And, when you are half-awake at this time of shadows, the mind plays strange games.’
‘But the horse was frightened. .’
The hermit gathered his reins and urged the horse on.
‘That’s because you were frightened, Matthias,’ he replied soothingly. ‘Creatura, you screamed loud enough to wake the dead.’ The hermit laughed quietly to himself.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ Matthias asked.
‘Perhaps. But tonight, Matthias, sit by your fire, chatter, fill your stomach with bread and soup. Enjoy the warmth.’
They rode on. At the edge of the village, the hermit reined in and lowered Matthias to the ground.
‘Run home, Creatura!’
The boy stared up. He knew the hermit had tears in his eyes. He could see them glistening and was ashamed at what he had felt when he had first woken up in the wood.
‘I love being with you,’ he stammered. ‘I really do. It’s exciting.’
The hermit leant down and gently stroked the top of Matthias’ head.
‘And I love you, Creatura. Now run like the wind. Your mother is waiting.’
5
As soon as he entered the village Matthias sensed something was wrong. It was quiet, the doors and shutters of the Hungry Man were firmly closed, though chinks of light peeped through the slats. Matthias heard a creak and, peering into the gloom, saw a corpse hung from the scaffold, twirling and turning in the evening breeze. He closed his eyes and ran past this. Further up the street, near the small cesspit covered by wooden boards, his foot caught on a piece of armour lying near the raised rim of the pit. He ran on but stopped as he approached the cemetery wall. He could hear voices and glimpsed torchlight amongst the trees. He took the long
