way round. The front door to his house was off the latch. He pushed this open and ran down the passageway.
‘Mother! Mother!’
Christina was sitting by the fireside. She looked better, more colour in her cheeks. She scooped him into her arms, her lips brushing his cheeks. Matthias felt the wine on her breath and noticed how bright her eyes were.
‘You should have stayed here!’ she exclaimed, pushing him gently away towards his own stool. ‘There has been a great battle.’
Matthias bit his tongue before he gave away how close he had been to it.
‘A great battle,’ Christina continued excitedly. ‘Horsemen, soldiers coming out of the woods, some wounded, others without a scratch on them.’ She put down the piece of embroidery, an altar cloth for the Lady Chapel. ‘And then others followed. The first ones caught one of Queen Margaret’s men and hanged him on the gallows. At the far end of the village, just near the great meadow, they trapped three more and killed them out of hand. Your father and the Preacher are now busy digging the graves.’
‘The Preacher? Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.
Christina’s smile faded. ‘A wandering monk, friar or priest — I don’t know what.’ She waved her hands irritably. ‘He arrived about three hours ago and has been closeted with your father. Simon the reeve and John the bailiff have also been here.’ She laughed behind her hands. ‘We drank some wine, a little too much. Now, go and wash your hands in the rain butt.’
Matthias did so, slightly alarmed at his mother’s mood, her air of frenetic gaiety. She set the table and served him a platter of dried pork, onions, some leeks covered in cream, and bread which tasted hard. Matthias ate slowly. His mother said she was tired and would lie on the bed. Matthias heard her go upstairs. After he had eaten he cleared the table and sat in his mother’s chair in front of the fire, half-dozing. He jumped as his father pushed back the front door with a crash and came down the passageway. Matthias leapt out of the chair. His father embraced him carefully.
‘I haven’t washed yet.’ He gently pushed his son away, lifting his hands, flecked with clay and mud.
Matthias, however, was staring up at the Preacher, who stood just within the doorway. The boy’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a smile but he did not like this man. His black, greasy hair hung in ringlets down to his shoulders; his face was lean and swarthy with cruel eyes and a hooked nose. He reminded Matthias of one of Baron Sanguis’ kestrels.
‘Good morrow, Matthias, Christ’s blessing!’ The Preacher held out a hand and gently squeezed Matthias’.
The boy thought his face would ache with the smile. He was glad when the Preacher let go, although the man’s eyes followed him as he went back to his chair.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’
Matthias, eager to break the Preacher’s gaze, wanted his father to stay, not go out to the rain butt in the garden.
‘Why, hasn’t your mother told you? Men from the battle fled here. They were killed, one still hangs on the gallows. John the bailiff will cut the body down and bury it later tonight.’ Parson Osbert’s face looked tired. ‘We are men, not dogs. The corpses can’t be left to rot in a filthy ditch. God knows, I buried them without knowing their names. Tomorrow I’ll remember them when I celebrate the Mass for poor Edith.’ The parson gestured at the Preacher. ‘Our guest here helped me. You have a strong arm, sir, but now we must clean off the dirt.’
The Preacher followed the parson out to wash his hands and face. Christina came downstairs, heavy-eyed. She sat in a chair. Matthias’ unease deepened. Something was about to happen, but what? His father and the Preacher returned. More wine was poured, Christina using their best pewter cups. They sat for a while in a semicircle round the fire, discussing the battle, the Preacher praising Parson Osbert’s generosity.
Then he began to tell tales of his wanderings. Matthias sat open-mouthed as the Preacher described the great cities along the Rhine, Turkish galleys in a sky-blue sea, the white marble palaces of kingdoms in the middle of golden deserts. All the time he kept watching Matthias, studying him carefully.
‘Now,’ he concluded, ‘I have come to Sutton Courteny.’
‘The Preacher,’ Parson Osbert explained, ‘has learnt about Edith’s murder. He knows of similar deaths in the neighbourhood, across the valley outside Tredington. Also around Berkeley, Gloucester, even as far south as Bristol-’
‘Tell me about the hermit,’ the Preacher interrupted harshly. ‘You know the hermit, don’t you, Matthias?’
The boy nodded.
‘Then tell me about him. What does he do?’
Matthias glanced at his mother, who sat slumped in her chair, staring into the fire. He realised he had to be careful.
‘Come on, boy.’ Parson Osbert squeezed his son’s shoulder.
‘He’s a holy man,’ Matthias declared. ‘He lives in the old church in Tenebral. He paints on the walls: a large rose. He cares for animals and birds. He showed me foxes and he knows where the badger digs his sett.’ Matthias did not like the look of disdain on the Preacher’s face.
‘And has he done you any harm, boy?’
‘Of course not. He lets me go with him. We talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About God and Christ.’
Matthias licked his lips, his mind now racing. What did the Preacher think they did? What did they talk about? Matthias suddenly realised the hermit was his friend, closer to him than any of the village children — he felt a pang of guilt — even closer than his mother or father. They had always been distant, more involved with each other than him. Oh, they loved him but it was as if he were a second thought.
‘And what does he say?’ the Preacher insisted.
‘That the Lord God,’ Matthias recalled his own lessons, ‘that the Lord God made Heaven and earth and that He sent His Son to redeem us.’
‘Does he ever practise magic, sorcery, the black arts?’
‘Pish!’ Parson Osbert spoke up. ‘The boy would know little about that.’
‘The Devil casts his net wide,’ the Preacher retorted.
‘He is only a child.’ Christina suddenly sat upright in her chair. ‘And a very tired one at that. Matthias, it’s time for bed.’ She stared defiantly across at the Preacher. ‘He is my son. He is only a child. He is very tired.’
Matthias was only too pleased to escape. He kissed his mother and father, nodded quickly at the Preacher and almost ran from the parlour.
Matthias was awoken the next morning just after dawn by the sound of the church bell tolling, and got up in alarm. Hastily wrapping a horsehair blanket round him, he hurried downstairs. The kitchen was clean and swept, his mother, rather pale-faced, was standing over a bowl of oatmeal bubbling above a weak fire.
‘What’s wrong?’ Matthias cried.
‘Your father has decided to call the villagers to a meeting in the nave of the church, before he celebrates the Requiem for Fulcher’s daughter.’
‘What about?’
‘Hurry up and get dressed, Matthias. You and I are both going.’
Matthias obeyed. He washed, put on his Sunday robes and went down to the kitchen to break his fast. His father and the Preacher came in. Parson Osbert was now dressed in his dark brown gown, fastened round the middle by a white cord. He had washed and shaved but the Preacher appeared no different. His sallow, dirty features had a look of excitement as if he savoured what was about to happen. They ate in silence, interrupted now and again by knocks on the door, as villagers enquired what was happening. Parson Osbert quietly told them to meet in the church. He and the Preacher left. Christina doused the fire and, taking Matthias’ hand, walked across the cemetery and through a side door into the nave.
Matthias slipped away, back into the cemetery — God’s acre, as his father always termed it. He went to stand under a yew tree and watched as the villagers came into the graveyard. Many of the peasants mumbled and protested at being called away from the fields but, after yesterday’s events, they were frightened of other
