Parson Osbert and the Preacher joined them. Christina hurried back to her house, her hand still gripping that of Matthias. Once inside she locked and bolted the door. She took Matthias into the small parlour where again she sealed the room, shutting and barring the windows and door. Matthias was now frightened. The chamber was dark. His mother seemed so agitated, muttering wordlessly to herself. Now and again she would stop to scratch the side of her face. Then, as if she were too hot, she snatched the wimple from her head and undid the clasps of her dark burgundy dress. A small jug of water, used to freshen the flowers in their wooden boxes, stood on the window sill. She seized the jug and started dabbing at her neck. Matthias ran up.
‘Mother!’
Christina stared at him.
‘Mother!’ Matthias insisted. ‘What is wrong? What is going to happen?’
Christina clutched her stomach and breathed in deeply.
‘Matthias, your father and I talked about this last night. You are not to go out to Tenebral again. You are not to meet the hermit.’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘The Preacher is wrong. He lies!’
‘Just do it!’ Christina screamed at him, the skin of her face drawn tight. ‘Oh, Matthias, just do it! Leave him alone!’
She hurried to the door, fumbled with the lock and, throwing this open, ran down the passageway. Matthias, shaking, went to follow her. He could hear her sobbing in the small solar so he quietly left the house. He slipped across the cemetery to his secret place, the small stone death house at the far side of the church. Matthias crept in. He crouched, thumb in mouth, trying to make sense of what was happening. He knew the hermit was strange. He said things which Matthias did not understand. But a murderer? A man violent like those soldiers? Matthias closed his eyes.
‘Remember this, my soul,’ he murmured, ‘and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Then he finished the prayer. ‘And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’
Matthias’ eyes flew open. He should remember that. What would the hermit expect him to do? What would he want?
Matthias heard his mother calling, her voice carrying faintly across the cemetery. He lay down on the bed of soft bracken he’d once made there, crossing his arms, bringing his knees up. He felt tired, a little cold. His eyes grew heavy and for a while he dozed. He woke with a start, some bird crashing in the bushes outside.
The boy stole out of his secret place and stretched, enjoying the warm sunlight. He had made his mind up. He climbed the cemetery wall but, instead of taking the highroad, he took a narrow trackway which snaked behind the houses of the village. He ran furtively, pinching his nose now and again at the sour smell from the cesspits which stood at the bottom of each plot of land. When he approached the rear of the Hungry Man, he had to be more careful. Joscelyn and two of his sons were there, raising new casks from the cellar. Once they had gone Matthias continued on his way. Soon he was in the woods but this time he wasn’t afraid. He saw the guards the villagers had sent out. However, they had brought a small tun of ale with them and seemed more keen on emptying that, laughing and teasing each other. Matthias scrambled through the bushes, his hands and face stung by the nettles, and scratched by the prickly holly. At last he was past them and, forcing his way through the undergrowth, made his way back to the path which led to Tenebral.
He approached the ruined church, calling his friend’s name but there was no reply. Matthias slipped in under the crumbling doorway and stared. The hermit was kneeling in the sanctuary, hands extended, before the rose painted on the wall. Matthias held his breath. A strong red light, like that of the sky just before the dawn, came from the painting and bathed the hermit in its mysterious glow. And the hermit? It seemed as if he were at least a good yard from the ground, kneeling in midair, hands extended. There was no sound. Nothing but this bright, rose-coloured light and the hermit embracing it. Matthias stepped back. His foot caught on some dry wood, it cracked, shattering the silence. Matthias stared down in horror. When he looked up again the light had gone, the hermit was just standing on the edge of the sanctuary, smiling down at him.
‘Matthias, I did not know you were coming. Creatura, you move so softly.’
‘What was that light?’ Matthias asked, coming forward.
‘What light?’ the hermit teased back. ‘Matthias, you’ll make a great poet or troubadour.’ He saw the puzzlement in the boy’s face. ‘A troubadour is a singer of songs,’ he explained. ‘A dreamer of dreams. A teller of tales.’
‘Are you a murderer?’ Matthias asked harshly.
‘Creatura!’
The hermit sat down at the foot of a crumbling pillar, resting his head against the ivy which wound round it. He tilted up his face and, from under heavy-lidded eyes, studied the boy.
‘They say you are,’ Matthias blurted out, coming forward. ‘They say you killed Edith and others. Now and eight years ago.’
‘Who says that?’
‘The stranger, a preacher.’ Matthias now ran towards him. He tugged at the hermit’s robe. ‘They are going to come here tomorrow morning. They are going to arrest you. They call you a witch. They’ve put guards on the path through the woods.’
‘And you came to warn me?’ The hermit stretched out his legs and patted his lap. ‘Sit here, Matthias.’
The boy did so. The hermit put his arms round him.
‘I’m not supposed to be here. My mother, she told me not to come.’
‘But you came, didn’t you, Matthias?’ The hermit was now whispering in his ear. ‘I can see the cuts on your hands and face. You came here to warn me, didn’t you?’ He stroked Matthias’ hair. ‘Oh Creatura, come.’ He got up and led Matthias into the sanctuary.
Matthias stared at the rose on the wall, brighter, more breathtakingly beautiful than ever. There were now more runes or strange marks carved beneath it. The hermit told him to sit down on a stone. He himself sat on the floor opposite and studied the boy.
‘I’m going to tell you things,’ he smiled, ‘that you may not understand now, but in years to come you will. Look around you, Matthias. All you see is a ruined church. However, as I have said before, there’s more to reality than your life or what you see, feel or touch. In the heavens,’ he looked up towards the sky, ‘I have seen souls, as many as snowflakes, yet each is a brilliant flash of lightning. I have seen spirits of the great nine circles: cherubim, seraphim, angels and archangels. They wheel and turn before the throne of God.’ He touched Matthias’ cheek. ‘I said you might be a poet. A long time ago, in Italy, there was a great poet.’ He leant forward, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘A man called Dante. He wrote a poem about earth, Hell and Heaven.’ The hermit pointed over his shoulder at the rose. ‘According to Dante, just before you enter the presence of God,’ he held his hand up, ‘He who is All Holy, you go through the Paradise of the Rose on which the Trinity — Father, Son and Holy Spirit — meditate and reflect for all eternity-’
‘Have you seen this?’ Matthias broke in. He couldn’t fully understand what the hermit was saying. Yet his words evoked memories. His father’s sermons and the paintings in the parish church showed the great angels of God going about their divine work.
The hermit was now looking at a point above Matthias’ head.
‘Like Dante,’ he replied slowly, ‘I have seen the Paradise of the Rose. Like him I have glimpsed the love of God.’ He paused. ‘They say God is love but the preachers and the priests don’t know what love is. A Greek writer who lived centuries ago, Dionysius the Areopagite, he came close to the truth. He said love was the search for harmony.’ The hermit’s eyes now filled with tears. ‘The priests have it wrong, Matthias. They prattle about love but they don’t understand the first thing about it.’ He held the boy’s gaze. ‘You can lose Heaven for love, be damned for love, and for all eternity turn your face against the Lord God because of love. It’s the one thing, Creatura, which the intellect and will makes its own decision about. You can force a man to hate you. You can break him on the wheel, hang him on the gallows or bribe him with gold and silver. Take him into the seventh heaven and show him all the mysteries but you cannot make anyone love you.’ He sighed, it was like a breeze echoing round the sanctuary. ‘And if you love, even if it’s not requited, even if it creates an eternal hunger in you, no one, not even the Lord God, can force you to give it up. So,
‘Yes,’ Matthias said in a rush. He wanted to ask questions but sensed this was not the time or the place.
