flame. Yet something was wrong. The fire roared but the prisoner bound to the stake did not squirm or cry out. The villagers, too, were silent.
‘Is he dead?’ someone asked.
‘Has he fainted?’
Matthias sniffed, wrinkling his nose. He could not understand it: the fire must have caught the hermit’s body.
‘Has he swooned?’ someone shouted.
As if in answer, the hermit started to sing, his voice loud and clear through the flames. A chill swept through the assembled villagers. Men who had served in the King’s wars and seen others die in different horrible ways, stared aghast. The flames roared higher, hiding the hermit’s face. Still the song was sung, the words clear and full on the air: at first in French, ‘
Matthias ran blindly, not stopping till he found himself in the woods. He crouched at the foot of a tree, then made his way along the trackway to Tenebral. He went into the church. The sanctuary was full of sad reminders of his friend: a piece of leather, scraps of bone and meat from his cooking. Any meagre possessions had already been stolen by the villagers. Matthias gazed in awe at the beautiful rose painted on the wall: the runes, the strange marks beneath, had grown in number, as if the hermit had spent his last night etching out these signs. Matthias walked slowly out on to the porchway. The breeze caught his face. He heard the whisper: ‘
He stared around, no one was there.
Matthias left the church, vowing he would never return, and hastened along the trackway. He turned the corner and almost ran into the Preacher who, with his scrip on his back and a stout ash pole in one hand, was striding along.
‘Murderer!’ the boy screamed.
The Preacher hawked and spat, narrowly missing Matthias’ face.
‘Your friend is dead. I am off to Tewkesbury where the good brothers will give me sustenance!’
Matthias made an obscene gesture at the Preacher’s receding back. The boy didn’t know what it meant but he had seen the men at the Hungry Man make it when tax collectors or royal purveyors were about. Matthias hoped the Preacher would turn but the man strode round the bend of the trackway.
By the time Matthias returned to the village, the fire was out. The platform against the bear-baiting post had crumbled under the searing heat. Simon the reeve was piling the ash into one great mound.
‘We’ll throw it into one of the cesspits,’ he declared, not lifting his face.
Matthias went across to the grassy verge. He picked some of the wild flowers growing there and tossed them on the top of the burning ash. The flowers began to scorch. Matthias thought of throwing on some more: he glimpsed a bone, yellow and blackened amongst the cinders, so he walked away.
The Hungry Man was full of customers, the villagers carousing, celebrating as if they had won a great victory, drinking deeply of the taverner’s newly brewed ale, eager to forget the memories of the day. Matthias spied his father amongst them, his face flushed, eyes glittering. Parson Osbert beckoned his son over. Matthias glared back, then hurried on.
The following evening Thurston the tinker and his pretty wife, Mariotta, left the town of Tewkesbury. Their small barrow was full of scraps, pieces of armour and other items they had collected after the battle. Mariotta pulled the cart, the ropes biting into her shoulders, whilst her husband, full of ale, staggered beside her. Mariotta didn’t mind. The day had been a prosperous one. They could take the armour to a forge, have it beaten flat and make a good profit. Mariotta was pleased to be out of the town. The corpses of those killed in the battle were now laid out on the steps of the churches, naked as white worms. Around the town, corpses hung from the signs of inns or on the gallows near the market cross, whilst severed heads adorned the pikes above the gates.
‘The place stank of death,’ Mariotta declared, stopping to rest her shoulders. She smoothed down her brown smock. She admired the new sandals on her dusty feet, then glanced sideways at her husband. She had bought these when he had been asleep, snoring his head off in an outhouse. That young squire, who had caught her eye in the tavern, had been ever so grateful. Mariotta closed her eyes. Thank God, her red-faced, irascible husband never discovered the secret source of such wealth. He, however, was now swaying on his feet, burping loudly, patting his stomach.
‘We’d best stop for the night,’ Mariotta declared.
Her husband went to release the large fardel he carried on his back.
‘Not here,’ Mariotta scolded.
She pushed him on and, grabbing the ropes, pulled the barrow. Further up the lane, Mariotta espied a gap in the hedge: sheep grazed in a meadow which ran down to a stream glinting invitingly in the rays of the setting sun. Cursing Thurston under her breath, Mariotta pulled her barrow into the meadow; he staggering after her. The sheep hardly lifted their heads. Mariotta found a suitable place to camp and went off amongst the trees looking for kindling. Thurston sat, head drooping, eyes heavy. He heard a sound and got up. He felt cold.
‘Mariotta!’ he called. Getting no answer, he released the burden on his back and staggered into the trees. ‘Mariotta!’ he yelled. ‘Where are you?’
Suddenly the ground dipped. Thurston found himself on the rim of a small dell. He couldn’t understand what he saw. Mariotta was lying on the grass, head turned away. A figure crouched over her. The figure moved. Mariotta’s throat was all gashed. Thurston screamed and ran towards her. The squire Mariotta had met turned and poor Thurston ran straight on to the dagger he held.
7
The news of Thurston and Mariotta’s murder, as well as others in the wooded, secret places along the River Severn, seeped into Sutton Courteny. It chilled the hearts of those involved in the hermit’s death. In the corners of the Hungry Man people began to whisper how they had been responsible for spilling innocent blood. Neighbours drew apart. Friendships failed and a sense of guilt haunted the village. Parson Osbert, although many said his hands were clean of any man’s blood, only felt more guilty. Not that he had done anything wrong, but that he had failed to do anything right.
The gossips and the whisperers were quick to point out how God’s hand seemed to have turned against the village. Christina, Parson Osbert’s woman, fell ill. She kept to her bed, a pale ghost of her former self. Fulcher the blacksmith was kicked in the groin by a horse and, for days, his smithy lay cold at a time when everyone wanted to have their horses tended. Simon the reeve was gored by a bull, not grievously, but enough to put him ill in bed so he could lie and reflect on what he had done. John the bailiff was no more fortunate: he was attacked by outlaws, soldiers from the defeated Lancastrian army, who badly mauled him. Joscelyn the taverner became a little too fond of the ale he sold: one night there was a fire in his cellar which destroyed his best madeira sack, mead and ale. Other mishaps occurred. The sun proved very strong; the crops began to burn, mysterious fires being started in the long meadow and in other places around the village. Tempers became short. Knives were drawn in the fields, in the tavern and even, on one occasion, outside the church.
A violent thunderstorm broke at the beginning of June. Lightning, jagged bolts of fire from heaven, split trees and fired a hay rick. The heavy rains afterwards beat down the corn and turned the fields, ripe for harvest, into a soggy mess. Oh yes, the gossips muttered, God’s vengeance was making itself felt. Matters were not helped by young girls having dreams of devils coming out of the earth; by goblins and elves turning the milk sour; whilst a strange howling was heard from the woods at night which frightened the children and stampeded the cattle and sheep.
Worse was to come. In the second week of June, Baron Sanguis and his hatchet-faced son returned from the King’s war on the eastern shores. The Manor Lord rode through the village, his standard-bearer going before
