him, his son a few paces behind. Following in their dust, retinues of armed men, not to mention the clerks, bailiffs and scriveners from Baron Sanguis’ household. The Manor Lord, with his iron-grey hair and hard, sunburnt face, looked neither to the left nor the right. Dressed in his half-armour, despite the heat, and slouched in the high saddle of his destrier, Baron Sanguis progressed like a conquering hero along the village high street.
The villagers gathered at the hanging stone, brought presents to greet their lord. Baron Sanguis rode on, not even deigning to look, and the villagers’ hearts sank: Sanguis knew that something dreadful had happened during his absence. The manor lay to the north-west of the village, a sprawling, moated mansion protected by its high curtain wall, a small village in itself. Baron Sanguis had been away since the previous autumn and, on his return, the manor quickened into life. Other retainers followed him, carts full of possessions. For three days there was silence, then Sanguis’ clerks and bailiffs moved into the village. Monies were owed: tolls were due: levies to be raised on this or that. Who had been picking apples from Baron Sanguis’ orchards? Who had allowed pigs to forage in his woods? And what about the tithes owing to the Church? And were the villagers prepared, according to ancient custom, to work this autumn in the Manor Lord’s fields? What marriages had taken place? What births? Had all dues been paid? The flint-eyed clerks knew their master’s rights, as they moved from house to house with quill, ink horn and the manor accounts.
Parson Osbert stayed in his house, Matthias with him. A great chasm had grown up between the boy and his father since the hermit’s death. They hardly ever talked. The priest seemed to have caught some of his wife’s languid torpidity and, if it hadn’t been for Blanche, a merry-eyed widow from the village, clothes would not have been washed, food cooked or the house cleaned. Christina was now a recluse, lying in her bed, only eating when forced by her husband or Blanche. She hardly talked but sat staring like a madcap, lips moving wordlessly, lost in her own private hell.
Now Baron Sanguis had returned, Parson Osbert’s fears only increased. On the Sunday, two weeks after the Baron’s return, the summons came. Parson Osbert made a special effort.
‘Soon it will be the feast of Corpus Christi,’ he announced, smiling at Matthias. ‘So, I might as well bathe and change my clothes for that, as well as meeting Baron Sanguis.’
He did so, carefully shaving his face, even rubbing a little oil into his thinning hair.
‘Will you go with me, Matthias?’ Parson Osbert’s face was almost pleading.
‘Of course, Father,’ the boy dutifully replied.
Parson Osbert sighed with relief. Matthias knew the reason why. For some strange reason Baron Sanguis had a liking for the priest’s son. If he was present, perhaps the Manor Lord’s fury might be curtailed.
By the time they entered the great hall of the manor, Parson Osbert was in a state of fright: he clasped Matthias’ hands so tightly the boy winced in pain. The priest stood inside the double doors of the hall. The Manor Lord sat behind the great table on the dais at the far end. His face was hidden by the great, ornate silver saltcellar. The tables down either side of the hall were empty; the Baron sat in solemn majesty: his one and only son, Robert, on his right, seneschal Taldo on his left. Parson Osbert could see that his lord had profited in his support of the Yorkists. Glaziers had put glass in the windows on each side of the hall — these gleamed like freshly fallen water in the bright sunlight. The walls had been freshly washed in pink paint. The banners which hung from the rafters glowed in their brilliant colours, whilst the shields and weapons which decorated the walls had all been newly cleaned and painted.
‘You’d best come forward!’ Baron Sanguis boomed.
The priest, still clutching Matthias’ hand, walked quickly up the hall. He felt strange. There were no rushes but thick Turkey carpets on the floor, which deadened any sound. Parson Osbert felt as if he were walking in his sleep. If that was the case, he thought, as he paused before the dais and bowed, then Baron Sanguis was a nightmare. The Manor Lord sat erect in his high-backed chair, elbows resting on its arms: his hair had been freshly cut, shorn well above the ears, but this only emphasised the harshness of his face: black-pebble eyes and a nose which seemed to cut the air. The Baron smoothed his long, grey moustache, which fell at least two inches beneath his chin. He played with the rings on his fingers or tapped the gold medal which hung on a silver chain round his neck. His son, attired like his father, gazed just as bleakly, though seneschal Taldo, a friend of the priest, smiled weakly and raised his eyes heavenwards. Baron Sanguis looked up at the banner bearing his arms, three black crows on a golden field.
‘My son carried a banner like that at Barnet.’ His voice rose. ‘When I was fighting for my king and lord!’
Parson Osbert bowed. ‘Sir Henry, I am so pleased you have returned safe and sound, rightfully covered in honours and glory.’
‘Yet, while I’m gone-’ the Manor Lord was now leaning across the table — ‘while I’m gone,’ he bellowed, ‘my villagers take rights unto themselves, acting like the Manor Lord! Seigneurs of the soil, are they?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘By what right,’ he shouted, ‘did they hold a court in your church and condemn a man to death? By what right did they lay claim to the power of the axe, the tumbrel and the rope? Did you know that, according to the law, they and you have committed murder? You could all hang!’
‘My father didn’t agree with it!’ Matthias spoke up.
Baron Sanguis turned his head and breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. His face softened and his hand went out as if he wanted to stroke Matthias’ head. Even Robert smiled, whilst Taldo beamed, relieved at the break in the tension.
‘My father didn’t agree to anything!’ Matthias repeated. ‘It was the Preacher!’
‘You!’ Baron Sanguis jabbed a finger in mock anger at Matthias. ‘You should be a soldier, a knight!’
Parson Osbert closed his eyes and quickly thanked God that he had brought Matthias. Baron Sanguis liked to act the bully but the priest knew that he had a good heart and could be quickly mollified. The Manor Lord dug into his purse and pushed some pennies across the table.
‘That’s for you, boy,’ he declared. ‘Buy some sweetmeats. Ah,’ he waved his hand, ‘I know, I know, I know, you, Parson Osbert, objected and your boy was the only one who had the courage to speak up.’ He pulled a face. ‘So stop quivering!’ He pointed to the end of the table. ‘Sit down. Let’s have some wine.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘The boy can have a cup of apple juice.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s been in the cellar, it’s cold and strong so, not too much.’
Once they were settled, Parson Osbert told his lord exactly what had happened. The Manor Lord heard him out, steepling his fingers on the table, now and again whispering to his son. Robert always gave a curt reply. When Osbert had finished, he sat sipping the white wine which Taldo had served. The Manor Lord beat his fist on the table as if it were a drum.
‘This is what I’ve decided, priest. The villagers will pay a fine of twenty shillings. You will not pay it. I have also sent a messenger to London. I have friends.’ He preened himself. ‘At court, my Lord of Hastings.’
Parson Osbert bowed. Hastings was the King’s personal friend. After the royal brothers, George and Richard, he was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
‘I have asked him to send down a royal clerk, someone to investigate this business. The real culprit is the Preacher.’ Baron Sanguis ticked the points off on his finger. ‘He had no right to hold a court. He had no right to condemn.’ His hands fell away. ‘And, for all we know, boy, the Preacher himself could be the assassin?’
Matthias’ heart leapt with joy. For the first time since the hermit’s death, he smiled. He also forgot Baron Sanguis’ advice, drank his apple juice a little too fast and had to be carried home by his father.
Rahere, the royal clerk, swaggered down the King’s Steps at Westminster and into the waiting barge. The wherrymen, dressed in the royal livery, took one look at the chancery ring on his left hand and the red sealed warrant in the other and ushered him to the cushioned seat in the stern as if he were the King himself. Royal clerks ruled the roost. They were the King’s lawyers, his money-men, the searchers out of his prerogative. They had the power of the Chancery and, on their advice, a man rose or fell. This clerk looked the part: tall, elegantly dressed in a soft, woollen tunic, hose of the same colour and texture and high-heeled morocco boots, he gathered his cloak about him and lounged in the stern. Now and again he’d turn his head to study a Spanish caravel, a two-masted ship of the Hanse or the long, wolflike galleys from Venice as they made their way up and down the Thames.
Rahere was young and ambitious; with his black-raven hair, smooth, olive-skinned face and lustrous eyes, he had even caught the attention of the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. Rahere was one of her henchmen, being sent hither and thither on royal business. Now he had received a fresh charge. He had been appointed the King’s Commissioner in the Western Shires, with powers of life and death. He was to search out the person responsible
