in the nave of the parish church of Sutton Courteny on the feast of St Benedict. The proceedings were much different from the last time. Baron Sanguis sat enthroned in a chair placed just before the entrance to the rood screen. On his right, his grim-faced son, on his left Taldo the seneschal. In a corner, perched on a stool, quill in hand, one of his scribes. Before him a new jury had been empanelled.
The proceedings were dominated by Rahere the clerk. He stood, dressed in black from head to toe, a silver gilt war belt round his slim waist. The sword and dagger hanging there slapped threateningly against his thigh. On his black leather boots he had the affectation still to wear his spurs, which clinked and jingled at every step. The high-collared tunic with the white linen bands beneath came up just beneath his chin: his black oiled hair hung down to his shoulders. As he moved backwards and forwards, turning now and again to address Baron Sanguis, sometimes the jury, sometimes the crowd, they all watched fascinated. Matthias thought he was beautiful. The clerk reminded him of a black, languorous cat holding court over a group of mice. The women of the village gazed hot-eyed and whispered amongst themselves how this handsome young clerk from London had an eye for a pretty face and was already known for his sweet words. Rahere seemed to sense this. Like an actor in a play, he pitched his words and spun his web. At first he described himself, showing his commission on creamy-coloured parchment, the red wax still bearing clearly the imprint of the King’s Great Seal. He’d reproved the villagers for taking the law into their own hands and paused to allow Baron Sanguis to announce the fine. The villagers nodded. In the circumstances, they whispered, their manor lord was being compassionate. Matthias stared at his father, crouching in the same place he had during the previous trial, on the steps of the Lady Chapel. Parson Osbert had made an effort this morning to wash, shave and change his clothing though he still looked pale and woebegone.
Rahere the clerk now took up the story again, listing the dreadful deaths which had occurred in the area. He spoke in clear English, now and again lapsing into figures of speech common in the area. Matthias could tell Baron Sanguis and his son were fascinated. At last the clerk stopped speaking and jabbed a finger towards the corpse door.
‘In my view,’ he proclaimed, ‘the man we are about to confront is the true murderer: the spiller of innocent blood. Bring him in!’
Taldo got up and hurried to the door. A short while later the seneschal returned followed by Baron Sanguis’ burly bailiffs. The Preacher, his arms pinioned, was dragged between them into the church and forced to kneel facing the villagers. Matthias stared. Was this the man who had frightened him? The Preacher’s hair was tinged with grey, his hard face slack, globules of spit smeared the unkempt beard round his half-open mouth, his eyes were vacant as he gazed around. He was forced to kneel whilst Rahere summarised the accusations laid against him. When he came to answer, the Preacher could only shake his head.
‘I have been ill!’ he whimpered. His hands, released from their bonds, tapped either side of his head. ‘I cannot remember where I have been or what I have done. It’s as if I’ve been asleep.’
‘Do you deny the charges?’ Rahere asked crisply.
‘I don’t know who I am or where I have been.’ He coughed. ‘I have done ill, great evil.’
‘The man you condemned, the hermit, was innocent.’
‘Oh yes, oh yes, but I am confused.’
Rahere shrugged and glanced at Baron Sanguis.
‘What say ye?’
The Baron turned to the jurors.
‘Guilty!’ they chorused.
‘And the sentence?’ Rahere asked.
‘To be hanged on the common gallows!’ Baron Sanguis snapped. ‘Let his body be gibbeted as a warning to others who think they can come here and usurp my power!’
The villagers clapped and cheered.
‘Sentence to be carried out immediately!’ Baron Sanguis added.
The Preacher’s head went down. He started to sob. The jurors stood up, congratulating themselves. Matthias, squatting in the front, watched Rahere crouch down and drag back the Preacher’s head. He pushed his face only a few inches from that of the prisoner. Perhaps only Matthias heard the word ‘YOU!’ come from the Preacher’s lips before he dropped on all fours, head down like a dog.
Baron Sanguis’ bailiffs came forward. The prisoner was dragged out through the cemetery. A horse was waiting with a leather-covered sledge attached by wooden shafts. The Preacher was forced to lie on this. He was stripped naked except for his linen breeches, and the horse, its bridle held by Rahere, made its slow journey up the high street towards the waiting gallows. Parson Osbert stayed in the Lady Chapel, face in his hands.
Matthias decided to follow the crowd. They were throwing rubbish, dung and dirt at the Preacher stretched out on the makeshift sledge. The rutted tracks of the highroad scarred his back and made him scream in pain. At the Hungry Man Matthias stopped. He did not wish to go any further. Instead he stood on a table outside the tavern. The crowd reached the gallows. The Preacher was released, his hands lashed behind his back. The bailiffs pushed him up on to the horse. A noose was fitted round his neck.
‘Let it be done!’ Rahere’s voice broke the stillness. ‘Let the King’s justice be done!’
The horse was led away. The Preacher danced, jerking like a doll at the end of the rope, twisting and turning, his legs kicking. Matthias fled inside the Hungry Man and sat in the darkened taproom. He was still there when the men returned from the gallows. He was about to slip away when a hand caught at his shoulder. He glanced up. Rahere was smiling down at him.
‘It had to be done, boy,’ he murmured. ‘It had to be done.’ He leant down. ‘Enough of royal justice,’ he whispered. ‘Will you show me the woods?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Matthias stepped back. He felt weak, slightly sick. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he promised. ‘But my father needs me.’
Rahere tapped him on the shoulder. ‘An obedient son,’ he murmured, ‘brings pleasure to all!’
Matthias left the Hungry Man and ran up the highroad. Matthias found his father in the kitchen at home, sitting before the hearth, staring into the ashes. He was already on his second goblet of wine. Matthias tried to talk to him but his father just shook his head. Matthias stole up the stairs. The door to his parents’ bedchamber was open. He went inside. It was dark and stale. He narrowed his eyes. His mother was lying on the bed. She had her back to him. He went across.
‘Mother, Mother, it’s Matthias.’ He tapped again but she didn’t stir. ‘Mother, it’s Matthias. Are you well?’
Again no reply. He tiptoed out and went up the stairs to his own little garret. He lay down on the bed. Images flitted through his mind. The hermit, arms extended; the Preacher, dancing at the end of the rope; Rahere smiling down at him. Matthias drifted into sleep. He was awoken violently: his mother, grasping him by the shoulders, was shaking him up and down, banging his head against the feather-filled bolster. Matthias stared in horror. Christina’s face was white as a sheet, a blueish tinge high in her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark circled. She was glaring sightlessly at him, lips moving.
‘Mother!’ Matthias moaned. ‘Mother, what is wrong? You are hurting!’
Christina had a madcap, vacant look. Her nails were digging deep into his shoulder. Matthias closed his eyes and started to cry. He heard a pounding on the stairs and his father was dragging Christina away, arms locked tightly round her. Christina struggled. She began to cry and then went limp. Osbert let her slip gently to the floor, placing her back against the wall. She sat, legs out, her bare feet dirty, her hands crossed. Her head went slack, a trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of her mouth. She lifted her face, her eyes puffy with tears.
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Matthias, I am very sorry.’ She held a hand out to her husband. ‘Take me back to my bed,’ she murmured. ‘Some food. Hear my confession.’
Matthias, alarmed, swung his legs off the bed.
‘Stay there, Matthias!’ Osbert ordered. Picking his wife up, he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.
Matthias waited for a while, looking through the window. He had slept longer than he had thought. He felt hungry and went down to the kitchen. He ate some fruit and cheese, finished his father’s wine, then returned to his own room. The wine and the shock made Matthias feel depleted. He’d never felt such tiredness before. His legs and arms seemed to weigh like lead and, throwing himself on to the bed, he fell fast asleep.
Matthias awoke cold and stiff just after dawn. He felt stronger, refreshed. He went downstairs. His father sat on his mother’s chair. Matthias’ heart lurched: Osbert had aged, his face was pale and drawn and he was
