rocking himself backwards and forwards, his hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. Matthias became frightened. He didn’t want to be here any more. He just wanted to flee.
‘Your mother is dead.’ Osbert didn’t even turn his head. ‘I heard her confession last night. She died in the early hours!’ He drew his hands from his sleeves. ‘Gone!’ he added, fingers clawing the air. ‘Like a candle going out!’
Matthias began to tremble. His world was falling apart. His mother was dead, his father was sitting there like a madcap, talking to himself.
‘Perhaps she’s just asleep.’
Matthias couldn’t think of anything else to say. Osbert turned his head, lips curled in a sneer.
‘Asleep? You stupid little boy. She’s dead! My Christina is dead! Your mother is dead and all you can say is that she’s asleep!’ Osbert’s shoulders began to shake. He put his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Matthias backed towards the door. He couldn’t make sense of this. His mother would never die. He was in a dream.
‘Where are you going?’ The priest staggered from the chair and pounced threateningly on him. ‘Where are you going, brat? You little bastard!’
‘Father!’ Matthias screamed.
The priest blinked.
‘Father, I don’t know!’
The priest breathed in deeply, closing his eyes; he crossed himself three times.
‘This hermit of yours? This hermit of yours?’ he repeated.
‘He’s dead,’ Matthias whimpered.
The priest muttered something to himself. Then: ‘I want to go there,’ he declared. ‘Go on, boy! Get your cloak, put your boots on and don’t run away!’
Matthias hurried to obey. When he came downstairs his father was all ready; a water bottle filled with wine in one hand, a greasy leather bag in the other. ‘Food and drink,’ he explained.
They went to the stable. Parson Osbert brought out the little palfrey he kept there. Matthias thought he’d lift him up into the saddle but the parson hung the leather bag on the saddle horn and mounted.
‘Run beside me, brat!’
Along the high street Parson Osbert stopped, hammering at the door of Widow Blanche. He told her, in harsh, halting sentences, what had happened, and would she dress the corpse and watch the house until he returned? After that the parson rode on. He stopped at the gallows and stared at the Preacher’s body, now coated with pitch and tar. It hung, head askew, neck still clenched by the rough, thick hemp. Again Parson Osbert muttered something to himself and, with Matthias trotting beside him, entered the woods, following the path to Tenebral.
Matthias did not know what kind of morning it was. He did not seem to be able to hear or see anything. His mother was dead. Christina would never talk to him again. Now his father rode like a madcap, while he himself scampered along like some mongrel dog.
Matthias’ head and stomach pained him. He was aware that it had rained the night before. There were puddles on the trackway. The trees overhead still dripped water. He had to pause to catch his breath, to relieve the stitch in his side but his father rode on. Matthias, sobbing and gasping, followed. He didn’t bother to keep up but left the forest path, making his way along his secret trackway into Tenebral. The tendrils of the morning mist still seeped through its broken-down houses, hanging like a cloud around the old church.
Matthias waited at the lych-gate. His father came up and dismounted. He gripped the boy’s shoulder.
‘I told you to stay with me!’ he snapped. ‘Now, mind the horse!’
The parson strode up the pathway to the church. Matthias didn’t follow. He was frightened. He’d caught a look in his father’s eye of something he had never seen before. He must have stayed an hour until his father came out of the ruins.
‘Matthias, come here to me, boy!’
Matthias stood stock-still. Parson Osbert stepped forward. Matthias cringed at the look on his father’s face.
‘I am not what I appear, boy.’ The parson was trying to keep his voice sweet and low yet Matthias sensed a terrible danger. He was sure that if he went into the church, he would never leave alive. He noticed his father had taken off his belt, this was tightly wrapped round his right hand.
‘It’s the runes,’ Parson Osbert explained, as he began to edge forward. ‘I am not as simple as people think, Matthias. I am a scholar. I can read French and Latin. But that rose and the runes, you must know what they mean?’ He held his left hand up, fingers splayed. ‘Do you know what they mean, Matthias? Do you know what they say? Come and tell your father.’
Matthias couldn’t move. His mouth was dry. He edged backwards. The docile palfrey caught his fear and began to tug at the reins.
‘We’ll look at the pictures.’ Parson’s Osbert’s head came forward. Matthias could see how tight his throat was, the Adam’s apple bobbing there. ‘We’ll look at the pictures and then I’ll go to Tewkesbury.’
He hurried forward, head rigid, eyes intent on Matthias. The boy found it impossible to move.
‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert.’
At the side of the church, behind his father, stood Rahere the clerk. The priest paused. Rahere walked slowly towards him. He was dressed for hunting in a dark-green jerkin and hose of the same colour. As he moved, his hand went to the dagger in his belt.
‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert. Good morrow, Matthias.’
He moved between them, his back to Matthias. Parson Osbert’s fingers went to his lips, eyes flitting left and right, as if he suddenly realised where he was and what he was doing.
‘I heard the news in the village,’ Rahere said. ‘My condolences on the death of Christina. She was a good woman.’ He smiled over his shoulder at Matthias. ‘She must have been, to have a son like you. So, Parson Osbert, if your wife lies dead at home, why are you both here in this ruin?’
Matthias couldn’t exactly see what was happening but his father seemed frightened, moving his head backwards and forwards, blinking as he tried to break free of the clerk’s gaze.
‘We are on our way to Tewkesbury,’ he gabbled. ‘I called off to see, well, to see Matthias’ secret place.’
‘Why Tewkesbury?’ the clerk asked softly. ‘Your wife’s corpse is not yet cold.’
‘I have business there.’ The parson was now agitated, licking his lips, moving from foot to foot. ‘Yes, I must go there.’
He moved sideways but the clerk moved with him.
‘And Matthias?’ Rahere asked. ‘He doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury, does he?’
‘No, no, he doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury,’ the parson echoed.
‘So you had better leave now.’
The parson nodded his head and, brushing by the clerk, snatched the reins and clambered on to his palfrey. He kicked his heels in, hurrying off along the trackway which would take him down the road to Tewkesbury. Rahere watched him go before turning to Matthias. The boy noticed how the clerk’s face was pale, a coating of sweat on his brow.
‘I’m frightened,’ Matthias said. ‘I’m cold and I’m very frightened.’
Rahere took his cloak off, wrapped it round the boy, picked him up and carried him round the old cemetery walls to where his horse had been hobbled in a cluster of trees.
‘You are coming back with me to Sutton Courteny,’ the clerk said. ‘I have the best room at the Hungry Man.’
The journey back was silent. When they arrived at the tavern, the scullions and tapsters were still heavy- eyed, the fires had not yet been lit. Joscelyn the tavern master came hurrying up, curious about the bundle Rahere carried in his arms. The clerk whispered an explanation. Matthias didn’t hear and he really didn’t care. He was shivering so much, his stomach was curdling and he felt a burning sensation in the back of his throat. Rahere had taken the large and spacious chamber on the first floor overlooking the high street. He put Matthias on the bed, went across to his saddlebags and took out a phial. He poured its contents into some wine and forced the cup between the boy’s lips. Matthias tried to protest. He was sure his stomach wouldn’t hold it but the clerk held him
