tight.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he said. ‘Just look in my eyes.’
Matthias did, saw two dark pools. . felt a sensation similar to when he stared into the dark mere in the woods around Tenebral. His own eyes grew heavy. He was falling into darkness. .
Matthias must have slept for hours. When he awoke he felt refreshed and very hungry.
‘It’s three hours past midday,’ Rahere declared, sitting on a stool next to the bed. ‘You’ve been snoring like a little pig. How do you feel now?’
‘Warm,’ Matthias replied.
‘Good. Then it’s time you ate.’
He left. A few minutes later he returned, carrying a tray which had a pewter bowl of venison stew, cheese, soft-baked white loaves, a pot of butter and a dish of sugared pears. Matthias ate until he felt his stomach was going to burst. All the time the clerk watched him intently.
‘I’d best go home.’ Matthias pushed the tray away.
‘I don’t think so,’ Rahere answered. ‘Not yet anyway. You can help me. I have letters to write: I will show you the secrets of the Chancery.’
Matthias spent a fascinating afternoon helping the clerk draw up letters reporting to the Chancellor what had happened at Sutton Courteny. The clerk showed him how to take a fresh, virginal roll of parchment, brush it lightly with a pumice stone until it was silky to the touch, then how to cut it with a special knife, using a slat of wood to ensure the line ran straight. Then there was the ink: the proportion of water to powder, the mixing and heating over a candle. The quills, delicate to the touch, needed to be sharpened. Matthias broke at least three before he learnt how to prepare them. The clerk was very patient. Never once did he show any irritation, but praised Matthias.
‘You have a quick mind, lad. You’ll make a good clerk. Now, I’ll show you how to write.’
The clerk sat at the small desk, dipped the quill into the ink and began to write. His pen fairly skimmed across the page.
‘Can you read it?’
‘I only know Church Latin.’ Matthias shook his head.
‘It’s not Latin,’ Rahere grinned. ‘It’s Norman French, the language of the court. That’s the tongue the great ones speak.’
And, getting to his feet, the clerk spoke in French whilst imitating the affectations of the courtiers, both men and women. He was such a good mimic that Matthias laughed until his sides ached. Rahere sat back on his stool.
‘It’s marvellous to watch them, Matthias,’ he declared. ‘They carry their heads as if what was in them were sacred. Yet they are all noddle-pates.’ His face became grim. ‘Most of them have one strength and one strength only: they know how to kill — but the same could be said of any savage animal.’
‘Surely the clerks are different?’ Matthias asked.
‘They are no better nor worse,’ Rahere replied. ‘Time-servers; they carefully watch who is about to rise and who is about to fall. Well, the parchment has to be sealed.’
He took a small copper spoon and a finger of wax out of his chancery bag, showing Matthias how the wax had to be melted, poured on the parchment to receive the imprint of the seal he carried.
‘Now,’ Rahere left the parchment on the desk, ‘we let it dry then I’ll roll it up, tie it with a piece of ribbon and we’ll hire some honest journeyman to take it down to Westminster. As for you, my boy,’ he went to the window, ‘it’s nearly evening. Your father will be home.’
Matthias did not want to return to his house, but the clerk insisted on accompanying him. Widow Blanche opened the door, her face all concerned. In the kitchen Parson Osbert sat in a chair, head lolling. The cup he had been holding had rolled on the floor, the flagon of wine beside him was empty.
‘He only came back a short while ago,’ the widow woman whispered. ‘I’ve never seen him like that before: bad-tempered and cursing. He asked where his brat was.’ She glanced pityingly at Matthias. ‘He had a stick in his hand.’
‘And Christina, the boy’s mother?’ Rahere asked.
‘She’s upstairs. God save us! I’ve dressed her for burial. But this?’ She shook her head, mumbling under her breath.
‘We’ll see her,’ Rahere declared. ‘I’ll take the boy up. He should see his mother, at least once.’
He led Matthias up the stairs. Christina was laid out on her bed. She had been dressed in her best gown, her hair was combed, falling down to her shoulders, her face was serene, hands placed across her chest. Matthias felt that if he stretched out, he could shake her awake yet he did not want to. He felt guilty. She looked younger, at peace with herself. Matthias caught a glimpse of the mother he wanted to remember. He stood, the tears streaming down his face.
‘Say your prayers,’ Rahere whispered.
Matthias tried to think of one but he couldn’t. All he could remember were the words his father had taught him to say every morning.
‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and with all thy strength.’ He looked up at Rahere. ‘That’s all I can say.’
‘Kiss your mother,’ Rahere said.
Matthias climbed on the bed. He kissed Christina on her cheeks and brow. He clambered off and watched in surprise as Rahere also bent over the dead woman and kissed her gently on the lips. He ran his fingers gently down her face.
‘It’s finished, Matthias.’ He stared down at the boy. ‘Only the shell remains. The spirit has long gone.’ Rahere whispered something, staring up at the ceiling. ‘She has gone,’ he continued to the boy. ‘She suffered much, yet, despite her sins, she was good. No objection has been made: she has been allowed to pass into the light.’
Matthias stared, puzzled: Rahere shrugged and took him downstairs. Widow Blanche was still clucking like a hen over the sleeping parson.
‘You can leave the boy with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll get him something to eat.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Rahere retorted. His eyes held those of Blanche. ‘I am sure you’ll agree it’s best the boy stay with me for a while.’ He held his hand out and pressed silver coins into Blanche’s.
‘I would agree, sir,’ she replied. ‘Parson Osbert’s mind is turned with grief.’
Matthias did not object: he did not want to stay here.
‘Will he get better?’ he asked as they left.
‘I don’t know,’ Rahere replied. He looked up at the sky. ‘I don’t think so. Some sicknesses cannot be cured.’
The clerk’s words proved to be prophetic. Parson Osbert was so incapacitated that Baron Sanguis had to bring a priest from Tredington for Christina’s funeral Mass. Matthias attended with the other villagers. He felt a pang of compassion for his father, who sat on a bench supported by old Blanche and Simon the reeve.
The day of Christina’s burial was a dismal one. The sky was overclouded. Once the sheeted corpse had been lowered and the dirt piled in, the mourners ran for shelter from the fat drops of rain which began to fall. Matthias went back with Rahere to the Hungry Man. He felt comfortable there, either assisting the clerk or doing jobs round the tavern for Joscelyn.
The villagers grew accustomed to the clerk’s presence and, as the days passed, they accepted him as their leader and counsellor. Parson Osbert, constantly in his cups, was dismissed as a madcap who, before long, would be relieved of his living. In his turn, the clerk seemed unwilling to leave and, when questioned by Sanguis and others, dismissed any notion of returning to Westminster just yet.
‘I need to be sure,’ he explained, ‘that there are no more deaths in the locality. The Preacher’s corpse might be rotting on the gallows but there may be more than one killer. He might have been a member of a coven.’
He told the villagers this when they all crowded into the tavern late at night after the harvest had been stored. The villagers gathered round him.
‘It’s true what you say, sir,’ Fulcher declared. ‘So many corpses, yet no one has given the reason why.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rahere sat back in his seat, putting his arm round Matthias.
