It was late afternoon when the Frenchman shook Matthias awake.
‘You’d best come,’ he smiled. ‘I have found out where Rokesby lives. He has a chamber not very far from here. It’s on the corner of Vinehall Street, near Peckwater’s Inn. I saw him stagger in there less than an hour ago, carrying more ale in his belly than a brewer’s barrel. Are you sure you wish to meet him?’
Matthias got off the bed and followed Santerre down the ladder. He sat on the stool, pulled on his boots and splashed water over his face.
‘
They left the hall and made their way along the High Street, pushing through the throngs of students who, the morning schools now finished, clustered round the open doors of taverns or strolled past the stalls, much to the anxiety of their owners. These watched the ragged-arsed students, notorious for their light fingers and skill at stealing. On the corner of Vinehall Street Lane, one such student had been caught. A furious quarrel was brewing between proctors and beadles of the University and a group of traders, who clamoured for the students to be taken immediately to the Bocardo, the city gaol. The fray stirred up the usual deep-seated animosity between town and gown. Other students began to gather, rusty swords and daggers pushed in their belts, whilst the traders were shouting at their apprentices to arm themselves with quarterstaffs and clubs. Pickpockets and foists looked for easy takings. A group of whores, their saucy faces garishly painted, their gaudy dresses causing a swirl of colour, also drew near for, when tempers rose, passion provided easy custom.
Santerre pushed his way through, turning to grasp Matthias’ belt as the two became separated.
‘Whatever you decide, Englishman,’ he joked. ‘I think it’s time I left this city. I really wish you’d come with me.’
They reached the bottom of the lane. Santerre led Matthias down a small alleyway and across a weed- strewn courtyard. An old woman was sitting on a stool, sunning herself, munching on her gums. She pointed to a staircase.
‘You’ll find Master Rokesby in his chamber,’ she shrilled. ‘Supposedly studying but drunk as a sot!’
They thanked her and climbed the stairs. Rokesby’s door was half-open. The chamber inside smelt stale; manuscripts lay piled on the floor. Dust-covered hangings draped the walls, soiled clothing lay thrown about. The room was well furnished, the stools and chests finely made, but it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Rokesby sat at a table beneath the window. He was dozing, head falling forward. Matthias coughed. He didn’t wish to startle this lecturer, who had a foul temper and nasty ways. Matthias coughed again.
‘Master Rokesby!’ Santerre shouted. ‘We have come to see you!’
Rokesby jumped and stirred. His ale-sodden face was unshaven. He blinked bleary-eyed.
‘Who is it?’ he muttered.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert, Domine. I’ve come to speak to you.’
Rokesby, wheezing and puffing, got to his feet. He reminded Matthias of a toad: he had a malevolent look on his face and kept wetting his lips.
‘What do you want?’
‘Why, sir, I’ve come to make my peace.’
Rokesby smirked. He undid the points of his hose and, waddling across the room, picked up a chamber pot and noisily pissed into it. Matthias chose to ignore such an obscene insult. Rokesby finished relieving himself, put the chamber pot down then walked across, tying his points up. His eyes were clearer now though Matthias could smell the stale odour of ale.
‘So, the priest’s brat has come to speak to me? Eh?’ Rokesby poked Matthias in the chest. ‘Clever little boys should keep their mouths shut or get their bottoms smacked. Yes, that’s what I should do.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘I should birch you in public. A warning against insolence and questioning your betters. After all, that’s what they do to heretics, isn’t it?’
‘I’m no heretic,’ Matthias replied hotly.
‘Yes you are. I know a lot about you, Master Fitzosbert. Come from Gloucester, do you? Patronised by the powerful Baron Sanguis, eh? Well, Sanguis is powerful no longer, is he?’ He poked his head forward and clasped his hands behind his back, like some angry school teacher berating a dullard. ‘Baron Sanguis was a Yorkist. Now that was all well and good but where are the Yorkists now, eh? Where is the great King Edward? Died of apoplexy, he did, three years in his grave. And where are his sons, the Princes?’ Rokesby lifted his hand up and snapped his fingers. ‘Gone like a mist on a summer’s day.’ He wetted his lips. ‘And the great Clarence? Murdered by his brother, Richard of Gloucester.’ Rokesby widened his eyes. ‘And we know what happened to him.’
Matthias stared at this wicked little man with his malicious, greasy face.
‘What is all this to me?’ Matthias declared.
‘I know,’ Rokesby snapped. ‘Your patron, Baron Sanguis — his son fought for Richard III at Bosworth and was killed for his treason! Baron Sanguis’ name is not popular at the court of Henry Tudor. There are many who would be delighted to hear that his protege at Oxford was dabbling in heresy and the occult.’
‘Shut up, you pig’s turd!’
Rokesby’s eyes slid to Santerre. ‘Ah, so the Frenchman has found his tongue. Master Matthias’ bum boy, eh?’
Santerre stepped forward. ‘What do you want with my friend? Why do you harass him?’
‘Oh, I’ll stop him!’ Rokesby bit his lip as if he’d said too much. ‘For a night with Amasia. A juicy little morsel, eh? How does she perform in bed? Oh, I’d love to see her bouncing, those long legs, her hair flying. They say she squeals a lot.’
Matthias would have turned on his heel but Santerre grasped him by the sleeve.
‘Do you know, Master Rokesby,’ the Frenchman sneered, ‘the girls at the Blue Boar talk about you? They say how small your member is.’ Santerre waggled his little finger. ‘And now I’ve seen you piss, I can see they were exaggerating.’
Rokesby’s face suffused with rage. He drew the dagger from his belt and lunged at Santerre. The Frenchman caught his wrist, twisted it and plucked the knife from his fingers but he didn’t stop there. He grasped Rokesby by the jerkin, pulled him forward and, with one sweeping cut, slit the lecturer’s belly. It happened so quickly Matthias couldn’t object.
Santerre held the knife up before Rokesby’s startled eyes then dropped it. Rokesby, clutching his stomach, staggered forward. He went to say something but coughed blood and slumped to one knee. Santerre kicked his leg. Rokesby keeled over on to the dirty rushes, body twitching. Matthias stared horrified.
‘God save us, Santerre!’ he muttered. ‘We’ll both hang for this!’
‘No we won’t.’ Santerre smiled down at the corpse. ‘He was a pig and he died like one. It will be days before they find his corpse and we’ll be gone.’
He pulled Matthias out of the room, slamming the door, and, holding Matthias by the arm, hustled him down the stairs.
They hurried back through the late afternoon crowds to Exeter Hall. Matthias found himself numb, unable to speak. All he could remember was Rokesby’s sneering face, the quick, deft way Santerre had killed him.
Once back in their chamber Matthias climbed up to his bed in the loft and sat, head in hands. Rokesby had been correct. Sanguis had supported the usurper Richard III and any influence the Baron had at court had died at the Battle of Bosworth the previous August. The good Baron still sent Matthias monies but he was old, grieving over his son and wary of the new Tudor King calling him to account. Matthias cursed his own selfishness but he knew that, apart from Sanguis, no one else could help him.
He glanced down. Santerre had taken his flute from a coffer and, as if nothing had happened, piped some music. The Frenchman paused then played notes Matthias had never heard before. The tune abruptly changed; Matthias stiffened. The playing was sweet, fluid, the same song he had heard the hermit sing on that dreadful day when the peasants of Sutton Courteny had burnt him to death.
12
‘Why?’ Matthias sat opposite Santerre. The Frenchman kept his face turned away. ‘Who are you?’ Matthias’
