mouth and throat felt dry. He fought hard to control his panic, the cold sweat which broke out on his body. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.
‘
Matthias couldn’t stop the tears. The voice was the same, an accurate echo from his childhood, of sun-filled glades, of his father’s house and church. The lonely Tenebral, a dove flying against the blue sky.
Santerre turned his head. Matthias knew he was not dreaming: the same face, but the eyes were different. He’d glimpsed that look in the hermit and Rahere the clerk; brooding, gentle as if the soul behind it wished to say something but couldn’t find the words.
‘Don’t call me that!’ Matthias blurted out. ‘Just answer me, why?’
‘Because I love you.’
‘In the body of a man?’
‘“The flesh profiteth nothing, it is the spirit which quickens,”’ Santerre replied, quoting from the Scriptures. ‘Do you really think love is a matter of the flesh? There’s more to it than what hangs between the thighs.’ He touched his head. ‘It’s in the brain, it’s in the soul!’
‘Why me?’
‘In time I’ll tell you.’
Matthias calmed himself. Santerre was holding his gaze, not just to tell him something but, like the hermit, to soothe, to lull any anxieties.
‘I saw you take the Eucharist.’
‘How long ago is that, Matthias?’ Santerre smiled. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’
Matthias glanced away.
‘You are a murderer, an assassin.’
Santerre remained unperturbed.
‘Life breeds on life. The hawk kills the dove, the fox the rabbit, the lords of the soil whomever and whatever they wish. You saw that at Tewkesbury, Matthias. Men taken out and killed just because they fought for another prince. Or Baron Sanguis — you’d take his money but where does that come from, Matthias? From the blood and sweat of others.’
‘Those villagers,’ Matthias retorted, ‘my father and the rest.’
‘I could do nothing against them. They brought it on themselves. ’ Santerre’s face became hard. ‘I came to their village and, though they did not know it, my presence brought prosperity. They turned on me. I, who had done them no harm.’
‘You killed Fulcher’s daughter.’
‘True.’ Santerre’s face relaxed. ‘What is it you say, Matthias? How does that prayer go? Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. .’
‘What has that to do with it?’ Matthias objected to the prayer being quoted back at him.
Santerre raised both hands, fingers splayed. ‘The Ten Commandments, Matthias. Ten in all. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me”, that’s the first one. Yet, what do your priests do but build false idols of wealth and power? They take God’s name in vain. They preach obedience but don’t practise it themselves.’
‘And does that excuse you?’
‘No, Matthias, but it explains what I do. When I kill I have to.’ Only now did Santerre’s eyes fall away. ‘I need the sustenance, it’s the price I have to pay.’
‘You broke God’s law.’ Matthias’ curiosity was now quickened. He realised that, for the first time since Sutton Courteny, he could question the presence which had shattered his childhood.
‘Two things matter in life, Matthias. Only two things: love and the will. Everything else is mere chaff in the wind. I love you and one day, if you come with me, I will explain all the reasons why.’ He leant forward, eyes bright. ‘Come, Matthias, leave this shabby place. France, Italy, the nations to the east or west across the great unknown. Empires, sights, knowledge which will dwarf the dusty scraps of parchment you pore over here.’
‘Why didn’t you force me?’ Matthias taunted back.
‘Two things, Matthias, love and the will. I can kill you. I can make you laugh, I can make you cry, I can make you bleed. I can make you happy, I can make you sad.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I could have all the power in Heaven and on earth. However, there is one thing, Matthias, you cannot force another being to do: you cannot make them love you. Even God Himself has that limitation.’
‘You talk of God, you talk of the Scriptures,’ Matthias retorted, getting to his feet. ‘You talk of love and you talk of the will but you don’t tell me why. Not a month passes but I think of my father, of Christina, of the others at Sutton Courteny!’
‘Why do you make excuses for them?’ Santerre’s voice grew angry. ‘Parson Osbert was a priest. Yes? He took a vow to be celibate, to be chaste. He broke that vow. He broke God’s law. He lay with a woman. He committed fornication. What’s the difference, scholar, between breaking the seventh Commandment, “Thou shalt not commit adultery”, and the sixth, “Thou shalt not kill”? Why blame me but not him?’
‘He loved Christina.’
Santerre smiled. ‘And so we agree. Love is an excuse. Love is the reason. I love you, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Santerre’s face softened. ‘I did not wish Parson Osbert’s death; there were things he knew. He rushed at me, I had no choice.’
‘Choice?’ Matthias retorted. ‘You chose to kill those villagers!’
‘They persecuted me,’ Santerre replied. ‘It wasn’t revenge. Love thwarted is much deeper, more vibrant, more passionate than any anger, hatred or revenge.’
Matthias leant against the wall. He felt calmer, more resolute.
‘I asked who you are?’
‘I am the Rosifer,’ Santerre replied slowly. ‘The Rosebearer, the Rose Carrier, a being of light who chose to love that which I should not. I paid the price. I fell from Heaven for love: was exiled for love, desperate for that love-’
‘If you are so powerful,’ Matthias interrupted, ‘why not use your power on me?’
‘Oh come, come, Matthias,’ Santerre was now enjoying himself, ‘I have seen you debate in the schools. I have talked about love and will. Love needs to be loved back, that’s even God’s great weakness. Love has to be given freely. Love that is not given freely cannot be love. Oh, I can impress, perform magical tricks, show my power. Twice I have come into your life,’ he continued. ‘Once when you reached the age of reason, a seven- year-old boy, and now. You are a man, past your twenty-first year, yet I have never really left you, Matthias. I have always been close.’
‘Again why?’ Matthias asked.
‘That is for you to find out. A matter of time.’
‘That’s why you killed Rokesby, wasn’t it?’ Matthias came back and sat on his stool. ‘You knew that I would provoke him?’
Santerre shrugged. ‘Rokesby sealed his own death warrant. You are finished here, Matthias.’
‘And you call that freedom?’
Santerre shrugged, his fingers going to his lips.
‘I had no choice. It was to protect you. Rokesby was more dangerous than you think. He could have destroyed you. Matthias, you are an innocent. You are naive. You are still the little boy who scampered along the lanes to Tenebral. Don’t you realise?’ He got to his feet and crossed to the window, jabbing his finger in the direction of the street below. ‘Haven’t you realised, Matthias, the people you move amongst? You condemn me for what I am and for what I do yet, all around you, loathsome beings coil and turn like hissing snakes. You made a fool of Rokesby. You, a scholar, brought a master into disrepute. He would have hounded you, persecuted you and, if the opportunity presented itself, totally destroyed you.’ Santerre picked up his war belt and strapped it about his waist. ‘Greater love than this, Matthias, no man hath, that he lays down his life for his friend.’
‘What do you mean?’
Santerre shrugged. ‘You ask questions, Matthias, but now is not the time for me to answer them. I beg you, do this one thing for me.’ Santerre picked up Matthias’ cloak and hood. ‘You know the Golden Lyre tavern on the road to Holywell?’
Matthias nodded.
‘Go there and wait for me. If you stay here, you’ll die. Ask the tavern master for Morgana.’ Santerre
