felon and a murderer, responsible for not only the murder of John Rokesby, Master of Arts and lecturer in the city of Oxford, but also of Henri Santerre, student and scholar in the said university! At last the clerk finished. The Justice in the centre seat folded his hands and leant forward.
‘Well, Fitzosbert, now how do you plead?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘I did not kill Santerre.’
‘Does that mean you are guilty of the rest?’
‘I did not say that.’
‘You did not deny it.’
‘I deny everything.’
‘Dearie, dearie me!’
The Justice on Matthias’ left picked up a piece of parchment.
‘Is it true that you have read books on Lucifer and Satan, and have studied the trials of witches and warlocks?’
‘Yes, I have but. .’
‘And were you present when Master Rokesby was killed?’
‘Yes, yes, I was. .’ Matthias flailed his hands. ‘What is the use?’ he cried. He turned to the left and stared at the people thronging the transept. ‘I am innocent but I have been found guilty so why should I provide sport for others?’
The crowd fell silent. Matthias looked to the right: a movement caught his eye. A figure stepped out from behind one of the pillars: a woman muffled and cowled but the hood was pushed back for a few seconds. Matthias recognised the flame-red hair of Morgana. She moved away. Another face caught Matthias’ attention, a small, squat, square-jawed, clean-shaven man, his hair tonsured like that of a priest. He was dressed in a dark blue robe lined with squirrel fur. He was staring at Matthias differently from the rest, as if fascinated by what he saw. He, too, stepped back into the crowd.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert!’
He looked towards the Justices: all three now had a square of black silk covering their heads. Matthias went cold. He had heard how Henry Tudor was issuing commissions, allowing Justices to investigate, judge and sentence but he never knew that his case would be despatched with such alacrity.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert, are you listening to us?’ The Chief Justice spoke. ‘We have examined the evidence and we have heard what little defence you can offer. In our view the charges are proven. You are a traitor, a heretic and a murderer. We sentence you to be burnt to death at Carfax within the octave of this sentence being delivered!’
Matthias’ jaw dropped. To be burnt! To be lashed to that blackened stake. He recalled the hermit burning in Sutton Courteny. He closed his eyes and swayed. The gaolers held him fast.
‘God have mercy on your soul!’ the Justice added. ‘Take him away!’
13
Matthias was returned to the Bocardo. Being a condemned felon, he was loaded with chains before being thrown into the back of the cart. The sentence had been so harsh, even the hardened gaolers felt sorry for him.
‘If you can find some money,’ the chief gaoler declared, sharing a loaf of bread with him, ‘we’ll buy a bag of gunpowder and tie it round your neck. The heat then blows your throat apart and you die quicker, better that, than feeling your flesh bubble and your eyes turn to water.’
‘Or,’ his assistant added. ‘If you pay us, when the smoke gets really thick, one of us here can come through and strangle you.’
Matthias burst out laughing, throwing his head back he guffawed until the tears ran down his dirty face. The gaolers stared impassively. Such solemn looks on their villainous faces only made matters worse — Matthias found he couldn’t stop laughing. He realised how long it had been since he had laughed so heartily and so deeply.
‘I am sorry,’ he gasped, popping the rest of the bread into his mouth, ‘but here I am, gentlemen, about to die a horrible death for crimes I did not commit. The only comfort I am offered is a bag of gunpowder or a garrotte string. I do thank you,’ he added hastily seeing their annoyance. ‘I am very grateful.’ He stared at a point over their heads. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I will not die.’
‘Why?’ The turnkey became aggressive. He drew back, remembering that Matthias was supposed to have magical powers. ‘You don’t think you’ll get a pardon, do you? I doubt it.’
Matthias leant against the wall. ‘I agree, I don’t think I’ll get a pardon.’ He smiled at his gaolers. ‘But we’ll see.’
He later regretted his remarks. The chief gaoler was now deeply suspicious. Matthias was manacled and the gaoler kept the cell door open whilst sitting down at the end of the torch-lit passageway watching his prisoner intently. The chains fastened to his gyves were long and loose. Matthias was able to move round the cell and drive off the snouting, sleek-coated rats when they became too bold. Nevertheless, as one day passed into another, Matthias began to despair. He did his best to counter this by going back to his childhood and sweet memories of Christina and Osbert. However, it was the hermit who intruded into his thoughts: showing him the foxes; freeing the dove in the ruined church; riding back with him from Tewkesbury.
On the third evening after Matthias was sentenced the gaoler, perhaps to keep the prisoner subdued, was generous with the wine. Matthias slept, though his mind was plagued by nightmares. He was back in Tenebral, standing in the nave of the ruined church. The sky above was red, as if scored by the flames from a great fire. A group of men were riding up the path, their destriers black as night, heads and faces covered by chain-mail coifs. All around him came a loud chanting, as if an army were intoning the Dies Irae, the sequence from the Mass of the dead. The riders moved slowly, the banners they carried fluttering in the wind. Their leader, his face hidden behind a helmet on which a falcon stood, wings outstretched, stopped. He put his steel gauntlet on Matthias’ shoulder, squeezing it tightly; his other hand went to lift the visor. Matthias struggled to turn his face away. At the same time he wanted to cover his ears from the sombre chanting which was growing louder. He opened his eyes: the gaoler was shaking him vigorously, the torch he carried crackling, sending out acrid fumes.
‘Master Fitzosbert, oh Lord be thanked! I thought you were dead. You have a visitor. A priest has come to shrive you.’
Matthias struggled back against the wall and stared down the passageway. In the poor light he made out the man he had seen in St Mary’s church just before he had been sentenced.
‘Do you want a priest?’ the gaoler asked. He crouched down. ‘It can help. When it comes to being taken out, you’ll not be so fearful.’
The gaoler withdrew as the priest came into the cell. As he did so, he dropped a coin into the gaoler’s hand.
‘Lock the door,’ he muttered. ‘A man’s confession is between him and God.’
The door slammed shut, the key turned. The priest, despite his fine, woollen robes, sat down on the rushes next to Matthias.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ Matthias declared.
The priest stared coolly back. Matthias studied his visitor. A youngish man, his auburn hair was neatly tonsured. Close up, his face was not pleasant: the square jaw was offset by narrow, close-set eyes and a rather spiteful cast to the thin lips, as if the man disapproved of everything he saw and heard.
‘Father, are you really here to shrive me?’ Matthias asked. ‘And, if you are, how do I know you are a priest?’
‘My name is Richard Symonds. I am a priest of Oxford.’
The man undid his cloak, revealing his long, black cassock as well as a small silver cross on a copper chain round his neck. He opened the large pouch on his belt and drew out a letter. The turnkey had lit the cresset torch in the cell. Matthias, with a rattle of chains, studied the document carefully. It was a licence, signed and sealed by the Bishop of London, giving one Richard Symonds the faculty to preach, celebrate Mass and hear confessions in London and in the counties of Oxford and Berkshire.
