voices at the end of the passageway, followed by the clink of coins and the sound of footsteps. The door was swung open and Symonds came in. He was dressed in a cassock, with a stole over his shoulders, a small, lighted candle in his hand.
‘Close the door!’ Symonds shouted. ‘And pray look after my good sister!’
The gaoler obeyed with alacrity.
‘He’s well paid,’ Symonds declared.
The priest blew the candle out. He undid the silver pyx he carried but, instead of a host, it contained a strange-looking key.
‘The work of a master locksmith,’ he explained, slipping the key into the gyves and manacles. In a trice they were loose. Symonds then sat back against the wall. He took a small wineskin from beneath his cloak, took a swig and offered it to Matthias. The claret was full and strong and warmed his belly. For a while he just sat and stretched, flexing his muscles, letting the blood run free. Symonds also gave him some bread, cheese and smoke dried ham. Matthias ate these ravenously. He heard a sound, a small scream, from the end of the passageway.
‘What is that?’ he asked between mouthfuls.
‘I would think it’s Mistress Morgana doing her duty,’ Symonds sneered.
The sounds at the end of the gallery ceased. There was a low groan and the cell door swung open. Morgana, her hair slightly dishevelled, her dark smock and cloak covered with pieces of straw, was smiling down at Matthias. In one hand a dagger, bloody to the hilt, in the other a set of keys.
‘I think it’s time we left.’
Symonds grasped Matthias by the arm and pushed him out into the passageway. He picked up the gaoler’s cloak and tossed it at Matthias. Its owner, his hose still down at his ankles, sprawled on the mattress, throat slashed from ear to ear.
‘There are other gaolers,’ Matthias muttered.
‘Aye, and they’ll be asleep,’ Symonds mocked. ‘Nothing like a small tun of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux with a small dose of valerian to ease people’s worries.’
They went up the steps and into the hallway. The few gaolers who did night duty were fast asleep round the table, cups and jugs knocked over as they sprawled in their drunken sleep. As they approached the side door, a soldier lurched out of a chamber. Symonds, who carried a thick ash cane as a walking stick, clubbed the man savagely on the side of the head. They quickly went through the keys. The door swung open. They crossed a small yard, passed through a wicket gate and into an alleyway.
‘No one ever escapes from the Bocardo.’ Symonds stopped and grinned wolfishly at Matthias. ‘Nothing more than a disused house really.’
‘Horses?’ Matthias asked.
‘Not here,’ Symonds scoffed.
He made to go: Morgana caught Matthias’ hand.
‘Matthias, we’ll meet again.’ She smiled through the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t have left me at the Golden Lyre.’
‘I had no choice,’ Matthias replied. ‘I had to see what would happen.’
She kissed him gently on each cheek.
‘Watch Symonds,’ she whispered. ‘Mad as a March hare.’ She put her arms round his neck and hugged him close. ‘If he threatens you, threaten back.’ And she slipped away into the darkness.
Symonds, who had gone further down the alleyway, gestured angrily.
‘Come on! Come on!’ he hissed.
Matthias followed him through a tangle of dark alleyways stinking to high heaven. Scavenging cats fled whining before them. Now and again from the back garden of a house a watch dog would howl or throw itself against the gate. The occasional beggar, huddled in the shadows, pleaded for alms.
Symonds deliberately kept well away from the student quarter. They reached the end of the High Street, entered the old Jewish cemetery, down a hill, splashing across the Cherwell, the water refreshingly cool against Matthias’ chapped legs. Still Symonds hurried on. At last they were in the countryside, the trackway they followed lit by a hunter’s moon. Matthias stopped and stared up at the stars. A clear, beautiful night, the breeze soft and sweet. Matthias closed his eyes and thanked God he had escaped.
‘Come on! Come on!’ Symonds urged again.
At last they left the trackway, crossed an open field and into a copse. Men, masked and hooded, gathered round Matthias, stripping him of his clothing. Another brought a leather bucket and a rag.
‘Wash and clean yourself.’ The voice was rough.
Matthias did so. Without a by-your-leave, another seized his hair and began to cut it. Matthias did not object as the dirt from the gaol was washed away. Saddlebags were brought, he was given a fresh change of clothing, leather riding boots, a war belt with sword and dagger, and a woollen cloak and cowl.
No one spoke. Symonds sat on a stump of a tree watching him. Food was produced and then horses brought. Symonds clasped the hands of those who had helped him. They led the horses across the fields, back on to the lane, and began a wild ride through the night. It was well after dawn before Symonds eventually agreed to stop for a while to refresh their horses.
The ride proved to be exhausting. They paused now and again to eat, drink or relieve themselves. The only thing Matthias learnt was that they were riding north-west. In the late afternoon they changed horses at a roadside tavern. Symonds kept riding even when darkness fell. Matthias protested but Symonds, reining in, shook his head.
‘No, we can’t sleep out. We are expected. Just a little further.’
‘Where are we going?’ Matthias asked.
‘To Twyford Grange. That’s all I’ll tell you.’
Night had fallen by the time they reached the grange, an old, rambling manor house surrounded by lonely fields. The pathway up to it was overgrown, its curtain wall crumbling. Most of the windows were shuttered and those on the ground floor were cracked and dusty. A taciturn manservant took their horses. Another led them into the hall where Symonds introduced Matthias to Elizabeth Stratford, a distant kinswoman of the Yorkist Lord Francis Lovell.
The lady of the manor was tall, angular, her face like yellowing parchment, yet her eyes were bright and friendly, lips parted in a welcoming smile. She extended one vein-streaked clawlike hand for Matthias to kiss and laughed quite merrily when she caught Matthias studying her old-fashioned dress and veil.
‘I have seen the years, young man,’ she said. ‘The hand you kissed has been held by them all: Henry V, his hapless son, the Yorkist lords.’ Her eyes grew sad. ‘All shadows now, gone into the dark. Come.’ She beckoned Matthias into the light provided by a candle wheel which hung on a chain from the ceiling. ‘So, you are Symonds’ friend, are you?’ She studied him closely. Her eyes became guarded, as if she had glimpsed something over Matthias’ shoulder.
‘Are you a magus?’ she asked. ‘A sorcerer?’
‘My lady, I am a scholar down on his luck and no more. And, with the exception of the good priest here, probably the loneliest man in the kingdom.’
‘Is that true, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The old lady stepped back two or three paces. She was studying him anxiously from head to toe. ‘When we met over there,’ she pointed to the darkness beyond the ring of light, ‘I really thought you were what you claim to be but, in the light, I can see that is not so.’
‘What do you mean, my lady?’ Symonds, his face excited, stepped forward. ‘Do you see his power?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
Lady Elizabeth turned on her heel, walked along the passageway and into the small hall.
‘They say Lady Stratford has second sight, that she is fey,’ Symonds whispered excitedly. He, too, stopped and looked over Matthias’ shoulder. ‘I can see nothing.’
‘She has a fanciful imagination,’ Matthias replied tersely. ‘Nothing more and nothing less.’ He heard a cough and looked up.
Lady Elizabeth had reappeared in the doorway and was staring at them. Matthias mumbled his excuses and they both followed her into the hall. This also must have seen better days: the hearth was full of cold ash, the drapes, banners and pennants hanging from the beams were dusty and slightly ragged. Cobwebs hung on the
