the Church or religion.
‘He’s an excommunicant,’ an elderly priest of a small parish near the Temple confided to Matthias. ‘Cut off from the Church now, and cut off from Heaven after death.’ He leant closer. ‘And the same goes for those who walk with him. He’s a warlock, a necromancer, a raiser of the dead. He communes with spirits.’
Matthias, who had been accosted by the priest while out on one of Emloe’s errands, at first rejected the accusation as scurrilous gossip. Dickon was more forthright.
‘He’s a master of the black arts,’ the one-eyed archer whispered, ‘and has been known to carry out the gibbet rites in cemeteries.’
They were sitting in a small tavern which overlooked the Thames where it curved to go down to Westminster.
‘So, why do you stay with him?’ Matthias asked.
‘I don’t intend to,’ Dickon confided. ‘Like you, Master Fitzosbert, I have got no place to go, no hearth I can call my own.’ The archer wetted his lips. ‘But it won’t always be so. Like you, I have been salting away the pennies and, when I have enough, I’ll be gone.’
Matthias listened, nodding wisely. He wasn’t too sure whether Dickon was a friend or a spy. He was coldly amused that Dickon had apparently followed him and knew that he was banking money with a goldsmith.
That was the last time Matthias saw Dickon alive. Three days later his drenched corpse, throat slashed from ear to ear, his face twisted into the rictus of his last agony, was wheeled on a hand barrow from the riverside into the yard behind Emloe’s house. Emloe himself came down to pay his respects. An old woman was hired to dress the corpse. Emloe even bought a shiny coffin and led a line of paid mourners up to St Thomas’ church. Emloe always prided himself that he looked after his kin in both life and death. Others whispered differently — that Dickon had held back certain monies and was punished.
By the middle of October Matthias had had enough. He tried not to provoke any suspicion but laid careful plans to take what monies he had banked, buy a good horse and ride as fast as he could to Gloucester. Emloe, however, kept him busy, almost as if the defrocked priest could read his thoughts. One day Matthias was summarily invited to Emloe’s chamber.
‘I see you are restless,’ the man began brusquely. ‘Do you want to leave us, Matthias?’
‘Perhaps it’s time I went my own way,’ he replied guardedly. ‘I have family elsewhere,’ he lied. ‘There are other things to do.’
Emloe nodded vigorously in agreement. He opened the small coffer on the table and took out a fistful of silver which he thrust into Matthias’ hand.
‘Then go. Don’t let me keep you. But do me one favour, Matthias. Stay until the first week of November, after the month’s accounts have been done. After that,’ he smiled sarcastically, sketching a blessing in Matthias’ direction, ‘you can go with my benediction.’
Matthias agreed. Nevertheless, due to what both the priest and Dickon had told him, Matthias became more watchful as the eve of All-Hallows approached. On the festival of Samhain, witches and warlocks came into their own: if Emloe were a warlock, it would certainly be celebrated by the likes of him. Memories of what had happened at Sutton Courteny and in the north tower of Barnwick came flooding back. Matthias was pleased when, on the day in question, Emloe kept him busy sending him on this minor errand or that. Matthias decided to spend the evening away from his master in some tavern or alehouse. However, when he’d finished his last task, visiting a blacksmith in Bride Lane who owed Emloe money, he found six of his master’s henchmen waiting for him in the cobbled street outside. They were all dressed in black leather jerkins and armed to the teeth. Their leader, a Portuguese named Roberto, stood, legs apart, slapping heavy leather gloves against his thighs.
‘Matthias, you are to come with us.’
‘Why?’ Matthias stood with his back to the wall.
Roberto’s men fanned out in a semi-circle around him.
‘You are to dine with the Master.’ The Portuguese’s sallow face broke into a smile. ‘You are to be his guest.’
‘I had other plans.’
‘Well, they can wait, can’t they?’ His smile faded. ‘Now, Matthias.’ The Portuguese stumbled on his name, which provoked a snigger from his companions. Roberto flushed and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘You are to come or you are to be brought.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t really care.’
‘How can I refuse such an invitation so prettily delivered?’ Matthias gave a mock bow and walked quickly down the alleyway, forcing Roberto and the rest to break into a run to keep up with him.
Emloe was waiting for him in the hall. The table had been laid out: silver plates, golden goblets, a jewel- encrusted salt cellar. Matthias was waved to a seat. Others joined them: Emloe’s principal henchmen, including Roberto, and some whom Matthias didn’t recognise. The meal was eaten in silence. Afterwards Emloe led his guests upstairs and into the top gallery. Armed guards stood about. A door was unlocked and Matthias entered a long, low, sombre chamber. The walls were covered in purple drapes. The floorboards and ceiling were painted black as elsewhere in the house. The candles fixed in sconces around the wall were of pure beeswax and gave off the most fragrant of perfumes. At the far end was a dais with a small altar covered in black and silver linen cloths. Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed to the gloom: the cross on the altar was upturned.
He tried to push his way back to the door but Emloe’s henchmen blocked his path. The defrocked priest had now taken off his black robe; beneath were the alb and surplice of a celebrant dressed for Mass: these, however, were of a deep purple with golden stars and silver pentangles sewn on them.
‘My dear Matthias, you are to stay.’ Emloe tossed his employee’s cloak to one of his assistants. He seized Matthias’ chin between his forefinger and thumb and squeezed gently. ‘You have powers, Matthias. Whether you concede to it or not. I, who am skilled in such matters, have sensed the presence around you. You are one of the chosen.’ Emloe’s voice thrilled with excitement, his eyes coming to life. ‘Tonight is the Feast of All Witches. If we make the sacrifice, because of you, the demon will be raised.’
Matthias struggled but his hands were pinioned behind him, lashed together with a silken cord. He was forced to kneel and watch as more torches were lit and Emloe intoned the blasphemous ritual. Matthias heard the muttered words and glimpsed the purple candles lit on either side of the altar. He kept his head down now and, for the first time in months, muttered a short prayer. A cock crow was followed by the smell of freshly spilt blood, incense and heavy wine. At last the ritual was over. Emloe’s henchmen squatted around the room, chanting phrases or responses when required.
Matthias opened his eyes. The muscles of his face and the back of his neck ached with pain. He grimaced and tried to stretch himself to ease the cramps. His body was damp with sweat yet the room had grown cold, reminding him of the north tower at Barnwick. Emloe and his henchmen were excited and expectant. The bloody remains of the cock, strewn over a silver platter on the altar, were quickly cleared away. Someone complained of the cold; another pointed out that some of the candles had gone out. Charcoal braziers were brought into the room and placed along one side. They blew hot and merry but still Matthias couldn’t stop shivering. New cloths were laid on the altar. The most exquisite mirror, about two feet high and the same across, held fast in a frame of golden snakes which coiled and writhed around each other, was also put in a special stand on the altar. This glowed as it caught the light from the candles and brazier.
Emloe walked round the room, sprinkling incense as he chanted softly to himself. He then knelt on a red- gold tasselled cushion before the altar. Head pulled back, he stared up into the mirror. A blasphemous prayer was offered, the others joined in. Matthias tried to keep his eyes closed but found he couldn’t. The mirror drew him on and he found himself falling into a trance as he watched the lights dance in the pure glass. There was silence. Emloe began a chant again, a blasphemous litany to Satan and all the armies of Hell. The lights in the mirror dimmed. Smoke curled there. Matthias’ throat went dry with fear; he found it difficult to swallow. He struggled at his bonds and his fingers caught a knot less tight than the rest. He plucked at it, working it loose. The mirror was now clear again: the lights danced and then the reflection rippled like the smooth surface of a lake. Emloe stopped his chanting and held his hand up for silence. The others watched, gasping in appreciation. Matthias worked the cord loose. He kept his hands behind him despite the pain in his arms and shoulders.
‘Le Seigneur is replying!’ Emloe’s voice was high with excitement. ‘Le Seigneur has deigned to look at us!’
The chanting began again. The mirror became black as if someone had thrown a cloak over it. Matthias watched intently. The darkness began to move, shift like fire smoke. A head appeared, lifting upwards, its eyes
