‘But he’s a priest,’ the hermit teased. ‘He has taken vows never to know a woman.’
Matthias just blinked owlishly back.
‘Will you. .’ the boy pointed further down the wall to the faded paintings of angels, ‘will you paint them as well?’
The hermit, crouching, looked over his shoulder at the faded portraits: a group of angels each with a musical instrument: lute, flute, sackbut, shawm and rebec.
‘What are they supposed to be?’ he teased.
‘Angels, of course!’ Matthias replied.
‘Are they now?’ The hermit’s eyes looked sad. ‘I tell you this, Matthias, they look nothing like angels.’
He took the rabbit off the spit, broke the flesh with his fingers, and handed over the most succulent pieces. Matthias gnawed the sweet, soft flesh.
‘Do you know about angels?’
The hermit’s eyes were now very sad.
‘In the beginning,’ he replied, ‘before the Spirit moved over to the darkness, only the angels existed before the face of the Almighty. Think of them, Matthias, an army of brilliant lights, genius, pure will. However, in beauty and power, they were nothing compared to the great five.’ He put the piece of meat down and counted the names off on his fingers. ‘Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Lucifer. .’
‘And?’ Matthias asked.
The hermit was staring at the fire. Matthias shivered at the cold blast of wind which blew through the church.
‘And who?’ he whispered.
‘The Rosifer.’ There were tears in the hermit’s eyes. ‘All beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Magnificent as an army in battle array. Glorious leaders of a glorious host.’
‘Lucifer’s the Devil,’ Matthias broke in quickly, wanting to break the tension as well as display his knowledge.
‘Lucifer is Lucifer.’ The hermit was now rocking gently backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Brother and soul mate, great friend and comrade-in-arms to the Rosifer.’
‘Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.
‘Oh, Creatura, he was the rose-carrier. God’s gardener who laid out Paradise for Adam and Eve.’
‘They committed a sin, didn’t they?’ Matthias asked, remembering a painting from the parish church. ‘That’s why,’ he continued in a rush, ‘Jesus came from Heaven to save us from our sins. Do you believe that?’
The hermit looked up towards the sky, scored by red flashes of sunset.
‘See, Matthias,’ the hermit whispered. ‘See Christ’s blood streaming in the firmament.’
Matthias watched him curiously and recalled never seeing the hermit pray or attend Mass.
‘So, you do believe in Jesus?’
‘The Beloved,’ the hermit replied. ‘Oh yes.’
‘And Mary, his mother?’ Matthias was now repeating the catechism taught him by his father.
‘God’s pure candle,’ the hermit replied. ‘Who brought forth the light of the world.’
‘Do you believe,’ Matthias asked, half-imitating his father’s sermons, ‘that the Lord Jesus came to save us from our sins?’ The boy nibbled on a piece of rabbit flesh.
‘He didn’t come to save you from your sins.’ The hermit was now half-smiling. ‘In the end, Creatura, remember this. All begins and ends with love. All things are done for love. All things go right for love. All things go wrong for love. Heaven and Hell are not places, but states of mind and will.’ His voice sunk to a whisper. ‘Love eternally offered and eternally refused. Pardon eternally issued but never accepted. In Heaven because of love or driven out because of love.’
‘What are you talking about? Do you want some honey?’ The hermit blinked. Stretching across the fire, he ruffled Matthias’ black hair.
‘I love you, Creatura. But come, soon it will be dark. I have something else to show you. So, finish your food.’
Matthias did so, staring warily around the ruined church. The sun was beginning to set. Soon it would be dark and he had to return to Sutton Courteny. He pushed more rabbit into his mouth, followed by the butter and honey. He tried to talk but the hermit laughed and pressed his finger against his lips.
‘Shush, you chatter like a jay!’
The hermit got up, brushing the crumbs from his brown robe. He walked down the church. Matthias looked at the rose on the wall — it seemed to glow as if a great fire burnt behind it. He shook his head, got to his feet and scampered after his friend. The hermit grasped him by the hand and led him out of the village, walking vigorously. Matthias stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath. The hermit, laughing, picked him up and put him on his shoulder, reminding Matthias of a statue he had seen of St Christopher carrying the boy Jesus. They reached the top of the hill. The wind caught at their hair, making Matthias gasp as the hermit lowered him to the ground. The boy stared down into the gathering darkness.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The hermit crouched beside him. ‘Follow my finger, Matthias. Tell me what you see.’
Matthias narrowed his eyes and peered carefully. At first nothing, but then he caught a flash of colour. Concentrating carefully he saw that, protected by the trees, a great troop of horse, men-at-arms and carts were making their way along the valley below. Now and again, in the fading rays of the setting sun, he caught the shimmer of armour or a brave banner fluttering in the evening breeze.
‘Margaret of Anjou’s army,’ the hermit explained. ‘The Lancastrians are in retreat. She and her generals — Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, Lord Wenlock, and Lord Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, are fleeing for their lives-’
‘Oh yes,’ Matthias interrupted. ‘She is the Red Rose, is she not?’
‘Aye, you could say that. They flee from the followers of the White Rose.’ The hermit pulled Matthias around and pointed further back along the valley. ‘In hot pursuit comes Edward of York and his war band.’
‘What will happen?’ Matthias asked, his stomach clenching with excitement.
‘Margaret Anjou and her army are tired. They have tried to cross the Severn but the bridges are either held or destroyed. They can go no further. Ah, these men of war and their armour, their proud banners of azure, gold bars, martlets, ruby-red chevrons; tomorrow they will all be drenched in blood.’
‘There will be a battle?’ Matthias asked.
‘Yes, there will be a battle. Queen Margaret will have to stop at Tewkesbury.’
Matthias recalled the great abbey which nestled on a small hill overlooking the market town.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked.
The hermit winked. ‘I could say,’ he whispered, eyes staring, ‘that I am a sorcerer but I was a soldier, too, Matthias. The Queen’s army is exhausted. They will stop to take provisions from the abbey whilst Beaufort, her leading general, will think it’s good to fight with the Severn at his back.’
‘I have never seen a battle.’
‘Would you like to see this one?’
Matthias’ eyes rounded. ‘Could I, really?’
‘Tomorrow, at dawn, come back to me.’ The hermit held Matthias’ arms and squeezed gently. ‘Before first light, steal out of your house and meet me.’ He smiled and, drawing Matthias closer, kissed him on the brow. ‘This time I won’t play games. I won’t hide or play tricks upon you. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘Why do you want to see the battle?’ Matthias asked.
The hermit’s face suddenly became grave, even angry. He looked over his shoulder, staring down through the darkness at the retreating army.
‘Edward of York will come on fast,’ he murmured, ‘like the horsemen of Asia. The ground will shake with the hooves of his cavalry. A man born for killing is Edward of York. The Lancastrians are dead.’ He looked back at Matthias. ‘I have a friend I wish to see. Someone who has been looking for me for many a day. I want to see him and I want him to see you, Matthias. So, promise me-’
‘They say it’s dangerous.’
‘Now, why is that, Creatura?’
‘Oh, not the battle, the people who have been killed outside Tredington and Tewkesbury.’
