27
For the year 1490, the Chronicler of St Paul’s in London could only shake his head at the way God had visited the sins of the people upon their heads. The sweating sickness swept into the city, sparing neither rich nor poor, the strong as well as the weak, the young as well as the old. The hospitals at St Mary Bethlehem, and elsewhere in the city, were overflowing. Death carts constantly trundled the streets, trading stopped, those who could, fled the city, those who couldn’t, barred themselves indoors. Great communal graves were dug out at Charterhouse and to the north-west of the city. Streets were chained off, soldiers, masked and muffled, guarded the entrances. Huge bonfires burnt in every open space for the doctors believed that fire and smoke would fumigate the city.
Matthias heard about this as he came through Epping, on the London road: he stopped for a few days in the small village of Leighton before riding on. He took a chamber in a small hostelry in Clerkenwell and, the following day, presented himself at the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. Sir Edmund Hammond was a little more cordial than when they had first met. When he took Matthias up to his chamber, he rummaged in a chest and brought out a burnished piece of steel which served as a mirror.
‘Master Fitzosbert, it’s not my business to pry, but you seem like a man who has seen his own calvary.’ He thrust the mirror into Matthias’ hand.
Matthias held it up and stared at his own reflection. His face was still olive-skinned but he noticed the furrows around the corner of his mouth, lines under his eyes and, even though he was only twenty-six, his hair had pronounced streaks of grey. Matthias smiled and handed the mirror back.
‘My journey, sir, was not just to a place but to the past.’
‘A harrowing experience.’ Sir Edmund lifted his hand for silence as a servant came in to serve them bread and wine.
Once he had gone, Matthias described his visit to Baron Sanguis, the attack by Emloe’s men, their mysterious and brutal deaths.
‘I thought as much,’ Hammond interrupted. ‘The lay brothers noticed the Priory was being watched shortly after you left, and questions were asked.’ Hammond spread his hands. ‘Before I could stop it, some gave answers to seemingly innocent questions.’ Hammond jabbed a thumb to the window behind him. ‘It’s my view the Priory is still being watched — beggars, tinkers, traders, journeymen, all Emloe’s creatures, so you should be careful.’
Matthias described how he was staying at Clerkenwell, that he intended to leave the city as soon as possible. He took out of his saddlebags his father’s Book of Hours and handed it over, opening it at the page where Parson Osbert had written that last dramatic Confiteor. Hammond read it, his lips moving soundlessly and, although he tried to disguise it, Matthias sensed his agitation.
‘You did say,’ Matthias declared, ‘that someone here could help? You promised. .’
Hammond handed the Book of Hours back.
‘I cannot help you.’ His eyes were very sad. ‘I can pray for you, Master Fitzosbert, but I cannot help you carry your cross. I cannot take it away. Yes, there is a woman, an anchorite. Her name is Emma de St Clair, a woman of great piety.’ He smiled thinly. ‘As well as great age. She has, for the last fifty years, lived in a cell here within the hospital. She spends her days in prayer, meditation and reparation for her sins and those of others. She is the person I mentioned.’
‘Does she know about the Rose Demon?’ Matthias asked.
Hammond got to his feet. Although it was a sunny day, he pulled the shutters of the windows over, making the room dark, even more stuffy.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered.
He left, locking the door behind him. He was gone for well over an hour. Matthias sat dozing in a chair, half- listening to the sounds of the Priory and wondering how an old anchorite could help him. His eyes grew heavy.
His head was nodding when he felt a kiss on the side of his head. For a second Matthias thought it was Christina. He glanced up, the woman’s face was old but her eyes were young and vivacious. Dame Emma had slipped into the room, Hammond closing and locking the door behind her. Now she stood calm and serene, her hands clasped together, smiling down at him. She was dressed in white, a veil and wimple around her face, a long gown, which stretched from just beneath her chin to her sandalled feet. A green cord was tied round her waist. In her hands were a large string of Ave Maria beads which she constantly moved, slipping them between her fingers. Matthias sat, gaping up at her.
‘Are you so tired, Matthias? Or just overcome by how old I am?’
‘Madam.’ Matthias scrambled to his feet.
He knelt down as a sign of respect and kissed her on the back of each hand. She stroked his hair, her fingers smoothed the side of his face; they were cool and light.
‘It’s a long time since a man knelt before me, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ She laughed, a bubbling, merry sound like a young lady flirting with a courtier. She cupped her hand beneath Matthias’ chin and stared down at him. ‘I know what you are thinking, Matthias Fitzosbert. Sir Edmund has spoken of you many a time since your arrival here. He has told me briefly about your journey to Sutton Courteny and what you found.’ Her face became grave. ‘You are a good man, Matthias. I believe God’s grace is strong in you. I can see that in your eyes. You, Matthias, are a man of sorrow but your heart is good and your face is turned towards God. You struggle, you fall but you always get up.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Like you should now.’
Matthias did so. He was taken by this old woman, with her girlish eyes and soft voice. He could feel the sheer strength of her soul and knew that he had found a friend. Someone who might not be able to help but, at least, would make sense of this terrible world. She sat in Hammond’s chair and stared across at him, her fingers playing with a small parchment knife.
‘Sir Edmund, as I have said,’ she remarked, ‘has told me that you have just returned from Sutton Courteny.’
Matthias handed his father’s breviary over. She read the entry, carefully holding the page close up to her eyes. She closed the book, shrugged and handed it back.
‘I am not going to ask you to confess to me, Matthias. God knows you must have told your tale a number of times and, though the telling helps,’ she pulled a face, ‘it does not explain what is happening. So, for once, let me tell you a story. When I have finished, you’ll know why I am an anchorite here at the Priory and why there is a bond between us.’ She leant back in her chair, staring at a point above Matthias’ head. ‘I have a woman’s vanity,’ she began. ‘I always have had. Despite my years I like to be complimented.’ She closed her eyes and smiled. ‘I am ninety years of age, Matthias.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I was fifteen when the great Henry defeated the French at Agincourt. Well past my thirtieth year when they burnt the Maid at Rouen. However, the only part of my life which interests you is the summer and winter of 1426.’
She breathed in deeply. ‘My birth name is Emma de St Clair. My father owned lands along the Welsh march. I had two brothers, William and Martin. They were twins. They became Hospitallers with a vision of fighting God’s enemy here on earth. My mother died when I was young. I was spoilt, adored, loved; my every whim satisfied. I would only marry for love and my father hastened to agree. When my brothers, who had not yet entered the Hospitaller Order, decided to make a great pilgrimage through Russia to the city of Constantinople, I begged, I screamed, I wheedled and I flattered until my poor, exhausted father agreed that he and I should accompany them.’ She paused, fingering her rosary beads. ‘A glorious time, Matthias,’ she murmured. ‘France had been turned into a battlefield so we journeyed through the Low Countries and across the Rhine. We forded rivers deep and turbulent as the sea, through forests dark as night and across wheatlands which stretched like a golden carpet as far as the eye could see. We visited Cologne, Trier, the great cities along the Danube. We joined other pilgrims; knights, adventurers, scholars, all making their way to the Golden Horn, to the great city of Constantinople.
‘One day we were joined by a German knight, Ernst von Herschel. He was as handsome as an angel: tall, face like a hawk, golden-haired, a superb horseman. He flattered me and I flirted with him. I was in seventh
