The Rose Demon

7

The news of Thurston and Mariotta’s murder, as well as others in the wooded, secret places along the River Severn, seeped into Sutton Courteny. It chilled the hearts of those involved in the hermit’s death. In the corners of the Hungry Man people began to whisper how they had been responsible for spilling innocent blood. Neighbours drew apart. Friendships failed and a sense of guilt haunted the village. Parson Osbert, although many said his hands were clean of any man’s blood, only felt more guilty. Not that he had done anything wrong, but that he had failed to do anything right.

The gossips and the whisperers were quick to point out how God’s hand seemed to have turned against the village. Christina, Parson Osbert’s woman, fell ill. She kept to her bed, a pale ghost of her former self. Fulcher the blacksmith was kicked in the groin by a horse and, for days, his smithy lay cold at a time when everyone wanted to have their horses tended. Simon the reeve was gored by a bull, not grievously, but enough to put him ill in bed so he could lie and reflect on what he had done. John the bailiff was no more fortunate: he was attacked by outlaws, soldiers from the defeated Lancastrian army, who badly mauled him. Joscelyn the taverner became a little too fond of the ale he sold: one night there was a fire in his cellar which destroyed his best madeira sack, mead and ale. Other mishaps occurred. The sun proved very strong; the crops began to burn, mysterious fires being started in the long meadow and in other places around the village. Tempers became short. Knives were drawn in the fields, in the tavern and even, on one occasion, outside the church.

A violent thunderstorm broke at the beginning of June. Lightning, jagged bolts of fire from heaven, split trees and fired a hay rick. The heavy rains afterwards beat down the corn and turned the fields, ripe for harvest, into a soggy mess. Oh yes, the gossips muttered, God’s vengeance was making itself felt. Matters were not helped by young girls having dreams of devils coming out of the earth; by goblins and elves turning the milk sour; whilst a strange howling was heard from the woods at night which frightened the children and stampeded the cattle and sheep.

Worse was to come. In the second week of June, Baron Sanguis and his hatchet-faced son returned from the King’s war on the eastern shores. The Manor Lord rode through the village, his standard-bearer going before him, his son a few paces behind. Following in their dust, retinues of armed men, not to mention the clerks, bailiffs and scriveners from Baron Sanguis’ household. The Manor Lord, with his iron-grey hair and hard, sunburnt face, looked neither to the left nor the right. Dressed in his half-armour, despite the heat, and slouched in the high saddle of his destrier, Baron Sanguis progressed like a conquering hero along the village high street.

The villagers gathered at the hanging stone, brought presents to greet their lord. Baron Sanguis rode on, not even deigning to look, and the villagers’ hearts sank: Sanguis knew that something dreadful had happened during his absence. The manor lay to the north-west of the village, a sprawling, moated mansion protected by its high curtain wall, a small village in itself. Baron Sanguis had been away since the previous autumn and, on his return, the manor quickened into life. Other retainers followed him, carts full of possessions. For three days there was silence, then Sanguis’ clerks and bailiffs moved into the village. Monies were owed: tolls were due: levies to be raised on this or that. Who had been picking apples from Baron Sanguis’ orchards? Who had allowed pigs to forage in his woods? And what about the tithes owing to the Church? And were the villagers prepared, according to ancient custom, to work this autumn in the Manor Lord’s fields? What marriages had taken place? What births? Had all dues been paid? The flint-eyed clerks knew their master’s rights, as they moved from house to house with quill, ink horn and the manor accounts.

Parson Osbert stayed in his house, Matthias with him. A great chasm had grown up between the boy and his father since the hermit’s death. They hardly ever talked. The priest seemed to have caught some of his wife’s languid torpidity and, if it hadn’t been for Blanche, a merry-eyed widow from the village, clothes would not have been washed, food cooked or the house cleaned. Christina was now a recluse, lying in her bed, only eating when forced by her husband or Blanche. She hardly talked but sat staring like a madcap, lips moving wordlessly, lost in her own private hell.

Now Baron Sanguis had returned, Parson Osbert’s fears only increased. On the Sunday, two weeks after the Baron’s return, the summons came. Parson Osbert made a special effort.

‘Soon it will be the feast of Corpus Christi,’ he announced, smiling at Matthias. ‘So, I might as well bathe and change my clothes for that, as well as meeting Baron Sanguis.’

He did so, carefully shaving his face, even rubbing a little oil into his thinning hair.

‘Will you go with me, Matthias?’ Parson Osbert’s face was almost pleading.

‘Of course, Father,’ the boy dutifully replied.

Parson Osbert sighed with relief. Matthias knew the reason why. For some strange reason Baron Sanguis had a liking for the priest’s son. If he was present, perhaps the Manor Lord’s fury might be curtailed.

By the time they entered the great hall of the manor, Parson Osbert was in a state of fright: he clasped Matthias’ hands so tightly the boy winced in pain. The priest stood inside the double doors of the hall. The Manor Lord sat behind the great table on the dais at the far end. His face was hidden by the great, ornate silver saltcellar. The tables down either side of the hall were empty; the Baron sat in solemn majesty: his one and only son, Robert, on his right, seneschal Taldo on his left. Parson Osbert could see that his lord had profited in his support of the Yorkists. Glaziers had put glass in the windows on each side of the hall — these gleamed like freshly fallen water in the bright sunlight. The walls had been freshly washed in pink paint. The banners which hung from the rafters glowed in their brilliant colours, whilst the shields and weapons which decorated the walls had all been newly cleaned and painted.

‘You’d best come forward!’ Baron Sanguis boomed.

The priest, still clutching Matthias’ hand, walked quickly up the hall. He felt strange. There were no rushes but thick Turkey carpets on the floor, which deadened any sound. Parson Osbert felt as if he were walking in his sleep. If that was the case, he thought, as he paused before the dais and bowed, then Baron Sanguis was a nightmare. The Manor Lord sat erect in his high-backed chair, elbows resting on its arms: his hair had been freshly cut, shorn well above the ears, but this only emphasised the harshness of his face: black-pebble eyes and a nose which seemed to cut the air. The Baron smoothed his long, grey moustache, which fell at least two inches beneath his chin. He played with the rings on his fingers or tapped the gold medal which hung on a silver chain round his neck. His son, attired like his father, gazed just as bleakly, though seneschal Taldo, a friend of the priest, smiled weakly and raised his eyes heavenwards. Baron Sanguis looked up at the banner bearing his arms, three black crows on a golden field.

‘My son carried a banner like that at Barnet.’ His voice rose. ‘When I was fighting for my king and lord!’

Parson Osbert bowed. ‘Sir Henry, I am so pleased you have returned safe and sound, rightfully covered in honours and glory.’

‘Yet, while I’m gone-’ the Manor Lord was now leaning across the table — ‘while I’m gone,’ he bellowed, ‘my villagers take rights unto themselves, acting like the Manor Lord! Seigneurs of the soil, are they?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘By what right,’ he shouted, ‘did they hold a court in your church and condemn a man to death? By what right did they lay claim to the power of the axe, the tumbrel and the rope? Did you know that, according to the law, they and you have committed murder? You could all hang!’

‘My father didn’t agree with it!’ Matthias spoke up.

Baron Sanguis turned his head and breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. His face softened and his hand went out as if he wanted to stroke Matthias’ head. Even Robert smiled, whilst Taldo beamed, relieved at the break in the tension.

‘My father didn’t agree to anything!’ Matthias repeated. ‘It was the Preacher!’

‘You!’ Baron Sanguis jabbed a finger in mock anger at Matthias. ‘You should be a soldier, a knight!’

Parson Osbert closed his eyes and quickly thanked God that he had brought Matthias. Baron Sanguis liked to act the bully but the priest knew that he had a good heart and could be quickly mollified. The Manor Lord dug into his purse and pushed some pennies across the table.

‘That’s for you, boy,’ he declared. ‘Buy some sweetmeats. Ah,’ he waved his hand, ‘I know, I know, I know, you, Parson Osbert, objected and your boy was the only one who had the courage to speak up.’ He pulled a face. ‘So stop quivering!’ He pointed to the end of the table. ‘Sit down. Let’s have some wine.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘The boy can have a cup of apple juice.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s been in the cellar, it’s cold and strong so, not too much.’

Once they were settled, Parson Osbert told his lord exactly what had happened. The Manor Lord heard him out, steepling his fingers on the table, now and again whispering to his son. Robert always gave a curt reply. When Osbert had finished, he sat sipping the white wine which Taldo had served. The Manor Lord beat his fist on the table as if it were a drum.

‘This is what I’ve decided, priest. The villagers will pay a fine of twenty shillings. You will not pay it. I have also sent a messenger to London. I have friends.’ He preened himself. ‘At court, my Lord of Hastings.’

Parson Osbert bowed. Hastings was the King’s personal friend. After the royal brothers, George and Richard, he was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

‘I have asked him to send down a royal clerk, someone to investigate this business. The real culprit is the Preacher.’ Baron Sanguis ticked the points off on his finger. ‘He had no right to hold a court. He had no right to condemn.’ His hands fell away. ‘And, for all we know, boy, the Preacher himself could be the assassin?’

Matthias’ heart leapt with joy. For the first time since the hermit’s death, he smiled. He also forgot Baron Sanguis’ advice, drank his apple juice a little too fast and had to be carried home by his father.

Rahere, the royal clerk, swaggered down the King’s Steps at Westminster and into the waiting barge. The wherrymen, dressed in the royal livery, took one look at the chancery ring on his left hand and the red sealed warrant in the other and ushered him to the cushioned seat in the stern as if he were the King himself. Royal clerks ruled the roost. They were the King’s lawyers, his money-men, the searchers out of his prerogative. They had the power of the Chancery and, on their advice, a man rose or fell. This clerk looked the part: tall, elegantly dressed in a soft, woollen tunic, hose of the same colour and texture and high-heeled morocco boots, he gathered his cloak about him and lounged in the stern. Now and again he’d turn his head to study a Spanish caravel, a two-masted ship of the Hanse or the long, wolflike galleys from Venice as they made their way up and down the Thames.

Rahere was young and ambitious; with his black-raven hair, smooth, olive-skinned face and lustrous eyes, he had even caught the attention of the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. Rahere was one of her henchmen, being sent hither and thither on royal business. Now he had received a fresh charge. He had been appointed the King’s Commissioner in the Western Shires, with powers of life and death. He was to search out the person responsible for the dreadful murders which had been committed outside Tewkesbury and bring the culprit to summary justice.

Rahere played with the hem of his pure wool cloak, deftly brushing off some crumbs which were clinging to his thick, burgundy-coloured tunic. I will act the part, he thought. I will take the swiftest, sleekest horse and sumpter pony from the royal stables and ride through the shires like a King’s Justice. Rahere smiled. Like a King’s Justice! He would be the King’s Justice, girt with sword and carrying a royal pennant. Every knee would have to bow.

Rahere looked up at the sky. The summer sun was beginning to set. He would celebrate his good fortune in Southwark with a tasty meal; good wine, venison soaked in claret — and afterwards? Beneath his cloak, Rahere’s hand stole to his groin and plucked at his protuberant codpiece. A fresh whore from one of the stews: some young palfrey he could strip, mount and ride through the night. A young girl who would be fresh and quick beneath him. Rahere smacked his lips.

‘You’d best pull harder!’ he snapped.

The wherrymen bent over their oars, quietly cursing this pompous young lord. Their barge turned, making its way through the little bumboats which always thronged around the great ships, offering the sailors everything: fruit, almonds, sweetmeats, roasted chicken, apples, pears and, if the officers didn’t mind, some of the painted whores who always paid to tout their services from such boats. Rahere studied these surreptitiously. Now and again he’d turn to admire one of the King’s cogs; the royal men-of-war beginning to assemble in the Thames. Now the war was over, Edward of England was determined to teach the French not to support his enemies.

At last the royal wherry reached Southwark, just between the inn called the Bishop of Winchester and the Priory of St Mary Overy. To his left, Rahere could see the mass of London Bridge and the long, jutting poles bearing the severed heads of Lancastrian traitors. Rahere smiled. That was what was so good about being a clerk. Whoever won, men like himself were always valued: scholars from the Halls of Oxford or Cambridge who knew the law and the secrets of the Chancery. Rahere tossed a coin and went up the water-soaked steps and into the crowds milling along the quayside.

Rahere loved Southwark, thronged with every villain under the sun: cutthroats, naps, foists, apple-squires and a glorious profusion of whores of every age offering all forms of delicacies for a young lord like himself. He arrogantly pushed his way through them and into the Grey Goose tavern. The landlord and tapsters greeted him like a prince. They knew how he liked his dishes served: venison cooked though left pink in the middle; the sauce had to be thick and full of mushrooms and onions. No watered wine or vineyard dregs but the best Gascony.

Rahere was shown to his table next to the window. His meal was served piping hot, not on a dirty trencher but clean pewter plates with a special horn spoon in a leather purse.

Rahere ate well and drank deeply. He was staring out over the garden, picking at his teeth, when he heard soft steps. He turned and his wine-filled belly clenched in excitement. The young woman was ravishingly beautiful, hair as red as a burning flame, skin like alabaster, light-green eyes slanted at the corners. Her rosebud mouth parted in a half-smile. .

Matthias sat in the ruined sanctuary of Tenebral church. He gazed at the rose painted on the wall and let the tears stream down his cheeks. Above him a wood pigeon cooed, breaking the silence of the summer afternoon. Matthias felt truly alone. At that moment, he realised how, apart from the hermit, he always had been by himself. As long as he could remember he had been only tolerated by the village children. They resented his knowledge of letters, his ability to read his hornbook. Matthias didn’t recognise that. He just felt their cruelty, their dismissive taunts as the ‘priest’s brat’. At home it had been no different. His father and mother were engrossed in themselves. Sometimes he felt they were embarrassed by him. His father was kind and generous but Christina was aloof; so much so that in his private dreams and games, Matthias considered her a fairy-tale princess locked up in an ivory tower. The hermit had been different: his friendship had been the first time Matthias had ever experienced such closeness. Now he was gone, everything was changing, including himself. Matthias was upset, yet he felt stronger whilst his parents seemed more like strangers. Christina had now totally drawn into herself whilst his father fumbled like an old man. Despite their visit to Baron Sanguis ten days ago, the parson had not improved whilst matters in the village went from bad to worse.

Sigherd, a lonely crofter who owned two messuages of land, became drunk and, one night, stumbled into the millpond where he had drowned. Peterlinus, one of the baker’s sons, had fallen from a tree and broken an arm. An outlaw band had crossed the Severn and were now plaguing travellers and journeymen on the Sutton Courteny road. Despite the best efforts of Baron Sanguis, this small band of wolf’s-heads were driving journeymen and merchants away from the village. At night, so it was said, devils danced around Sutton Courteny. Death, astride a purple horse, had ridden slowly through the village, a death’s-head helmet over its skeletal face, a huge scythe in his hand. Behind him, so rumours alleged, trailed a legion of imps to plague the villagers of Sutton Courteny.

Matthias folded his arms and pricked up his ears. He was sure he heard a horse’s hooves yet no one came this way. Sometimes when he was here, particularly just before dusk, he sensed the hermit’s presence, his voice calling him Creatura bona atque parva. Matthias had ruefully recognised this must be his own wishful longing.

He went back to contemplating the rose and reflecting on what had happened in the village over the last few days. People knew Baron Sanguis had honoured Matthias. Now they respected, even feared him. People recalled how only the boy had spoken for the hermit. Baron Sanguis had also been affected by the ill fortune which afflicted the village. Margot, Old Bogglebow, had been found dead at the foot of the tower of the manor house. Some claimed she had slipped and broken her neck. Others claimed a devil, a great dark shape, had been hunting her for days. The demon had seized her by the neck and flung her down the steps. Baron Sanguis’ carp and stew ponds had also been broken into. People pointed the finger at the wolf’s-heads who, besides poaching the King’s venison, were not averse to helping themselves to a fat carp or a succulent tench.

Baron Sanguis had vowed retribution but his main quarry had been the Preacher who had dared to usurp his seigneurial powers. In this he had been more successful. The Preacher had taken sanctuary with the monks at Tewkesbury where his conduct had alarmed Father Abbot. He had become witless, a madcap who kept proclaiming he had been possessed by a devil. This hadn’t saved him from the Baron’s vengeance. He had been dragged, a halter round his neck, through the village, and thrown into one of Baron Sanguis’ dungeons. Now the villagers waited for a new arrival: a royal commissioner, armed with special powers, was coming from London to investigate the matter — a royal justiciar who would make a tally of the corpses and put the Preacher on trial.

Matthias started: that was the clop of a horse! He stole down the church and peered out. Near the lych-gate a horseman sat, tall and erect, in the shiny red leather saddle, his great cloak about him, the sword belt around his waist beautifully embroidered. The horse was a destrier, a noble-looking animal with arched neck and glossy hide. Its housing and harness were those of a great lord, the leather soft and gleaming, the buckles glittering in the sunlight. The rider was looking back at a sumpter pony piled high with possessions under a clean canvas sheet. The man dismounted, the spurs on his high-heeled leather riding boots jingling like little bells. Matthias noticed how the man’s oiled black hair was tied back in a queue. He went to check his sumpter pony, lifting one of its forelegs. Matthias heard him talking quietly to the animal.

The boy, intrigued, stole out of the ruins and down the weed-filled path. The destrier snickered, its hooves pawing the earth. The sumpter pony drew back its head and brayed. Something skimmed over Matthias’ head and smacked into the wall of the church behind him. He looked back but could see nothing except a puff of dust where something had hit the wall.

‘You shouldn’t steal up on people like that, boy!’

Matthias whirled round. The man was now standing at the lych-gate, in his hand a small arbalest. He was putting a second bolt into the groove. Matthias’ heart lurched. He extended his hands.

‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I was hiding here. I often do. No one ever rides by here!’

The man came towards him. He moved elegantly, like a cat, fluid movements: a man certain of himself, arrogant in his power. He stopped before the boy, his dark-blue eyes studying him carefully: the arbalest cord was still pulled back, though the crossbow was held down.

‘How do I know,’ the man asked, ‘that you are not an outlaw brat?’

‘And how do I know you are not an outlaw?’ Matthias retorted.

The man smiled. He gently loosed the cord, removed the bolt and put it into a small pouch on his belt. He crouched down so that his face was level with that of Matthias. A kind, handsome face; the eyes crinkled when he smiled and the smooth-shaven cheeks showed dimples, as if the man loved life but found everything slightly amusing.

‘Well, if you are not an outlaw brat, who are you?’ He took off his leather, gold-fringed gauntlets.

Matthias noticed the ring on his finger. It bore the arms of England. He had seen similar insignia when he had been in Tewkesbury with the hermit.

‘I’m the priest’s brat,’ Matthias replied. ‘Matthias, son of Osbert the priest at Sutton Courteny.’

The man stood up and extended his hand.

‘And I am Rahere, the royal clerk.’ His hand was soft and warm. He gripped Matthias’ gently.

‘You are the clerk?’ Matthias exclaimed.

‘I am the clerk,’ Rahere mimicked back. ‘Sent by His Grace the King, at the request of Baron Sanguis, to carry out the King’s justice.’ He looked around. ‘I thought I’d come by this way.’ He pointed to the church. ‘One of the old villages, I suppose, wiped out by the plague? And this is your hiding place?’

‘No, it was the home of a friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was a hermit. He was taken prisoner and burnt as a witch by the villagers. Now Baron Sanguis has caught the man responsible.’

Rahere nodded, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh, though he gazed at the church, smiling faintly.

‘And did you like the hermit?’

‘He was my great friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was strange, very strange, but kind to me. I come here because I miss him.’ His voice trembled. ‘I am a little sad.’

Rahere crouched down again. ‘You shouldn’t be sad, Matthias, not on a summer’s day like this.’

‘He showed me foxes,’ Matthias continued, his lower lip trembling. ‘He did no one any harm. He used to live there.’ He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder towards the church. ‘He drew a beautiful rose.’

Rahere stood up. ‘And I have come to do justice for his death,’ he declared, his voice harsh and low. ‘So, little Matthias, the day is drawing on. Show me the path to Sutton Courteny.’

‘I thought your pony was lame?’ Matthias chattered as they walked back towards the lych-gate.

‘Oh, just a pebble in his shoe.’

Without asking, the clerk picked Matthias up and put him on the saddle and climbed up behind him. He gathered his reins, clicked his tongue and the horse moved on, the pony trotting behind. The clerk wore a perfume, a faint fragrance. Matthias felt warm and secure, though he wondered why such a clerk should come by forest paths.

‘Before I arrive anywhere,’ Rahere spoke up, as if he could read Matthias’ mind, ‘I like to ride around, speak to people, acquaint myself with the place in which I am going to work. I learn a lot that way. So, Matthias, this ride is not free. Tell me about Sutton Courteny.’

The boy began to chatter. How his father was the priest, that Christina, his mother, was ill. About the different accidents which had occurred since the hermit’s death. How he hated the Preacher. How Baron Sanguis was kind and how Bogglebow, the witch woman, had died so mysteriously.

The clerk listened. Now and again he would interrupt with a question. Matthias was so engrossed in this series of questions and answers, he hardly noticed the wolf’s-heads until they were upon them. Just where the path narrowed, before it turned the corner, the outlaws, seven in number, came like shadows out of the trees. Armed with sword and dagger, they blocked the path: two carried longbows, arrows notched to the string. Their leader, dressed in dirty green, his head covered by animal skins, swaggered forward.

‘A traveller and a boy.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Get down from your horse!’

‘Stay still,’ the clerk murmured to Matthias.

‘We could have shot you from the forest,’ the outlaw continued. He moved sideways and whistled under his breath. ‘But that horse looks expensive and it’s the horse we want to save, and your clothes, of course.’ He laughed over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Nothing like a bloody arrow wound to ruin a good shirt. So, down you get, fine sir, you and the boy. We’ll take your clothes, your purse, your weapons, your horse. If you are good and do what we say, you can keep your lives.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am all compassion.’

‘You promise our lives?’ Rahere replied.

‘On my mother’s honour. Or rather your father’s.’ The outlaw laughed aloud. ‘That is if you have one!’

‘When I put you down,’ Rahere whispered, ‘run like the wind!’

He lowered Matthias gently to the ground. The boy scampered into the undergrowth. Even as he did so he heard the horse behind him neigh. He stopped and turned round. The clerk had moved with lightning speed, digging his spurs in savagely. The great war horse had leapt forward in rage, its hooves scything the air. The outlaw leader was knocked over like a twirling ninepin. The bowmen were unable to loose but now they closed. Matthias, fingers to his mouth, saw them slice the clerk’s body with sword and dagger and heard the yells of expectant triumph. These faded as the clerk just turned his horse and came back. Sword raised, he struck the outlaws like an avenging angel. The horse, trained to war and quickened by the scent of blood, struck out with iron-shod hooves. One outlaw, hands to his face, staggered away screaming, the blood pumping between his fingers. Matthias stood stock-still. He had seen Baron Sanguis’ mounted men practise at the tourney but never anything like this. For a short while the stillness of the forest was shattered by the scrape of steel, the cries and oaths of men locked in mortal combat.

And then it was over. The clerk still sat on his horse, face sweating, chest heaving, his sword covered in blood from tip to hilt. Five of the outlaws lay dead; one knelt whimpering, still holding his face. Another groaned in agony, twisting on the ground. The clerk nudged his horse towards them. Twice his sword was lifted, coming down in cutting scythes and the two surviving outlaws died. Rahere dismounted. He cleaned his sword on one of the outlaw’s cloaks, took a water bottle from his saddle horn and splashed his hands and face. He then inspected the horses.

‘They are fine,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They are trained for war, Matthias. Notice how the sumpter pony stayed stock-still and how the destrier fought like a warrior.’

Rahere picked up his sword where he had placed it against a corpse, resheathed it and walked along the trackway. He pulled the small, red ribbon from his hair, shook his hair loose around his face like Matthias had seen Christina do. Then he took a comb from his wallet and began to comb his hair, all the time staring at Matthias.

‘A bloody day’s work, eh?’

The boy just stared at the corpses. It had happened so quickly. One minute these were living men, dangerous, now they lay scattered about like hunks of meat.

‘Life and death,’ the clerk declared.

‘But they cut at you,’ Matthias said. ‘I saw them cut you with sword and dagger.’

‘You probably saved my life,’ Rahere replied. ‘They may have been after the horse but one of them, with a spark of kindness, balked at killing a child.’

‘They struck at you,’ Matthias repeated.

The clerk now retied his hair at the back of his head. He brushed the dust and stains from his cloak, jerkin and hose.

‘Two things, Matthias. First, if you strike at a man on a horse, your sword is going upwards: it loses a great deal of its force. Secondly,’ he threw his cloak over his shoulder and pulled up his jerkin. Matthias glimpsed the bright steel mesh beneath. ‘Milanese steel,’ the clerk explained. ‘Light as a feather but stronger than iron. Now come, boy. Let’s ride in triumph to your village. I’ll leave you at your house and then I’ll go to Baron Sanguis. I’ll tell our good lord to clear his forest paths.’

They continued on their journey. Only as they entered Sutton Courteny did Matthias remember the clerk’s words: ‘Run like the wind!’ That’s what the hermit had always said to him.