THE NEXT MORNING Bertha slipped away before Johnas and his guest arose for the day. She hurried along the deserted streets, desperately needing to speak with Father Thomas before Sunday Mass.
Though the streets were empty at this early hour, Bertha knew that as soon as Robert opened the tavern, it would be packed with men eager to spend the last of their week's pay on ale.
If they had any coin left to spend.
She looked around the vestibule but did not see Father Thomas.
Bertha rushed to the sacristy door, forgetting herself, she hurried into the room without the customary knock.
Bertha gasped as she saw the boy being bent over the table, the priest thrusting his filthy cock into him.
The startled priest looked up, his face turning a deep shade of crimson at being caught in the act.
He hastily smoothed down his cassock front before stepping in front of the boy he had just been sodomizing.
Her stomach churning, Bertha fled from the sacristy as quickly as her arthritic knees would allow.
Father Thomas close behind.
The priest caught up with the old woman by the baptismal font, seizing her by the arm, though he did not anticipate Bertha's sharp kick to the shin.
The blow was hard enough to force him to release his grip stumbling back in disbelief, allowing her to wrench her arm free.
Bertha struck Father Thomas across the face with a sharp crack that rang through the empty church.
Fury flared in the priest's face as he reached for the Bertha again, but before he could lay a hand on her, Mathew pushed open the church door, and for a moment, his broad frame blocked out the morning sun before he stepped inside.
At the sight of Father Thomas and Bertha, he immediately strode towards them. But before he could speak, the old woman rushed to him, clutching at his arm.
"Take me home Mathew," she pleaded, urging him back towards the door.
As soon as she and Mathew where back on the street Bertha broke into uncontrollable sobs.
Mathew, not knowing what to do, he took her gently by the elbow escorting her to his house hoping Kara, who was better at dealing with hysterical woman than he, could take Bertha in hand.
Kara was surprised to see Johnas's housekeeper with her husband as they entered the kitchen.
It was obvious from Bertha's tear stained face that Mathew had been overwhelmed by the state she was in and so he had done what he had always done when confronted with uncontrolled weeping woman, he had lain the problem squarely at her feet.
Looking over Bertha's head, Kara caught Mathew's eye, giving him a knowing shake of her head, accompanied by the faintest hint of a smile.
Kara settled Bertha into a chair at the table sitting a cup of mint tea down in front of her.
She sat beside the old woman, gently rubbing her back, speaking in a soothing voice until Bertha regained control of her emotions.
The old housekeeper lifted the cup to her lips with trembling hands, taking a few careful sips before setting it back on the table.
Kara fetched a biscuit from the plate upon the mantel above the fireplace and offered it to Bertha, who accepted it with a faint smile.
Kara sat once more in the chair beside the old woman, gently placing a reassuring hand upon her arm.
"Now, love, tell us what's got ye so upset?" Kara asked softly.
"The priest," Bertha choked out. "He... he was a buggerin' one of the altar boys in the sacristy. I saw what he was doing with my own two eyes. Then he chased me down the isle. If it weren't for Mathew arriving just then who knows what he may have done to me"
Fresh tears welled up in Bertha's eyes before cascading down her wrinkled cheeks.
Kara's eyes met Mathew's as he leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.
He straightened, anger evident in his face.
"Are ye certain of what you saw Bertha?" he asked coming to stand beside her.
"Damn it, Mathew, I know what I saw!" Bertha cried angrily. "It happened to my Robbie afore he flung hiself off the cliff and into the sea. God rest his soul."
Bertha crossed herself at the mention of her son's name, her voice faltering for a moment before she continued.
"Only it weren't no priest who did it to him. It were his own father, afore he runned off into the night," she finished bitterly.
Mathew paced the kitchen floor, his hand smoothing back the hair from his prominent brow.
"What can we do, Mathew?" Kara asked.
"I don't know," Mathew replied, a look of distress in his eyes.
As the bell in the clock tower tolled the hour, Bertha sprang to her feet.
"I have to go," she said. "The master and his guests will be up any minute, and I haven't even started their breakfast."
She thanked Kara and Mathew for their kindness before hurrying out the door, and shuffled off down the street, her steps quick despite the weariness that seemed to weigh upon her.
Kara slipped her arms around Mathew's waist, feeling the ripple of the muscles beneath his shirt. He draped an arm around her shoulders as they stood together, watching Bertha make her way slowly down the street.
"Is there really nothing we can do for that poor boy, Mathew?" she asked quietly.
He lifted Kara into his arms and kissed her gently before setting her back onto her feet.
"Let me think on it for a while," he said before heading outside to stoke the fire in the forge.
Sunday or no, he had to be ready in case Mowbray or one of his men needed something repaired, and it would give him a good excuse to keep an eye on their comings and goings.
* * *
Mathew's day was busy for a Sunday. He had repaired the broken axle of one of the carts after the damn fool of a driver had run over a rock hidden in the undergrowth while making his way into the forest along one of the many deer paths in the dark.
He had then re shod two horses belonging to Mowbray's Royal Guards, the animals having thrown their shoes during the long journey to the village.
As he worked, Mathew listened to the guardsmen talk. Discovering that they intended to travel farther into the forest, to the mouth of the river, before making their way deeper into the trees and eventually to the meadow that bordered the mountains.
Mathew kept his head bent over his work, carefully concealing the concern the guards words stirred within him for Eldra and Vincent's safety.
* * *
Lady Mary kept a wary distance from Johnas after what had transpired the previous evening.
She kept herself occupied by walking in the gardens and helping Bertha with small tasks in the kitchen, much preferring the housemaid's company to that of her hosts.
Mary found Bertha to be a fascinating creature.
Though she was not a member of the village herself, she was always eager to hear the local gossip. She soon discovered that the pleasantly plump housemaid was a veritable font of information, as well as a gifted storyteller.
Bertha seemed to possess an endless supply of stories concerning the villagers, their quarrels, their secret affairs, and the various scandals that had taken place within the village.
Mary found herself listening with growing amusement, never quite knowing which part of Bertha's stories was fact and which had been embellished along the way.
Mary had not enjoyed herself so much in years, as she listening intently to Bertha as she spin her endless tales of the village and its inhabitants.
As the distant clock tower struck the supper hour, Mary reluctantly made her excuses to Bertha before climbing the stairs to her room to dress for dinner.
Mary looked forward to the delicious dinner she had helped Bertha prepare, though she had to admit she had done little more than watch as the old woman moved between the table and the hearth, talking all the while.
Mary mused that Bertha's culinary talents rivaled those of any cook in the Palace kitchens.
She had also grown to admire the old woman's quiet confidence and her remarkable ability to endure Johnas's demands without complaint.
As Mary had watched her go about her work with practiced grace, she had come to see a strength in Bertha that belied her humble station.
Mary was disappointed when Mowbray sent word that he would not be joining them for supper. She dreaded the thought of spending the evening alone in Johnas's company, though she surmised that with Bertha constantly popping in and out of the kitchen, Johnas would not dare try anything.
At least not for as long as the meal lasted.
Bertha stayed close to the dining room door should Lady Mary need her, while the Master and she ate their meal in an uncomfortable silence.
From her room on the third floor, Bertha had heard all that had transpired the previous evening between Johnas and the poor woman, having been awakened by the terrible howl of pain from the master followed by the pounding of his fist against the Lady's door.
Thank the heavens her husband had arrived home in time to knock some sense into Johnas before he could make good on his drunken threat to break down her chamber door.
After Mowbray and the Master had retreated to the study, Bertha had considered knocking on the Lady's door to inquire if she was all right. But she had then thought better of it, not wishing to cause her any further distress by discovering a mere servant had overheard what had transpired.
Instead, Bertha quietly returned to her own bed, whispering a silent prayer that God would watch over the sweet lady.
Now, as she stood just beyond the dining room door, she kept a careful ear on the silence within, ready to enter should she be needed.
* * *
As Mowbray and his men filled the tavern's tables, Mathew stood at the bar, listening intently, picking up snippets of conversation wherever he could.
Kara had questioned Mathew's decision to visit the tavern on the Sabbath, but he had assured her it would be nothing more than a quick glass of ale with William, who had stopped by the forge earlier in the day to ask Mathew's advice about a horse he was considering purchasing.
Though he hated himself for deceiving Kara about his true reason for visiting The Wolf And Lamb, Mathew was determined to discover what Mowbray and his men were up to.
Before long, he overheard several of Mowbray's men discussing the red eyed phantom that was purported to haunt the forest and their plans to capture it using their traps. Some of the mercenaries calling it a vampire.
A sudden chill passed through Mathew. A vampire.
He recalled Vincent's eyes flashing crimson as he had stooped to pick up the rock in an attempt to defend himself.
He remembered, too, how Eldra had stepped between them, distracting Vincent with her presence.
"Jesus Christ," Mathew whispered to himself.
It explained how the man had knocked him so easily from his feet, Mathew thought.
Even in battle, no man had ever managed to send him sprawling with such effortless strength.
He had always considered himself to be a strong man, yet against Vincent, he had been utterly powerless.
For the first time, Mathew wondered if the red eyed phantom the men were hunting was not a phantom after all, but a creature of flesh and blood.
* * *
Mathew turned from the bar, intending to exit the tavern and make his way to the cottage by the meadow to warn Eldra and Vincent of what he had discovered. But before he could reach the door, he heard someone calling out to Mowbray from somewhere within the crowded room.
"There's the man we were telling you about, my lord," one of the guards called from across the tavern.
Mowbray looked up in Mathew's direction, his expression one of startled disbelief at the sheer size of the Smithy.
He rose from his chair and motioned for Mathew to join him at the table. Mathew glanced towards the tavern door before reluctantly making his way across the room. As he approached the table, towering over the men seated around it, his broad shoulders drawing several curious glances from Mowbray's men surrounding him.
"Christ, you're a big fellow, are you not?" Mowbray remarked, motioning for Mathew to have a seat.
"I'd rather not my Lord if ye don't mind. I was just about to leave on important business when yer man called out," he said, hoping that Mowbray would grant him leave without any trouble.
"Nonsense." Mowbray replied, a cold look settling in his eyes."Surely you can afford me a moment of your time."
Mowbray was not accustomed to being refused. Men generally did as they were ordered when he spoke, and this man, no matter how large would not be the first to refuse him.
Mathew remained standing, his massive arms folded across his chest. He had no intention of giving Mowbray the satisfaction of obeying his command.
"Get on with it," Mathew said, watching Mowbray squirm like a fish upon a hook.
"Very well," Mowbray replied, a look of thunder darkening his eyes as the giant refused to sit.
"We have need of a man of your strength to assist us in our hunt. I am prepared to pay you handsomely for your time. Tell me, have you ever served in battle? Surely a man of your fortitude would have proven to be of considerable value."
Mathew took a step closer to the pompous peacock.
Mowbray's men rose as one, their hands moving instinctively to the hilts of their swords. Though none drew their weapons from their scabbards, but the message was unmistakable.
Mathew glanced from one man to the next, his expression remaining calm as he stood his ground before them.
"Stand down, men!" Mowbray commanded sharply, not daring to taking his eyes off Mathew.
"Very well, my friend. But remember, the offer remains open should you change your mind," he said before settling back into his chair.
He pulled a delicately embroidered handkerchief from his sleeve, mopping the sweat from his brow, that had formed as Mathew towered over him, defiance filling his eyes.
"'Tis hot in here, do you not think, gentlemen?" he remarked to his companions, rather than admit that the giant man had unsettled him.
The guards slowly lowered themselves back into their chairs, as Mathew turned and walked away, making his way through the tavern and out into the chill autumn night.
Mathew chuckled to himself as he made his way down the moonlit cobbles, recalling the fear in Mowbray's eyes as he moved towards him. He had know men like him when he had served in battle for the king.
Men who bragged of their bravery in battle, but who, once the battle had commenced, turned tail and fled to the back ranks.
All fluff and no substance, he thought with a rye smile.
Mathew sensed the men behind him before he saw them, three of Mowbray's mercenaries had followed him from the tavern, clearly intent on revenge.
He pivoted just as they attacked, knocking him to the ground before kicking him repeatedly in the abdomen.
Unbeknownst to them, they had chosen the least vulnerable part of his body to strike.
Mathew reached out and seized his nearest attacker by the foot and with a vicious twist, he sent the man crashing heavily onto the cobble-stones.
Seeing their companion fall, the two cowards fled into the shadows, scrambling back towards the tavern.
Mathew rose slowly to his feet hauling the fallen man upright. Without a word, he drove a powerful fist into the mercenary's face, who let out a howl of agony as his nose shattered beneath the blow from Mathew's massive hand.
Mathew released him, the injured mercenary collapsing into the gutter, where he lay mewling in pain.
Fearing that more of Mowbray's men might be following him, Mathew abandoned his plan to warn Eldra and Vincent and made his way home.