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held him away: he stared in mock seriousness. ‘It’s Latin, Matthias. It means you are my little and good creature.’

    ‘I am not your creature. You make me sound like a bat.’

    Again the hermit laughed, rocking gently backwards and forwards. Matthias watched him intently. If the truth be known, Matthias could sit and watch the hermit all day. He was tall and strong, his iron-grey hair carefully cut, like that of a monk, up around his ears. His face, burnt dark by the sun, was clean-shaven, open and fresh. He had a gentle smile and his eyes were always full of merriment. His hands, broad and brown, were warm and, whenever he touched Matthias, the boy felt soothed and calm.

    ‘How long have we known each other now, Matthias?’

    ‘You came here in March,’ Matthias replied slowly. ‘Just before the Feast of the Annunciation.’

    ‘So, you’ve known me two months,’ the hermit replied. ‘And when you come here you are still frightened. Never let fear rule you, Matthias. It is a dark worm inside your mind.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And the more you feed it, the fatter it grows!’

    ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Matthias accused.

    ‘Of some things, yes. Of people and creatures, never!’

    ‘But that’s because you are a soldier. You were a soldier, weren’t you?’

    ‘I was a soldier, Matthias. In the beginning I was a soldier.’

    His face, as it sometimes did, became not serious but sad. Matthias watched his mouth, lips half-parted.

    ‘Did you kill many men?’ Matthias asked.

    The hermit sighed and got to his feet. ‘Killing is part of nature, Matthias. The hawk kills the hen: the fox the rabbit, all things feed upon each other.’

    ‘If you are not frightened,’ Matthias continued, ‘why don’t you come into the village?’

    The hermit crouched down and touched the tip of Matthias’ nose with the point of his finger.

    ‘You tell me, Matthias Fitzosbert. Why don’t I go into the village?’

    ‘The people be frightened of you.’

    ‘Why? How can they be frightened of something they don’t know?’

    ‘They said you had been here before,’ Matthias replied. ‘About eight years ago, before I was born.’

    ‘But I was kind to them. I tended some of their sick. Yet, when I asked them for food, they drove me away.’

    ‘So, why did you come back?’

    In answer the hermit scooped Matthias up in his arms. ‘I came back because I came back,’ he announced. ‘Now, Matthias, I am going to show you something.’ He put the boy gently back on the ground.

    ‘A trick?’ Matthias asked, his eyes round in wonderment.

    ‘A trick? What kind of trick? That’s sorcery,’ the hermit replied. ‘As it is to have white doves in your ear!’

    ‘Don’t be--’

    The hermit stretched his hand out. Matthias felt something feathery and warm against his ear. The hermit dramatically drew his hand back. Matthias stared in astonishment at the small white dove nestling in the palm of the hermit’s hand. The hermit stroked its down feathers gently with a finger. The bird quietly cooed.

    ‘Watch it fly, Matthias,’ he whispered.

    He threw the bird up and, in a flash of white, the dove climbed, wings outstretched, speeding up against the sky. Matthias watched it go but screamed at the black shape which seemed to strike out of nowhere: white feathers floated gently back into the church followed by one, two drops of blood. When he looked up again, the hawk and its victim had vanished. The hermit, however, his face impassive, glared up at the sky. He said something in a language Matthias couldn’t understand and made a cutting move with his hand.

    ‘Life preys upon life,’ he declared. ‘Come, Matthias, let me show you something else.’

    He took the child by the hand and led him out of the ruined church along the old high street. With the hermit holding his hand, Matthias wasn’t at all frightened. Now and again they would stop and the hermit would crouch down and point out