The Rose Demon

especially about the bell.

    Years ago, Maud Brasenose, the widow of a wealthy peasant, had a great fear of being buried alive. So the priest at the time agreed that a bell be fixed in a small holder on the top of her tomb, attached, through a hole in the coffin, to her hand. Accordingly, if she woke and found herself buried alive, she only had to ring the bell. The stone still stood, the bell and chain now rusted. However, at midsummer or Samhain Eve when the fires were lit, some fool, full of ale, would always come down to the cemetery and try to ring the bell even though it was encrusted with rust. Or again, there was the black angel which adorned the tomb of Thomas Pepperel, a wealthy spicer who had moved from Tredington and spent his last years at Sutton Courteny. Parson Osbert had declared that, when the angel had first been carved, it had been white as snow but Pepperel had been cheated: the stone was of poor quality and had turned a horrid black so it looked as if some demonic imp, rather than an angel, guarded poor Pepperel’s tomb.

    Matthias’ route took him over the wall and into the small vegetable plot which lay in front of the priest’s house. The windows were shuttered but he glimpsed chinks of light. Still full of courage, he knocked on the door, there was a slap of sandals, the door opened and his father stood staring down at him.

    ‘Oh, Matthias, where have you been?’

    ‘I’ve been to Tenebral.’ The boy decided it was best not to lie.

    ‘Come in. Your mother and I . . .’

    Parson Fitzosbert seized his son’s hand and led him down the stone-paved passageway into the small parlour. Matthias’ courage began to ebb. Oh, he was pleased to be home. The straw on the passageway floor was crisp and clean, sprinkled with fennel and rosemary. Small rushlights burnt in their shiny metal holders. The parlour was warm and inviting. Oil lamps hung from the great beam which ran down the length of the chamber. A fire leapt in the great hearth and the cauldron, hanging up on a hook above it, gave off the fragrant smell of freshly cooked meat.

    Christina, his mother, was sitting at her spinning wheel under the light of a lantern. She looked busy but Matthias saw her face was still white, dark rings round those lustrous eyes. She put down the spindle and held out her hands. Matthias ran to her, snuggling his face deep into her woollen dress, savouring her lovely smell, a mixture of cooking, sweat and the fragrant herb water Christina always used to wash herself. Her fingers, long and cool, stroked his hot cheeks.

    ‘I was worried, Matthias, so very, very worried.’

    Christina let him go and he stood up to face his father. Parson Osbert stared sadly down at him. Matthias abruptly realised how his father was beginning to age. Folds of skin hung loose on his neck; his cheeks looked a little sunken, those gentle eyes now lined with care.

    ‘Now you are home, Matthias, perhaps we can eat!’

    He caught the reproof in his mother’s words and stammered an apology. He was only too pleased to be caught up in the preparations for the evening meal. He washed his hands in the water tub which stood outside the buttery. He then set the wooden pegged table with trenchers, knives, horn spoons, pewter mugs and the large jugs of strong ale drained from the barrel, a cloth cover tied round the rim, which stood on a small stool beneath the window.

    His father muttered something about going to the church, and left.

    Christina opened the small cupboard built next to the fire and brought out a tray of freshly baked manchet loaves, which filled the parlour with a spicy smell. She rolled these in a linen napkin and put them on the table, then went to sit at the fireplace, stirring the stew with a ladle. Matthias, all his tasks done, sat at the table and looked mournfully at her.

    ‘You’ve been out to Tenebral, haven’t you, to see the hermit?’

    Matthias nodded.

    ‘Your father was worried,’ she continued, and she pointed to the hour candle where it burnt in its niche. ‘One more ring and he’d have had to go down to the Hungry Man for help.’ She turned, ladle in her hands. ‘He was very worried,’ she insisted. ‘There are soldiers in the area, mercenaries, wolves in human clothing.’

    ‘I was safe,’ Matthias stammered. He was shrewd enough not to fuel his mother’s fears.

    ‘And the hermit?’ she asked softly, turning her back on him.

    ‘He was very kind.’ Matthias had long learnt