The Rose Demon

the small nave. Fulcher and his family sat at the front, grouped around the parish coffin, which stood on black-draped trestles guarded by six purple candles. The church bell began to ring again. The chattering and the gossip died. The bell ceased its tolling. Parson Osbert, dressed in the black chasuble of the Requiem Mass, came out through the rood screen followed by the Preacher. The villagers watched with interest. Any desire to go out into the fields or gossip outside the Hungry Man was now replaced by a thrill of excitement. Something was about to happen, to shatter the tedium of of their lives. Parson Osbert climbed the steps into the pulpit.

    ‘Brethren!’ His voice echoed round the church. ‘Today we intend to sing the Requiem Mass and perform the funeral obsequies for a child of this village, Edith, daughter of Fulcher our blacksmith.’ He paused as Fulcher’s wife put her face in her hands and sobbed noisily. ‘The events of the last few days have shattered the peace and harmony of our village. There has been a great battle outside Tewkesbury. Once again the roads are full of soldiers but there are other evils. Edith is not the only person to have died, been murdered, in such terrible and mysterious circumstances. I have news that similar deaths have occurred throughout the shire. I have agreed that the Preacher here--’ Parson Osbert gestured to where the Preacher stood at the foot of the pulpit, staring down the nave, his eyes moving slowly from one face to another - ‘this man of God has news on this. In normal circumstances I would have gone to see Baron Sanguis but our lord is still absent, and these affairs cannot wait.’

    Parson Osbert made the sign of the cross and came down the steps. The Preacher now mounted the pulpit. Matthias watched expectantly. This mysterious stranger seemed taller, broader, more powerful than he’d been the night before. For a few moments the Preacher just stared round the church.

    ‘Satan!’ His voice thundered, making Matthias jump. ‘Satan, as the Good Book says, goes about roaring like a lion, seeking whom he may devour!’

    The villagers stared up at him. The reference to the Devil or works of Hell always caught their attention.

    ‘The murder of this child,’ the Preacher continued, ‘is not the bloody-handed work of anyone who knew her. These deaths, as Parson Osbert has told you, have occurred elsewhere. I ask you now to search your memories. Have such deaths ever occurred before?’

    With his hands clasped on the pulpit, the Preacher reminded Matthias even more of a hunting kestrel on its perch.

    ‘There were deaths eight years ago.’ Joscelyn the taverner spoke up. ‘Not in the village but between here and Tewkesbury.’

    ‘Horrible murders!’ another cried. ‘Throats gashed, corpses drained. Even then we thought it was the work of night walkers!’

    The Preacher stilled the growing clamour with one wave of his hand. ‘And I ask you,’ he was now enjoying himself, ‘who was here in your village at that time?’

    Again silence. Matthias tensed. He looked up at his mother. She was now white as a ghost. She sat as if carved out of stone, her eyes never leaving the Preacher. Matthias closed his eyes to pray.

    ‘The hermit!’

    Matthias opened his eyes with a start.

    ‘The hermit!’ Joscelyn the taverner shouted. ‘He was here, where he is now, in the ruined church at Tenebral!’

    ‘But he’s a holy man.’ Simon the reeve got to his feet.

    ‘Holy?’ the Preacher retorted, glaring down at the reeve. ‘No one is holy but God!’

    ‘I mean . . .’ Simon the reeve swallowed hard. He was used to holding his own at such meetings and refused to give up so easily. After all, he knew his letters and could write, was skilled in the hornbook and the ledger. He did not like this stranger entering their village and telling them what to do. Yet the Preacher’s eyes seemed to burn into him. ‘I mean,’ he stammered, ‘he did no one any harm, except beg for food.’

    ‘Hush! Listen now!’ The Preacher’s voice dropped. He leant against the pulpit, then lifted one hand, fingers splayed. ‘Eight years ago,’ he jabbed the air, ‘these murders occurred, the hermit was here. Eight years later,’ he continued, holding another finger up, ‘and the murders begin again. The hermit can wander hither and thither. No one knows where he goes or what he intends.’ He pointed up to the crucifix behind him. ‘And if he’s a man of