The Rose Demon

tongue out.

    ‘By what authority do you try me?’ the hermit demanded. ‘You are not a member of this village. You are not a tenant of the manor. You hold no warrant either from the Crown or the Church. So, by what authority do you try me? By what right do you hold this court? What warrant gives you the role of judge and prosecutor?’

    A murmur of approval greeted the hermit’s words. The villagers peered anxiously at each other, then at the Preacher. They accepted the power of the prisoner’s words. The villagers had a reverential awe of the written word, the sealed warrant, the rites and ancient customs. More importantly, what would Baron Sanguis say when he returned? Manor lords were very jealous about their rights.

    The Preacher in the pulpit was also concerned. Unless he reasserted his authority, these proceedings would end like some mummers’ farce. He dug into his wallet and drew out a scroll of parchment, dark and greasy with age. He unrolled this, holding it up so the villagers could see the indentations down the side and especially the great purple blob of wax at the bottom, an official seal.

    The villagers sighed with relief.

    ‘What is that?’ the hermit mocked.

    ‘The warrant of Holy Mother Church!’ the Preacher snapped. ‘Permission from the great Order of the Hospital to preach God’s words, extirpate heresy and bring wrongdoers to justice.’

    ‘It has no authority here,’ the hermit declared.

    ‘Hasn’t it?’ the Preacher replied silkily.

    He came down the steps of the pulpit. He now realised standing there was a mistake. Too aloof, too distant from the people he wished to manage. The Preacher handed his warrant to the scrivener, who studied it carefully and nodded wisely.

    ‘It has the authority of Holy Mother Church,’ the scrivener lied.

    ‘Then why am I bound?’ The hermit seemed determined to fight the Preacher every step of the way.

    The Preacher nodded and gestured at Simon the reeve. He must not allow the prisoner too much sympathy. The cords were cut. The hermit, rubbing his wrists and flexing his arms, walked into the centre of the nave. Matthias, who had managed to worm his way to the front of the crowd, squatted open-mouthed. The hermit caught his eye, smiled faintly and winked.

    ‘I accuse you,’ the Preacher decided to waste no more time, ‘of the murder of Edith, daughter of Fulcher the blacksmith!’

    ‘What proof do you have?’

    ‘So, you don’t deny it?’

    The Preacher now walked up and down, more intent on the parishioners than the prisoner.

    ‘You have accused me of a crime,’ the hermit retorted. ‘And I ask you for the proof. If I see the proof then I will reply.’

    The Preacher decided to shift his ground, to move on to other cases, only to receive the same incisive reply. Matthias stared at his father but Parson Osbert, his face haggard, shoulders drooping, had lost all control over the proceedings. He sat on the steps of the small Lady Chapel, eyes down, refusing to lift his head. For the first time ever, Matthias felt ashamed, scornful of his father’s cowardice before this stranger. Now and again the Preacher would look to the priest for assistance but there was none.

    The Preacher, fingers to his lips, walked up and down, silent for a while: this was not going the way he wanted it. The hermit, instead of protesting his innocence, kept bringing his questions back to matters of legal principle, evidence, witnesses. The Preacher realised that, indeed, the hermit knew more of the law then he did. What, therefore, had Prior Sir Raymond Grandison advised? He paused in his pacing.

    ‘You ask about rights and evidence,’ he snapped. ‘Are you a true son of Holy Mother Church?’

    ‘It is up to you,’ the hermit replied, ‘to produce evidence that I am not.’

    ‘Recite the Creed!’ the Preacher snapped.

    The hermit turned to face the villagers.

    ‘ Credo in Unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae .’

    The Preacher made a cutting movement with his hand. That was a mistake, he realised. The hermit had launched into the Nicene Creed, which was always intoned in Latin every Sunday by their priest: the Church’s eternal hymn of belief to the Trinity, to the Incarnate God and to the Church.

    ‘You don’t pray,’ the Preacher taunted.

    ‘How do you know that?’ the hermit replied.

    ‘You consort with lewd women.’

    ‘I didn’t know there were any in Sutton Courteny,’ came the quick