The Rose Demon

reply, causing a ripple of mirth amongst the villagers. ‘This is Sutton Courteny,’ the hermit continued smoothly, ‘not St Paul’s churchyard.’

    The Preacher stopped his pacing. He tried to hide his confusion. He glanced quickly at the hermit. His opponent’s eyes mocked him: I know you, his gaze said, your secret sins, your weakness for soft flesh, for the pleasures of the bed.

    The Preacher swallowed hard and glanced quickly at the jurors. He did not like what he saw: not one of them would meet his eye. Two or three of them were shuffling their feet. The Preacher went to the mouth of the sanctuary screen and stared at the crucifix, then at the red lamp glowing beneath the pyx which contained the Blessed Sacrament. The Preacher recalled the words of Sir Raymond. He cursed his own impetuosity as he watched the flickering red lamp.

    ‘Do you go to church, hermit?’ he asked, not turning round.

    ‘I live in one,’ the prisoner replied, causing a fresh outbreak of laughter.

    ‘Do you attend Mass?’ the Preacher continued. ‘Do you take the Sacrament?’

    Without even looking round, the Preacher knew he had hit his mark. For the first time the hermit was silent.

    ‘Well? Well?’ The Preacher walked back, arms folded. ‘A hermit who lives in a church, who constantly asks for evidence for this and evidence for that. Do you take the body and blood of Christ?’

    The hermit was staring at the floor.

    ‘Well, do you?’

    ‘I am unworthy.’

    ‘In the eyes of God we all are,’ the Preacher replied tersely. ‘But the Church encourages the faithful to eat the sacred species. Why don’t you?’

    ‘I have answered that question. I will say no more.’

    The Preacher stared at the villagers, walking slowly towards them, arms raised.

    ‘Belief in the Eucharist,’ he declared, ‘is the heart of our faith. Moreover, the prisoner talks about law. It is an ancient custom that a man can prove his innocence by partaking of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. In the time of King Edward the Confessor, the traitorous Earl Godwin, being offered the host, choked and died. I now appeal,’ his voice rose, ‘to Heaven!’

    And, swinging on his heel, the Preacher strode into the sanctuary. He ignored the protests of Parson Osbert and the murmur from the villagers. He took down the pyx, placed it on the altar and genuflected. He opened it, took out the host and walked purposefully towards the prisoner.

    ‘ Ecce Corpus Christi! ’ he intoned.

    The prisoner turned his head away.

    ‘Behold the Body of Christ!’ the Preacher repeated. He turned to John the bailiff. ‘Take some men, seize him, open his mouth!’

    ‘You cannot do this,’ the hermit protested. ‘It is against God’s law to force the host upon any man!’

    ‘He speaks the truth.’ Parson Osbert got to his feet, his hands hanging by his side. He had been rubbing his eyes until they were red-rimmed. ‘Enough is enough,’ he whispered to the Preacher. ‘If he will not partake, he shall not partake, that is the law of the Church. If you press him further it will be a blasphemous sacrilege.’

    The Preacher glared down the church. The victory was his. He returned the host to the pyx and walked back into the nave. He stopped before the jurors.

    ‘How do you find him?’

    ‘Guilty.’

    ‘And you?’

    ‘Guilty.’

    The other ten replied the same.

    ‘And how do you find him?’ he appealed to the congregation.

    ‘Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!’

    The chant rose, echoing round the church. The Preacher clapped his hands.

    ‘And what sentence?’

    ‘Death by fire!’

    The response came loud and clear, men stamping their feet as they repeated the words, relishing the sombre threat of their verdict.

    Matthias felt cold, stricken to the heart. He could not believe what was happening. The Preacher, his lips curled in a sneer, turned towards the hermit.

    ‘Do you have anything to say?’

    ‘Yes.’ The hermit’s face was pale but he held himself upright, head erect. He walked towards the villagers. ‘You have condemned me without evidence. Let me remind you - yes, I came here eight years ago. And, since my first arrival to this moment, has not Sutton Courteny been spared? No soldiers, pillaging or burning? Your crops have been rich and plentiful? Your cattle grown fat?’

    The villagers stared back.

    ‘Fulcher the blacksmith, are not your profits so great that you are planning to build a better house? And look to provide a