The Rose Demon

to him. Parson Osbert had grown old that morning: cheeks sagging, eyes constantly blinking.

    ‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied.

    ‘He wants to see us,’ his father continued. ‘He made that last request: to see me, you and Christina before he died.’

    ‘I thought he would.’

    Parson Osbert whirled round. Christina stood in the doorway, a woollen coverlet round her shoulders.

    ‘I thought he would,’ she repeated.

    ‘Christina, are you well?’

    The parson went across and pressed his wife’s hands: they were lifeless and cold like those of a corpse. Her face had an unhealthy pallor. Her hair, usually so lustrous, now hung lank and untidy.

    ‘You don’t have to see him,’ Parson Osbert said.

    ‘He’s going to die, isn’t he? We’ll take him some wine, some bread.’ She went like a dreamwalker back up the stairs.

    Parson Osbert went across to the small podium where the church missal was put. He opened this, pretending to study the gospel from the Mass of the day. He felt sick, anxious about the Preacher’s actions. Matters had proceeded far too fast. On his return, Baron Sanguis would not be pleased.

    Christina came back. She’d put a dress over her linen shift, tied her hair back and covered it with a veil, wooden sandals on her feet. She took a small jug of wine from the buttery, some manchet loaves and, without saying a word, walked out of the house. Parson Osbert and Matthias hurried after her. The scene in the cemetery was like that of an armed camp. Women and children sat on the grass or on fallen headstones sharing out the food they had brought. Their menfolk strutted up and down, boldly showing off their rusty swords, daggers and spears and bent shields. A group of young men, under the direction of the Preacher, stood on guard outside the stone death house. As they approached, the Preacher held his hand up but Parson Osbert had regained his courage.

    ‘This is my church! This is my cemetery!’ he declared. ‘I must protest at the proceedings: the prisoner needs some spiritual comfort.’

    The Preacher shrugged and stepped back. One of the young men pulled back the bolts. Parson Osbert stooped and went in. He wasn’t long and came out shaking his head. Christina took the bread and wine in. Matthias looked around the cemetery. He saw a wild rose bush and, using his small dagger, cut a shoot off. The rose was full-blown, still wet from the morning dew. The door to the death house was flung open; Christina, her face soaked with tears, came out. She brushed by her husband and ran across the cemetery.

    ‘You’d best go in, boy,’ Parson Osbert whispered. ‘But don’t be long.’

    ‘Will the lad be safe?’ a villager asked.

    ‘If the hermit wished to hurt him,’ Osbert snapped, ‘he would have done so already.’

    The death house was dark. Matthias waited until the door slammed behind him, then he ran across. The hermit, sitting in the corner, embraced him warmly.

    ‘You spoke for me, Matthias,’ he murmured. ‘You spoke for me!’

    The boy gave him the rose. ‘I thought you’d like this. It’s not as good as the one you drew in the church.’

    The hermit took the rose. He laid it on the ground and, moving like a cat, he went and knelt before the boy.

    ‘Do not cry for me, Matthias. Promise me you won’t cry for me. Now go!’

    The boy stared at him in puzzlement.

    ‘Go on!’ the hermit smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Matthias. Death is never an end to anything. Please! They will listen at the door. Please go! They’ll only become suspicious.’

    Matthias left. His father had also gone. Someone said he was in the church. Matthias groaned: some of the village boys were coming towards him. They would only tease and taunt him about what had happened so, like a rabbit, he scuttled amongst the gravestones, climbed the cemetery wall and ran to the other end of the village. Here the lane snaked past the hedgerows towards the great road south to Bristol.

    For a while Matthias hid in a ditch, thinking about what had happened. Now and again he would look at the sky and notice the black smoke rising like a plume from the village. He felt hungry so he stole back to his house. The kitchen was untidy, the platters unwashed, there was no sign of his parents.

    Matthias ate some salted bacon and bread from the buttery then went into the cemetery. The place was now empty, the door to the death house flung open. Matthias walked into the village. He caught the smell of