The Rose Demon

afternoon. Matthias felt truly alone. At that moment, he realised how, apart from the hermit, he always had been by himself. As long as he could remember he had been only tolerated by the village children. They resented his knowledge of letters, his ability to read his hornbook. Matthias didn’t recognise that. He just felt their cruelty, their dismissive taunts as the ‘priest’s brat’. At home it had been no different. His father and mother were engrossed in themselves. Sometimes he felt they were embarrassed by him. His father was kind and generous but Christina was aloof; so much so that in his private dreams and games, Matthias considered her a fairy-tale princess locked up in an ivory tower. The hermit had been different: his friendship had been the first time Matthias had ever experienced such closeness. Now he was gone, everything was changing, including himself. Matthias was upset, yet he felt stronger whilst his parents seemed more like strangers. Christina had now totally drawn into herself whilst his father fumbled like an old man. Despite their visit to Baron Sanguis ten days ago, the parson had not improved whilst matters in the village went from bad to worse.

    Sigherd, a lonely crofter who owned two messuages of land, became drunk and, one night, stumbled into the millpond where he had drowned. Peterlinus, one of the baker’s sons, had fallen from a tree and broken an arm. An outlaw band had crossed the Severn and were now plaguing travellers and journeymen on the Sutton Courteny road. Despite the best efforts of Baron Sanguis, this small band of wolf’s-heads were driving journeymen and merchants away from the village. At night, so it was said, devils danced around Sutton Courteny. Death, astride a purple horse, had ridden slowly through the village, a death’s-head helmet over its skeletal face, a huge scythe in his hand. Behind him, so rumours alleged, trailed a legion of imps to plague the villagers of Sutton Courteny.

    Matthias folded his arms and pricked up his ears. He was sure he heard a horse’s hooves yet no one came this way. Sometimes when he was here, particularly just before dusk, he sensed the hermit’s presence, his voice calling him Creatura bona atque parva . Matthias had ruefully recognised this must be his own wishful longing.

    He went back to contemplating the rose and reflecting on what had happened in the village over the last few days. People knew Baron Sanguis had honoured Matthias. Now they respected, even feared him. People recalled how only the boy had spoken for the hermit. Baron Sanguis had also been affected by the ill fortune which afflicted the village. Margot, Old Bogglebow, had been found dead at the foot of the tower of the manor house. Some claimed she had slipped and broken her neck. Others claimed a devil, a great dark shape, had been hunting her for days. The demon had seized her by the neck and flung her down the steps. Baron Sanguis’ carp and stew ponds had also been broken into. People pointed the finger at the wolf’s-heads who, besides poaching the King’s venison, were not averse to helping themselves to a fat carp or a succulent tench.

    Baron Sanguis had vowed retribution but his main quarry had been the Preacher who had dared to usurp his seigneurial powers. In this he had been more successful. The Preacher had taken sanctuary with the monks at Tewkesbury where his conduct had alarmed Father Abbot. He had become witless, a madcap who kept proclaiming he had been possessed by a devil. This hadn’t saved him from the Baron’s vengeance. He had been dragged, a halter round his neck, through the village, and thrown into one of Baron Sanguis’ dungeons. Now the villagers waited for a new arrival: a royal commissioner, armed with special powers, was coming from London to investigate the matter - a royal justiciar who would make a tally of the corpses and put the Preacher on trial.

    Matthias started: that was the clop of a horse! He stole down the church and peered out. Near the lych-gate a horseman sat, tall and erect, in the shiny red leather saddle, his great cloak about him, the sword belt around his waist beautifully embroidered. The horse was a destrier, a noble-looking animal with arched neck and glossy hide. Its housing and harness were those of a great lord, the leather soft and gleaming, the buckles glittering in the sunlight. The rider was looking back at a sumpter pony piled high with possessions under a clean canvas sheet. The