The Rose Demon

his head. He brushed the dust and stains from his cloak, jerkin and hose.

    ‘Two things, Matthias. First, if you strike at a man on a horse, your sword is going upwards: it loses a great deal of its force. Secondly,’ he threw his cloak over his shoulder and pulled up his jerkin. Matthias glimpsed the bright steel mesh beneath. ‘Milanese steel,’ the clerk explained. ‘Light as a feather but stronger than iron. Now come, boy. Let’s ride in triumph to your village. I’ll leave you at your house and then I’ll go to Baron Sanguis. I’ll tell our good lord to clear his forest paths.’

    They continued on their journey. Only as they entered Sutton Courteny did Matthias remember the clerk’s words: ‘ Run like the wind! ’ That’s what the hermit had always said to him.

8

    The Chronicler of Tewkesbury, when he came to describe the bloody and horrific events which occurred in Sutton Courteny around the Feast of All Saints 1471, noted that the beginning of the end was the Preacher’s trial in the nave of the parish church of Sutton Courteny on the feast of St Benedict. The proceedings were much different from the last time. Baron Sanguis sat enthroned in a chair placed just before the entrance to the rood screen. On his right, his grim-faced son, on his left Taldo the seneschal. In a corner, perched on a stool, quill in hand, one of his scribes. Before him a new jury had been empanelled.

    The proceedings were dominated by Rahere the clerk. He stood, dressed in black from head to toe, a silver gilt war belt round his slim waist. The sword and dagger hanging there slapped threateningly against his thigh. On his black leather boots he had the affectation still to wear his spurs, which clinked and jingled at every step. The high-collared tunic with the white linen bands beneath came up just beneath his chin: his black oiled hair hung down to his shoulders. As he moved backwards and forwards, turning now and again to address Baron Sanguis, sometimes the jury, sometimes the crowd, they all watched fascinated. Matthias thought he was beautiful. The clerk reminded him of a black, languorous cat holding court over a group of mice. The women of the village gazed hot-eyed and whispered amongst themselves how this handsome young clerk from London had an eye for a pretty face and was already known for his sweet words. Rahere seemed to sense this. Like an actor in a play, he pitched his words and spun his web. At first he described himself, showing his commission on creamy-coloured parchment, the red wax still bearing clearly the imprint of the King’s Great Seal. He’d reproved the villagers for taking the law into their own hands and paused to allow Baron Sanguis to announce the fine. The villagers nodded. In the circumstances, they whispered, their manor lord was being compassionate. Matthias stared at his father, crouching in the same place he had during the previous trial, on the steps of the Lady Chapel. Parson Osbert had made an effort this morning to wash, shave and change his clothing though he still looked pale and woebegone.

    Rahere the clerk now took up the story again, listing the dreadful deaths which had occurred in the area. He spoke in clear English, now and again lapsing into figures of speech common in the area. Matthias could tell Baron Sanguis and his son were fascinated. At last the clerk stopped speaking and jabbed a finger towards the corpse door.

    ‘In my view,’ he proclaimed, ‘the man we are about to confront is the true murderer: the spiller of innocent blood. Bring him in!’

    Taldo got up and hurried to the door. A short while later the seneschal returned followed by Baron Sanguis’ burly bailiffs. The Preacher, his arms pinioned, was dragged between them into the church and forced to kneel facing the villagers. Matthias stared. Was this the man who had frightened him? The Preacher’s hair was tinged with grey, his hard face slack, globules of spit smeared the unkempt beard round his half-open mouth, his eyes were vacant as he gazed around. He was forced to kneel whilst Rahere summarised the accusations laid against him. When he came to answer, the Preacher could only shake his head.

    ‘I have been ill!’ he whimpered. His hands, released from their bonds, tapped either side of his head. ‘I cannot remember where I have been or what I have done. It’s as if I’ve been asleep.’

    ‘Do you deny the charges?’ Rahere asked crisply.

    ‘I don’t know who I am or where