The Rose Demon

seemed a little too fond of the arrogant young clerk Rahere. Simon had heard whispers: how Elizabeth was absenting herself from the home for this reason or that, going hither and thither, with no real explanation or excuse.

    ‘I really should question her,’ he muttered to himself.

    Elizabeth was his second wife, much younger than he, and Simon was cunning enough to realise that there was nothing more amusing to everyone than a man showing his cuckold’s horns. He grasped the handle of the plough and savagely whipped the ox. But, if it was true . . . ?

    Behind him, the boy was whistling. Simon wished to be alone.

    ‘Go back to the house!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Go to Elizabeth and tell her to bring me some bread, cheese and a jug of ale. If she’s not there, find out where she is!’

    The boy ceased his whistling. He could see his father was angry. Moreover, Simon was free with his fists when he lost his temper, so the boy loped across the furrow like a hare, quietly planning that he would take as long as he could. Simon returned to his ploughing. He could not bear the thought of Elizabeth playing the wanton with that young fop from London. Elizabeth was a merry bed companion: her legs wrapped round him, Simon enjoyed her smooth, slim body writhing beneath his, her face twisted into pleasure, her mouth urging him on. What if the clerk had experienced these pleasures?

    The oxen suddenly stopped. Simon looked up. It was late in the afternoon and a mist was beginning to seep in through the trees. He brought his small whip down across the oxen’s rumps but the animals didn’t move. Simon sighed and undid the cords around his waist. Perhaps the great blade of the plough was stuck. He stepped between the plough and the oxen, crouching down to dig at the earth, then he heard the whistling. Simon remembered that tune. He’d heard it before, but where? The whistling grew clearer. The reeve remembered. It was the song the hermit had sung from the fire!

    Simon stood up and looked over the heads of the oxen. A figure was moving towards him out of the mist, a man hooded and cowled. Simon blinked. He could not understand it. The figure was not walking but gliding, its feet not touching the ground. The figure drew closer. The oxen grew restless. Simon’s heart began to beat faster as the figure pulled back the cavernous cowl. Simon moaned in fear.

    ‘It can’t be!’ he whispered, making the sign of the cross against the evil one. The figure was the hermit, the man he had seen burnt to death! Now he was coming to greet him, eyes staring, mouth open in a fixed smile. Simon crouched down behind the oxen like a child, believing it was all a figment of his imagination. The oxen moved back. Simon gave a terrible scream which grew to a groan of strangled terror as the oxen then lurched forward. They dragged the plough out of the soil. Simon was knocked flat. He tried to roll but, in his panic, exposed his neck and the sharp iron blade cut deep into his throat. When Elizabeth and the boy arrived an hour later, they found the oxen still terrified. They’d moved backwards and forwards in terror and, in doing so, had turned Simon’s corpse into a bloody, mangled heap.

    Three days later Joscelyn climbed up on to the roof of the Hungry Man tavern. He was angry. He could not believe that tiles, freshly laid the previous spring, had grown loose, allowing rainwater to seep into the garrets. Joscelyn was determined that he would not pay good silver for the tiler to make a second mistake: this time he would do it himself. He ignored his wife’s protests and climbed to the very top of the sloping roof. He edged along, looking for the loose tile. When he found it, he gave a shout of exclamation.

    ‘The bastard!’ he muttered.

    The tiler had laid it wrongly and the slate had slipped, knocking others loose. Joscelyn stretched out, leaning precariously down. He heard a flutter of wings and looked up. A raven, black feathery wings extended, was gliding through the air towards him. Joscelyn raised his hand to fend off those cruel claws aiming straight for his face. He lost his balance, slid down the roof and fell from the tavern. He should have survived the fall but his head came down: it hit the sharp iron bar near the front door of his tavern where travellers scraped the mud off their boots. The iron sliced deep and Joscelyn died immediately.

    The same day, late in the evening, Walter Mapp the scrivener was