The Rose Demon

plotting lechery. The scrivener had not yet recovered from his previous injury but he now felt in good fettle. He’d promised himself that, before the weather changed and the roads became clogged, he would travel to Gloucester. He’d spend a few nights in the Merry Hog tavern which lay under the shadow of the great cathedral. Mapp was not too well known in Gloucester and he could play whatever part he liked. He would take his carefully guarded pile of silver coins and live the life of a lord, feasting and drinking and hiring the services of the flaxen-haired chambermaid there. Mapp scratched his stomach in pleasure, thinking what he would do with her this time. In his mind, he carefully undid the laces of her bodice, stripping her roughly of her dress and shift and then, in that little chamber, made merry and warm by a glowing charcoal brazier, he would take his heart’s delight. Still engrossed in such thoughts Mapp took a taper to the fire. His chamber had grown dark and more candles had to be lit. He caught a flame and lit the three-branched candelabra on his desk under the window.

    At first Mapp did not know what was happening. He tried to blow the taper out but the flame grew stronger, eating away at the wax, racing towards his fingers. Mapp tried to drop it but found the wax was stuck to his fingers. For a while he just stood transfixed in terror, his wits numb. He could hear someone singing outside, close to the window, a song Mapp recalled, but now the flame of the taper was almost near his fingers. The scrivener remembered the small pitcher of water he kept in the buttery. He hastened across but his foot caught a saddlebag. He slipped, rolling on to the floor, screaming as the flames reached his fingers and caught at his woollen mittens. He tried to dash his hand against the floor but the flames caught the dried rushes and, before he even realised, the flames were dancing around him. His cloak was on fire and, within minutes, Mapp the scrivener, so intent on his pleasures, was turned into a blazing torch.

    The following evening Fidelis, wife of Joscelyn the taverner, went into the lonely, cold parish church. Her husband’s body now lay in the parish coffin at the entrance to the sanctuary. Fidelis had not yet accepted that her husband had died so quickly. She knelt on the prie-dieu left out for anyone who wished to keep the corpse watch. Putting her face in her hands, Fidelis began to cry. Not so much for Joscelyn but for herself. Things had been going so well. The arrival of the clerk had increased their profits and village life was now centred round the tavern rather than this dirty, bleak church whose parson’s wits were always wandering. Fidelis also felt guilty. A small, buxom woman, she knew her neighbours described her as wet-lipped and hot-eyed but Rahere had been so handsome, his touch so smooth and soft, his words and kisses sweeter than honey. On many an occasion, in a chamber just under the eaves, she had given herself to him. Now she blushed with shame at how beseeching she had been. Was her husband’s death God’s punishment?

    Fidelis heard a sound and looked up. She blinked. She couldn’t believe her eyes. At the top of the coffin a figure now stood, its back to her. Despite the gathering gloom, Fidelis knew it was her husband. She sprang to her feet and ran towards him. She wasn’t frightened, at least until he turned. Fidelis gave a gasp and stepped back, hand to her mouth. Joscelyn’s head was strangely twisted and, in the poor light, his ghastly colour and red-rimmed, staring eyes made him terrifying. The lips moved. ‘Adulteress!’ His hand went out towards her. Fidelis, realising the full horror of what was happening, staggered backwards. The vision, the phantasm followed: staring, popping eyes, the lips opening and shutting like those of a landed fish and those splayed fingers, stretching out, trying to catch the side of her face. Fidelis bumped into a pillar, her hand dropped away. She couldn’t stop shaking. The ghastly vision drew closer. She caught the reek, the stench of the grave.

    ‘You are dead!’ she whispered. ‘Oh Lord save us, you are dead!’

    Her husband’s ice-cold hand brushed her cheek.

    ‘And so are you!’

    Parson Osbert made a valiant effort to break free of the demons which seemed to haunt his soul. The deaths in the village, particularly that of Fidelis, made him realise that his parishioners, whom he was supposed to serve, were under