The Rose Demon

deadly threat. He washed and shaved. He brought Blanche back into the house to clean and polish. One evening he did not drink but sat by the fire. He would love to walk down to the Hungry Man, embrace his son, tell him all would be well. He prayed quietly for the grace to do so but, in the end, he only reached the door of his house before his will failed and he returned morosely to sit before the fire.

    Outside night was falling. He closed his eyes. Today was the Feast of the apostles Saints Simon and Jude. In three days it would be All-Hallows Eve when, as in former years, he good-naturedly allowed his villagers to partake in the pagan rites of Samhain. On 2 November was the Feast of All Souls, when the villagers would pray for their dead. He should pray for Christina. He should pray for himself and Matthias.

    Parson Osbert got to his feet. He took his Ave beads out of their pouch and wrapped them round his fingers. He, by his drunkenness, by his arrogance, had sinned and, before he made his peace with his son, he really should make his peace with God.

    Parson Osbert walked out of the house and across the graveyard. He unlocked the corpse door and went inside. God’s house had not been cleaned. The flagstones should be washed and scrubbed, the benches polished, cobwebs removed. He drew himself up and breathed in. He would clean God’s house. He would put matters right in his own soul. He would reconcile himself to his son and face the future, whatever happened. Parson Osbert went round the darkened church, lighting the candles in their iron holders. He came back and knelt before the rood screen but his mind was too distressed to pray. He kept drifting back into the past when Christina was alive, joyful, merry and winsome. Now? Parson Osbert bitterly regretted the Preacher. It had all begun here, when he had sat like a frightened rabbit, and allowed the Preacher to climb into his pulpit. Parson Osbert got to his feet and climbed the steps to the pulpit. He glanced at the stark crucifix fixed to the wall above him.

    ‘I’ll have a meeting tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll gather all the people here. I’ll confess my wrong!’

    He heard a sound and whirled round. People were standing in the shadows at the back of the church.

    ‘Who’s there? Come forward!’

    Dark shapes shuffled towards him, slowly, stumblingly. Parson Osbert’s hand went to his throat. He stared in horror. Eight, nine persons all in their shrouds, all people buried in his graveyard: Edith, Simon the reeve, Joscelyn the taverner! Parson Osbert screamed and, running down the steps, fled out into the darkness.

    The Eve of All-Hallows dawned gloomy and damp. Black, heavy rain clouds massed over Sutton Courteny and, by mid-morning, a heavy downpour had begun. Not even the oldest inhabitant of the village could recall such heavy rains. The water fell in drenching sheets. The small brook, already swollen, broke its banks. Trackways and paths were turned to a muddy morass and the village was effectively cut off. All hopes of any festivities planned for the evening died with the downpour. The bonfires and beacons which ringed the village were reduced to nothing more than a soggy pile of wood and kindling. No fires were lit to ward off the evil spirits. By noon the situation had become even worse. No work was done in the fields. Everyone was confined to their homes.

    In the taproom of the Hungry Man, Matthias realised matters were coming to a climax. He could sense the tension. Rahere sat brooding in a corner, cloak wrapped about him, just staring out of the window. He’d hardly murmured a word since he had risen early that morning. Matthias tried to engage him in conversation but the clerk just shook his head and returned to staring at the sky.

    Over the last few weeks, Rahere had distanced himself from the villagers. Once their leader, even their hero, the peasants now distrusted him. Rahere didn’t care. Matthias knew the clerk looked forward to this day but never understood the reason why. The boy himself had been kept busy. He’d heard about the strange deaths but any desire to return home had been quickly curbed by fresh reports of his father’s strange behaviour and drunken ways. Something was about to happen and Matthias realised all he could do was watch and wait.

    As the day drew on, the occasional villager called in to buy some ale but the atmosphere remained bleak. Fulcher, who had taken over the running of the tavern, had