The Rose Demon

are going to the church. Don’t worry, Matthias. Nothing is going to happen to you. Put your boots and cloak on.’

    Matthias noticed the clerk had his cloak already wrapped around him, fastened by a chain at the neck. It covered him completely but, as he moved, the boy heard the clink of weapons and the jingle of the chain mail shirt beneath. The clerk helped him dress and they went down to the taproom. Rahere’s arrival stilled the clamour and the acrimonious dispute about to break out. The clerk clapped his hands and stood on a stool.

    ‘None of us can stay here,’ he declared.

    He paused as the door was flung open and a dishevelled, wide-eyed Parson Osbert staggered into the taproom, wiping the rain from his unshaven face.

    ‘You should come to the church.’ Parson Osbert swayed on his feet. ‘I confess I have failed you. I have drunk too deeply.’ His eyes caught those of Matthias. ‘I have sinned before Heaven and before you but this storm is not the elements. It is God’s punishment and we should shelter in God’s house.’

    ‘The priest speaks the truth,’ Rahere said. ‘The church is built of stone. Fulcher, gather provisions from the buttery.’

    The blacksmith hastened to obey, then Parson Osbert led them out into the high street. The journey to the church, taken so many times by all of them, proved to be a veritable calvary. The wind shrieked and howled, knocking and buffeting them. One of the tapsters from the Hungry Man was knocked senseless by a flying tile but no one went to assist him. An old woman was hit by a sign and she was left bloody-headed, crouching in a doorway, hands flapping. The others dare not stop. The wind made them turn their faces for it caught their breath. Parson Osbert, however, determined to do his duty, led them on.

    Matthias was carried by the clerk. He then realised something quite terrible was about to happen. Now and again the clerk would look down at him. Matthias caught the same look he had seen in the hermit’s eyes: soft, tender, sad. He also noticed how the wind did not seem to trouble the clerk. Rahere walked as if it were a summer’s day, effortlessly, the wind scarcely touching him.

    They entered the lych-gate, and the parishioners saw how the storm had flattened crosses and gravestones. Fulcher, despite the wind, stopped and stared across the rain-soaked cemetery. He opened his mouth to speak but the wind caught his words. The blacksmith staggered on, terrified by what he had seen. He was sure the black angel on top of old Pepperel’s tomb was now standing like some infernal imp, its wings spread. Fulcher cursed the wine he had drunk: like the rest, he threw himself through the main door of the church, into the shelter and sanctuary of the nave.

    Parson Osbert locked and bolted the doors behind them. He then went round the church and, assisted by Rahere, pulled the shutters across and barred them, plunging the church into darkness. Parson Osbert, overcoming his fears, lit the candles in the nave, those in the Lady Chapel as well as the tall ones on the high altar. At first the villagers lay around the nave, gasping, recovering their breath and their wits as well as trying to dry their hair and clothes. They welcomed the candlelight until the wind seeped through cracks and vents and made the flames dance. The church became an eerie vault, filled with flickering light and dancing shadows.

    Fulcher had brought wineskins and leather panniers full of bread, dried meat and cheese. The food was shared out, and gave some momentary cheer. The villagers congratulated each other on their safe arrival: how they were pleased their children were in Baron Sanguis’ manor and that the storm would soon abate. It did not. The wind now howled and lashed the church, rattling the door, buffeting the shutters. Even the bell in the steeple began to toll, driven backwards and forwards by the raucous gusts.

    Outside darkness fell and then, abruptly, the storm subsided, the wind abated. The villagers helped themselves to more food and began to talk of returning to their homes.

    Fulcher the blacksmith, full of wine and determined to relieve his bladder, opened the corpse door and went out into the cemetery. He undid the points of his breeches and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He heard a sound, glanced around, then staggered back, not caring that he was wetting his own boots and clothing: shadowy, cowled figures stood like statues around the cemetery. One under a