The Rose Demon

yew tree, another on a fallen headstone. Fulcher rubbed his eyes but, when he looked again, the figures were still there, hidden in their crumbling cloths. The blacksmith, whimpering with terror, fled back to the church, locking and barring the door.

    Parson Osbert saw the man’s fear and opened the door grille and looked out. He, too, saw the figures and realised that the villagers would never leave this church alive. He snapped the grille shut. He didn’t bother to comfort Fulcher, who crouched sobbing at the foot of a pillar. So far, the others had not noticed the blacksmith’s terror. Osbert went to kneel before the sanctuary screen. He looked over his shoulder and glimpsed Matthias further down the church. Rahere the clerk was giving him something to drink. Osbert closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.

    ‘I confess,’ he began, ‘to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned most grievously in thought, word and deed.’

    He paused as Rahere the clerk swept by him, crossing the sanctuary into the small sacristy. Osbert closed his eyes. He was ready. The work he had done over the last three days he would give to his son. He made the sign of the cross, took out a piece of parchment from his pouch and went where his son now sat at the base of a pillar. The boy looked pale and sleepy-eyed but he didn’t flinch when his father knelt beside him.

    ‘Matthias.’

    The boy looked up. He saw the softness in his father’s eyes but he was too tired, too drowsy.

    ‘Matthias, I love you.’

    The boy smiled weakly.

    ‘I am sorry.’ The priest chose to ignore the tapping on the shutters outside. ‘I am sorry for what I have done but I love you and Christina loved you. I do not know what is going to happen now.’ He ignored the clamour of the people, who were exclaiming in horror at the tapping on the shutters. ‘You will survive,’ Parson Osbert continued. He thrust the piece of parchment into Matthias’ hand. ‘Keep that safe. No, don’t look at it now, put it in your pouch.’

    Parson Osbert took his son’s face and kissed him on the forehead.

    ‘May the Lord keep you in His peace.’ He blessed his son, got to his feet and walked towards the sanctuary.

    Fulcher came running up.

    ‘Can’t you hear it?’ he demanded.

    Parson Osbert stopped. The tapping on the shutters had increased but he also heard the tinkling of the corpse bell fastened over old Maud Brasenose’s grave. Parson Osbert swallowed hard. He turned to face his parishioners. Even as he did so, the tapping grew louder, more insistent. Similar knocks and raps could be heard on the side door and the main door of the church. Peter the cobbler stared through the window. He shrieked and drew away, fingers to his mouth.

    ‘They are in the graveyard!’ he whispered. ‘People in shrouds! The dead are all about us!’

    The knocking and clamouring rose in a crescendo. The villagers in the church screamed and, as if of one mind, they came to huddle before their priest.

    ‘I can do nothing,’ Osbert declared. ‘But I bid you--’ he looked round the church: Matthias was now fast asleep -

    ‘I bid you say an act of contrition. I will give you absolution.’

    He ignored their cries and protests. He recited the words to shrive them from their sins. He had barely finished when he saw Fulcher staring in horror at something behind him. Osbert turned slowly as if in a dream. Rahere was standing in the mouth of the rood screen: his cloak was doffed, his hair tied in a knot behind him. In one hand he bore a sword, in the other an axe. Osbert drew his own knife and ran screaming towards him . . .

PART II

    1486-1487

    The Rose keeps its secret

    Old English saying

    Before they wither,
Let us crown ourselves with roses.
Book of Wisdom

10

    Amasia, slattern of the Blue Boar tavern near Carfax in Oxford, rolled over on her narrow cot bed. She stared down at the man sleeping beside her. He lay on his back, head slightly tilted, breathing deeply. Now and again his lips moved, lost in some dream or nightmare. Amasia clutched the soiled bedsheet around her. She sat up and ran a finger gently down the man’s face. She would have to admit, Matthias Fitzosbert was a handsome student, a dark, lean face, clean shaven. When awake, his eyes were light green, sometimes sad, but when he laughed or smiled, the crinkles transformed his rather sombre face. His hair was jet-black and oiled, though Amasia noticed tufts