The Rose Demon

out Santerre? Matthias rubbed the side of his head. He felt as if his mind were about to explode. That trap door he had closed so firmly on the nightmares of the past was forcing itself open.

    ‘You are blocking the way!’

    Matthias opened his eyes. A market beadle, an official of the Pie Powder court which governed the prices of the city market, was staring at him: his white wand of office held erect like a spear.

    ‘You are blocking the way!’

    Matthias’ hand went to the dagger in his belt.

    ‘Get out of my path,’ he snarled, ‘and I’ll continue!’

    The beadle hurriedly stepped sideways. Matthias continued up the High Street, past St Mary’s church and the stone and timber dwellings of All Souls. The street became broader. Matthias walked on to Magdalen Bridge and stared down at the stream which swirled amongst the rushes. The weather being fine, scholars sat on the grass sleeping, talking, drinking and eating. On any other day Matthias would have joined them. He could only hope Amasia was wrong.

    He walked on and stopped before the narrow greystone church of the Crutched Friars. He went through the open door, down the nave and out through the side door of one of the transepts. A friar, poring over a manuscript in the cloisters, pointed across the garth.

    ‘The death house is over there,’ he declared. ‘But you must get permission from the infirmarian.’

    Matthias continued, impervious to the curious looks of the good brothers who bustled about. He left the cloisters and walked through a small garden towards a large half-timbered building at the far end. Oxford was a shifting city, visited by strangers from Italy, France, Germany and even further east. Unnamed corpses were often found and the friars saw it as their pious duty to afford church burial to these strangers. Agatha would be one of these, a mere slattern with no family. Her corpse would lie in the death house for three or four days awaiting recognition. The coroner would sit and deliver his verdict. Agatha’s corpse would then be buried in the old Jewish cemetery which stood in Paris Mead, a broad, derelict expanse of land which stretched down to the River Cherwell.

    Matthias walked down the path and tapped on the door. A small grille slid open.

    ‘Your business? Your business?’ the voice asked.

    ‘There’s a corpse,’ Matthias replied. ‘A girl called Agatha.’

    ‘She’s to be buried tonight,’ the voice replied.

    ‘I knew her,’ Matthias said haltingly. ‘I wish to pay my respects.’

    The grille was closed. Bolts were drawn and the doors swung open. Matthias stepped over the threshold into a long, cavernous chamber: its white-washed walls and broad beams reminded him of a barn. Despite the herbs scattered along the freshly scrubbed paving stones, Matthias caught the stench of putrefaction and corruption from the corpses which lay in rows either side of this barnlike chamber. He stared down at the lay brother.

    ‘Agatha?’ Matthias repeated.

    ‘Poor girl.’ The friar scratched his unkempt beard. ‘So young, so beautiful. Cut down like the flower of the field.’

    Matthias dug into his purse and took out a penny. The friar snatched this and, snapping his fingers, led Matthias halfway down, stopping before a makeshift stretcher. He pulled back the dark woollen rug. Matthias fought hard against the dizziness and nausea. In life, Agatha had been a happy, winsome girl. Matthias had seen her dance, bracelets on her arm, blonde hair flying. She could whirl around lighted candles, her bare feet never touching the flames whilst customers clapped their hands and shouted encouragement. Now she lay, a pathetic bundle of flesh. She still wore her dark-blue smock but her face had lost all its beauty. A greenish pallor tinged her sagging cheeks, head slightly twisted, eyes half-closed, her lips tinged with blood. It was the mark in her throat which repelled Matthias - two large gaps on either side of the windpipe.

    ‘That’s how she was found,’ the friar explained, kneeling at the other side of the makeshift bed. ‘Those who found her,’ he continued, ‘said she had been pierced like a plum and drained of her blood.’

    Matthias flinched and fought to keep his own nightmares under control.

    ‘Something else,’ the friar got to his feet, ‘there were rose petals all about her, as if she had been playing “He loves me, He loves me not” with the flowers. It would appear,’ he continued cautiously,