The Rose Demon

fleshy part of Golden Locks’ shoulder. The Frenchman danced back, sword and dagger swishing the air. The students recognised a street-fighter, a born swordsman. They let go of Matthias.

    ‘Go on!’ Santerre lunged forward, his sword snaking out. ‘Leave my friend and go!’

    The students dropped Matthias and took to their heels.

    Matthias felt his friend’s arm lifting him up, then he sank into a faint.

11

    Matthias woke early the next morning. He felt sore and stiff; the side of his face hurt. He struggled up, pushing back the bolsters. He groaned and carefully made his way down the ladder from his small bed. Santerre was fast asleep on his palliasse under the window, red hair splayed out, mouth half open. The Frenchman had not even bothered to take his boots off but lay sprawled over the blankets, his sword belt on the floor beside him. Matthias staggered over to the lavarium. A piece of polished metal above it served as a mirror. Matthias was pleased to see his face was not too bruised. He washed and shaved, wincing as the razor scraped his tender skin. He dried himself, glancing round the chamber to make sure that he was no longer dreaming, that the chamber was his. The crumbling masonry hearth; the wall above blackened with soot; the small windows covered by a pig’s bladder; a low ceiling of rough beams, sparse furniture, a table, wooden-peg stools, chests, coffers and hooks on the walls with various garments hanging from them. Beneath the loft was a cupboard to hold provisions, pots, jugs, cups and a tankard Santerre had stolen from a tavern. Matthias went across but the bread and cheese he had left there were gone. He sat down, recalling the horrors of the previous day.

    ‘I really should go to the schools,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps that is best.’

    ‘There’ll be no lectures for you today, mon ami .’ Matthias looked over his shoulder. Santerre was sitting on the edge of the mattress; his long, white face was heavy with sleep but his sharp green eyes watched Matthias intently.

    ‘Thank you for last night.’ Matthias staggered across to him.

    Santerre clasped his hand and grinned.

    ‘I’ve been busy on your behalf.’ The Frenchman’s English was good, only slightly tinged with an accent.

    ‘If you hadn’t been busy,’ Matthias retorted, ‘I’d have spent the night strapped to a corpse.’

    ‘And now?’

    ‘I feel tired, a little bruised but very hungry.’

    ‘Then come.’

    Santerre sprang to his feet. He slapped some water over his face, carelessly drying himself with a rag, which he then flung into a corner. He led Matthias out of the chamber and down the narrow, spiral staircase. Matthias still felt confused. Everything was happening so fast but Santerre was going ahead of him, shaking his head, as if he knew Matthias wanted to question him.

    ‘Remember what Bonaventure said,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘ “If speech is a gift from God, silence is a virtue.” ’

    They stood aside as a group of scholars, bachelors in their shabby brown gowns, bustled up the stairs. Each carried a small bundle; on their belts were strapped ink horns and a sheaf of quills in a small pouch. They nodded at Santerre and Matthias but, as usual, left these two alone. Usually this never bothered Matthias but now he realised that his life in Oxford was really no different from that at Tewkesbury. He was a stranger in a foreign land, like a boy who stands in the middle of a ring and watches other children play around him.

    ‘Stop dreaming!’ Santerre called from the foot of the stairs.

    Matthias hurried on. The lane outside smelt sweet after the dank fetidness of the hall. The sun was strong, the air clear and crisp. Dung-collectors had taken the refuse from the day before and the streets and alleyways were still empty. Only the occasional, heavy-eyed apprentice, laying up the stalls or taking down the fronts of the shops, was to be seen as Matthias and Santerre hurried across Broad Street and into a side door of the Silver Wyvern. The taverner came out, Santerre whispered to him, the man nodded and handed over a key.

    ‘The third chamber on the first gallery,’ he declared. ‘I’ll send food up immediately.’

    Santerre took Matthias up. The chamber was clean - lime-washed walls, fresh rushes on the floor. The tables and stools looked as if they had been scrubbed with hot water and the lattice window was open, allowing in the clear, flower-scented air from the