The Rose Demon

me?’ Matthias insisted. ‘You’ve hired a chamber here because Rokesby is about to start a persecution. You want me to flee with you to France.’

    ‘Not flee,’ the Frenchman contradicted. ‘Last autumn I gained my bachelor’s. Where I study, or what I do is a matter of my own concern. I intend to leave in the summer anyway.’

    Matthias’ heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t known that and, to be honest, the Frenchman was the only real friend he had. He went back to staring at the herb garden below him.

    ‘I was born in the village of Sutton Courteny in Gloucestershire, ’ Matthias told him. ‘My parents died when I was young. Baron Sanguis, the local lord, became my guardian. He sent me to the abbey schools of Tewkesbury and Gloucester.’

    ‘And then you came to Oxford?’

    ‘Yes, I came to Oxford. I am fluent in Latin and Norman French. I even know some Greek. I can converse with a clerk or a courtier. I am considered a good scholar. I can sing with the best of them, whether it be the ‘ Veni Creator Spiritus ’ or one of the goliard songs of Provence. I can play the rebec and the lyre. Sometimes I drink too much.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘But that’s not me.’

    ‘Then who are you?’

    Matthias returned to the table and sat down. He drank deeply from the cup, then began to tell Santerre everything that had happened at Sutton Courteny. The Frenchman sat still as a statue, ignoring both the food and the wine. Matthias, however, kept slurping at his cup: sometimes he’d stop, his voice choked with emotion, tears rolling down his cheeks. He spoke in short, harsh sentences about the hermit, the battle of Tewkesbury, the Preacher and the arrival of Rahere the clerk. At the end, when he came to describe the events of All-Hallows Eve 1471, Matthias closed his eyes, trying to curb the panic in his stomach. He was aware that his face had become damp with sweat whilst his hands felt cold and clammy. He paused in mid-sentence.

    ‘And what happened then?’

    Matthias opened his eyes. He steadied himself against the table. Santerre had moved away. He was standing with his back to him, staring down at the garden. The Frenchman looked round and smiled.

    ‘Finish the story, Matthias.’

    ‘I don’t really know. God be my witness, Santerre. I don’t really know. Rahere gave me something to drink, a heavy opiate. When I awoke I was in Baron Sanguis’ manor house. The old lord and his son came to see me. I could tell from their faces, as well as those of the servants, that something horrifying had happened. I wanted to go back but Baron Sanguis refused. He said the village was deserted, his tenants would not return there. They had petitioned and he had agreed fresh plans for a new village.’

    Matthias filled his wine cup. He was drinking so fast, he was glad the wine was heavily watered. He pushed some meat into his mouth but found it difficult to chew or swallow.

    ‘I was kept a prisoner in the manor. Oh, I was given everything I wanted: toys, books, a tutor. The sheriff came from Gloucester. I remember it was a few days before Christmas. He and a thin-faced scribe asked me what I could remember and I told him about my father and other parishioners huddling into the church. However, they never told me what they knew. It was only later, well after Candlemas, the gossip began to seep through.’

    He smiled thinly. ‘Apparently on All Saints’ Day, the first of November, Baron Sanguis and his men had ridden down to the church. They went through the village, it was deserted. Quite a few had fled. Those who’d remained . . .’ Matthias shook his head. ‘They said it was dreadful. A corpse here, a corpse there, all killed by accidents, caused by the storm they said. My father’s house was empty. In the churchyard, every cross and tombstone had been hurled down. Some of the graves looked as if they had been disturbed.’

    ‘And the church?’ Santerre asked.

    ‘Oh, the church housed the real horrors. The windows were shuttered, the doors locked and barred.’ Matthias closed his eyes. ‘No, one window had been forced, a small aperture leading into the sacristy. One of Baron Sanguis’ men got in. They heard him screaming, so terror-struck he could hardly turn the key in the lock or lift the bars. Once inside they found out why: at least two dozen people must have taken refuge there, men and women; all had wounds to their heads or chests. The church stank of blood. In places it