The Rose Demon

ran ankle-deep down the nave. The corpses were strewn about, some had drawn knives or tried to hide but the killers had hunted each down.’

    ‘And yourself?’

    ‘I was rolled up in a blanket in one of the transepts, deeply asleep. At first they thought I was dead or in some deep swoon. They found my father just near the sanctuary.’ Matthias looked up. ‘He was the parson. I am, Monsieur Santerre, the by-blow of a priest. He had died quickly, a swift blow from an axe to his head.’

    ‘And who was responsible?’

    ‘They said it was Rahere the clerk. They claimed the storm must have turned his wits, unhinged his mind. But how could one man kill so many people?’

    ‘What happened to him?’

    ‘Oh, he had left the church by the window. A tinker found his body in the woods. He was a mass of wounds from head to toe. Some of my father’s parishioners had resisted.’ Matthias paused. ‘Do you know, Santerre, I have never been back there.’

    ‘And since then?’

    ‘I live my life. I learnt very quickly to take each day as it comes and not to dwell on the past. If I did, I’d become madcap or witless.’

    Santerre turned. He leant against the wall and crossed his arms.

    ‘And what do you believe now?’

    ‘I don’t really know. I attend Mass but I feel as if I am watching someone else pray. I listen to the priests talking about the goodness of God and then I think of my parents: Christina a broken reed, my father wandering drunkenly round the graveyard. I remember those corpses, lives snuffed out like candle wicks.’ Matthias paused. ‘When I go out to the streets or ride through the fields, I really do envy the people I pass. They live their lives, they marry, they are happy in what they do.’

    ‘Self-pity is dangerous!’

    ‘Oh, it’s not self-pity. I am more confused, that’s one of the reasons I came to Oxford. Perhaps, in a place of learning, I’d find the answers but I still don’t know what happened at Sutton Courteny or why. Baron Sanguis never really talked about it. The sheriff sent letters to London yet everyone seemed determined to forget it as quickly as possible.’

    ‘But you can’t?’

    ‘No, I can’t.’ Matthias sipped at the wine cup. ‘And that’s when I come to life. My mind quickens. My will takes a purpose. Something happened at Sutton Courteny, something outside our ordinary experience. I want to know what. I don’t believe that spirits are little imps or Satan is a goat with cloven hooves and a black cloak. They are fables to frighten children. Only one thing I have found, the legend of the incubus, a spirit who can move from body to body, take over a personality, work through that individual.’

    ‘Possession?’

    ‘Perhaps. My father left me some texts, scribbled jottings he pushed into my hand the night he died. I think he knew the truth. One of the quotations is from St John. It talks about Christ promising that, if someone loves Him, He and His Father will come and make Their home in him.’ Matthias shrugged. ‘If God can make a home in our hearts, fill our souls, why can’t some other spirit?’

    ‘But the murders?’ Santerre asked.

    ‘Now that is a mystery. Except in one respect. Nature teaches that, if I wish to live, I must eat and drink. The Church teaches that, if I am to live spiritually, I must eat the Body of Christ and drink His Blood. What happens, Santerre, if this incubus must kill, must drink human blood? A diabolical reflection of the Church’s teaching?’

    ‘And you think that’s what happened to Agatha?’

    ‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Matthias gnawed his lip. ‘All this is conjecture,’ he sighed. ‘Sometimes, I think I can’t understand any of it, especially when I look at myself. Why was I singled out by the hermit and the clerk?’

    ‘So why not leave with me?’ Santerre sat down and leant across the table. He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘Start again, Matthias, leave these dreams, these nightmares behind.’

    Matthias got to his feet and stretched. He came back and gripped Santerre by the shoulder.

    ‘I have never told anyone what happened to me in Sutton Courteny. If I did, they’d either laugh or think I’m a madcap or worse, report me to the Church authorities. I thank you for last night and the offer you made this morning. But why should I flee? Because Rokesby muttered his threats? Or a girl is killed in Christ Church Meadows?’

    ‘Listen!’ Santerre replied. ‘If this so-called incubus has