The Rose Demon

courtyard. An old woman was sitting on a stool, sunning herself, munching on her gums. She pointed to a staircase.

    ‘You’ll find Master Rokesby in his chamber,’ she shrilled. ‘Supposedly studying but drunk as a sot!’

    They thanked her and climbed the stairs. Rokesby’s door was half-open. The chamber inside smelt stale; manuscripts lay piled on the floor. Dust-covered hangings draped the walls, soiled clothing lay thrown about. The room was well furnished, the stools and chests finely made, but it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Rokesby sat at a table beneath the window. He was dozing, head falling forward. Matthias coughed. He didn’t wish to startle this lecturer, who had a foul temper and nasty ways. Matthias coughed again.

    ‘Master Rokesby!’ Santerre shouted. ‘We have come to see you!’

    Rokesby jumped and stirred. His ale-sodden face was unshaven. He blinked bleary-eyed.

    ‘Who is it?’ he muttered.

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, Domine. I’ve come to speak to you.’

    Rokesby, wheezing and puffing, got to his feet. He reminded Matthias of a toad: he had a malevolent look on his face and kept wetting his lips.

    ‘What do you want?’

    ‘Why, sir, I’ve come to make my peace.’

    Rokesby smirked. He undid the points of his hose and, waddling across the room, picked up a chamber pot and noisily pissed into it. Matthias chose to ignore such an obscene insult. Rokesby finished relieving himself, put the chamber pot down then walked across, tying his points up. His eyes were clearer now though Matthias could smell the stale odour of ale.

    ‘So, the priest’s brat has come to speak to me? Eh?’ Rokesby poked Matthias in the chest. ‘Clever little boys should keep their mouths shut or get their bottoms smacked. Yes, that’s what I should do.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘I should birch you in public. A warning against insolence and questioning your betters. After all, that’s what they do to heretics, isn’t it?’

    ‘I’m no heretic,’ Matthias replied hotly.

    ‘Yes you are. I know a lot about you, Master Fitzosbert. Come from Gloucester, do you? Patronised by the powerful Baron Sanguis, eh? Well, Sanguis is powerful no longer, is he?’ He poked his head forward and clasped his hands behind his back, like some angry school teacher berating a dullard. ‘Baron Sanguis was a Yorkist. Now that was all well and good but where are the Yorkists now, eh? Where is the great King Edward? Died of apoplexy, he did, three years in his grave. And where are his sons, the Princes?’ Rokesby lifted his hand up and snapped his fingers. ‘Gone like a mist on a summer’s day.’ He wetted his lips. ‘And the great Clarence? Murdered by his brother, Richard of Gloucester.’ Rokesby widened his eyes. ‘And we know what happened to him.’

    Matthias stared at this wicked little man with his malicious, greasy face.

    ‘What is all this to me?’ Matthias declared.

    ‘I know,’ Rokesby snapped. ‘Your patron, Baron Sanguis - his son fought for Richard III at Bosworth and was killed for his treason! Baron Sanguis’ name is not popular at the court of Henry Tudor. There are many who would be delighted to hear that his protégé at Oxford was dabbling in heresy and the occult.’

    ‘Shut up, you pig’s turd!’

    Rokesby’s eyes slid to Santerre. ‘Ah, so the Frenchman has found his tongue. Master Matthias’ bum boy, eh?’

    Santerre stepped forward. ‘What do you want with my friend? Why do you harass him?’

    ‘Oh, I’ll stop him!’ Rokesby bit his lip as if he’d said too much. ‘For a night with Amasia. A juicy little morsel, eh? How does she perform in bed? Oh, I’d love to see her bouncing, those long legs, her hair flying. They say she squeals a lot.’

    Matthias would have turned on his heel but Santerre grasped him by the sleeve.

    ‘Do you know, Master Rokesby,’ the Frenchman sneered, ‘the girls at the Blue Boar talk about you? They say how small your member is.’ Santerre waggled his little finger. ‘And now I’ve seen you piss, I can see they were exaggerating.’

    Rokesby’s face suffused with rage. He drew the dagger from his belt and lunged at Santerre. The Frenchman caught his wrist, twisted it and plucked the knife from his fingers but he didn’t stop there. He grasped Rokesby by the jerkin, pulled him forward and, with one sweeping cut, slit the lecturer’s belly. It happened so quickly Matthias couldn’t object.

    Santerre