The Rose Demon

crossed to the window, jabbing his finger in the direction of the street below. ‘Haven’t you realised, Matthias, the people you move amongst? You condemn me for what I am and for what I do yet, all around you, loathsome beings coil and turn like hissing snakes. You made a fool of Rokesby. You, a scholar, brought a master into disrepute. He would have hounded you, persecuted you and, if the opportunity presented itself, totally destroyed you.’ Santerre picked up his war belt and strapped it about his waist. ‘Greater love than this, Matthias, no man hath, that he lays down his life for his friend.’

    ‘What do you mean?’

    Santerre shrugged. ‘You ask questions, Matthias, but now is not the time for me to answer them. I beg you, do this one thing for me.’ Santerre picked up Matthias’ cloak and hood. ‘You know the Golden Lyre tavern on the road to Holywell?’

    Matthias nodded.

    ‘Go there and wait for me. If you stay here, you’ll die. Ask the tavern master for Morgana.’ Santerre grinned. ‘A lovely name from a fabulous legend. Morgana is my friend. You must do whatever she asks.’

    Matthias went to refuse.

    ‘Go, please!’ Santerre urged. ‘Leave or be taken!’

    Matthias took the cloak, put his hand on the latch then turned.

    ‘You killed my father, yet here I stand discussing matters as if we were involved in some disputation at the schools.’

    ‘Parson Osbert’s death is not on my hands,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘He wanted to die. Remember, Matthias, he wanted to die. I had no choice.’ He pushed Matthias gently through the door. ‘What do you want, Matthias?’ he whispered. ‘Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life? You know that won’t solve anything. Whatever you think, I am your friend. I ask you to do this one thing for me.’ He closed the door quickly behind him.

    Matthias stumbled down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he realised how quiet the Hall had become until he remembered the great fair being held at nearby Abingdon. He went out into the street. He felt as if he were in a dream, pushing by people, more concerned at what he had learnt than anything around him, yet at the same time the sights and sounds around him appeared magnified. A blind hawker on a corner, his eyes two black holes, his face grained with dirt, clothed in rags, shouted in a singsong voice about the gewgaws he had for sale. An old whore, being caught by a University bailiff, was placed across the stocks, her great, fat buttocks exposed for a birching. Two boys played with a badger, teasing it with a piece of meat. An apothecary’s shop, the stall in front covered with pots of ointments; from the longer pole at the top dangled the dried skins of frogs, newts, toads and other small animals. From a casement window a young man’s voice beautifully carolled the love song ‘ Je t’aime, je pense ’.

    At last Matthias found the Golden Lyre, a spacious hostelry which served the busy road leading to and from Oxford. As soon as he mentioned the name Morgana, the tavern master became cringingly servile, ushering Matthias like a lord up the winding stairs to a door on the second gallery. The woman who opened it was breathtakingly beautiful: flaming red hair piled up high on her head, covered decorously with a fine gauze veil. Her dress was of pure lambswool, sea-green in colour, tied high at the throat by a white fringe, a golden chain round her slim waist. Her face was heart-shaped, skin like ivory, full red lips and eyes the colour of amber, slightly slanted, full of mischief.

    ‘Why, Matthias,’ her voice was soft, slightly stumbling, ‘I was told to expect you.’

    A touch on his hands, soft and cool, and he was inside the chamber, the door closing behind him. She moved away from him, languorously, every movement elegant, like a dancer. She gestured at the window seat in a small bay which overlooked the back of the tavern. He sat down on the cushions, still bemused, and accepted the goblet of white wine she pushed into his hands. The chamber was the best the tavern could offer, the woodwork black and gleaming, the plaster white as snow. Coloured cloths hung on the walls, a red and gold tester covered the broad four-poster bed.

    ‘Santerre,’ Matthias began, ‘Santerre told me to come, to wait here.’ Matthias couldn’t stop stammering, the woman was studying him so closely.

    ‘There’s no hurry,’ she replied smilingly. ‘You are to wait. Just for a short