The Rose Demon

can.’ The gaoler’s sallow face creased into an ingratiating smile. ‘And perhaps some wine, some venison and a soft four-poster bed?’

    The gaoler waddled off down the corridor, laughing to himself, shoulders shaking. He sat down on his chair.

    ‘This is not one of your halls, young sir!’ he yelled. He picked up a piece of parchment. ‘The Justices will sit tomorrow and then you’ll hang!’

    Matthias went back to his thoughts. He knew he would not be missed at the University. Santerre had been his only friend. He refused even to contemplate dying on the gallows at Carfax, the crossroads at the centre of Oxford. Nevertheless, as the night drew on, despair bit into his soul. What hope could he have?

    Just after dawn, one of the University proctors, a pasty-faced, sandy-haired young man, came down to visit him. The man was apparently terrified of the gaolers, so timid and nervous he bleated a few questions at Matthias and then scurried out. Matthias was given a piece of coarse rye bread and a stoup of brackish water. From his cell he could faintly hear the bells of the city and he reckoned it must have been just after nine when the gaoler and turnkeys took him out of his cell and pulled a hood over his head. He was hustled out of the Bocardo. Feet cut and scarred by the cobbles, Matthias was hoisted up and tossed like a sack into a cart. Jolted and bruised he was thrown about. Now and again he would strain his ears but all he could hear were the cries and shouts of the hawkers, the faint murmur of the crowd. Matthias closed his eyes and prayed. Not so much for life but that he wouldn’t end it slowly strangling at the end of a rope, being jeered and hooted by some mob in the market place.

    At last the cart stopped. The mask was removed and he was bustled through the porch of St Mary’s church. The benches had been cleared from the nave: a large table set up before the rood screen, and behind this sat the three Justices. At a desk on either side of them were two scriveners. The crowds had been allowed in and people were flocking up the transepts to get a good view of the proceedings. Soldiers and bailiffs from the city were busy putting up a cordon of long pieces of white rope. Matthias had to wait for a while. The gaolers on either side of him whispered cold comfort, that the three Justices who would try him were not known for their mercy or tolerance. The sandy-haired proctor came up and offered his help. Matthias took one look at the watery eyes, dripping nose and slack mouth. He shook his head.

    ‘I’ll defend myself,’ he declared.

    At last the court bellman walked up the nave tolling his bell.

    ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’ he bawled. ‘All ye who have business before His Majesty’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer, sitting in the King’s city of Oxford, draw close!’

    ‘That’s you, my boy,’ the gaoler whispered.

    One of the scriveners stood up. ‘Bring forward the prisoner!’

    Matthias recalled the trial of the Preacher at Sutton Courteny. As he walked through the nave he looked at the crowd but saw little pity there. To them it was a mummers’ show and what happened to Matthias was of little interest. About three yards from the Justices’ bench the gaolers stopped. Matthias studied the men who were to try him for his life: cold, implacable merchants, dignitaries from the city. They would hold their commission directly from the King. The one on Matthias’ right looked as if he were asleep, head cradled in his hand; the Justice on his left was busy studying a document, a long piece of parchment. The principal Justice, white-haired, sharp-nosed, with eyes as hard as glass, looked Matthias from head to toe.

    ‘This should not take long,’ he began. ‘Your name?’

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’

    ‘How do you plead?’

    ‘How can I? I don’t know what I am accused of?’

    This brought guffaws of laughter from the transept. All three Justices now moved in their throne-like chairs. Matthias knew that, whatever he said, they had already reached their verdict.

    ‘Are you,’ one of them called out, ‘a clerk in minor orders?’

    ‘No, I am not.’

    ‘So, you can’t plead benefit of clergy?’

    Matthias shrugged.

    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, read out the indictment!’

    One of the clerks stood up and in a loud voice began to read the charges. Matthias’ heart sank. Whoever had prepared the case had done so hastily and found the easiest way was to accuse Matthias of