The Rose Demon

everything. Heavy reliance was placed on certain writings found in Rokesby’s chamber: Matthias Fitzosbert was a traitor, being a secret supporter of the usurper Richard III, later killed at Bosworth. He was a heretic, a sorcerer and an occultist, not accepting the authority and wisdom of Holy Mother Church. He was a conspirer, a leader of a secret coven, a felon and a murderer, responsible for not only the murder of John Rokesby, Master of Arts and lecturer in the city of Oxford, but also of Henri Santerre, student and scholar in the said university! At last the clerk finished. The Justice in the centre seat folded his hands and leant forward.

    ‘Well, Fitzosbert, now how do you plead?’ He raised his eyebrows.

    ‘I did not kill Santerre.’

    ‘Does that mean you are guilty of the rest?’

    ‘I did not say that.’

    ‘You did not deny it.’

    ‘I deny everything.’

    ‘Dearie, dearie me!’

    The Justice on Matthias’ left picked up a piece of parchment.

    ‘Is it true that you have read books on Lucifer and Satan, and have studied the trials of witches and warlocks?’

    ‘Yes, I have but . . .’

    ‘And were you present when Master Rokesby was killed?’

    ‘Yes, yes, I was . . .’ Matthias flailed his hands. ‘What is the use?’ he cried. He turned to the left and stared at the people thronging the transept. ‘I am innocent but I have been found guilty so why should I provide sport for others?’

    The crowd fell silent. Matthias looked to the right: a movement caught his eye. A figure stepped out from behind one of the pillars: a woman muffled and cowled but the hood was pushed back for a few seconds. Matthias recognised the flame-red hair of Morgana. She moved away. Another face caught Matthias’ attention, a small, squat, square-jawed, clean-shaven man, his hair tonsured like that of a priest. He was dressed in a dark blue robe lined with squirrel fur. He was staring at Matthias differently from the rest, as if fascinated by what he saw. He, too, stepped back into the crowd.

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert!’

    He looked towards the Justices: all three now had a square of black silk covering their heads. Matthias went cold. He had heard how Henry Tudor was issuing commissions, allowing Justices to investigate, judge and sentence but he never knew that his case would be despatched with such alacrity.

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, are you listening to us?’ The Chief Justice spoke. ‘We have examined the evidence and we have heard what little defence you can offer. In our view the charges are proven. You are a traitor, a heretic and a murderer. We sentence you to be burnt to death at Carfax within the octave of this sentence being delivered!’

    Matthias’ jaw dropped. To be burnt! To be lashed to that blackened stake. He recalled the hermit burning in Sutton Courteny. He closed his eyes and swayed. The gaolers held him fast.

    ‘God have mercy on your soul!’ the Justice added. ‘Take him away!’

13

    Matthias was returned to the Bocardo. Being a condemned felon, he was loaded with chains before being thrown into the back of the cart. The sentence had been so harsh, even the hardened gaolers felt sorry for him.

    ‘If you can find some money,’ the chief gaoler declared, sharing a loaf of bread with him, ‘we’ll buy a bag of gunpowder and tie it round your neck. The heat then blows your throat apart and you die quicker, better that, than feeling your flesh bubble and your eyes turn to water.’

    ‘Or,’ his assistant added. ‘If you pay us, when the smoke gets really thick, one of us here can come through and strangle you.’

    Matthias burst out laughing, throwing his head back he guffawed until the tears ran down his dirty face. The gaolers stared impassively. Such solemn looks on their villainous faces only made matters worse - Matthias found he couldn’t stop laughing. He realised how long it had been since he had laughed so heartily and so deeply.

    ‘I am sorry,’ he gasped, popping the rest of the bread into his mouth, ‘but here I am, gentlemen, about to die a horrible death for crimes I did not commit. The only comfort I am offered is a bag of gunpowder or a garrotte string. I do thank you,’ he added hastily seeing their annoyance. ‘I am very grateful.’ He stared at a point over their heads. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I will not die.’

    ‘Why?’ The turnkey became aggressive. He drew back, remembering that Matthias was supposed to have magical powers.