The Rose Demon

11

Matthias woke early the next morning. He felt sore and stiff; the side of his face hurt. He struggled up, pushing back the bolsters. He groaned and carefully made his way down the ladder from his small bed. Santerre was fast asleep on his palliasse under the window, red hair splayed out, mouth half open. The Frenchman had not even bothered to take his boots off but lay sprawled over the blankets, his sword belt on the floor beside him. Matthias staggered over to the lavarium. A piece of polished metal above it served as a mirror. Matthias was pleased to see his face was not too bruised. He washed and shaved, wincing as the razor scraped his tender skin. He dried himself, glancing round the chamber to make sure that he was no longer dreaming, that the chamber was his. The crumbling masonry hearth; the wall above blackened with soot; the small windows covered by a pig’s bladder; a low ceiling of rough beams, sparse furniture, a table, wooden-peg stools, chests, coffers and hooks on the walls with various garments hanging from them. Beneath the loft was a cupboard to hold provisions, pots, jugs, cups and a tankard Santerre had stolen from a tavern. Matthias went across but the bread and cheese he had left there were gone. He sat down, recalling the horrors of the previous day.

‘I really should go to the schools,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps that is best.’

‘There’ll be no lectures for you today, mon ami.’ Matthias looked over his shoulder. Santerre was sitting on the edge of the mattress; his long, white face was heavy with sleep but his sharp green eyes watched Matthias intently.

‘Thank you for last night.’ Matthias staggered across to him.

Santerre clasped his hand and grinned.

‘I’ve been busy on your behalf.’ The Frenchman’s English was good, only slightly tinged with an accent.

‘If you hadn’t been busy,’ Matthias retorted, ‘I’d have spent the night strapped to a corpse.’

‘And now?’

‘I feel tired, a little bruised but very hungry.’

‘Then come.’

Santerre sprang to his feet. He slapped some water over his face, carelessly drying himself with a rag, which he then flung into a corner. He led Matthias out of the chamber and down the narrow, spiral staircase. Matthias still felt confused. Everything was happening so fast but Santerre was going ahead of him, shaking his head, as if he knew Matthias wanted to question him.

‘Remember what Bonaventure said,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘ “If speech is a gift from God, silence is a virtue.” ’

They stood aside as a group of scholars, bachelors in their shabby brown gowns, bustled up the stairs. Each carried a small bundle; on their belts were strapped ink horns and a sheaf of quills in a small pouch. They nodded at Santerre and Matthias but, as usual, left these two alone. Usually this never bothered Matthias but now he realised that his life in Oxford was really no different from that at Tewkesbury. He was a stranger in a foreign land, like a boy who stands in the middle of a ring and watches other children play around him.

‘Stop dreaming!’ Santerre called from the foot of the stairs.

Matthias hurried on. The lane outside smelt sweet after the dank fetidness of the hall. The sun was strong, the air clear and crisp. Dung-collectors had taken the refuse from the day before and the streets and alleyways were still empty. Only the occasional, heavy-eyed apprentice, laying up the stalls or taking down the fronts of the shops, was to be seen as Matthias and Santerre hurried across Broad Street and into a side door of the Silver Wyvern. The taverner came out, Santerre whispered to him, the man nodded and handed over a key.

‘The third chamber on the first gallery,’ he declared. ‘I’ll send food up immediately.’

Santerre took Matthias up. The chamber was clean — lime-washed walls, fresh rushes on the floor. The tables and stools looked as if they had been scrubbed with hot water and the lattice window was open, allowing in the clear, flower-scented air from the garden below. A tapster brought up cups of watered wine and two trenchers with strips of roast beef in garlic pepper sauce, small bread loaves and pots of honey and butter.

‘Why this?’ Matthias asked.

‘Why not?’ Santerre replied, sitting Matthias at the other side of the table. ‘I arranged it last night. You and I need to have words.’

Matthias took his horn spoon from his wallet and polished it absent-mindedly on his sleeve.

‘About what?’

The Frenchman’s eyes held his. ‘You know full well, Matthias! Master Ambrose Rokesby, lecturer in Philosophy and self-styled authority in Theology. He has been making complaints about you.’

Matthias groaned. ‘Rokesby is a lecher and a lecturer,’ he mocked back. ‘I have challenged him in the schools.’

‘Yes, I know, about his theory on Lucifer and the fallen angels.’

Santerre grinned. Matthias noticed how white and even his teeth were. He liked the Frenchman’s cleanliness. Matthias could never understand why so many scholars believed dirt and foul odours were the leading characteristics of learning. Rokesby was one of these, with his fat, unshaven face, slobbery mouth and eyes, which always betrayed a heavy night’s drinking. Rokesby had clawed his greasy hair in rage when Matthias had dared to draw him into disputation over his commentary on Aquinas’ dissertation on the fall of Lucifer.

‘You shouldn’t have said it!’ Santerre reminded him.

‘All I said,’ Matthias replied, biting into a piece of meat, ‘was that Hell was not a place but a state of mind and that Lucifer probably thought he was in Heaven even when he was in Hell.’

‘Rokesby says that’s heresy,’ Santerre teased back. His face became grave. ‘More importantly, that fat little turd-ball has been making deliberate enquiries with the archivist in Duke Humphrey’s library. In the Blue Boar yesterday evening, Rokesby was maliciously speculating on your unnatural interest in the Devil and all his works.’

‘I am a scholar,’ Matthias retorted.

‘Even when it comes to reading books which are on the University Index? Men like the Bohemian, John Hus?’

‘Hus was a great scholar.’

‘The Church says Hus was a heretic. Here, in England, they say Wycliffe, and his followers the Lollards, are no different. Rokesby hints that you are a Lollard.’

Matthias closed his eyes and groaned. Santerre was correct: the Lollards had been persecuted for their emphasis of Scripture, their rejection of the power of the priests as well as a greater part of the Church’s teaching on Hell and Purgatory. If Rokesby persisted in his allegations, Matthias might have to appear before the Chancellor’s Court.

‘We should leave.’

Matthias looked up in surprise. Santerre had a piece of bread in his hand, looking at it carefully, his face tense, eyes watchful.

‘We should leave,’ the Frenchman repeated. He put the bread down. ‘Matthias, how many years have you known me?’

‘Over three, ever since I came to Oxford.’

‘That’s right. I am Henri de Santerre. My family owns chateaux and fertile vineyards in the Loire Valley. I have studied at the Sorbonne in Paris and now here in Oxford.’

Matthias nodded. The Frenchman often talked about his family estates, the sunshine, the vines, the brown-skinned girls.

‘A new life,’ Santerre said. ‘Come to France with me, Matthias. I have wealth enough for both of us.’

‘Was that why you were looking for me last night?’ Matthias asked.

‘Why, of course. Also because Rokesby has threatened you.’

Matthias pulled a face. He pushed away the trencher. He no longer felt hungry.

‘Rokesby is a lecher born and bred. He sits in the Blue Boar and watches Amasia like a cat does a mouse and, when he can, it’s a hand up her dress or clutching her breast like someone would grasp an apple.’ Matthias got to his feet, walked to the window and stared down at the garden. ‘Agatha’s dead,’ he said, not turning his head. ‘You know her, the little, blonde-haired girl who could dance like a firefly. She was murdered out in Christ Church Meadows.’

‘Yes, so I have heard.’ Behind him, Santerre refilled the goblets. ‘Rokesby was talking about it last night-’

‘He can talk away,’ Matthias interrupted testily. ‘But it brings back memories.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you know about me, Frenchman?’

Santerre pulled a face.

‘I mean, really know about me?’ Matthias insisted. ‘You’ve hired a chamber here because Rokesby is about to start a persecution. You want me to flee with you to France.’

‘Not flee,’ the Frenchman contradicted. ‘Last autumn I gained my bachelor’s. Where I study, or what I do is a matter of my own concern. I intend to leave in the summer anyway.’

Matthias’ heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t known that and, to be honest, the Frenchman was the only real friend he had. He went back to staring at the herb garden below him.

‘I was born in the village of Sutton Courteny in Gloucestershire, ’ Matthias told him. ‘My parents died when I was young. Baron Sanguis, the local lord, became my guardian. He sent me to the abbey schools of Tewkesbury and Gloucester.’

‘And then you came to Oxford?’

‘Yes, I came to Oxford. I am fluent in Latin and Norman French. I even know some Greek. I can converse with a clerk or a courtier. I am considered a good scholar. I can sing with the best of them, whether it be the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ or one of the goliard songs of Provence. I can play the rebec and the lyre. Sometimes I drink too much.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘But that’s not me.’

‘Then who are you?’

Matthias returned to the table and sat down. He drank deeply from the cup, then began to tell Santerre everything that had happened at Sutton Courteny. The Frenchman sat still as a statue, ignoring both the food and the wine. Matthias, however, kept slurping at his cup: sometimes he’d stop, his voice choked with emotion, tears rolling down his cheeks. He spoke in short, harsh sentences about the hermit, the battle of Tewkesbury, the Preacher and the arrival of Rahere the clerk. At the end, when he came to describe the events of All-Hallows Eve 1471, Matthias closed his eyes, trying to curb the panic in his stomach. He was aware that his face had become damp with sweat whilst his hands felt cold and clammy. He paused in mid-sentence.

‘And what happened then?’

Matthias opened his eyes. He steadied himself against the table. Santerre had moved away. He was standing with his back to him, staring down at the garden. The Frenchman looked round and smiled.

‘Finish the story, Matthias.’

‘I don’t really know. God be my witness, Santerre. I don’t really know. Rahere gave me something to drink, a heavy opiate. When I awoke I was in Baron Sanguis’ manor house. The old lord and his son came to see me. I could tell from their faces, as well as those of the servants, that something horrifying had happened. I wanted to go back but Baron Sanguis refused. He said the village was deserted, his tenants would not return there. They had petitioned and he had agreed fresh plans for a new village.’

Matthias filled his wine cup. He was drinking so fast, he was glad the wine was heavily watered. He pushed some meat into his mouth but found it difficult to chew or swallow.

‘I was kept a prisoner in the manor. Oh, I was given everything I wanted: toys, books, a tutor. The sheriff came from Gloucester. I remember it was a few days before Christmas. He and a thin-faced scribe asked me what I could remember and I told him about my father and other parishioners huddling into the church. However, they never told me what they knew. It was only later, well after Candlemas, the gossip began to seep through.’

He smiled thinly. ‘Apparently on All Saints’ Day, the first of November, Baron Sanguis and his men had ridden down to the church. They went through the village, it was deserted. Quite a few had fled. Those who’d remained. .’ Matthias shook his head. ‘They said it was dreadful. A corpse here, a corpse there, all killed by accidents, caused by the storm they said. My father’s house was empty. In the churchyard, every cross and tombstone had been hurled down. Some of the graves looked as if they had been disturbed.’

‘And the church?’ Santerre asked.

‘Oh, the church housed the real horrors. The windows were shuttered, the doors locked and barred.’ Matthias closed his eyes. ‘No, one window had been forced, a small aperture leading into the sacristy. One of Baron Sanguis’ men got in. They heard him screaming, so terror-struck he could hardly turn the key in the lock or lift the bars. Once inside they found out why: at least two dozen people must have taken refuge there, men and women; all had wounds to their heads or chests. The church stank of blood. In places it 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 now returned to haunt you, if I accept your theory he now possesses someone else, what happens if this person is Rokesby?’

‘Impossible!’ Matthias retorted.

‘Is it?’ Santerre asked. ‘He seems to know a great deal about you. What you read. Where you go. He takes a deep interest in your affairs.’

‘That’s because he lusts after Amasia and I made fun of him in the schools.’ Matthias rubbed his mouth and stared out of the window. He’d rejected Santerre’s proposition out of hand, but might there be some truth in it?

‘It could even be me,’ Santerre joked.

‘I don’t think so.’ Matthias walked to the door. He opened it and stared down the gallery. ‘I have known you, what, three years? I’ve seen you take the Sacrament at Mass. That’s one thing I do remember. The hermit never took the Sacrament and, on reflection, neither did Rahere.’

‘When the clerk died,’ Santerre asked, ‘what would have happened to this being?’

‘I don’t know. The philosopher Albertus Magnus said an incubus must, within a certain period of time, find lodgings elsewhere, rather a homespun way of putting it. Yet, even of that I am not too sure.’ Matthias leant against the door. ‘According to Aquinas, literally thousands upon thousands of angels fell with Lucifer. We know from the gospels that one possessed man had so many demons in him, he took the name of Legion. This does not fit what I know: one being moving from the hermit and, in time, to Rahere, then to someone else.’ Matthias breathed in. ‘What I intend to do is continue to live each day as it comes. Agatha was murdered but I am totally innocent of her death. Rokesby is different. I cannot allow him to stir up trouble against me. What hour is it, Santerre?’

‘By now, no later than ten.’

Matthias stroked his bruised face. ‘I’ve drunk a little too much and I’m sore from last night’s manhandling. I’m going to return to my chamber and sleep. Rokesby will be in the schools now but, this afternoon, he will be back in his lodgings. Where are they?’

‘I don’t know,’ Santerre replied. ‘But I’ll find out.’ He looked anxious. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I am going to confront Rokesby. I am going to challenge him and, if possible, make my peace with him.’

‘And the murder of the girl?’

‘What can I do,’ Matthias shrugged, ‘except see what happens?’

It was late afternoon when the Frenchman shook Matthias awake.

‘You’d best come,’ he smiled. ‘I have found out where Rokesby lives. He has a chamber not very far from here. It’s on the corner of Vinehall Street, near Peckwater’s Inn. I saw him stagger in there less than an hour ago, carrying more ale in his belly than a brewer’s barrel. Are you sure you wish to meet him?’

Matthias got off the bed and followed Santerre down the ladder. He sat on the stool, pulled on his boots and splashed water over his face.

‘Carpe diem!’ he quipped. ‘Seize the day! It will only fester. Rokesby is arrogant. He can be mollified.’

They left the hall and made their way along the High Street, pushing through the throngs of students who, the morning schools now finished, clustered round the open doors of taverns or strolled past the stalls, much to the anxiety of their owners. These watched the ragged-arsed students, notorious for their light fingers and skill at stealing. On the corner of Vinehall Street Lane, one such student had been caught. A furious quarrel was brewing between proctors and beadles of the University and a group of traders, who clamoured for the students to be taken immediately to the Bocardo, the city gaol. The fray stirred up the usual deep-seated animosity between town and gown. Other students began to gather, rusty swords and daggers pushed in their belts, whilst the traders were shouting at their apprentices to arm themselves with quarterstaffs and clubs. Pickpockets and foists looked for easy takings. A group of whores, their saucy faces garishly painted, their gaudy dresses causing a swirl of colour, also drew near for, when tempers rose, passion provided easy custom.

Santerre pushed his way through, turning to grasp Matthias’ belt as the two became separated.

‘Whatever you decide, Englishman,’ he joked. ‘I think it’s time I left this city. I really wish you’d come with me.’

They reached the bottom of the lane. Santerre led Matthias down a small alleyway and across a weed-strewn 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 protege 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 held the knife up before Rokesby’s startled eyes then dropped it. Rokesby, clutching his stomach, staggered forward. He went to say something but coughed blood and slumped to one knee. Santerre kicked his leg. Rokesby keeled over on to the dirty rushes, body twitching. Matthias stared horrified.

‘God save us, Santerre!’ he muttered. ‘We’ll both hang for this!’

‘No we won’t.’ Santerre smiled down at the corpse. ‘He was a pig and he died like one. It will be days before they find his corpse and we’ll be gone.’

He pulled Matthias out of the room, slamming the door, and, holding Matthias by the arm, hustled him down the stairs.

They hurried back through the late afternoon crowds to Exeter Hall. Matthias found himself numb, unable to speak. All he could remember was Rokesby’s sneering face, the quick, deft way Santerre had killed him.

Once back in their chamber Matthias climbed up to his bed in the loft and sat, head in hands. Rokesby had been correct. Sanguis had supported the usurper Richard III and any influence the Baron had at court had died at the Battle of Bosworth the previous August. The good Baron still sent Matthias monies but he was old, grieving over his son and wary of the new Tudor King calling him to account. Matthias cursed his own selfishness but he knew that, apart from Sanguis, no one else could help him.

He glanced down. Santerre had taken his flute from a coffer and, as if nothing had happened, piped some music. The Frenchman paused then played notes Matthias had never heard before. The tune abruptly changed; Matthias stiffened. The playing was sweet, fluid, the same song he had heard the hermit sing on that dreadful day when the peasants of Sutton Courteny had burnt him to death.