The Rose Demon

12

‘Why?’ Matthias sat opposite Santerre. The Frenchman kept his face turned away. ‘Who are you?’ Matthias’ mouth and throat felt dry. He fought hard to control his panic, the cold sweat which broke out on his body. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva!’

Matthias couldn’t stop the tears. The voice was the same, an accurate echo from his childhood, of sun-filled glades, of his father’s house and church. The lonely Tenebral, a dove flying against the blue sky.

Santerre turned his head. Matthias knew he was not dreaming: the same face, but the eyes were different. He’d glimpsed that look in the hermit and Rahere the clerk; brooding, gentle as if the soul behind it wished to say something but couldn’t find the words.

‘Don’t call me that!’ Matthias blurted out. ‘Just answer me, why?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘In the body of a man?’

‘“The flesh profiteth nothing, it is the spirit which quickens,”’ Santerre replied, quoting from the Scriptures. ‘Do you really think love is a matter of the flesh? There’s more to it than what hangs between the thighs.’ He touched his head. ‘It’s in the brain, it’s in the soul!’

‘Why me?’

‘In time I’ll tell you.’

Matthias calmed himself. Santerre was holding his gaze, not just to tell him something but, like the hermit, to soothe, to lull any anxieties.

‘I saw you take the Eucharist.’

‘How long ago is that, Matthias?’ Santerre smiled. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’

Matthias glanced away.

‘You are a murderer, an assassin.’

Santerre remained unperturbed.

‘Life breeds on life. The hawk kills the dove, the fox the rabbit, the lords of the soil whomever and whatever they wish. You saw that at Tewkesbury, Matthias. Men taken out and killed just because they fought for another prince. Or Baron Sanguis — you’d take his money but where does that come from, Matthias? From the blood and sweat of others.’

‘Those villagers,’ Matthias retorted, ‘my father and the rest.’

‘I could do nothing against them. They brought it on themselves. ’ Santerre’s face became hard. ‘I came to their village and, though they did not know it, my presence brought prosperity. They turned on me. I, who had done them no harm.’

‘You killed Fulcher’s daughter.’

‘True.’ Santerre’s face relaxed. ‘What is it you say, Matthias? How does that prayer go? Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. .’

‘What has that to do with it?’ Matthias objected to the prayer being quoted back at him.

Santerre raised both hands, fingers splayed. ‘The Ten Commandments, Matthias. Ten in all. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me”, that’s the first one. Yet, what do your priests do but build false idols of wealth and power? They take God’s name in vain. They preach obedience but don’t practise it themselves.’

‘And does that excuse you?’

‘No, Matthias, but it explains what I do. When I kill I have to.’ Only now did Santerre’s eyes fall away. ‘I need the sustenance, it’s the price I have to pay.’

‘You broke God’s law.’ Matthias’ curiosity was now quickened. He realised that, for the first time since Sutton Courteny, he could question the presence which had shattered his childhood.

‘Two things matter in life, Matthias. Only two things: love and the will. Everything else is mere chaff in the wind. I love you and one day, if you come with me, I will explain all the reasons why.’ He leant forward, eyes bright. ‘Come, Matthias, leave this shabby place. France, Italy, the nations to the east or west across the great unknown. Empires, sights, knowledge which will dwarf the dusty scraps of parchment you pore over here.’

‘Why didn’t you force me?’ Matthias taunted back.

‘Two things, Matthias, love and the will. I can kill you. I can make you laugh, I can make you cry, I can make you bleed. I can make you happy, I can make you sad.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I could have all the power in Heaven and on earth. However, there is one thing, Matthias, you cannot force another being to do: you cannot make them love you. Even God Himself has that limitation.’

‘You talk of God, you talk of the Scriptures,’ Matthias retorted, getting to his feet. ‘You talk of love and you talk of the will but you don’t tell me why. Not a month passes but I think of my father, of Christina, of the others at Sutton Courteny!’

‘Why do you make excuses for them?’ Santerre’s voice grew angry. ‘Parson Osbert was a priest. Yes? He took a vow to be celibate, to be chaste. He broke that vow. He broke God’s law. He lay with a woman. He committed fornication. What’s the difference, scholar, between breaking the seventh Commandment, “Thou shalt not commit adultery”, and the sixth, “Thou shalt not kill”? Why blame me but not him?’

‘He loved Christina.’

Santerre smiled. ‘And so we agree. Love is an excuse. Love is the reason. I love you, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Santerre’s face softened. ‘I did not wish Parson Osbert’s death; there were things he knew. He rushed at me, I had no choice.’

‘Choice?’ Matthias retorted. ‘You chose to kill those villagers!’

‘They persecuted me,’ Santerre replied. ‘It wasn’t revenge. Love thwarted is much deeper, more vibrant, more passionate than any anger, hatred or revenge.’

Matthias leant against the wall. He felt calmer, more resolute.

‘I asked who you are?’

‘I am the Rosifer,’ Santerre replied slowly. ‘The Rosebearer, the Rose Carrier, a being of light who chose to love that which I should not. I paid the price. I fell from Heaven for love: was exiled for love, desperate for that love-’

‘If you are so powerful,’ Matthias interrupted, ‘why not use your power on me?’

‘Oh come, come, Matthias,’ Santerre was now enjoying himself, ‘I have seen you debate in the schools. I have talked about love and will. Love needs to be loved back, that’s even God’s great weakness. Love has to be given freely. Love that is not given freely cannot be love. Oh, I can impress, perform magical tricks, show my power. Twice I have come into your life,’ he continued. ‘Once when you reached the age of reason, a seven-year-old boy, and now. You are a man, past your twenty-first year, yet I have never really left you, Matthias. I have always been close.’

‘Again why?’ Matthias asked.

‘That is for you to find out. A matter of time.’

‘That’s why you killed Rokesby, wasn’t it?’ Matthias came back and sat on his stool. ‘You knew that I would provoke him?’

Santerre shrugged. ‘Rokesby sealed his own death warrant. You are finished here, Matthias.’

‘And you call that freedom?’

Santerre shrugged, his fingers going to his lips.

‘I had no choice. It was to protect you. Rokesby was more dangerous than you think. He could have destroyed you. Matthias, you are an innocent. You are naive. You are still the little boy who scampered along the lanes to Tenebral. Don’t you realise?’ He got to his feet and 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 while.’ She clinked her own goblet against his. ‘To better days, Matthias.’

He drank. The wine was cool, fresh in his mouth and tongue. A memory stirred.

‘I saw you,’ he gasped. ‘I saw you years ago in a small alehouse.’

She laughed deep in her throat and came to sit beside him. Matthias grew embarrassed. He regretted so impulsively obeying Santerre’s request.

‘You have not aged.’ He found it difficult to speak; he drank deeply from the goblet.

‘What is age? What is time, Matthias?’ Morgana replied.

Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy.

‘I have waited so long for this,’ she continued. ‘To meet you.’

Matthias looked at the cup.

‘Aye, the wine is drugged,’ she replied coolly. ‘You are to sleep, Matthias. You have to: that’s why Santerre did what he did today. Rokesby was to have you murdered. He knew you better than you thought. Whilst the other students were at Abingdon, Santerre included, secret Matthias, quiet Matthias, would stay and study. The assassins will come but it’s not you they’ll find. It will be Santerre.’ She touched his brow. Again coolness, as if his hot skin were being dabbed with ice-cold water. ‘Monseigneur wants to show you how much he loves you.’

Matthias tried to rise but she pushed him back as if he were a child. The cup rolled out of his hands, his head went forward and he fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke he was lying fully clothed on the bed. He felt refreshed, relaxed. For a few moments he stared up at the tester until he realised where he was and what had happened. He struggled to rise, the curtains of the bed were pulled back and Morgana was beside him.

‘Sleep on,’ she urged. ‘Tomorrow morning, at first light, we are to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘For a while, Sutton Courteny.’

Matthias lay back on the bed. He glanced down at his feet, his boots were still on. He got off the bed.

‘Matthias, what are you doing?’

‘Relieving myself. I also need something to eat and drink.’

He was through the door before she could stop him. He heard her calling his name but Matthias continued down the stairs. He guessed it must be just before midnight. He hurried through the streets, brushing aside the beggars and drunks. He felt refreshed and alert after his deep sleep but resentful of the opiate; it awoke memories of the church at Sutton Courteny, sleeping whilst terrible events occurred. Matthias paused at the corner of the Turl from where he could watch the main doorway of Exeter Hall. Something had happened: a proctor stepped through the gateway and had a few words with the two men-at-arms posted outside. Matthias drew back into the shadows. As he had come from the Golden Lyre, he’d passed soldiers wearing the livery of the city. They’d been busy putting chains up across the streets leading to the gates and postern doors of Oxford. They had not bothered him. Matthias now realised that they were more intent on stopping and examining people leaving the city rather than those coming in.

Matthias slipped along an alleyway, keeping to the shadows, until he reached the Blue Boar tavern. He waited at the back near the piggery. Sure enough, after a while, Amasia came out carrying a bucket of slops. He called her name and she came over, reluctantly at first but, when Matthias identified himself, she put the bucket down and, running across, pushed him back into the shadows.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Her face was pale, eyes staring. Matthias could see she had been weeping. ‘Santerre is dead!’

Matthias closed his eyes. Was that planned? he thought. Would it have been Santerre who turned up at the Golden Lyre or someone else?

‘He was found murdered in your room,’ Amasia hurried on. ‘Two other corpses as well. I learnt of this from gossip: the news is spreading through the city.’

‘Who are the others?’ Matthias asked.

‘Hired killers, or so they think, former soldiers. God knows, there’s enough hiding out in the woods between here and Woodstock.’ She grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, they are saying you are responsible.’

‘Me, hire killers?’

‘No. They say it’s connected with the death of Rokesby. He, too, has been found stabbed in his lodgings. An old woman saw you and Santerre go up there earlier today. The Chancellor’s men have seized Rokesby’s papers. They found information about you. Dantel,’ Amasia referred to a student they both knew, ‘he says warrants have been issued for your arrest.’

Matthias stared up at the stars, cursing his own foolishness. He now regretted leaving Santerre and, if he tried to return to the Golden Lyre, he would be arrested.

‘Can you hide me?’ He gripped Amasia’s shoulders. ‘I swear I am innocent of all their deaths! I–I can’t tell you what is happening.’ He held her close and stroked her hair. ‘Amasia, I swear by all that is holy, I am not responsible for Rokesby’s death or that of Santerre!’

‘But they are saying Rokesby suspected you of heresy, of dabbling in the black arts. The taproom has been full of such gossip.’

‘Can you hide me?’

Amasia turned and pointed to an outside stair.

‘Go up there,’ she said. ‘It will take you on to the top gallery near my room. I’ll go ahead and unlock the door.’

She hurried back into the tavern. Matthias waited, then climbed the rickety staircase. He tapped on the door, no answer. He tapped again.

‘There he is!’

He whirled round: in a dim pool of light below stood the tavern keeper, joined by scullions and tapsters. They had all armed themselves with staffs, swords, daggers, one even wielded a spit iron. Beyond the door he heard the patter of feet: Matthias realised Amasia had betrayed him. He hurried down the steps but the tavern master and his throng hastened forward, blocking any escape. Matthias’ hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. One of the tapsters lifted a bow, an arrow notched to the string. Beyond him Matthias could see Amasia, her face turned away.

‘You are a lying bitch, Amasia! Couldn’t you have at least tried?’

‘She’ll share the reward!’ tavern master Goodman shouted. ‘She knows who gives her bed and board!’ The man licked his lips and raised the lantern he carried. ‘Amasia is mine now, master scholar. She’ll have other duties from tonight.’ He walked forward, a long stabbing dirk in his hand. ‘Now you can take your belt off and come quietly or we’ll kill you. Dead or alive your head is worth the same.’ He nodded to the people behind him. ‘But the boys here say you were a good customer.’

Matthias undid his belt and let it drop. The mob closed in. He was kicked and punched. His hands were thrust behind his back, tied, and he was led in triumph through the taproom where he was pelted with bits of meat, and out into the dark alleyway beyond. He was cuffed and shoved through the streets, down Broad Place to the entrance of a huge, forbidding house with steel bars over its arrow slit windows, the Bocardo, the city prison.

Its gaoler took custody of Matthias, thrusting the tavern master and his gang back out of the gates, shouting they would have to apply to the Justices for the reward. Once they were gone, the gaoler and the turnkeys had their turn: a punch to the face, blows to the stomach. Matthias winced and groaned but held his tongue. He knew that scholars were the favourite prey of such men. He was then stripped of his boots, jerkin and wallet. Cold and beaten, Matthias was led through a maze of passageways, down rotting steps and into the dungeons beneath the house. An iron-barred, steel-covered door was thrown open and he was thrust inside.

The cell was dank, cold and smelt like a midden-heap; no windows, no furniture, whilst the straw and rushes on the floor were black and slimy: they sometimes moved and shifted as rats scurried across. The only light was a small grille in the door which gave a view back down the torch-lit gallery to where the gaoler sat behind a table.

Matthias cleared a space in the corner and crouched down, wrapping his arms round his chest. He tried to make sense of the day’s happenings. Santerre taking him to that tavern, the meeting with Rokesby, that beautiful, mysterious woman at the Golden Lyre. Matthias realised that it had been planned. On the one hand he resented Santerre but, on the other, knew that this being, whoever or whatever it was, had taken upon itself to protect him. Rokesby had been full of venom. It would only have been a matter of time before Matthias had been either attacked, beaten or even killed, or hauled before the Chancellor’s court to answer God knows what charges.

He dozed for a while. The passageway was quiet. The gaoler eventually brought in a mess of pottage to eat. He said Matthias was their only guest in the condemned felon’s row and did Matthias feel fortunate?

‘Can I have a candle?’ Matthias asked.

‘Of course you 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 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!’