The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  The first Genesis was from Chapter 6, Verse 2: ‘The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.’ And a text from Chapter 14 of the prophet Isaiah. ‘Art thou also become weak as we? Art thou become like unto us? Thy pomp is brought down to the grave. . How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground.’

  The next text was from the Book of Tobit, Chapter 3, Verse 8, about a young woman Sarah: ‘She had been married to seven husbands whom Asmadeus, the evil spirit, had killed before they had lain with her.’ Finally, there was a quotation from the Gospels, which had very little to do with the ones which went before. The words of Christ to his disciples: ‘If anyone loves me, I shall love him and my Father will love him. And my Father and I will come and make our home with him.’

  Matthias sighed, rolled the parchment up and slipped it back into his pouch. He had never really understood what his father had meant by these messages. Over the years Matthias’ interest in demonology, the activities of witches and warlocks, had deepened. In his heart he recognised that the events which had occurred at Sutton Courteny during those few months of 1471 could not be explained in human terms. During his years of scholarship, where he could, Matthias had consulted the secret books of writers on demonology. At Oxford he attended the schools, listened to lectures and studied the works of Peter the Lombard, Abelard, Bonaventure, the great commentators on philosophy, theology and scripture. In Duke Humphrey’s library, however, Matthias read the works of authors which, if the University authorities found out, would certainly bring him under suspicion of being a heretic or a warlock. The writings of the alchemist John de Meung, the ‘Opera’ of Arnaud de Villeneuve the occultist. The treatises of Simon bar Yokhai, master of the secret cabal. These scholars, as well as the orthodox ones such as Aquinas, Augustine, Origen and Tertullian, provided a bleak perception of man’s reality: a constant battle between good and evil; of Satan and other demon lords waging eternal war against man and all God’s creation.

  Matthias had remained both cynical and confused by what he read: most of it was the work of fertile imaginations. Even at Oxford, students were only too keen to become involved in secret rites, a pretext for dancing naked in some wood under the stars and fornicating freely with whores. Moreover, these writings did little to explain the events at Sutton Courteny. Why did they happen? What was so important about a sleepy little hamlet in Gloucestershire that could provoke such terrible events and lead to so many hideous deaths? Stories and legends abounded yet Matthias had found no one who could really explain such events. Everyone in that church had died, apart from himself. He had been heavily drugged and slept during the entire massacre.

  No one had explained why he’d survived. Many believed Parson Osbert had given him a potion and so saved his life. Matthias had always wondered about the friendship shown to him by Rahere and the hermit. Why was he singled out for such tenderness? Were they really responsible for the blood-drained cadavers and, if so, why did they kill in such a barbaric fashion? How was it the hermit and the clerk, complete strangers to each other and so contrasting in their appearance and background, were reflections of the same personality? What had turned the minds of his parents in such a turbulent way? What was their relationship with the hermit? Such questions vexed Matthias’ mind, nagged his soul, yet the passing of time and all his studies had yielded no real answers.

  Once Matthias had entered the household of Baron Sanguis nothing else mysterious had happened, except when he had lodged with the monks at Tewkesbury, just after his fourteenth birthday. The brothers had gossiped how, in the gallery outside the boys’ dormitory where Matthias slept, they could smell, even though it was mid-winter, the rich, heavy aroma of roses. Matthias had kept silent, as he always did, during those few weeks in the winter of 1478. He had fallen ill but then the phenomenon had passed and his life had continued. Indeed, only his youth and the humdrum tenor of the years after the sinister events of that All-Hallows Eve had kept him sane. Matthias dare not mention his fears to others and, in time, he half-believed that night was just a horrifying phantasm, something dreamt in a nightmare. He had held on to this; his way of keeping the door to that dark past of his soul firmly locked, until today.

  Matthias closed his eyes: why, he wondered, why now?

  He opened his eyes and drained his wine cup. He stared through the open doorway. He felt slightly drunk but more comfortable. He would seek out Santerre, his friend and companion. Perhaps there was some rational explanation of what had occurred? Matthias went out to the alleyway. It was darker than he thought, the place now empty, the drunken students long disappeared, only the corpse still hung from its makeshift scaffold, twirling in the brisk evening breeze. Matthias closed his eyes and said a prayer, the same one his father had taught him.

  ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. .’

  Matthias opened his eyes and walked purposefully down the alleyway. Somewhere, deep in the city, a bell tolled for Compline. A dog barked and Matthias jumped as a screeching cat scampered across his path. He passed the scaffold, averting his eyes.

  He was scarcely by it when he heard a voice whisper: ‘Creatura bona atque parva: Matthias, my little one.’

  The voice of the hermit! Matthias broke out into a cold sweat. He turned slowly, one hand going to the crucifix round his neck, the other to the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva. .!’

  Matthias stood rooted to the spot. He stared at the corpse. Had the dead man spoken? Matthias rubbed his eyes and stepped back. He breathed in and, as he did, instead of the fetid alleyway smell, he caught the fragrance of roses as if he were standing in some woodland glade.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  The smell of roses disappeared. Matthias became aware of the dirt and muck of the alleyway, the corpse dangling at the end of its rope. Turning on his heel, Matthias fled down the alley. He ran blindly, head down, straight into a group of scholars who came round the corner laughing and shouting.

  Matthias apologised and stepped back. The scholars would have let him by but one came forward. Matthias recognised the golden-haired, baby-faced young man who had cursed him earlier in the day.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Golden Locks pushed Matthias up against the wall. ‘What do we have here? A man who hurries and scurries about? Shouts abuse, shoves and pushes and won’t even join in a little sweet singing?’

  ‘Leave him be!’

  ‘No, no.’ The scholar drew his knife; its tip pricked Matthias’ chin. ‘I think this young man needs to be taught some manners.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Matthias mumbled. ‘I meant no offence.’

  ‘He meant no offence!’ Golden Locks mimicked.

  The other students now crowded round. Their faces were sodden with drink, the ale heavy on their breath.

  ‘I know what we’ll do,’ Golden Locks declared, his blue eyes rounding in mock innocence. ‘This impudent boy wouldn’t sing to the corpse on the gallows. Now, that’s bad manners, isn’t it?’

  ‘True,’ another replied.

  ‘He should respect the dead. So, what we’ll do is this,’ Golden Locks continued. ‘We’ll take you back there and introduce you. A few hours tied to our dead friend will teach you manners and proper decorum. Would you like that?’ he lisped.

  Matthias knocked away Golden Locks’ knife and drove his fist straight into the man’s face, battering his nose so violently, the blood squirted out. Golden Locks staggered away, hands to his face, crying and screaming. Matthias tried to draw his dagger but the others were upon him, kicking and beating him. They laughed cruelly at their companion’s discomfiture and, leaving him to hold his face, dragged Matthias back up the alleyway. One of them found a piece of old rope and another took off Matthias’ belt.

  ‘Let’s tie them together like lovers!’ one of them shouted. ‘Remember Villon’s poem? About bei
ng bound to the corpse of a friend, lips to lips, nose to nose?’

  The others agreed but Matthias, desperate with fear, struggled, lashing out with his feet. Golden Locks joined them, smashing his fists in the side of Matthias’ head. Slowly they dragged him towards the scaffold. The students leapt about like imps, determined on carrying out their punishment. Above them a window opened: a woman’s voice shouted that she’d call the watch. The students picked up clods of dirt from the midden-heap and flung them at her, and the window promptly closed.

  Matthias could now smell the rottenness of the corpse. He could not bear the thought but he knew it was impossible to beg. Even in the dusk, he could make out the dead man’s features. He closed his eyes, tightening his lips, not conscious of the pain which racked him.

  ‘That will be enough of that!’

  Matthias sighed and let his body sag. The students turned, staring at the dark figure, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger drawn.

  ‘Go to hell!’ Golden Locks shouted.

  The figure darted forward: the tip of Santerre’s sword bit into the fleshy part of Golden Locks’ shoulder. The Frenchman danced back, sword and dagger swishing the air. The students recognised a street-fighter, a born swordsman. They let go of Matthias.

  ‘Go on!’ Santerre lunged forward, his sword snaking out. ‘Leave my friend and go!’

  The students dropped Matthias and took to their heels.

  Matthias felt his friend’s arm lifting him up, then he sank into a faint.

  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, M
atthias 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-’