The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  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.

  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 shrug
ged, 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!’<
br />
  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.