The Rose Demon

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 being 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.