Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Parson Osbert made the sign of the cross and came down the steps. The Preacher now mounted the pulpit. Matthias watched expectantly. This mysterious stranger seemed taller, broader, more powerful than he’d been the night before. For a few moments the Preacher just stared round the church.

‘Satan!’ His voice thundered, making Matthias jump. ‘Satan, as the Good Book says, goes about roaring like a lion, seeking whom he may devour!’

The villagers stared up at him. The reference to the Devil or works of Hell always caught their attention.

‘The murder of this child,’ the Preacher continued, ‘is not the bloody-handed work of anyone who knew her. These deaths, as Parson Osbert has told you, have occurred elsewhere. I ask you now to search your memories. Have such deaths ever occurred before?’

With his hands clasped on the pulpit, the Preacher reminded Matthias even more of a hunting kestrel on its perch.

‘There were deaths eight years ago.’ Joscelyn the taverner spoke up. ‘Not in the village but between here and Tewkesbury.’

‘Horrible murders!’ another cried. ‘Throats gashed, corpses drained. Even then we thought it was the work of night walkers!’

The Preacher stilled the growing clamour with one wave of his hand. ‘And I ask you,’ he was now enjoying himself, ‘who was here in your village at that time?’

Again silence. Matthias tensed. He looked up at his mother. She was now white as a ghost. She sat as if carved out of stone, her eyes never leaving the Preacher. Matthias closed his eyes to pray.

‘The hermit!’

Matthias opened his eyes with a start.

‘The hermit!’ Joscelyn the taverner shouted. ‘He was here, where he is now, in the ruined church at Tenebral!’

‘But he’s a holy man.’ Simon the reeve got to his feet.

‘Holy?’ the Preacher retorted, glaring down at the reeve. ‘No one is holy but God!’

‘I mean. .’ Simon the reeve swallowed hard. He was used to holding his own at such meetings and refused to give up so easily. After all, he knew his letters and could write, was skilled in the hornbook and the ledger. He did not like this stranger entering their village and telling them what to do. Yet the Preacher’s eyes seemed to burn into him. ‘I mean,’ he stammered, ‘he did no one any harm, except beg for food.’

‘Hush! Listen now!’ The Preacher’s voice dropped. He leant against the pulpit, then lifted one hand, fingers splayed. ‘Eight years ago,’ he jabbed the air, ‘these murders occurred, the hermit was here. Eight years later,’ he continued, holding another finger up, ‘and the murders begin again. The hermit can wander hither and thither. No one knows where he goes or what he intends.’ He pointed up to the crucifix behind him. ‘And if he’s a man of religion why does he not come here to church? At Christmas? At Easter? On Lady Day? At Pentecost?’

The Preacher’s voice was now booming through the church. Matthias felt like crying out. He could not believe this. His friend the hermit? Who could make doves appear in his hand? Who was so gentle and kind? Matthias would have screamed out, but his mother, sitting so still, put her hand across his mouth and looked down at him: in that look Matthias knew something was dreadfully wrong.

‘Then let’s arrest him now!’ Simon the reeve shouted.

‘We have no power,’ John the bailiff pointed out, getting to his feet. ‘Baron Sanguis is Lord of the Manor. He has the right of the tumbrel, axe and rope!’

‘Well, it’s too far to go to Gloucester!’ another shouted. ‘Whilst the sheriff could keep us hanging about until Michaelmas!’

The Preacher held up both hands. ‘But you do have the right,’ he intoned. ‘ Vox populi est vox Dei : the voice of the people is the voice of God. This is not a matter for the Crown. It is a matter for Holy Mother Church. As the Bible says, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” We can arrest him.’

By now the villagers were nodding and whispering amongst each other. Fulcher the blacksmith got to his feet. The great burly man bowed to the Preacher and turned to face his neighbours.

‘The Preacher speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘Think now, good people, who would murder poor Edith in such a barbarous way? No woman would, and every man was in the fields preparing for the harvest.’

Fulcher’s words drew a chorus of agreement. Matthias felt himself sweating, heart beating faster than he had thought possible. His mother’s grip on his wrist grew even firmer.

‘However,’ Fulcher continued, ‘my daughter lies here in the parish coffin: her soul is with God but the earth waits for her body. Let us complete what we have begun. I say the funeral Mass should be said, our plans laid and tomorrow, just after dawn, we go out to Tenebral.’

The villagers clapped, getting to their feet. The Preacher smiled and nodded, proud at how quickly he had gained mastery over these strangers.

‘But what happens if he’s warned?’ a voice shouted from the back.

‘But who will warn him?’ the Preacher retorted. His gaze slid quickly to Matthias. ‘I say this: let your young men guard the path through the woods to Tenebral. That is enough.’

His words won general agreement. Parson Osbert returned to the sacristy to don his vestments and the people stayed to hear the Requiem Mass for poor Edith. After this was completed Fulcher and five other men carried her coffin out to the cemetery. The lid was unscrewed, the sheeted corpse taken out and lowered quickly into the earth. Parson Osbert blessed, sprinkled with holy water and incensed Edith’s last resting place. The soil was then thrown in. A wooden cross was driven deep into the earth. Afterwards most of the parishioners streamed out of the graveyard back into the village to break their fast and gossip at the Hungry Man.

Parson Osbert and the Preacher joined them. Christina hurried back to her house, her hand still gripping that of Matthias. Once inside she locked and bolted the door. She took Matthias into the small parlour where again she sealed the room, shutting and barring the windows and door. Matthias was now frightened. The chamber was dark. His mother seemed so agitated, muttering wordlessly to herself. Now and again she would stop to scratch the side of her face. Then, as if she were too hot, she snatched the wimple from her head and undid the clasps of her dark burgundy dress. A small jug of water, used to freshen the flowers in their wooden boxes, stood on the window sill. She seized the jug and started dabbing at her neck. Matthias ran up.

‘Mother!’

Christina stared at him.

‘Mother!’ Matthias insisted. ‘What is wrong? What is going to happen?’

Christina clutched her stomach and breathed in deeply.

‘Matthias, your father and I talked about this last night. You are not to go out to Tenebral again. You are not to meet the hermit.’

‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘The Preacher is wrong. He lies!’

‘Just do it!’ Christina screamed at him, the skin of her face drawn tight. ‘Oh, Matthias, just do it! Leave him alone!’

She hurried to the door, fumbled with the lock and, throwing this open, ran down the passageway. Matthias, shaking, went to follow her. He could hear her sobbing in the small solar so he quietly left the house. He slipped across the cemetery to his secret place, the small stone death house at the far side of the church. Matthias crept in. He crouched, thumb in mouth, trying to make sense of what was happening. He knew the hermit was strange. He said things which Matthias did not understand. But a murderer? A man violent like those soldiers? Matthias closed his eyes.

‘Remember this, my soul,’ he murmured, ‘and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Then he finished the prayer. ‘And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’