Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

The Preacher, fingers to his lips, walked up and down, silent for a while: this was not going the way he wanted it. The hermit, instead of protesting his innocence, kept bringing his questions back to matters of legal principle, evidence, witnesses. The Preacher realised that, indeed, the hermit knew more of the law then he did. What, therefore, had Prior Sir Raymond Grandison advised? He paused in his pacing.

‘You ask about rights and evidence,’ he snapped. ‘Are you a true son of Holy Mother Church?’

‘It is up to you,’ the hermit replied, ‘to produce evidence that I am not.’

‘Recite the Creed!’ the Preacher snapped.

The hermit turned to face the villagers.

‘ Credo in Unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae .’

The Preacher made a cutting movement with his hand. That was a mistake, he realised. The hermit had launched into the Nicene Creed, which was always intoned in Latin every Sunday by their priest: the Church’s eternal hymn of belief to the Trinity, to the Incarnate God and to the Church.

‘You don’t pray,’ the Preacher taunted.

‘How do you know that?’ the hermit replied.

‘You consort with lewd women.’

‘I didn’t know there were any in Sutton Courteny,’ came the quick reply, causing a ripple of mirth amongst the villagers. ‘This is Sutton Courteny,’ the hermit continued smoothly, ‘not St Paul’s churchyard.’

The Preacher stopped his pacing. He tried to hide his confusion. He glanced quickly at the hermit. His opponent’s eyes mocked him: I know you, his gaze said, your secret sins, your weakness for soft flesh, for the pleasures of the bed.

The Preacher swallowed hard and glanced quickly at the jurors. He did not like what he saw: not one of them would meet his eye. Two or three of them were shuffling their feet. The Preacher went to the mouth of the sanctuary screen and stared at the crucifix, then at the red lamp glowing beneath the pyx which contained the Blessed Sacrament. The Preacher recalled the words of Sir Raymond. He cursed his own impetuosity as he watched the flickering red lamp.

‘Do you go to church, hermit?’ he asked, not turning round.

‘I live in one,’ the prisoner replied, causing a fresh outbreak of laughter.

‘Do you attend Mass?’ the Preacher continued. ‘Do you take the Sacrament?’

Without even looking round, the Preacher knew he had hit his mark. For the first time the hermit was silent.

‘Well? Well?’ The Preacher walked back, arms folded. ‘A hermit who lives in a church, who constantly asks for evidence for this and evidence for that. Do you take the body and blood of Christ?’

The hermit was staring at the floor.

‘Well, do you?’

‘I am unworthy.’

‘In the eyes of God we all are,’ the Preacher replied tersely. ‘But the Church encourages the faithful to eat the sacred species. Why don’t you?’

‘I have answered that question. I will say no more.’

The Preacher stared at the villagers, walking slowly towards them, arms raised.

‘Belief in the Eucharist,’ he declared, ‘is the heart of our faith. Moreover, the prisoner talks about law. It is an ancient custom that a man can prove his innocence by partaking of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. In the time of King Edward the Confessor, the traitorous Earl Godwin, being offered the host, choked and died. I now appeal,’ his voice rose, ‘to Heaven!’

And, swinging on his heel, the Preacher strode into the sanctuary. He ignored the protests of Parson Osbert and the murmur from the villagers. He took down the pyx, placed it on the altar and genuflected. He opened it, took out the host and walked purposefully towards the prisoner.

‘ Ecce Corpus Christi! ’ he intoned.

The prisoner turned his head away.

‘Behold the Body of Christ!’ the Preacher repeated. He turned to John the bailiff. ‘Take some men, seize him, open his mouth!’

‘You cannot do this,’ the hermit protested. ‘It is against God’s law to force the host upon any man!’

‘He speaks the truth.’ Parson Osbert got to his feet, his hands hanging by his side. He had been rubbing his eyes until they were red-rimmed. ‘Enough is enough,’ he whispered to the Preacher. ‘If he will not partake, he shall not partake, that is the law of the Church. If you press him further it will be a blasphemous sacrilege.’

The Preacher glared down the church. The victory was his. He returned the host to the pyx and walked back into the nave. He stopped before the jurors.

‘How do you find him?’

‘Guilty.’

‘And you?’

‘Guilty.’

The other ten replied the same.

‘And how do you find him?’ he appealed to the congregation.

‘Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!’

The chant rose, echoing round the church. The Preacher clapped his hands.

‘And what sentence?’

‘Death by fire!’

The response came loud and clear, men stamping their feet as they repeated the words, relishing the sombre threat of their verdict.

Matthias felt cold, stricken to the heart. He could not believe what was happening. The Preacher, his lips curled in a sneer, turned towards the hermit.

‘Do you have anything to say?’

‘Yes.’ The hermit’s face was pale but he held himself upright, head erect. He walked towards the villagers. ‘You have condemned me without evidence. Let me remind you — yes, I came here eight years ago. And, since my first arrival to this moment, has not Sutton Courteny been spared? No soldiers, pillaging or burning? Your crops have been rich and plentiful? Your cattle grown fat?’

The villagers stared back.

‘Fulcher the blacksmith, are not your profits so great that you are planning to build a better house? And look to provide a good marriage dowry for your remaining daughters? Simon the reeve, do you not have plans to purchase more meadow land? Even Baron Sanguis is thinking of allowing you to be a partner in the profits from his sheep. John the bailiff, Fulke the tanner, Watkin the tiler, have not your businesses prospered? Joscelyn, your beer and ale is now sold as far afield as Stroud and Gloucester, is it not?’

The villagers heard him out. One or two of them were nodding, others stared narrow-eyed. They could not understand how the hermit knew so much about their affairs yet he spoke the truth. In the last eight years Sutton Courteny had prospered and become the envy of its neighbours. No war, no famine, no pestilence.

‘And you?’ The hermit spun on his heel and pointed to the scrivener. Matthias caught a look of venom in his friend’s eyes. ‘Are not your storerooms full of good hides? Do you not have a lucrative trade with the scriptorium at Tewkesbury Abbey?’

The hermit walked closer. The scrivener, quill raised, was fearful at how this man’s eyes seemed to search his very soul.

‘Plenty of money,’ the hermit declared in a loud whisper. ‘The joys of the tavern, the bodies of lithe young women thrashing beneath you.’ He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘But even that does not satisfy you!’

‘You have proved your own witchcraft,’ the Preacher intervened, fearful of the hold this man might have over the villagers.

‘No, sir. You have proved it!’

The Preacher refused to answer but shouted at the villagers, ‘Is there anyone here who will speak for him?’

A deathly silence.

‘I ask you now, before God, is there any man, woman or child who will speak for the prisoner?’

‘I will!’

The words were out of Matthias’ mouth before he could stop them. He was on his feet, walking forward. His father, wringing his hands, just shook his head. Matthias didn’t care. He didn’t like the Preacher. He felt sorry for the hermit — like when he and the other children gathered here in the church to study their hornbooks, would go out into the cemetery and play a game: ‘Who will play with him?’ ‘Or who will play with her?’ Matthias always felt sorry for the boy or girl left alone. It was no different now. He walked over and looked up at the hermit. His friend gazed back, the tears rolling down his cheeks.