Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘It’s the runes,’ Parson Osbert explained, as he began to edge forward. ‘I am not as simple as people think, Matthias. I am a scholar. I can read French and Latin. But that rose and the runes, you must know what they mean?’ He held his left hand up, fingers splayed. ‘Do you know what they mean, Matthias? Do you know what they say? Come and tell your father.’

Matthias couldn’t move. His mouth was dry. He edged backwards. The docile palfrey caught his fear and began to tug at the reins.

‘We’ll look at the pictures.’ Parson’s Osbert’s head came forward. Matthias could see how tight his throat was, the Adam’s apple bobbing there. ‘We’ll look at the pictures and then I’ll go to Tewkesbury.’

He hurried forward, head rigid, eyes intent on Matthias. The boy found it impossible to move.

‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert.’

At the side of the church, behind his father, stood Rahere the clerk. The priest paused. Rahere walked slowly towards him. He was dressed for hunting in a dark-green jerkin and hose of the same colour. As he moved, his hand went to the dagger in his belt.

‘Good morrow, Parson Osbert. Good morrow, Matthias.’

He moved between them, his back to Matthias. Parson Osbert’s fingers went to his lips, eyes flitting left and right, as if he suddenly realised where he was and what he was doing.

‘I heard the news in the village,’ Rahere said. ‘My condolences on the death of Christina. She was a good woman.’ He smiled over his shoulder at Matthias. ‘She must have been, to have a son like you. So, Parson Osbert, if your wife lies dead at home, why are you both here in this ruin?’

Matthias couldn’t exactly see what was happening but his father seemed frightened, moving his head backwards and forwards, blinking as he tried to break free of the clerk’s gaze.

‘We are on our way to Tewkesbury,’ he gabbled. ‘I called off to see, well, to see Matthias’ secret place.’

‘Why Tewkesbury?’ the clerk asked softly. ‘Your wife’s corpse is not yet cold.’

‘I have business there.’ The parson was now agitated, licking his lips, moving from foot to foot. ‘Yes, I must go there.’

He moved sideways but the clerk moved with him.

‘And Matthias?’ Rahere asked. ‘He doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury, does he?’

‘No, no, he doesn’t have to go to Tewkesbury,’ the parson echoed.

‘So you had better leave now.’

The parson nodded his head and, brushing by the clerk, snatched the reins and clambered on to his palfrey. He kicked his heels in, hurrying off along the trackway which would take him down the road to Tewkesbury. Rahere watched him go before turning to Matthias. The boy noticed how the clerk’s face was pale, a coating of sweat on his brow.

‘I’m frightened,’ Matthias said. ‘I’m cold and I’m very frightened.’

Rahere took his cloak off, wrapped it round the boy, picked him up and carried him round the old cemetery walls to where his horse had been hobbled in a cluster of trees.

‘You are coming back with me to Sutton Courteny,’ the clerk said. ‘I have the best room at the Hungry Man.’

The journey back was silent. When they arrived at the tavern, the scullions and tapsters were still heavy-eyed, the fires had not yet been lit. Joscelyn the tavern master came hurrying up, curious about the bundle Rahere carried in his arms. The clerk whispered an explanation. Matthias didn’t hear and he really didn’t care. He was shivering so much, his stomach was curdling and he felt a burning sensation in the back of his throat. Rahere had taken the large and spacious chamber on the first floor overlooking the high street. He put Matthias on the bed, went across to his saddlebags and took out a phial. He poured its contents into some wine and forced the cup between the boy’s lips. Matthias tried to protest. He was sure his stomach wouldn’t hold it but the clerk held him tight.

‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he said. ‘Just look in my eyes.’

Matthias did, saw two dark pools. . felt a sensation similar to when he stared into the dark mere in the woods around Tenebral. His own eyes grew heavy. He was falling into darkness. .

Matthias must have slept for hours. When he awoke he felt refreshed and very hungry.

‘It’s three hours past midday,’ Rahere declared, sitting on a stool next to the bed. ‘You’ve been snoring like a little pig. How do you feel now?’

‘Warm,’ Matthias replied.

‘Good. Then it’s time you ate.’

He left. A few minutes later he returned, carrying a tray which had a pewter bowl of venison stew, cheese, soft-baked white loaves, a pot of butter and a dish of sugared pears. Matthias ate until he felt his stomach was going to burst. All the time the clerk watched him intently.

‘I’d best go home.’ Matthias pushed the tray away.

‘I don’t think so,’ Rahere answered. ‘Not yet anyway. You can help me. I have letters to write: I will show you the secrets of the Chancery.’

Matthias spent a fascinating afternoon helping the clerk draw up letters reporting to the Chancellor what had happened at Sutton Courteny. The clerk showed him how to take a fresh, virginal roll of parchment, brush it lightly with a pumice stone until it was silky to the touch, then how to cut it with a special knife, using a slat of wood to ensure the line ran straight. Then there was the ink: the proportion of water to powder, the mixing and heating over a candle. The quills, delicate to the touch, needed to be sharpened. Matthias broke at least three before he learnt how to prepare them. The clerk was very patient. Never once did he show any irritation, but praised Matthias.

‘You have a quick mind, lad. You’ll make a good clerk. Now, I’ll show you how to write.’

The clerk sat at the small desk, dipped the quill into the ink and began to write. His pen fairly skimmed across the page.

‘Can you read it?’

‘I only know Church Latin.’ Matthias shook his head.

‘It’s not Latin,’ Rahere grinned. ‘It’s Norman French, the language of the court. That’s the tongue the great ones speak.’

And, getting to his feet, the clerk spoke in French whilst imitating the affectations of the courtiers, both men and women. He was such a good mimic that Matthias laughed until his sides ached. Rahere sat back on his stool.

‘It’s marvellous to watch them, Matthias,’ he declared. ‘They carry their heads as if what was in them were sacred. Yet they are all noddle-pates.’ His face became grim. ‘Most of them have one strength and one strength only: they know how to kill — but the same could be said of any savage animal.’

‘Surely the clerks are different?’ Matthias asked.

‘They are no better nor worse,’ Rahere replied. ‘Time-servers; they carefully watch who is about to rise and who is about to fall. Well, the parchment has to be sealed.’

He took a small copper spoon and a finger of wax out of his chancery bag, showing Matthias how the wax had to be melted, poured on the parchment to receive the imprint of the seal he carried.

‘Now,’ Rahere left the parchment on the desk, ‘we let it dry then I’ll roll it up, tie it with a piece of ribbon and we’ll hire some honest journeyman to take it down to Westminster. As for you, my boy,’ he went to the window, ‘it’s nearly evening. Your father will be home.’

Matthias did not want to return to his house, but the clerk insisted on accompanying him. Widow Blanche opened the door, her face all concerned. In the kitchen Parson Osbert sat in a chair, head lolling. The cup he had been holding had rolled on the floor, the flagon of wine beside him was empty.

‘He only came back a short while ago,’ the widow woman whispered. ‘I’ve never seen him like that before: bad-tempered and cursing. He asked where his brat was.’ She glanced pityingly at Matthias. ‘He had a stick in his hand.’