Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘I’m all right,’ Matthias muttered. ‘Don’t be afeared.’

He got to his feet, poured some water over his fingers and cleaned his mouth. He came back to the bed.

‘You look pale, Matthias!’

‘No, no.’ He shook his head and, taking her by the arm, forced her to sit next to him. ‘Tell me again,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened to Agatha.’

Amasia did so.

‘You are always lost in your books, Matthias,’ she concluded. ‘Haven’t you heard about the other deaths? People like Agatha and myself, slatterns, maids. No one misses us. No one makes a fuss. No one except you,’ she added. ‘Why, did Agatha dance for you?’

Matthias got to his feet and began to dress.

‘And where did you say the body had been taken? Ah, yes, the Crutched Friars.’

Amasia, with the sheet up about her, watched as the student put on his hose, linen shirt, his tabard, which bore the arms of his college, Exeter in Turl Street. He pulled the hood over his head, tied the leather belt around him, his fingers going to the hilt of the dagger in its embroidered scabbard.

‘Don’t forget your boots!’ she teased.

Matthias was not listening. He picked these up, pulled them on, then walked out of the room without a by-your-leave or a backward glance.

‘Time for your studies?’ Goodman the taverner, filling a tankard from a tun near the door, hailed the student as Matthias crossed the taproom. Goodman would have loved to have drawn this young man into conversation. One day, when the time was ripe, Goodman hoped to have his own tryst with Amasia. He wished to savour the pleasures yet to come.

‘How long was Agatha missing?’ Matthias asked harshly.

‘Three days.’ The taverner got to his feet. ‘We’ll all miss her dancing. I mean in. .’ The filthy remark he was going to make died on his lips. The student’s pale face and hard, watchful eyes frightened him. ‘I’m busy.’ The taverner turned away. ‘And I’m glad the slut Amasia can return to her other duties!’

Matthias went out into the alleyway, along Northgate and Oxford High Street. He walked purposefully, hood pulled over his head. He did not acknowledge the cries and shouts of those who knew him. Matthias was blind to anything but the direction he was taking. A sow, flanks quivering, careered across his path. Chickens pecking at the dust scattered before him. A dog, which came yapping out of a runnel, hoping to draw the student’s attention to his master, a one-footed beggar, slunk away. Nor did the stall-holders, journeymen or tinkers catch his glance. Matthias shouldered his way through, not caring whom he elbowed out of his way: the well-dressed burgesses, lean-faced scholars in their shabby tabards, even the Masters and lecturers, the lords of the schools, whom every scholar had to treat with reverence, at least to their faces.

Matthias kept staring ahead. He felt like screaming, running, hiding in some dark hole, trying to make sense of what Amasia had told him. Images floated through his mind; Edith, daughter of Fulcher the blacksmith, in her coffin before the high altar of his father’s church; those ghosts shifting along the path of Sutton Courteny; the hermit singing as he died; Christina screaming at him; Rahere, ever present, ever watchful; his father’s last sad words; that dreadful sleep in the parish church. Matthias paused, closing his eyes. He breathed in deeply. Maybe he should go back to his hall? Seek out Santerre? Matthias rubbed the side of his head. He felt as if his mind were about to explode. That trap door he had closed so firmly on the nightmares of the past was forcing itself open.

‘You are blocking the way!’

Matthias opened his eyes. A market beadle, an official of the Pie Powder court which governed the prices of the city market, was staring at him: his white wand of office held erect like a spear.

‘You are blocking the way!’

Matthias’ hand went to the dagger in his belt.

‘Get out of my path,’ he snarled, ‘and I’ll continue!’

The beadle hurriedly stepped sideways. Matthias continued up the High Street, past St Mary’s church and the stone and timber dwellings of All Souls. The street became broader. Matthias walked on to Magdalen Bridge and stared down at the stream which swirled amongst the rushes. The weather being fine, scholars sat on the grass sleeping, talking, drinking and eating. On any other day Matthias would have joined them. He could only hope Amasia was wrong.

He walked on and stopped before the narrow greystone church of the Crutched Friars. He went through the open door, down the nave and out through the side door of one of the transepts. A friar, poring over a manuscript in the cloisters, pointed across the garth.

‘The death house is over there,’ he declared. ‘But you must get permission from the infirmarian.’

Matthias continued, impervious to the curious looks of the good brothers who bustled about. He left the cloisters and walked through a small garden towards a large half-timbered building at the far end. Oxford was a shifting city, visited by strangers from Italy, France, Germany and even further east. Unnamed corpses were often found and the friars saw it as their pious duty to afford church burial to these strangers. Agatha would be one of these, a mere slattern with no family. Her corpse would lie in the death house for three or four days awaiting recognition. The coroner would sit and deliver his verdict. Agatha’s corpse would then be buried in the old Jewish cemetery which stood in Paris Mead, a broad, derelict expanse of land which stretched down to the River Cherwell.

Matthias walked down the path and tapped on the door. A small grille slid open.

‘Your business? Your business?’ the voice asked.

‘There’s a corpse,’ Matthias replied. ‘A girl called Agatha.’

‘She’s to be buried tonight,’ the voice replied.

‘I knew her,’ Matthias said haltingly. ‘I wish to pay my respects.’

The grille was closed. Bolts were drawn and the doors swung open. Matthias stepped over the threshold into a long, cavernous chamber: its white-washed walls and broad beams reminded him of a barn. Despite the herbs scattered along the freshly scrubbed paving stones, Matthias caught the stench of putrefaction and corruption from the corpses which lay in rows either side of this barnlike chamber. He stared down at the lay brother.

‘Agatha?’ Matthias repeated.

‘Poor girl.’ The friar scratched his unkempt beard. ‘So young, so beautiful. Cut down like the flower of the field.’

Matthias dug into his purse and took out a penny. The friar snatched this and, snapping his fingers, led Matthias halfway down, stopping before a makeshift stretcher. He pulled back the dark woollen rug. Matthias fought hard against the dizziness and nausea. In life, Agatha had been a happy, winsome girl. Matthias had seen her dance, bracelets on her arm, blonde hair flying. She could whirl around lighted candles, her bare feet never touching the flames whilst customers clapped their hands and shouted encouragement. Now she lay, a pathetic bundle of flesh. She still wore her dark-blue smock but her face had lost all its beauty. A greenish pallor tinged her sagging cheeks, head slightly twisted, eyes half-closed, her lips tinged with blood. It was the mark in her throat which repelled Matthias — two large gaps on either side of the windpipe.

‘That’s how she was found,’ the friar explained, kneeling at the other side of the makeshift bed. ‘Those who found her,’ he continued, ‘said she had been pierced like a plum and drained of her blood.’

Matthias flinched and fought to keep his own nightmares under control.

‘Something else,’ the friar got to his feet, ‘there were rose petals all about her, as if she had been playing “He loves me, He loves me not” with the flowers. It would appear,’ he continued cautiously, ‘he loved her not, or perhaps too much.’