Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Matthias slipped along an alleyway, keeping to the shadows, until he reached the Blue Boar tavern. He waited at the back near the piggery. Sure enough, after a while, Amasia came out carrying a bucket of slops. He called her name and she came over, reluctantly at first but, when Matthias identified himself, she put the bucket down and, running across, pushed him back into the shadows.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’ Her face was pale, eyes staring. Matthias could see she had been weeping. ‘Santerre is dead!’

Matthias closed his eyes. Was that planned? he thought. Would it have been Santerre who turned up at the Golden Lyre or someone else?

‘He was found murdered in your room,’ Amasia hurried on. ‘Two other corpses as well. I learnt of this from gossip: the news is spreading through the city.’

‘Who are the others?’ Matthias asked.

‘Hired killers, or so they think, former soldiers. God knows, there’s enough hiding out in the woods between here and Woodstock.’ She grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, they are saying you are responsible.’

‘Me, hire killers?’

‘No. They say it’s connected with the death of Rokesby. He, too, has been found stabbed in his lodgings. An old woman saw you and Santerre go up there earlier today. The Chancellor’s men have seized Rokesby’s papers. They found information about you. Dantel,’ Amasia referred to a student they both knew, ‘he says warrants have been issued for your arrest.’

Matthias stared up at the stars, cursing his own foolishness. He now regretted leaving Santerre and, if he tried to return to the Golden Lyre, he would be arrested.

‘Can you hide me?’ He gripped Amasia’s shoulders. ‘I swear I am innocent of all their deaths! I–I can’t tell you what is happening.’ He held her close and stroked her hair. ‘Amasia, I swear by all that is holy, I am not responsible for Rokesby’s death or that of Santerre!’

‘But they are saying Rokesby suspected you of heresy, of dabbling in the black arts. The taproom has been full of such gossip.’

‘Can you hide me?’

Amasia turned and pointed to an outside stair.

‘Go up there,’ she said. ‘It will take you on to the top gallery near my room. I’ll go ahead and unlock the door.’

She hurried back into the tavern. Matthias waited, then climbed the rickety staircase. He tapped on the door, no answer. He tapped again.

‘There he is!’

He whirled round: in a dim pool of light below stood the tavern keeper, joined by scullions and tapsters. They had all armed themselves with staffs, swords, daggers, one even wielded a spit iron. Beyond the door he heard the patter of feet: Matthias realised Amasia had betrayed him. He hurried down the steps but the tavern master and his throng hastened forward, blocking any escape. Matthias’ hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. One of the tapsters lifted a bow, an arrow notched to the string. Beyond him Matthias could see Amasia, her face turned away.

‘You are a lying bitch, Amasia! Couldn’t you have at least tried?’

‘She’ll share the reward!’ tavern master Goodman shouted. ‘She knows who gives her bed and board!’ The man licked his lips and raised the lantern he carried. ‘Amasia is mine now, master scholar. She’ll have other duties from tonight.’ He walked forward, a long stabbing dirk in his hand. ‘Now you can take your belt off and come quietly or we’ll kill you. Dead or alive your head is worth the same.’ He nodded to the people behind him. ‘But the boys here say you were a good customer.’

Matthias undid his belt and let it drop. The mob closed in. He was kicked and punched. His hands were thrust behind his back, tied, and he was led in triumph through the taproom where he was pelted with bits of meat, and out into the dark alleyway beyond. He was cuffed and shoved through the streets, down Broad Place to the entrance of a huge, forbidding house with steel bars over its arrow slit windows, the Bocardo, the city prison.

Its gaoler took custody of Matthias, thrusting the tavern master and his gang back out of the gates, shouting they would have to apply to the Justices for the reward. Once they were gone, the gaoler and the turnkeys had their turn: a punch to the face, blows to the stomach. Matthias winced and groaned but held his tongue. He knew that scholars were the favourite prey of such men. He was then stripped of his boots, jerkin and wallet. Cold and beaten, Matthias was led through a maze of passageways, down rotting steps and into the dungeons beneath the house. An iron-barred, steel-covered door was thrown open and he was thrust inside.

The cell was dank, cold and smelt like a midden-heap; no windows, no furniture, whilst the straw and rushes on the floor were black and slimy: they sometimes moved and shifted as rats scurried across. The only light was a small grille in the door which gave a view back down the torch-lit gallery to where the gaoler sat behind a table.

Matthias cleared a space in the corner and crouched down, wrapping his arms round his chest. He tried to make sense of the day’s happenings. Santerre taking him to that tavern, the meeting with Rokesby, that beautiful, mysterious woman at the Golden Lyre. Matthias realised that it had been planned. On the one hand he resented Santerre but, on the other, knew that this being, whoever or whatever it was, had taken upon itself to protect him. Rokesby had been full of venom. It would only have been a matter of time before Matthias had been either attacked, beaten or even killed, or hauled before the Chancellor’s court to answer God knows what charges.

He dozed for a while. The passageway was quiet. The gaoler eventually brought in a mess of pottage to eat. He said Matthias was their only guest in the condemned felon’s row and did Matthias feel fortunate?

‘Can I have a candle?’ Matthias asked.

‘Of course you can.’ The gaoler’s sallow face creased into an ingratiating smile. ‘And perhaps some wine, some venison and a soft four-poster bed?’

The gaoler waddled off down the corridor, laughing to himself, shoulders shaking. He sat down on his chair.

‘This is not one of your halls, young sir!’ he yelled. He picked up a piece of parchment. ‘The Justices will sit tomorrow and then you’ll hang!’

Matthias went back to his thoughts. He knew he would not be missed at the University. Santerre had been his only friend. He refused even to contemplate dying on the gallows at Carfax, the crossroads at the centre of Oxford. Nevertheless, as the night drew on, despair bit into his soul. What hope could he have?

Just after dawn, one of the University proctors, a pasty-faced, sandy-haired young man, came down to visit him. The man was apparently terrified of the gaolers, so timid and nervous he bleated a few questions at Matthias and then scurried out. Matthias was given a piece of coarse rye bread and a stoup of brackish water. From his cell he could faintly hear the bells of the city and he reckoned it must have been just after nine when the gaoler and turnkeys took him out of his cell and pulled a hood over his head. He was hustled out of the Bocardo. Feet cut and scarred by the cobbles, Matthias was hoisted up and tossed like a sack into a cart. Jolted and bruised he was thrown about. Now and again he would strain his ears but all he could hear were the cries and shouts of the hawkers, the faint murmur of the crowd. Matthias closed his eyes and prayed. Not so much for life but that he wouldn’t end it slowly strangling at the end of a rope, being jeered and hooted by some mob in the market place.

At last the cart stopped. The mask was removed and he was bustled through the porch of St Mary’s church. The benches had been cleared from the nave: a large table set up before the rood screen, and behind this sat the three Justices. At a desk on either side of them were two scriveners. The crowds had been allowed in and people were flocking up the transepts to get a good view of the proceedings. Soldiers and bailiffs from the city were busy putting up a cordon of long pieces of white rope. Matthias had to wait for a while. The gaolers on either side of him whispered cold comfort, that the three Justices who would try him were not known for their mercy or tolerance. The sandy-haired proctor came up and offered his help. Matthias took one look at the watery eyes, dripping nose and slack mouth. He shook his head.