The Rose Demon

1

Matthias Fitzosbert made sure the belt round his tunic was fastened tight, then crawled quietly over the weather-beaten gravestone in the cemetery and through a gap in the hedge. He scuttled like a mouse along the earth trackway and on to the highway of Sutton Courteny village. On the corner, beneath a large, overspreading oak tree, he turned and stared back. He clawed nervously at his black, shiny hair, licked his lips and scratched a spot high on his olive-skinned cheek.

Above the trees soared the spire of his father’s church. Matthias hoped that he would not be missed for some time. His father, who had been weeding around the graves, had taken a stoup of ale and was now fast asleep in the shadow of the lych-gate. Christina, his woman, Matthias’ mother, was in the small herb garden at the back of the priest’s house tending the camomile, mint, thyme and coriander, which she would later pluck, dry and store in small jars in the buttery. All was quiet. Not even the birds chirped. They were hiding under the cool, green leaves well away from the surprisingly hot May sun. Somewhere a bee buzzed angrily in his search for honey. A snow-white butterfly came floating by. Matthias went to catch it but missed his footing and fell on the trackway. He yelped but then froze. He must remember he was only seven. He had no right to be out by himself, going through the woods to the derelict village of Tenebral.

Matthias ran on. Thankfully the houses of the cottagers and peasants were all quiet. Men, women and children were out in the fields, driving away the legion of birds and small animals which plundered the corn and anything else that the villagers had sown. Matthias crouched in the shadow of a house and stared further along the highroad. He studied the entrance to the Hungry Man tavern where the loungers and the lazy would squat with their backs to the walls, supping ale or quarrelling quietly amongst themselves. Such men were to be watched. They were always curious about Parson Osbert and his illegitimate by-blow.

Osbert was a priest and, according to Canon Law, should lead a chaste and celibate life. However, when he had come to Sutton Courteny fourteen years ago, Christina, daughter of Sigrid, a prosperous yeoman, had caught his eyes as he preached in church. They had fallen in love, become handfast and Matthias was their love child. Most of his parishioners accepted this; however, they were still curious and might go running up to the church to ask Parson Osbert why his son was stealing out of the village again.

Matthias stiffened as the burly, hard-faced blacksmith, Fulcher, lurched out of the tavern with a tankard in his hand. The man should have been out in the fields with the others but his daughter, Edith, had been found barbarously murdered in Sutton Courteny woods: her throat had been torn, her blood drained. Edith’s poor mangled corpse now lay in the parish coffin at the door to the rood screen of the church. Fulcher was mourning her in the only way he could.

‘Drunk as a pig!’ So he announced. ‘Until the pain has passed!’

Matthias’ eyes softened. Fulcher looked so distraught, and Edith, his dreamy-eyed daughter, had been so kind. Whenever a corpse was laid in the coffin, Matthias always helped his mother to make sure that all was well before Requiem Mass was sung and the corpse was buried in its shroud beneath the outstretched yew trees in the cemetery. Corpses did not frighten Matthias. They were all the same: stiff and cold, lips turning blue and eyes half-open. This time, however, Osbert had been insistent that he himself tend the corpse. He wrapped it in a special canvas sheet and screwed the coffin lid well down till the poor girl’s remains were buried.

‘Edith!’ Fulcher cried up at the sky, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Edith!’

Piers the ploughman came out, caught Fulcher by the arm and took him back into the tangy coolness of the Hungry Man taproom.

Matthias ran on, slipping like a shadow past the doorway of the tavern and up through the village. He stopped at the gallows stone from which Baron Sanguis’ gibbet stretched up, black and stark against the sky. No corpse hung there but, now and again, the Manor Lord gibbeted a victim coated in tar, bound with old rope, as a warning to the outlaws, wolf’s-heads and poachers to stay well away from his domain.

At last the line of cottages ended. The trackway narrowed as it entered the dark wood. Matthias paused: his father and mother had warned him, on many an occasion, to stay well clear of this place.

‘Men as violent as wolves,’ the kindly parson’s face had been serious, ‘wander like demons. These horrid murders!’ Parson Osbert had shaken his balding head. ‘Moreover, there are armies on the march and, where there are soldiers, murder and rapine ride close behind. Isn’t that right, Mother?’

Christina had brushed her thick, blonde hair away from her face and stared, white-faced, at her son. Matthias, being so young, did not know what murder and rapine were, though they sounded interesting. What concerned him more was how tired and grey his mother now looked. Usually merry-eyed, laughing and vigorous, Christina had, over the last few weeks, become quiet, withdrawn and ever anxious. Only last night Matthias had woken and found her in her shift, a blanket about her shoulders, staring down at him. The tallow candle in her hand had made her face look even more gaunt. When he’d stirred, she had sat down on the edge of his pallet bed and gently stroked his face.

‘Matthias.’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘You go through the woods, don’t you? You go to see the hermit?. . In his refuge at Tenebral?’

Matthias had been about to lie but his mother’s eyes looked so strange, so full of fear, he had nodded slowly. Christina had turned away. She had told him to go back to sleep but, as she’d turned to say good night, he’d glimpsed the tears on her cheeks.

Matthias now gnawed on his lips; the wood was a dark and secret place. He remembered the stories the villagers liked to tell when they all gathered around the great roaring fire in the taproom of the Hungry Man: about the pigmy king who lived beneath the tumuli, the ancient burial mounds, deep in the woods. Of Edric the Wild and his demonic horsemen who hunted along the banks of the Severn.

A bird stirred noisily in the branches above him. Matthias recalled other stories about the Strigoi, the ravenous birds with hooked feet, grasping talons, eyes which stared fixedly — fowls from hell who preyed on the young. Or the hag whose carcass was clothed in feathers and whose belly was swollen with the blood of her victims. Yet he had to go on! The hermit would be waiting for him and Matthias loved the hermit, with his magic and his stories, his merry mouth and laughing eyes. The boy took a deep breath, closed his eyes and, hands flapping by his side, ran into the shade of the trees. He tried to ignore the sounds from the undergrowth. He mustn’t think of Old Bogglebow, his name for Margot, the evil-eyed hag who lived in Baron Sanguis’ manor house and who, so the villagers whispered, practised the black arts on behalf of her master. Matthias did fear Old Bogglebow, with her sunken cheeks, twisted nose and sharp dog teeth scattered in rotting gums like tombs in a moon-lit churchyard.

Matthias opened his eyes and smiled. He had run so fast he was sure he was near the edge of the woods. He turned a corner and ran on, his eyes fixed on the trackway before him. He found breathing difficult, even more so when he tried to hum a song Christina had taught him. His fears only increased for, when the wood ended, he would be in Tenebral.

Once a village, its inhabitants had been wiped out by the Great Death, which had raged along the Severn valley a hundred years previously. The ancient ones still talked about it, of the dead lying in their beds, or at a table, or in the fields, their hands still fixed to the plough. Tenebral was a place for ghosts, haunted and eerie. Matthias paused and drew in his breath. Yet the hermit would be there: he would protect him. He ran on, then stopped, searching the trackway carefully until he discovered the secret path the hermit had shown him. Matthias followed this carefully. The trees gave way and suddenly he was on the edge of Tenebral. Some of the houses still stood along the highroad, their plaster cracked, the rooms inside open to the sky. The wooden doors and windows, anything which could be salvaged, had been plundered a long time ago.

Matthias crouched down like a little dog and stared around. The highroad was overgrown, ivy crept around the cottage walls. A silent place, a village where life had suddenly stopped. Even the birds seemed to avoid it. At the far end Matthias glimpsed the ruined steeple of the church. He hurried on but hesitated beneath the remains of the lych-gate, staring down at the main porch. The wooden doors had long gone; the church walls were covered in ivy and lichen. Matthias would go no further. He was proud of having come so far, but now he would wait.

‘Hermit!’ he called. ‘Hermit, it’s Matthias! You asked me to come!’

Only a crow, circling solitary above the church, called raucously back. Matthias forgot his fears and ran up the path to the church porch. He stood within the entrance. To his left was the baptismal font. He glanced up. The roof had long gone, but the sanctuary at the far end was partially covered by bushes, both inside and outside the church, which had sprouted up to form their own canopy. The boy swallowed. The hermit should be here. He jumped as a rat scurried across the floor, then walked on. He was about to call the hermit again when a warm hand touched the side of his neck. He gasped and spun round. The hermit was there, crouching down, face wrinkled in amusement, eyes dancing, lips parted in a smile.

‘You scared me!’

The hermit grasped him by the arms and squeezed gently.

‘You tricked me!’ Matthias accused.

The hermit threw his head back and laughed. He drew Matthias close, putting his arms around him, gently crushing the boy against him. Matthias let his body slacken. His father never did this and the hermit was always so warm, smelling so fragrantly of rose-water.

‘I saw you come into the village,’ the hermit murmured. ‘I have been behind you all the time.’

‘I was frightened,’ Matthias confessed. ‘It’s so lonely.’

The hermit gently stroked his hair.

‘Creatura bona atque parva!’ he murmured.

‘What does that mean?’

The hermit held him away: he stared in mock seriousness. ‘It’s Latin, Matthias. It means you are my little and good creature.’

‘I am not your creature. You make me sound like a bat.’

Again the hermit laughed, rocking gently backwards and forwards. Matthias watched him intently. If the truth be known, Matthias could sit and watch the hermit all day. He was tall and strong, his iron-grey hair carefully cut, like that of a monk, up around his ears. His face, burnt dark by the sun, was clean-shaven, open and fresh. He had a gentle smile and his eyes were always full of merriment. His hands, broad and brown, were warm and, whenever he touched Matthias, the boy felt soothed and calm.

‘How long have we known each other now, Matthias?’

‘You came here in March,’ Matthias replied slowly. ‘Just before the Feast of the Annunciation.’

‘So, you’ve known me two months,’ the hermit replied. ‘And when you come here you are still frightened. Never let fear rule you, Matthias. It is a dark worm inside your mind.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And the more you feed it, the fatter it grows!’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Matthias accused.

‘Of some things, yes. Of people and creatures, never!’

‘But that’s because you are a soldier. You were a soldier, weren’t you?’

‘I was a soldier, Matthias. In the beginning I was a soldier.’

His face, as it sometimes did, became not serious but sad. Matthias watched his mouth, lips half-parted.

‘Did you kill many men?’ Matthias asked.

The hermit sighed and got to his feet. ‘Killing is part of nature, Matthias. The hawk kills the hen: the fox the rabbit, all things feed upon each other.’

‘If you are not frightened,’ Matthias continued, ‘why don’t you come into the village?’

The hermit crouched down and touched the tip of Matthias’ nose with the point of his finger.

‘You tell me, Matthias Fitzosbert. Why don’t I go into the village?’

‘The people be frightened of you.’

‘Why? How can they be frightened of something they don’t know?’

‘They said you had been here before,’ Matthias replied. ‘About eight years ago, before I was born.’

‘But I was kind to them. I tended some of their sick. Yet, when I asked them for food, they drove me away.’

‘So, why did you come back?’

In answer the hermit scooped Matthias up in his arms. ‘I came back because I came back,’ he announced. ‘Now, Matthias, I am going to show you something.’ He put the boy gently back on the ground.

‘A trick?’ Matthias asked, his eyes round in wonderment.

‘A trick? What kind of trick? That’s sorcery,’ the hermit replied. ‘As it is to have white doves in your ear!’

‘Don’t be-’

The hermit stretched his hand out. Matthias felt something feathery and warm against his ear. The hermit dramatically drew his hand back. Matthias stared in astonishment at the small white dove nestling in the palm of the hermit’s hand. The hermit stroked its down feathers gently with a finger. The bird quietly cooed.

‘Watch it fly, Matthias,’ he whispered.

He threw the bird up and, in a flash of white, the dove climbed, wings outstretched, speeding up against the sky. Matthias watched it go but screamed at the black shape which seemed to strike out of nowhere: white feathers floated gently back into the church followed by one, two drops of blood. When he looked up again, the hawk and its victim had vanished. The hermit, however, his face impassive, glared up at the sky. He said something in a language Matthias couldn’t understand and made a cutting move with his hand.

‘Life preys upon life,’ he declared. ‘Come, Matthias, let me show you something else.’

He took the child by the hand and led him out of the ruined church along the old high street. With the hermit holding his hand, Matthias wasn’t at all frightened. Now and again they would stop and the hermit would crouch down and point out different flowers: lilies, cowslips, the deadly belladonna and the blue-belled monkshood.

‘Be careful of these latter two, Creatura. A deadly venom runs in their veins. But look!’ The hermit pointed towards a bush. ‘See, a goldfinch and, further down, a kingfisher rests before it returns to the mere. But, today, you must see this.’

He led Matthias into the ruined courtyard of what must have been Tenebral’s tavern. The hermit put a finger to his lips.

‘Shush now!’

They walked on tiptoe towards an outhouse. Matthias peered in: at first he could see nothing but then, against the far wall, in what must have been a recess for store jars, he glimpsed movement — small, reddish bundles of fur — and realised the hermit had brought him to a fox’s den. The vixen, apparently oblivious to these spectators, licked one of the cubs whilst they, full of mischief, pounced and darted upon each other. Matthias had seen many a fox. He had heard the villagers after Sunday Mass loudly moan that one had taken a cockerel or goose from their pen. This, however, was different. He had never seen baby foxes so close up, so full of life. He would have stepped forward but the hermit gripped his shoulder.

‘No, no, let it be.’

For a while they stood and watched. The vixen abruptly looked up, staring towards the door, and a look of pure fear crossed her face. She knocked her cubs back into the recess, then curled up at the entrance, head on her front paws, whimpering quietly. The hermit led Matthias away.

‘Come on, Creatura, it’s time we ate.’

On the way back to the church the hermit stopped to search amongst the bushes. He gave a cry of triumph and brought out a rabbit caught in his snare. He slung the carcass over his shoulder and, whistling softly, led Matthias by the hand, listening carefully to the boy’s chatter.

Once more in the church, he took Matthias into the old sanctuary. The boy stared round. There was no sign of any altar or any vestige of the sacred mysteries which had been celebrated there. In the corner was a bed of flock and a wooden peg stool. The floor was clean, though scattered around were pots of paint and, whilst the hermit gutted and skinned the rabbit, Matthias stared in awe at the huge rose his friend was painting on the wall. It was like no rose he had ever seen: the leaves were red-black, the heart was gold, the stem silver. The boy put his hand out. He was sure that if he touched the rose, he would feel its soft texture and catch its perfume.

‘Do you like it, Creatura?’ the hermit asked.

‘It’s beautiful,’ the boy replied. ‘It’s so large.’

‘It’s the world,’ the hermit explained. ‘Each leaf, each petal closing in on itself. That’s why I paint it.’

‘But there are no thorns?’

‘The rose is the flower of Paradise,’ the hermit said. ‘When it grew in the meadows of Heaven it had no thorns. It only sprouted them when it fell into the hands of wicked men.’

Matthias heard a tinder strike. He looked over his shoulder: the rabbit was skinned, gutted and pierced through by a small spit which the hermit now placed over a bed of glowing charcoal. Matthias blinked. He had seen his mother and father light a fire but never with such speed. The hermit could do everything so quickly, so skilfully. The hermit winked at him and began to turn the spit: as he did so, he sprinkled herbs and a little oil from a small jug along the rabbit’s flesh.

‘Look at the rose, Matthias. What do you feel?’

‘I feel as if I could smell it.’

‘Then do so. . Go on!’ the hermit urged.

Matthias, laughing, put his nose up against the wall.

‘I can smell the rabbit!’ he giggled, wrinkling his nose. ‘And the plaster’s damp.’

‘No, no, think about the rose, Matthias. Smell it now!’

The boy did so and exclaimed in surprise: the sweetest, most fragrant of perfumes seeped from the painting. He clapped his hands. ‘I can smell it! I can smell it! It’s beautiful!’

The hermit laughed and went back to turning the rabbit on the spit. Matthias, however, studied the wall. This time, at the hermit’s urging, he touched one of the petals and felt its soft wetness against his fingers.

‘It’s a trick, isn’t it?’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, Creatura, it’s a trick!’

The boy noticed a series of marks on the wall, strange carvings, like the letters of his hornbook, but jumbled up and broken.

‘What are these?’ he asked.

‘Runes,’ the hermit replied. ‘An ancient writing.’

‘And what do they mean?’

‘Too many questions, Creatura. In time, in time. Now,’ the hermit pointed across the sanctuary to a small pannier. ‘Enough questions, we must eat. Go over there and see what you can find.’

Matthias opened it up and gasped in surprise: wrapped in a linen cloth were fresh manchet loaves, a small pot of butter and a jar of honey.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘In Tredington,’ the hermit replied. ‘I went across there.’

‘Do you know a boy there?’ Matthias asked.

‘I know no boy, Creatura, except you. Now, bring the food across.’

‘You shouldn’t go to Tredington,’ Matthias declared. ‘Father says they are our. .’

‘Enemies?’

Matthias shook his head.

‘Rivals?’

‘That’s it: rivals! We have disputes with them over the great meadow and pannage rights in the woods.’

‘And yet there’s enough for everyone,’ the hermit replied. ‘Do you love your father?’

Matthias, crouching before the fire, nodded solemnly.

‘But he’s a priest,’ the hermit teased. ‘He has taken vows never to know a woman.’

Matthias just blinked owlishly back.

‘Will you. .’ the boy pointed further down the wall to the faded paintings of angels, ‘will you paint them as well?’

The hermit, crouching, looked over his shoulder at the faded portraits: a group of angels each with a musical instrument: lute, flute, sackbut, shawm and rebec.

‘What are they supposed to be?’ he teased.

‘Angels, of course!’ Matthias replied.

‘Are they now?’ The hermit’s eyes looked sad. ‘I tell you this, Matthias, they look nothing like angels.’

He took the rabbit off the spit, broke the flesh with his fingers, and handed over the most succulent pieces. Matthias gnawed the sweet, soft flesh.

‘Do you know about angels?’

The hermit’s eyes were now very sad.

‘In the beginning,’ he replied, ‘before the Spirit moved over to the darkness, only the angels existed before the face of the Almighty. Think of them, Matthias, an army of brilliant lights, genius, pure will. However, in beauty and power, they were nothing compared to the great five.’ He put the piece of meat down and counted the names off on his fingers. ‘Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Lucifer. .’

‘And?’ Matthias asked.

The hermit was staring at the fire. Matthias shivered at the cold blast of wind which blew through the church.

‘And who?’ he whispered.

‘The Rosifer.’ There were tears in the hermit’s eyes. ‘All beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Magnificent as an army in battle array. Glorious leaders of a glorious host.’

‘Lucifer’s the Devil,’ Matthias broke in quickly, wanting to break the tension as well as display his knowledge.

‘Lucifer is Lucifer.’ The hermit was now rocking gently backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Brother and soul mate, great friend and comrade-in-arms to the Rosifer.’

‘Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.

‘Oh, Creatura, he was the rose-carrier. God’s gardener who laid out Paradise for Adam and Eve.’

‘They committed a sin, didn’t they?’ Matthias asked, remembering a painting from the parish church. ‘That’s why,’ he continued in a rush, ‘Jesus came from Heaven to save us from our sins. Do you believe that?’

The hermit looked up towards the sky, scored by red flashes of sunset.

‘See, Matthias,’ the hermit whispered. ‘See Christ’s blood streaming in the firmament.’

Matthias watched him curiously and recalled never seeing the hermit pray or attend Mass.

‘So, you do believe in Jesus?’

‘The Beloved,’ the hermit replied. ‘Oh yes.’

‘And Mary, his mother?’ Matthias was now repeating the catechism taught him by his father.

‘God’s pure candle,’ the hermit replied. ‘Who brought forth the light of the world.’

‘Do you believe,’ Matthias asked, half-imitating his father’s sermons, ‘that the Lord Jesus came to save us from our sins?’ The boy nibbled on a piece of rabbit flesh.

‘He didn’t come to save you from your sins.’ The hermit was now half-smiling. ‘In the end, Creatura, remember this. All begins and ends with love. All things are done for love. All things go right for love. All things go wrong for love. Heaven and Hell are not places, but states of mind and will.’ His voice sunk to a whisper. ‘Love eternally offered and eternally refused. Pardon eternally issued but never accepted. In Heaven because of love or driven out because of love.’

‘What are you talking about? Do you want some honey?’ The hermit blinked. Stretching across the fire, he ruffled Matthias’ black hair.

‘I love you, Creatura. But come, soon it will be dark. I have something else to show you. So, finish your food.’

Matthias did so, staring warily around the ruined church. The sun was beginning to set. Soon it would be dark and he had to return to Sutton Courteny. He pushed more rabbit into his mouth, followed by the butter and honey. He tried to talk but the hermit laughed and pressed his finger against his lips.

‘Shush, you chatter like a jay!’

The hermit got up, brushing the crumbs from his brown robe. He walked down the church. Matthias looked at the rose on the wall — it seemed to glow as if a great fire burnt behind it. He shook his head, got to his feet and scampered after his friend. The hermit grasped him by the hand and led him out of the village, walking vigorously. Matthias stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath. The hermit, laughing, picked him up and put him on his shoulder, reminding Matthias of a statue he had seen of St Christopher carrying the boy Jesus. They reached the top of the hill. The wind caught at their hair, making Matthias gasp as the hermit lowered him to the ground. The boy stared down into the gathering darkness.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

The hermit crouched beside him. ‘Follow my finger, Matthias. Tell me what you see.’

Matthias narrowed his eyes and peered carefully. At first nothing, but then he caught a flash of colour. Concentrating carefully he saw that, protected by the trees, a great troop of horse, men-at-arms and carts were making their way along the valley below. Now and again, in the fading rays of the setting sun, he caught the shimmer of armour or a brave banner fluttering in the evening breeze.

‘Margaret of Anjou’s army,’ the hermit explained. ‘The Lancastrians are in retreat. She and her generals — Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, Lord Wenlock, and Lord Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, are fleeing for their lives-’

‘Oh yes,’ Matthias interrupted. ‘She is the Red Rose, is she not?’

‘Aye, you could say that. They flee from the followers of the White Rose.’ The hermit pulled Matthias around and pointed further back along the valley. ‘In hot pursuit comes Edward of York and his war band.’

‘What will happen?’ Matthias asked, his stomach clenching with excitement.

‘Margaret Anjou and her army are tired. They have tried to cross the Severn but the bridges are either held or destroyed. They can go no further. Ah, these men of war and their armour, their proud banners of azure, gold bars, martlets, ruby-red chevrons; tomorrow they will all be drenched in blood.’

‘There will be a battle?’ Matthias asked.

‘Yes, there will be a battle. Queen Margaret will have to stop at Tewkesbury.’

Matthias recalled the great abbey which nestled on a small hill overlooking the market town.

‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

The hermit winked. ‘I could say,’ he whispered, eyes staring, ‘that I am a sorcerer but I was a soldier, too, Matthias. The Queen’s army is exhausted. They will stop to take provisions from the abbey whilst Beaufort, her leading general, will think it’s good to fight with the Severn at his back.’

‘I have never seen a battle.’

‘Would you like to see this one?’

Matthias’ eyes rounded. ‘Could I, really?’

‘Tomorrow, at dawn, come back to me.’ The hermit held Matthias’ arms and squeezed gently. ‘Before first light, steal out of your house and meet me.’ He smiled and, drawing Matthias closer, kissed him on the brow. ‘This time I won’t play games. I won’t hide or play tricks upon you. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Why do you want to see the battle?’ Matthias asked.

The hermit’s face suddenly became grave, even angry. He looked over his shoulder, staring down through the darkness at the retreating army.

‘Edward of York will come on fast,’ he murmured, ‘like the horsemen of Asia. The ground will shake with the hooves of his cavalry. A man born for killing is Edward of York. The Lancastrians are dead.’ He looked back at Matthias. ‘I have a friend I wish to see. Someone who has been looking for me for many a day. I want to see him and I want him to see you, Matthias. So, promise me-’

‘They say it’s dangerous.’

‘Now, why is that, Creatura?’

‘Oh, not the battle, the people who have been killed outside Tredington and Tewkesbury.’

The hermit rose abruptly to his feet.

Matthias pulled a face. Adults always dismissed you when they didn’t want to talk any more.