The Rose Demon

17

Matthias regained consciousness in a small, lime-washed cell. He threw back the blankets and staggered to his feet. The chamber was so narrow, if he stretched out his hands he could touch both walls. He peered through the arrow slit window. He was in a castle. The bailey below was busy with grooms leading horses in and out of the stables. A line of geese waddled past guided by a girl with a stick. Somewhere a dog was baying mournfully. Matthias stared down at himself. He was still in the clothes he had worn before the battle, but his belt and boots were gone. A cracked pitcher of water stood in the corner. Dried bread and cheese on a tin plate were being gnawed by rats. Matthias lifted the water, sipped greedily then threw the rest over his plate.

The door opened. Two men came in. The first was stooped and balding, with a thin pinched face and the screwed up eyes of one who had difficulty seeing. He was dressed in a grey, dusty gown, the sleeves folded back; his long fingers were covered in ink. His companion was a typical soldier, burly, thickset, his fair hair cropped so close Matthias at first thought he was bald. He was dressed in a boiled leather jacket, stained and blackened with sweat; dark blue, woollen hose and tight leather boots on which spurs jangled and clattered as he walked. He looked at Matthias and winked. His leathery, weather-beaten face broke into a grin.

‘John Vane,’ he introduced himself. ‘Master-at-arms. This is Master Winstanley, royal clerk.’

‘Where am I?’ Matthias felt unsteady on his feet. He went back and sat on the bed.

‘You are in Newark Castle, brought here late last night.’

Matthias recalled Fitzgerald’s blow to his face. He felt the side of his head.

‘You are a mystery, Master Fitzosbert.’ Winstanley came over and peered down at him. ‘Some say you are a rebel. Others that you are loyal and true. Anyway, his Grace the Earl of Oxford has decided that you won’t hang. Clerks are too valuable to be strung up like rats!’

‘Where’s Fitzgerald?’ Matthias asked. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Fitzgerald! Fitzgerald!’ Winstanley shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Fitzgerald is or who he is! The royal army is moving south. People like me and Master Vane are left to clean up the mess.’

‘You have received a pardon.’ Vane thrust a small parchment scroll into Matthias’ hands. ‘But on one condition.’

Matthias undid the parchment. He read the copperplate lettering. The small blob of wax at the end bore the personal insignia of the Earl of Oxford. Matthias sighed and closed his eyes. The letter proclaimed that he, Matthias Fitzosbert, be pardoned for all crimes on one condition, that he serve no less than three years as castle clerk at Barnwick on the Scottish march.

‘It’s better than hanging, lad,’ Vane said quietly. The master-of-arms chewed the corner of his mouth. ‘God knows I’ve seen enough hangings to last me ten lifetimes. I have to take you to Barnwick. I’m also taking provisions and money for the garrison.’ He crouched before Matthias. ‘Now look, lad, I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done. Really, I don’t give a damn.’ He tapped the piece of parchment. ‘This is a second chance. I advise you to take it. Now, we are leaving in two hours, just after noon. I can truss you like a pig and if you try to escape,’ he touched the side of Matthias’ neck, ‘I’ll cut your throat. That will be the end of the matter. But you look a bonny lad, you’ve got honest eyes — give me your word you won’t cause me trouble and I’ll give you a sword belt, your own horse and treat you as one of the lads.’

Matthias gave his word.

‘Good!’ Vane got to his feet. He extended his hand.

Matthias clasped it: he held on, squeezing the fingers tightly.

‘Who are you?’ Matthias whispered. ‘Are you really John Vane?’

‘Of course I am.’ The soldier pulled his hand away. ‘I think you’ve had one too many knocks on the head, lad. I was born John Vane and I will die John Vane but, if you want, you can think of me as the great Cham.’ The man-at-arms wrinkled his nose. ‘But if you are going to travel with me I want you to bathe. You stink like a pig pen!’

He and Winstanley left. A short while later a servant brought in a leather bucket full of warm water. Matthias stripped and washed, cleaning himself with a rag and rubbing some oil the servants also brought into his skin.

Vane came into the room and tossed a pile of clothes and a good set of riding boots upon the bed. A bleary-eyed, bald-pated man accompanied him: he cut Matthias’ hair and expertly shaved the stubble from his face. Matthias found the clothes fitted him. They were musty but clean. Vane gave him a war belt with a sheath for the small broadsword and dagger also provided.

‘You don’t look like a rebel now,’ Vane smiled. ‘Come on.’

They went down to the castle refectory. Vane introduced Matthias to the rest of the soldiers, nine men in all: grizzled veterans, men-at-arms looking forward to the journey north as a break from the boring routine of garrison duty. They left Newark a little later than planned, Vane’s nine companions, with Matthias in the centre, riding ahead of the three great lumbering carts which accompanied them. On the outskirts of Newark, six archers, dressed in stained Lincoln green, joined them, their specific responsibility to guard the carts. The rest of the day’s travelling was taken up in good-natured banter between these and Vane’s men.

They journeyed through narrow, country lanes. Matthias still felt unreal. He could hardly accept that the same bright sun, these green fields, the blue sky filled with wispy clouds were the same as he had marched under with the rebel army. They camped out in the open that night, on a small hill overlooking a field of waving corn. One of the archers trapped and skinned some rabbits. Another foraged for herbs. The savoury smell abruptly reminded Matthias of the hermit in that lonely, deserted church at Tenebral. The soldiers accepted him as part of their company but, when Vane remarked that Matthias had marched with the rebels, they took a closer interest.

‘Did you really think he was Edward of Warwick?’ one of the men-at-arms asked, his mouth full of meat.

‘No.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I thought.’

‘Just like us,’ another shouted. ‘You march where your bloody officers tell you to and, if you’re lucky and you don’t get killed, then you march somewhere else.’

‘Were you there?’ Matthias asked Vane.

‘The battle at East Stoke? No. We were left at Newark to guard the bloody castle.’

He persuaded Matthias to tell them what had happened. Matthias sat under the stars, the night breeze cooling the sweat on his brow as he relived, once again, that bloody fight. He tried not to think of Fitzgerald or Mairead. He gave no hint of why he had really been there.

‘Thousands died you know,’ Vane declared. ‘They say the burial pit was as long and as broad as a castle bailey, the bodies stacked like faggots of wood.’

‘And the Irish?’ another asked.

‘Aye, the poor bastards!’ Vane shook his head. ‘You heard what happened, Matthias?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Oxford’s bullyboys pinned them against the Trent. It was just like Michaelmas except instead of sheep and cows it was men. They say the blood was ankle-deep in places. The rebel leaders were killed except Lovell, who escaped. No one knows where he is. Symonds, being a priest, has been locked up, immured for life in some lonely monastery. The imposter, Lambert Simnel, has confessed to being the son of an Oxford carpenter. The King — he’s a sly one — wouldn’t make him a martyr. Lambert’s now cleaning out the royal stables.’

The rest of the men began to joke about the imposter. Matthias got up and walked into the clump of trees. What did they mean to me anyway? he thought. He recalled the cards Lady Stratford had dealt that night they were fleeing from Oxford. Symonds had come to judgment whilst the so-called ‘young prince’ had been forced to face the truth. Matthias smiled. He was glad the young man had suffered no greater indignity and, remembering his skill with horses, he was probably happier in the royal stables than he was with Symonds.

Matthias thought of Dublin and the hundreds of widows amongst the clans, waiting for their men who would never return. He mourned Mairead and cried quietly for her: if only he had reached the baggage train! He closed his eyes: Fitzgerald was there, grinning at him, as he had before de Vere’s tribunal in that blood-stained camp. Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon had taken full possession. He had no doubt that Fitzgerald had always been a spy but Matthias, for the life of him, couldn’t recall any abrupt change or suspicious circumstances. The mercenary had struck him, not out of anger but to keep Matthias quiet. If he’d gone on talking, shouting curses, de Vere would have probably hanged him out of hand.

Matthias opened his eyes and stared up through the branches. An owl hooted, low and mournful. A night bird fluttered in the branches above him. Where was Fitzgerald now? Where was the Rose Demon? He glanced back over his shoulder. Vane and the others stretched out before the camp fire. Might one of them house this terrible being now pursuing him? Matthias was beginning to understand it. The Demon could not control him but he could, when he wanted, intervene to protect him. But why not protect Mairead? Or did the Demon want no one in Matthias’ life to distract him? He sighed and went back to the campfire. Whatever, he ruefully concluded, three years in a lonely castle on the Scottish march would give him time to think and reflect.

The next morning they reached the Great North Road, a busy thoroughfare with pedlars, packmen, tinkers, wandering friars, scholars, beggars and peasants. The road also carried grim testimony to the royal victory at East Stoke. At every half-mile, for at least a hundred miles, scaffolds and gibbets had been set up: from each hung rotting cadavers. Corruption fouled the air; so great was the stink under the summer sun, Vane ordered the soldiers to leave the highway and use country lanes and trackways.

‘The Tudor intends there will be no more Yorkist revolts,’ he commented. ‘The news of his victory will soon be known to everyone.’

They continued their journey: progress was slow but Vane didn’t really care.

‘The longer we take,’ he joked, ‘the more time we can enjoy ourselves. Up to Barnwick by the end of July, it will be September before we dawdle back to Newark. Who knows?’ he added. ‘We may even avoid another battle!’

They made their way to York, skirting the city, going up towards the moors. The weather remained good, with only an occasional shower. Matthias used the time to calm his soul and soothe his mind. He decided his best course of action was to accept things as they were, not complain and wait for the Rose Demon to make its presence felt. The moors they now crossed were a vast sea of gorse and purple heather, grass turning brown under a searing sun; curlew and snipe whirling above them. Now and again they passed a farm but large, fierce-looking dogs kept them well away. Sometimes there would be a break in the land, a small village clustered around a narrow church. They bought supplies but the villagers were unwelcoming and, most evenings, they slept out under the stars. The weather changed slightly as they travelled north, the breeze colder, brisker, tugging at their hoods and cloaks. One sumpter pony damaged a leg and had to be destroyed, its baggage piled high in one of the carts. Vane became more vigilant.

‘We are into the war lands,’ he explained. ‘James III of Scotland, not to mention the Douglases, often launch cattle raids. They always choose the moors, especially in summer. A small army could march for days and remain undetected.’

In the end Vane’s precautions were not necessary. Late one afternoon Matthias reined in and exclaimed in surprise at the long range of disused and derelict buildings, a wall of small forts stretching to east and west as far as he could see.

‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Where does it begin? Where does it end?’

‘The Romans built it,’ Vane explained. ‘They say it stretches from sea to sea. We’ll shelter there tonight, tomorrow we’ll be at Barnwick.’

They entered the ruins of one of the castles. Matthias found the sprawling, crumbling walls fascinating and marvelled at the genius which had built it. The horses were hobbled and put out to grass; sentries patrolled the crumbling walls, fires were lit. Matthias thought the men would be happy with some place to shelter but Vane explained how, like sailors, soldiers were suspicious: they feared the ghosts and demons which haunted here.

‘Just like Barnwick,’ he added enigmatically.

‘What do you mean?’ Matthias asked.

‘You’ll see!’

Vane picked up a water bottle and splashed some water on his head and face, wiping it off with his hands.

‘I served at Barnwick. I used to belong to the household of Richard III.’ He grinned slyly. ‘Oh yes, I’ve served them all. Just like a dance, you must know when to change your partner. Anyway, I was up there in 1482 — a little trouble with some of the black Douglases. I tell you this, the cattle up here must get dizzy: Scotland, England, Scotland, England — around here, thievery and poaching are a way of life and having your roof burnt about your head an occupational hazard. Anyway, it’s a sprawling affair, Barnwick. It has a large Norman keep, four towers, one on each corner: it’s the north tower you have to watch. They say a demon dwells there.’

‘Go on,’ Matthias urged. He smiled to hide his anxiety. ‘After all, if I’m to spend three years there. .’

‘Well, the castle was built, you know how it is, little bits added here and there. According to one story, in 1320 a Lord Andrew Harclay was betrothed to Maude Beauchamp. One day he discovered his betrothed and a young squire making love in a bedchamber high in the tower. Now Harclay was an evil man. He was feared as a warlock as well as a brigand. He showed no mercy to either. According to legend, he immured both Maude and her lover in the walls of the north tower. They say their ghosts, or some other presence, haunts there. It’s a frightening place: strange blue lights have been seen, terrible cries heard, candlelight but no candles. Footfalls but no one walks and a terrible moaning, as if some soul is in the last agonies.’

‘Did you see all this?’ Matthias asked.

‘At first I thought it was children’s tittle-tattle. One night, however, I was on the north tower — me and two other lads, archers from Barnsdale: good, true Yorkshiremen, thick in the arm and thick in the head. I tell you this, after that night, they didn’t accept life for what it was. We were on the tower wondering if the Scots were going to show us their bare arses. Then we heard it, a sound like a wolf howling on the stairs below. We unbolted the trapdoor but it wouldn’t move.’ Vane slurped from the wineskin. ‘We thought someone was playing a joke. There was a crack in the trapdoor. One of my lads looked through it. He saw a face staring up at him: yellow with age, crumbling teeth, eyes like molten coins, lips which bubbled blood. He was so terrified that if we hadn’t restrained him, he would have thrown himself over the parapet. The howling began again and the trapdoor began to lift. All three of us flung ourselves on it, praying to every saint we knew. A terrible smell seeped out, like that of corpses piled high on a battlefield. A voice whispered like a wind. We caught the words: “Let me through, let me through, let me kiss the stars once more!”

‘The trapdoor moved, as if an army were pushing beneath it. A hand came out, the nails scored, skin like cracked leather. I didn’t know if we were dreaming, but by then I knew it wasn’t some joke by one of the garrison.’ Vane wiped the sweat from his face as he recalled the nightmare. ‘We thought the rest of the garrison must surely have heard the clamour and our screams but the tower is high.’ Vane sighed. ‘I nearly died that night of fright but the second lad, Ralph, he was blessed with common sense. Whatever was in that tower broke off trying to get at us for a while. Ralph took his bow and, using flames from the beacon, loosed fire arrows into the air. The Constable at the time, Hubert Swayne, raised the alarm. Soldiers came up.’ Vane leant closer. ‘Do you know something, Matthias? They heard nothing; they detected nothing except for a terrible smell of corruption on the stairs. That was the last time guards were ever set on the north tower. Since then I have had my soul shriven twice a year. I take the Sacraments and, when I hear these clever jacks say there’s no God in Heaven, I can at least tell them that there’s a devil in Hell.’ He drank some wine. ‘A new constable’s at Barnwick, Humphrey Bearsden. He’s a good soldier, tight-lipped but kind-hearted.’

‘Anyone else I should know?’

‘Well, Father Hubert, the chaplain, I think he’s still there. He knows about the north tower. He’s a very holy man. Oh yes, and there’s Bearsden’s sergeant-at-arms, a Scotsman, at least by birth, Malcolm Vattier, a burly brute but one of the best swordsmen I have ever met. Anyway, do you know what I saw today?’

Vane, to lessen the tension, talked about the different wild flowers he had glimpsed. Matthias listened. He had taken a liking to this rough, grizzled soldier’s fascination with the beauty of the cowslip and how it could be distinguished from the false oxlip. Or his insistence that bog pimpernel and bethany, if grown properly, could be used for wounds and scratches.

Matthias looked up at the starlit sky and watched a shooting star, a flash of light charging across the heavens. Vane was just about to describe the virtues of St John’s wort when there was a stir amongst the sentries: shouts and cries to someone to stop and proclaim himself. Vane sprang to his feet, wrapping his war belt on.

‘It’s all right,’ one of the soldiers called.

An old man, his hood pushed back, stepped into the firelight. Thin-faced, his skin lined and seamed, mere tufts of hair on his almost bald head but the owner of a luxuriant white beard and moustache. He had good stout boots and the robe he wore was serge cloth, bound round the waist by a rope through which a long Welsh stabbing dagger was pushed. In one hand he carried a thick staff, in the other a tattered, leather bag. He sat down without a by-your-leave and glared at Vane.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? Eh? Do you have some jam? Or some honey? A piece of honey would be really nice.’

‘Aye, we’ve got twenty pounds of it,’ Vane joked back. ‘Don’t you know who we are, old man? We carry the King’s commission. Who gave you the right to blunder into our camp and start asking for honey?’

‘I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart for you,’ the old man replied. ‘I serve the King of Heaven. My name’s Pender. I live here. You are in my house.’ He waved his hand airily. ‘All of this is mine.’

‘You are a hermit?’ Vane asked.

‘Yes, I am a hermit. I came here for peace and quiet, to pray to God. I might as well have stayed in bloody Durham. Tinkers, traders, pedlars, soldiers from Barnwick. Not to mention Scots, English, outlaws and wolf’s-heads. You’d think all the world and his sister were here. I went to Castleton to beg. I got bugger all. I’ve come back.’ He glared suspiciously at Vane. ‘I come back to find half the royal army camp here.’

Matthias got up and went to their stores. He took out a small, dried loaf and a jar of honey which they had bought in one of the villages. He brought these back and pushed them into Pender’s hand.

‘Be our guest,’ he offered.

Vane leant across and threw two pennies on the ground before Pender.

‘We’ll pay honest rent,’ he joked.

The change in Pender was wondrous. He gave a broad toothless grin, pocketed the pennies, ripped off the piece of linen that covered the jar of honey, stuck his fingers into the honey and began to lick it. Every so often he closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards.

‘Oh, beauteous taste! Truly the psalmist is right when he says sweeter than the honeycomb!’ Pender tore at the bread. ‘Blessed be the Lord God!’ he intoned. ‘And blessed be you in all your bodily functions!’ He opened one eye. ‘Are you, to crown my pleasure, to give me some wine?’

Vane filled one of their pewter cups and handed it across. The hermit crossed himself, sketched a blessing in the air and continued to fill his stomach. Afterwards he burped and smiled beatifically.

‘Lovely!’ he breathed. ‘Welcome guests all.’

‘How long have you lived here?’ Vane asked.

‘Oh, a good score of years and a few more.’ Pender patted the crumbling brickwork. ‘This is my palace, my church!’

‘You are not frightened?’ Matthias asked. ‘Of the loneliness?’

The hermit peered across. ‘Sometimes! Sometimes at night I hear sounds: cries and calls, dark shapes moving in the heather outside, and they are not Scots. During the day, especially late in the afternoon, I sit in a place like this with my back to the wall. I hear the clink of the armour, the legionaries and, on the breeze, their Latin tongue: orders and commands being shouted.’

The nape of Matthias’ neck turned cold.

‘I am not being fanciful,’ Pender continued, his eyes now watching Matthias intently. ‘Ghosts and spirits walk here, still hung between Heaven and earth.’

‘Who destroyed this?’ Vane asked.

‘Some say the weather,’ Pender joked. ‘But I’ve had dreams. When this wall stood firm and Rome’s legions walked the parapets, it would take more than the weather to cast these stones down. There are legends,’ he continued. ‘Further down the wall stands a ruined temple. On its wall a huge rose has been carved.’ His eyes never left Matthias, who swallowed hard and gazed back. ‘There are also strange rune marks scratched in the masonry. Some say they tell a story of the wall’s destruction but no one can really make them out or understand them. According to local lore, when the legions left, the soldiers here did not receive the order to depart so they went on guarding, as if there were an empire still left to guard. Now, in the ancient days, to the north were two great peoples who ruled the glens of Scotland. The Picti, or Painted People, and the Caledones. They were united into one army by a famous war chief whose emblem was a rose wound round a staff.’

Matthias stiffened: this ancient legend was connected to his own life, his own experience of that strange force, the sinister Dark Lord who had haunted him all his years.

‘If the legend is to be believed,’ Pender continued, ‘the great Rose Lord fell in love with a Roman lady, daughter of a commander on the wall. He asked for her in marriage. The Roman refused so the Rose Lord brought his great army south and, in one terrible night, annihilated the soldiers of Rome. Every man was killed and the fortifications levelled. For a while the Picts and the Caledones lived on the wall, honouring their great leader but he, on finding the love of his life had been killed in the attack, mysteriously disappeared. His great army broke up and drifted away.’ Pender stared into the fire. ‘That’s only legend. Nevertheless,’ he added in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘at night the ghosts of all who died here still house themselves in the shadows and corners.’ He hitched his cloak around him. ‘So, kind though you be, sirs, I hope you are gone by the morrow.’

The hermit wrapped himself up in his cloak and lay down near the fire, resting his head on the tattered, leather bag he carried.

Vane got up, saying he would check on the sentries. Matthias lay down on the ground and stared up at the stars. Who was this Rose Demon? He glanced across the fire. Pender lay there, eyes open, staring at him.

‘You should sleep,’ the hermit murmured. ‘You’ve nothing to fear. I can see around you those sent to guard you.’

Matthias pulled himself up.

‘Nothing but shadows,’ the hermit whispered. ‘That’s all I see.’ He grinned. ‘And you’ve got nothing to lose but your soul!’