The Rose Demon

18

Barnwick Castle was built on the brow of a hill which gently sloped away into a wild sea of tangled grass, flowers, purple heather and gorse which stretched up towards the Scottish border.

‘It looks solitary,’ Vane observed as they reined in, ‘but any Scottish army which wants to plunder the northern march will have to either take it or bypass it. Both would be difficult, especially the former.’

As they rode along the white, dusty track up through the great gateway into the castle, Vane pointed out its principal features: two encircling walls, a broad moat fed by underground springs. The outer wall had small towers along it, whilst the inner wall was built slightly higher. The top was crenellated so, even if an enemy did take the gateway, they would find themselves trapped between two lines of fire. The wooden drawbridge they crossed was good and solid. The soldiers on guard in the dark, sombre gatehouse were well turned out, vigilant but not fussy or overweening. The outer bailey had houses built against the walls; small cottages, workshops, a smithy, forge and stables. The inner bailey was approached by a smaller gateway protected by a heavy, wooden and steel portcullis. A foursquare keep dominated the inner bailey. This soared up against the blue sky. It was built of heavy grey ragstone and looked older than the rest of the castle. Vane explained that this had been built earlier than the rest.

The inner bailey was surprisingly quiet. Some geese and pigs wandered about, chickens pecked at the hard-packed earth, a few soldiers lounged in the shade. One of these came across to take their horses and explained that the rest of the garrison were in the chapel. Matthias remembered it was the Feast of St Peter and St Paul, a Holy Day of Obligation. He asked Vane about the castle.

‘The Constable’s quarters,’ the sergeant-at-arms explained, pointing across to a small two-storey house at the far end of the bailey. ‘Solar and parlour on top, hall below.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Remember, Sir Humphrey Bearsden is a stickler for duty. Everything has to be kept in order, be it one’s duty to the King or to God. Ah well,’ he added, ‘let’s make ourselves busy.’

Vane ordered his own soldiers and those lounging about to unload the carts and sumpter ponies: all provisions were to be taken across to the hall. The money he kept with him.

Matthias wandered off. Looking up at the great keep, he studied the north tower and recalled Vane’s story. In the golden ripeness of a summer morning it looked nothing out of the ordinary. Somewhere deep in the keep a bell began to toll, followed by the faint sound of voices and footsteps. The door to the keep, which was reached by steep steps, was flung open. Children, laughing and chattering, ran down into the yard to continue their games. Their mothers and women of the garrison streamed out, chattering noisily, after them their menfolk. The Constable and his party came next: they stood at the top of the steps, staring down at Vane and his men whilst one of the sentries went up and explained their arrival.

‘You are very welcome,’ the leading man shouted down.

He was tall, his silver hair coifed so it fell thick on the nape of his neck, his military-style moustache and beard neatly clipped. He strode quickly down to clasp Vane’s hand. Pleasantries were exchanged, introductions made, questions asked about the journey. Sir Humphrey turned to Matthias.

‘So you are our new clerk? Good. The last one, Fitzwalter, died of a fever: he was old and doddery.’ Bearsden’s light blue eyes crinkled in pleasure. ‘You look neither. You are not only a member of this garrison but also my family. I am a widower,’ he continued. ‘Have been for years.’

‘Oh, don’t tell them your life story, Father!’

The voice was low but carried. Matthias glanced back towards the steps. The young woman coming down moved elegantly, hand clasping a blue samite dress so she wouldn’t trip. Matthias glimpsed a red clocked stocking and a well-turned ankle above the smart, brown-berry leather shoes.

‘My daughter, Rosamund.’ Bearsden must have seen Matthias stiffen. ‘It’s a lovely name,’ he laughed. ‘My wife wanted to call her Catherine but she was so small and pink, I thought of a rose bush, hence her name: “Rose of the World”.’

‘And it suits her,’ Matthias replied.

‘Why, sir, are you a flatterer?’

Rosamund nestled closer to her father, slipping her arm through his. She was small, petite, with pale creamy complexion, dark blue eyes, long eyelashes and rosebud mouth. She reminded Matthias of a little doll: her hair, dark brown, was covered by a white wimple which was held in place by a circlet of gold cord, a silver bracelet dangled from one wrist.

‘We have a courtier at last, Father.’ Her eyes opened wide.

Matthias changed his opinion. This was no demure maid; her eyes danced with mischief. Matthias realised she was studying him carefully to imitate him later. So he bowed stiffly as two more people joined them. The first was Malcolm Vattier, the burly, squat sergeant-at-arms of the castle. Square-faced, his red beard, moustache and hair closely cropped, Vattier looked fierce with a deep, purple scar running under his left eye. He was dressed in a leather jerkin, the sleeves cut off, which emphasised the muscular bulge of his arms and his thickset neck. The sword in his war belt looked as if it could fell an ox, yet Vattier moved quickly as a cat. He didn’t shake his hand but bowed and studied Matthias from head to toe, his light green eyes betraying no emotion.

‘You are a clerk?’ Vattier’s voice was slightly guttural.

‘So they say,’ Matthias replied.

‘Well, they are mistaken.’ Vattier suddenly stretched out one great hand and squeezed Matthias’ shoulder. ‘You are a swordsman, not an archer or a lancer, but a swordsman.’

‘How can you tell, Vattier?’ Rosamund quipped.

‘It’s in the eyes.’ Vattier let his hand fall and stepped back. ‘It’s in the eyes and the way he moves his head.’

Matthias felt embarrassed: he was only too pleased when Sir Humphrey introduced Father Hubert, the chaplain. He took an immediate liking to the small, cheery-faced friar with his lined face, kindly eyes, badly cropped hair: his chin and cheeks were clearly scarred by clumsy attempts to shave. The friar squeezed Matthias’ fingers, his soft, brown eyes twinkling with pleasure.

‘I’m glad you are here, Matthias,’ he said.

‘Come on, let’s eat,’ Sir Humphrey said.

He led the visitors and his own party across the bailey and into the hall. This was a long, barn-like room, the beams painted black, the walls above the wooden panelling of white plaster and lime-washed to keep away the flies. Bright cloths, banners and pennants gave the room some colour. The large windows on either side were open, the wooden shutters thrown back to allow the sunlight to stream through. The tables and benches beneath were cleaned and polished. The scrubbed stone floor had no matting or rushes. No dogs lounged about, only a hawk, a hood covering its face, moved up and down its perch, the jesses on its legs jingling like fairy chimes. Sir Humphrey took them up to the dais, shouting orders to the servants: these scurried in from the scullery behind the screens, bringing large platters of dried meat, cheese and honey.

Father Hubert said the grace and they sat down around the table. Matthias kept silent. Sir Humphrey and the rest now turned to Vane, asking him questions about the King, the recent civil war and the royal victory at East Stoke. Vane chattered back, apparently on good terms with Sir Humphrey and the others. Matthias kept his eyes down, concentrating on the food. When he glanced up, Rosamund was no longer staring at him but imitating the way he sat, morosely popping pieces of food into his mouth. He blushed, drained his tankard and said he wished to take some air.

Matthias went out and wandered round the inner bailey, finding out the small warren behind the hall; the well-kept herb gardens; the bakehouse and fleshing room. The castle seemed a well-ordered community. Matthias accepted this would be his life for at least three years and found he didn’t really care. After the turmoil of Oxford and Dublin, the frenetic and suspicious atmosphere of the Pretender’s court, Barnwick would be an attractive alternative.

But Matthias also wondered how long it would last. How long before the Rose Demon made its presence felt? He wandered the keep, going up a narrow, spiral, stone staircase; a gaunt, bleak place with stark rooms and narrow galleries. Servants and soldiers passed him by, some smiled, others looked curiously at this stranger. He heard Vane calling him below.

‘I’m glad you left,’ the master-of-arms explained when Matthias rejoined him. ‘It gave me a chance to describe who you were and why you had been elevated to this exalted position.’

‘Will they trust me?’ Matthias asked.

‘Oh, they’ll trust you! Look around, Matthias. Where can you go?’ Vane clapped him on the shoulder and drew him closer. ‘Matthias, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’m glad I met you. You were no trouble on our journey north. You are a good companion. I think you have many secrets but that’s your business. Let’s go back to the hall. Sir Humphrey is going to celebrate our arrival as well as my early departure tomorrow.’

Matthias found that he was soon accepted as one of the castle garrison. No one seemed really to care that he had fought against the King. As Vane, quite the worse for drink later in the day, commented: ‘Everyone has secrets whilst both myself and Sir Humphrey have fought for both York and Lancaster.’

Vane left the following morning. Matthias stood in the gatehouse and watched them go until he could glimpse nothing but a faint cloud of dust.

Sir Humphrey came looking for him. The previous evening Matthias had slept in the hall. The Constable now showed him quarters in the east tower of the great keep: two spacious chambers adjoining each other, one for sleeping, the other for working. Matthias was then taken on a quick tour of the castle. Sir Humphrey spoke in quick, clipped sentences. He explained the routine, the hours for meals, the time of morning Mass. What should be done on Sundays and Holy Days. How Matthias would be paid four times each year as well as receive fresh robes at Christmas and Easter.

Matthias soon settled down. The regular routine of the castle was soothing: up just before dawn, Mass, work, then they’d all assemble in the hall to break their fast. They’d eat again early in the afternoon and work until dusk. Matthias’ duties were varied. Sometimes he’d sit in his tall, high-backed chair crouching over a sloping desk, transcribing letters, documents and reports for Sir Humphrey. At other times he’d carry out inventories of the castle stores, provisions, arms, the muster rolls, the salaries, the profits of crops, the purchase of fodder for the stables. He also took care of manuscripts, making sure that the archives were kept in good order, the chests regularly washed and cleaned, that everything was arranged in chronological order and that proper returns were made at Michaelmas, Hilary, Easter and midsummer. Such duties were not onerous.

Matthias soon found Sir Humphrey asking his advice on this or that. Father Hubert also had proved himself to be a good friend. He’d question Matthias closely about his studies at Oxford, the treatment of manuscripts and gently ask favours, such as Matthias examining the chapel lectionary and missals and repairing their calfskin covers.

The rest of the garrison accepted him for what he was, a principal retainer to Sir Humphrey. Vattier, however, continued to watch him constantly. At first Matthias was rather wary, believing Vattier knew him from somewhere else. However, three weeks after his arrival, the man-at-arms leant across the supper table.

‘You would make a good swordsman, Matthias.’

Matthias held his unblinking gaze. ‘So you keep saying, Master Vattier.’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ the sergeant-at-arms replied, ‘you must prove me right.’

Matthias glanced along the table. Rosamund stared back, round-eyed, an impish glee in her eyes. He swallowed hard and returned to his food. That young woman was making him distinctly uncomfortable. Whenever they met, Matthias would catch her studying him intently. Sometimes he thought she was making fun of him but, now and again, he glimpsed a sad glance. Rosamund was kind enough. She brought some flowers for his chamber or arranged for pots of herbs to be placed in the small chancery. Sometimes she would come there, sit on the window seat, ask him a few questions then abruptly get up and leave. Matthias wondered if she was strange, slightly fey. Sir Humphrey openly adored her. Father Hubert called her strong-willed, ruthlessly determined but a very pious girl, a dutiful daughter.

‘She is strange, mind you,’ the priest commented one morning after Mass.

‘What do you mean?’ Matthias asked.

‘Well, she’s a charitable, kind-hearted girl. If anyone falls sick, she always offers help and sympathy but, Matthias. .’ the priest shook his head, ‘as for you, I don’t know.’

Matthias pushed away his trencher. He had now been three weeks in the castle. Sir Humphrey trusted him; Father Hubert did; Vattier seemed intent on making him a swordsman but had Rosamund glimpsed his true nature? For a moment Matthias felt a wild surge of rage at the forces which had brought him to this: a stranger amongst strangers, with little choice or control over his life.

The next morning, when the other soldiers came to exercise in the outer bailey, shooting at the butts or riding with lance at the quintain, Matthias strolled out to join them. Vattier’s ugly face cracked into a grin.

‘At last! At last!’

He threw Matthias a leather corselet and told him to pick up a rounded shield and blunted sword. The clerk did so. Immediately Vattier attacked, abrupt and sudden. For a while Matthias just held up his shield and lunged wildly back with his own sword. He felt like dropping both and running away but others were coming across to watch.

‘Calm down,’ Vattier whispered, grinning over his shield rim.

Matthias stepped back. Vattier lunged again. Matthias parried. Gradually, as if the clash of weapons were some eerie music and the fight a dance which he did not know but liked, Matthias settled down. He watched Vattier’s eyes, memorising his feints, thrusts and parries. He felt cold but, at the same time, enjoyed the violence. Vattier began to represent all the hate and enmity from his past. The sergeant-at-arms was now the gaoler from the Bocardo; Symonds smirking at him; Fitzgerald laughing and clapping him on the shoulder. He took great pleasure in the clash of sword, of steel clashing against steel. The laughter and raillery of the soldiers died away. Matthias fought clumsily but there were occasions when Vattier was wary. At last the sergeant-at-arms stood away, throwing his own sword on to the ground.

‘Enough for today,’ he said, then grinned at the soldiers. ‘I have won my wager, he is a swordsman!’

The men-at-arms and archers shuffled forward to hand over their well-earned pennies. They went away glowering. Vattier came up.

‘Matthias, you may not be a good horseman, a good singer, a good clerk or even a good man. You do, however, have the makings of a superb swordsman. Don’t ask me why, it’s just like dancing. Some can, some can’t, you can. Train every morning!’

Matthias did so. The savagery of the exercise yard made him relax and purged the evil humours in his blood. He enjoyed the competition, the rivalry. Vattier taught him all he could so Matthias could move quickly, either to disarm or strike a wounding or killing blow. By the beginning of September, when the weather was set to change and the gorse and grassland round the castle began to die, Matthias had won a name for himself.

‘You have a fury in you,’ Sir Humphrey declared as they sat at supper one night. ‘I can see that, Matthias.’ The Constable leant across and filled his wine cup. ‘But I wonder what it is?’

A few days later Matthias was in the castle chapel on the second storey of the great keep. He sat on the floor, his back to a pillar. Father Hubert had asked him to look at the binding of the Bible, perhaps persuade Sir Humphrey to have it re-covered. Matthias, however, was really studying the verses from Genesis which his father had written on that scrap of paper so many years ago.

‘A swordsman, a scholar and now a man of prayer.’

Rosamund had softly entered. She was staring down at him.

‘You mock too much, my lady.’ Matthias turned the pages. ‘And a jest, like a jug of wine, eventually runs out.’

‘Matthias the miserable.’

He glanced up. Red spots of anger were high in her cheeks.

‘Fitzosbert the Grim. Why are you so grim, Fitzosbert? Why do you walk around like a man burdened with all the cares of the world?’ Rosamund walked up and down in front of him.

Matthias laughed as he recognised a perfect parody of himself. She stopped her pacing.

‘So, there’s wine left in the jug yet, Matthias?’

Rosamund sat down opposite. She opened a small linen napkin and nibbled at some marzipan. Again she imitated him, popping the pieces into her mouth as Matthias did at table. She did it so solemnly, so accurately, that he bellowed with laughter. She glowered back.

‘Why do you bother me, my lady?’

‘I like you, Fitzosbert, I really do! I have never met a man I like so much as you, Matthias!’

His jaw dropped in amazement. He was used to tavern wenches, the directness of slatterns like Amasia. Rosamund gazed back.

‘I like you very, very much, Matthias,’ she repeated. ‘And all you can do is crouch like a dog with its tongue lolling.’ She popped more marzipan into her mouth. ‘And, before you think it, never mind say it, I’m not a wanton. I’m a maid, a virgo intacta. I am seventeen years of age. My hand has been asked in marriage five times. The last one was a knight who owned lands in Scarsdale. He was youngish, elegant and he walked like this.’

She got up and did a mincing walk up and down the chapel. Matthias smiled. She imitated the man in such detail: the slight swagger, the hand half-raised, fingers splayed. Matthias had seen fops and court gallants do the same and the look on her face, slightly deprecating, eyes half-closed, was accurate too. She stopped, bunched her skirts up and held herself slightly backwards.

‘He had the most incredible codpiece. I told Father he should marry one of our mares!’

Matthias couldn’t hold his laughter back. Rosamund crouched beside him, her face now serious. He went to grasp her hand, she knocked it aside, popped a piece of marzipan into his mouth, then punched him gently on the jaw.

‘Don’t say it, Matthias. Don’t say anything to me you don’t mean. Don’t go away thinking I’m some lady in a tower who dies to be free. I love my father. I love this castle. I love the wild countryside around. I have heard the songs of troubadours and I have listened to courtly praises. I’ve met men who want to play cat’s-cradle with me in some window seat or bower. It just makes me giggle. It’s good to see you smile. Now, open your mouth.’

Matthias obeyed, another piece of marzipan was put in.

‘So, don’t say anything,’ she whispered, ‘unless you mean it. I have liked you, Matthias, from the very moment I met you. I could say more but I won’t.’

And then she was gone. Matthias just sat dumbstruck. He wished she’d come back, he really did. For those few minutes, everything in the past seemed to have gone. He was just a young man, most fortunate in being teased by a lovely woman. She had said she liked him but Matthias had glimpsed the passion in her eyes. He realised how little he did know about women. He got to his feet, absent-mindedly put the Bible back on the altar and wandered out. Father Hubert passed him on the stairs.

‘Do you think it can be bound?’

‘Yes, it’s very nice, Father, isn’t it?’

The chaplain looked at him strangely. Matthias realised he hadn’t been listening to the question. He went on down, then wandered around the castle. He wanted to see Rosamund but there was no sign of her so he went and lay down on his bed, staring up at the roof beams as if he had never seen them before.

That night at supper Rosamund came down dressed in a dark green samite gown with lace fringes round the neck and cuffs. Her wimple was of pure white gauze. Matthias had never seen anyone so lovely. She sat eating moodily but, when she caught his eye, she winked slowly, followed by such a mischievous grin, Matthias wondered if she were just teasing him. His heart lurched. He couldn’t take that. He wanted to see her again. He wanted her to crouch before him. She could poke fun as long as she stayed. After supper, however, she rose quickly, the back of her hand against her forehead.

‘I feel a little hot and feverish,’ she whispered.

Sir Humphrey glanced at her.

‘But tomorrow,’ she cooed, ‘I’ll be better.’

Another slow wink for Matthias, the Devil’s own grin, and Lady Rosamund Bearsden swept from the hall.

Matthias did not sleep much that night. He could think of nothing but Rosamund, her beauty, her directness. On one occasion he felt a chill. Her name, Rosamundi: could the Rose Demon be here?

The next morning at Mass he felt guilty. Rosamund took the host as usual. Afterwards Matthias engaged in such a furious bout of sword fighting that Vattier threw his hands up in dismay and conceded defeat.

Matthias, covered in sweat, went back into the keep, up to his own chamber. The door was slightly ajar. His heart leapt in his throat. He pushed the door aside carefully.

‘No, it’s not her.’ Father Hubert was sitting on his bed. ‘Come on, Matthias.’ He gestured at the stool opposite. ‘Close the door and sit down.’

Matthias did so. ‘What do you want, Father?’

‘You’ve already told me. I said, “It’s not her” and you didn’t even bother to ask me who. I’m talking about our Rosamund.’

‘What about her?’

‘She loves you deeply, Matthias. I could tell that the first day we met. Didn’t you see her? She went pale.’ The priest leant closer, his face full of concern. ‘I’ve known her since she was. . well, since I baptised her. She can be a wilful minx, a tease, but she’s as honest as the day is long. She is a woman of absolute determination. If she sets her mind on something then it will happen. She has told me she loves you. She loves you deeply, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ He shook his head. ‘And she doesn’t know I am here. I always knew this would happen. Rosamund is not some summer butterfly. When she hates, she hates. When she fights, she fights. I have always said that if she loves, God help the man she chooses. Now, Matthias, you must not play with her affections. This is no “kiss me in the stable”, or some tumble in the straw. Do you understand me?’

Matthias, fighting hard to control the elation within him, nodded. Father Hubert looked down at the floor, stubbing it with the toe of his sandal.

‘You are a good man, Matthias, honourable and truthful.’ He glanced nervously towards the door. ‘But there are two other matters I have to tell you.’ He paused to choose his words. ‘You have heard about the legends of the north tower?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, they are not legends. That tower is haunted! Sir Humphrey keeps the door locked. On one occasion I did bless it but, I think, it will need more than a blessing to make reparation for the terrible evil committed there.’

‘Father, what has that got to do with me?’

‘Well, the tower has been quiet for a number of years, but recently there have been stirrings, faint noises; lights glimpsed through the windows.’

‘And?’

‘They occurred the first night you arrived here and have done so ever since.’

‘Why do you blame me, Father?’

‘Ah well, that brings me to the second matter!’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember, Matthias, a few days ago you were sitting in the small garden on the far side of the hall? A beautiful, sunny day. You had a piece of parchment over your lap, smoothing it down with a pumice stone. Well, I went into the hall. I was thirsty. I took a cup of buttermilk and went and stood by the window to ask if you wanted to share it.’

‘Of course, I remember!’

‘You were not alone,’ the priest said. ‘Matthias, believe me, I am not a fool. Since I was a child I have had second sight.’ He scratched his balding pate. ‘Sometimes I see things which … well, I’d prefer if I didn’t. A hooded person was sitting next to you. His cloak was black as night, the cowl pulled up. At first I thought it was someone from the garrison but, strange, I hadn’t seen him when I first came in, and why sit like that on a hot summer’s day? I stared at that figure. I couldn’t see any hands or face. I went cold with fear yet, at the same time, through the window, came this rich thick smell of roses. I have never smelt the like before. I put the buttermilk on the table. I was going to call out but, when I glanced up, the figure was gone.’

Matthias got to his feet. ‘I can’t answer that, Father. All I can say is that I try to be a good man.’ He went across to the door and turned. ‘But, if you want your answer regarding Rosamund, I love her as much as she does me.’

Matthias went down the steps, both elated and concerned at what the priest had told him. He went across to the small scriptorium where Sir Humphrey kept his keys, each neatly tagged on its hook. The key to the north tower was large and brassy. Matthias took this and hurried down. Thankfully, no one was about. Sir Humphrey had gone hawking; the soldiers were preparing for another day’s routine. Matthias entered the keep and unlocked the iron-studded door leading to the north tower. He pushed this open, went through, then locked it behind him. He stood for a moment staring up the spiral stone steps. He sniffed. Nothing but must and mildew. It was colder than the rest of the keep, perhaps because of its position, and that the windows were shuttered and barred. He climbed the steps, stopping at each level. The doors to the small chambers stood open. They were bare, gaunt and swept clean, not a stick of furniture. Matthias walked into one. He went across, pulled up the bar on a shutter and opened it. He stared out across the wild heathland beyond the castle walls. A party of horsemen rode there, Sir Humphrey’s favourite hawk soaring in the breezes above them. He closed the shutter.

‘Help me! Oh, please help me!’ A woman’s voice, low and pleading.

Matthias’ spine tingled. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Aidez-moi!’ The woman lapsed into Norman French. ‘Aidez-moi maintenant! Priez pour mon ame! Help me now! Pray for my soul!’

Matthias walked to the door.

‘Piss off, clerk!’ This time the voice was male, guttural. ‘Go away! Leave us alone! Why do you bring the seigneur here?’

Matthias stood in the entrance to the chamber. The door, half-open, swung as if to smash into him. He stepped sideways. The door abruptly stopped moving as if some invisible hand had gripped it. Matthias continued on down the stairs. It was now biting cold as on a harsh winter’s day. He refused to be cowed.

‘Plead for us!’ The woman’s voice was low, soothing. ‘Please, plead for us!’

Matthias glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and stared open-mouthed: a young woman’s face was forming in the wall as if some invisible sculptor were carving quickly. He glimpsed high cheekbones, parted lips, wide staring eyes and, beside it, another face, as if the plaster on the wall were bubbling under some tremendous heat. This second face was like that of a gargoyle, harsh and cruel, with pointed nose and slobbering lips. Matthias retreated down the steps. Despite a feeling of wild panic, he moved carefully. He sniffed. The stench was terrible, like that from an open coffin or a sewer full of putrid dirt. There was a sound behind him, he whirled round. A man stood there. His pasty white face, popping eyes and parted lips reminded Matthias of the face being formed on the wall. He was dressed like a priest in a black mantle from neck to toe. Matthias’ hand fell to his dagger. The man was coming towards him, not climbing the steps but gliding slowly.

‘Get ye gone!’

Matthias nipped his thigh. Was he asleep? In the space behind this awful figure which moved so slowly, so smoothly towards him, were others: Rahere the clerk, the Preacher, Santerre, Amasia, Fitzgerald but not Mairead. There were others, he couldn’t make out their faces: a host from Hell, their staring eyes full of blood. Matthias opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry, his tongue clove to the top of his mouth. Then suddenly he felt warm. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the stairway. The phantasms retreated and vanished like puffs of smoke swirling up into the air.