The Rose Demon

19

Matthias and Rosamund were betrothed within the week and, on 18 October, the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist, they were married in the castle chapel by Father Hubert. Matthias’ courtship had been impulsive and passionate. The deep love between the new clerk and the Constable’s daughter was the worst kept secret in the castle. Once Rosamund knew Matthias felt the same, she was too headstrong, too impulsive, too honest to assume the role of the coy, simpering maid. She just sat through every meal smiling at Matthias. He, in turn, stared rapturously back, much to the exasperation of Sir Humphrey and everyone else. Where Matthias went Rosamund followed. If she didn’t, he would go looking for her.

Matthias was frightened by his experiences in the north tower but, there again, or so he reasoned, he was growing accustomed to such manifestations. He was also ruthlessly determined not to let such phenomena interfere in his new-found happiness. And Matthias was happy; for the first time in his life, so he told a mystified Father Hubert, he knew what happiness really was. He confessed as much, quietly pointing out that happiness was thinking of the other and not about one’s self. Rosamund was, truly, all he could think about. She was like no one he had ever met, so honest, so direct, so lovely. When he was away from her, Matthias felt he was incomplete. For the first time since his traumatic childhood days, he felt reconciled, deeply at peace. If Rosamund was by his side then whom should he fear? He would go down to the gates of Hell and back. He was happy at Barnwick. He had proved himself to be a very good clerk. There were worse careers than promotion in the royal service. He said as much to Sir Humphrey when the Constable decided to confront him just before Michaelmas.

The Constable was anxious but secretly pleased with the match. He had taken close counsel with Father Hubert and they had both reached the same sensible conclusion. Rosamund, for the first and only time in her life, had fallen deeply in love. She was as smitten by Matthias as he by her. The Constable confessed that he knew little about this intelligent young clerk but what he did he liked.

‘If he leaves,’ Sir Humphrey confided, ‘Rosamund’s heart will break. I know her.’

The priest nodded solemnly. ‘More importantly, Sir Humphrey,’ Father Hubert replied, ‘we live in a castle, and two young people, their passions running hot. .?’

‘Better to marry than to burn,’ Sir Humphrey joked, quoting St Paul.

‘I can only report what I see,’ the old priest declared. ‘Sir Humphrey, I am well past three score years. I know the human soul. I have seen sin and virtue. Matthias Fitzosbert is a good man. He is mysterious but he is good. More importantly, he loves your daughter.’

Sir Humphrey had been convinced. So, when Matthias blurted out his passion, the Constable sat in his high-backed chair, listening carefully. He agreed, and glancing at his daughter’s face so radiant with happiness, he forced back the tears, for in that moment he remembered her mother and his own hot passion so many years ago.

After that meeting Matthias felt as if he were in Heaven. Every day seemed golden. He could only control his excitement and elation by hacking with his sword at poor Vattier or riding like a demon from hell across the heathland. His joy was shared by the entire garrison. Everyone wished him and his bride every happiness. Golden days, as Sir Humphrey had proclaimed: the weather was good, the harvest would be rich and the truce with the Scots seemed to be holding.

The wedding day itself was a glorious climax to this happiness. Matthias, in a jerkin and hose of dark murrey bought him by Vattier, and a white cambric shirt which was the gift of Father Hubert, met Rosamund at the chapel door. He swore his vows, gazing into her eyes, before leading her by the hand up to the two prie-dieus placed before the altar. After the nuptial Mass his bride was snatched away, Matthias was seized by the men of the garrison, led by Sir Humphrey, and taken to the hall where everyone drank deeply and, much to Father Hubert’s embarrassment, exchanged ribald stories and sly comments accompanied by nudges and winks.

In the evening a great banquet was held. Matthias and Rosamund sat at the high table, served by Sir Humphrey and Vattier. The rest of the garrison, men, women and children, thronged the tables below the dais and drowned out the poor musicians Sir Humphrey had hired specially from Carlisle. The evening wore on. Matthias made sure his wine was generously watered. He felt so happy he dare not turn and glance at Rosamund. Sometimes, as he watched the people laugh, joke and dance, or smelt the sweet odours from the kitchen and buttery, he thought he was having one of his dreams. Surely he would be punched, nipped or kicked awake and find himself lying in some squalid room or filthy cell.

Outside the sun began to set. Matthias wondered if it was time he and his bride left their guests to their pleasures, when the door to the hall was thrust open. Two soldiers came running in, faces white, eyes staring. They searched out Sir Humphrey, drawing him aside, whispering to him, gesturing towards the door. The laughter and talk died, the music subsided. Sir Humphrey, his face grave, came over to the high table.

‘Matthias, Vattier, Father Hubert, you’d best come with me! No, Rosamund, you stay. Look after the guests, tell them all is well.’

The Constable led his party out into the keep. Even as he followed, Matthias’ head cleared of the wine fumes. His happiness was tinged by dread. As soon as he entered the keep, he heard the cries and groans echoing along the gallery of the north tower. One of the soldiers took a pitch torch out of its iron holder, but he was trembling so much that Matthias grabbed it from him and led the rest of them on. Sir Humphrey swore under his breath. Father Hubert began chanting a prayer. The stone passageway was icy cold, filled with the rottenness of decay yet it was the shrieks and cries behind the locked door to the north tower which chilled their blood.

‘It began about an hour ago,’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘At first I thought it was some joke. Listen now!’

They all did. The groans and screams stopped.

‘Oh Lord save us!’

Father Hubert grasped Matthias’ arm and pointed to the bottom of the door. A ghostly blue light glowed there.

Matthias went to grasp the latch but Sir Humphrey knocked him away. As he did so a woman’s voice could be heard.

‘Oh please, oh in God’s name, no! Oh please stop!’

This was followed by the sound of scraping and hammering, as if someone were building something behind the door. Again the woman’s voice, her heart-wrenching pleas for mercy, echoed out. This turned into deep-bellied laughter of someone who had grown witless, or like a mad dog howling at the moon. This devilish chorus — the woman’s pleas, the mocking laughter — grew, interspersed with periods of silence. By straining his ears Matthias could hear the man talking, muttering to himself, filthy curses, vows of vengeance. The gallery was now so cold, Father Hubert was rubbing his arms trying to keep warm. One of the soldiers, unable to bear the tension, simply fled the keep.

‘Let me go in,’ Matthias said.

Sir Humphrey held him back.

‘You are my son-in-law,’ he smiled bleakly. ‘Not now, Matthias, not on this, your wedding night-’

‘This has happened before,’ Father Hubert broke in. He glanced at Matthias. ‘It will happen again. It can wait!’

Matthias agreed. The light under the door vanished. There was silence from the stairwell beyond so they turned and left the keep.

When they returned to the hall, Matthias refused to tell Rosamund what had happened. Instead he went round his guests, filling their wine cups, trying to forget what he had witnessed. He drank a little himself, and the wine settled his stomach and soothed his mind.

A trumpeter amongst the musicians blew long melodious blasts on his horn, then Matthias and Rosamund were led from the hall up to their nuptial bed in Rosamund’s chamber beside the solar. The sheets on the new four-poster bed had been turned back, the bolsters piled high. The guests drank one last toast to the bride and groom and left.

Matthias and Rosamund sat on the edge of the bed. Matthias put his hand gently round her waist and pulled her closer. He whispered softly in her ear, tickling her face with the tip of his tongue. She laughed and turned away, pulling at the laces on her white satin dress. Matthias grasped her fiercely and they fell back on the bed.

For the next few days the wedding revelry continued. Matthias and Rosamund lived in their own dreamlike world. They had married on a Monday and Sir Humphrey declared the rest of the week a holiday. The newly wedded couple were left alone, allowed to wander the castle by themselves or, better still, take horses from the stable and ride recklessly over the heathland. Sometimes they filled the saddlebag with bread, cheese and other food wrapped in linen cloths, took a wineskin and rode out to some lonely copse where they could sit and talk or lie quietly in the grass, arms around each other.

On the Sunday, Matthias took Rosamund down to the wall, the ruins where he and Vane had sheltered the night before they had arrived at Barnwick. There was no sign of the old hermit Pender. Matthias, remembering what he had been told, searched the ruins carefully. At last, he found what he was looking for, a carving above a hearth: a man dressed in a cloak standing on a rose in full bloom. Beneath the rose were the strange marks or runes such as he had seen in the deserted church at Tenebral.

‘What is it, love?’ Rosamund came shyly beside him, slipping her hand through his. She saw how pale her husband’s face had become. ‘Matthias, what is it?’

Matthias ran his fingers over the carving. Rosamund tugged at his arm.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert!’

‘Yes, Rosamund Fitzosbert!’

‘What is it?’ Her sweet eyes held his. ‘Matthias, I am no fool, I know you have a secret. Father Hubert knows. I am confident it’s nothing evil, nothing wicked.’ She grasped his face between her hands. ‘The haunting in the north tower? Father Hubert told me about it. I know that it has increased since you arrived. When you came, you were Matthias the Miserable.’ She grinned. ‘Fitzosbert the Grim. Now you leap for happiness like a child into its mother’s arms. What is it, Matthias? Why did you bring me down to the wall? Yes, it’s beautiful. The autumn sun is still strong, the ground is firm but, for the last hour, you have searched like a miser who has hidden a bag of gold but can’t remember where he has put it. Yet, now you’ve found it, your face is pallid.’ She moved her hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘What is it, Matthias Fitzosbert? What passion drives you?’ Her hand fell away. ‘You sleep deeply but you talk and you mutter about men called Rahere, Santerre.’ She blinked furiously. ‘And a woman called Mairead. Was I wrong, Matthias Fitzosbert?’

‘Wrong in what?’ he asked.

‘I’ll never stop loving you,’ she continued. ‘The fires of Hell can freeze and the world will crack before Rosamund stops loving Matthias.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘But do you love me, Matthias? Love me enough to tell me your great secret?’

Matthias kissed her on the brow. ‘We have some bread and some wine,’ he murmured. He took his cloak and placed it on the ground. ‘Sit and listen, Rosamund.’

He ensured the horses were hobbled, took off the saddlebag and returned. She was kneeling, sitting back on her heels. Matthias laid out the cloth, filled the two pewter cups, then sat beside her, his back to the wall. He stared up at a white cloud the size of a man’s hand.

‘I have told you something about my life,’ he began, ‘but there is something else. So, listen carefully.’ He paused. ‘And then you’ll realise why I am Fitzosbert the Grim.’

Matthias talked for over an hour. As he did so, the cloud, no bigger than his fists, filled out across the sky. Rosamund never interrupted. Sometimes Matthias would pause, drink some wine or just close his eyes to reflect. He tried to tell her everything. Sometimes the account raised fears in his own soul. Once he did glance at Rosamund’s face. He was alarmed to see how the colour had drained, her eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted. When he finished, the silence grew oppressive. Rosamund hardly moved.

‘Now you know why Fitzosbert is the Grim,’ Matthias joked.

‘Did you ever think I housed this being?’ Rosamund arranged the folds of her dress. ‘Whatever he, whatever it is, Matthias, he loves you: that’s why Santerre died. He was trying, in his own way, to show how much you meant to him. It’s true isn’t it?’ she continued in a rush. ‘And what better way than to possess my mind, my soul?’

‘As God is my witness,’ Matthias whispered, ‘your name disturbed me but never once. .’

‘Why not?’ Rosamund snapped.

‘I’m not really sure,’ Matthias replied. ‘But the Demon can only enter where there’s a pathway in. Some moral, some spiritual weakness like an enemy forcing its way through a gap in a castle wall. You have no weakness, Rosamund. You are pure as candlelight and burn as strongly. Secondly, the little I do know, the little I have discovered, is that it would not be acceptable. The Rose Demon wants me to accept him, a free act of will, a final decision. He will not force me.’

‘But isn’t that what he’s doing?’ Rosamund faced him squarely. ‘He pursues you, he is forcing you to accept him.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Matthias replied. ‘I freely accepted the friendship with the hermit and that of Rahere.’

‘You were only a child!’

‘Children make choices, Rosamund. Imperfect, mistaken but they are still choices. The same is true later on. I chose Baron Sanguis’ patronage. I chose to go to Oxford. I chose Santerre as my friend. I chose to alienate Rokesby. I accepted Symonds’ help. I stayed with the rebels.’ Matthias spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Yes, at times I feel my life is not my own. But is anybody’s? Would you have been different, Rosamund, if your mother had lived?’ he asked. ‘And, you forget, if what has happened had not happened to me, how would we have ever met? Once you begin to unravel the past nothing remains.’ He got to his feet. ‘How do I know?’ he continued. ‘What might have happened to me without the Demon? Would I have spent my days as the bastard son of a village parson, digging the soil, worrying about the price of corn, or a leak in my thatched roof? True, I blame the Rose Demon for the evil in my life. A theologian might argue that he is also the author of my good fortune.’

‘Does that include me?’ Rosamund moved a tendril of hair from her face.

‘No, it doesn’t, that’s my point. I have made choices, Rosamund. I married you because I love you, not because of any invisible force or lord of the air. I just love you. You are the beginning and the end of my life.’ He crouched down beside her. ‘And you?’

‘If I did not love you, Matthias, if I did not trust you completely,’ her eyes held his, ‘I would say you were a madcap, witless, yet I have seen the pain. I can see the shadows in your eyes.’ She grasped his hand. ‘And I tell you this, Fitzosbert the Grim. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor height nor breadth, no power on earth or beyond will ever stop me loving you.’ She touched his lips. ‘I believe what Father Hubert says, what you say. Every person born on this earth has their own demon to fight. And you are right: it is a matter of the will — some give in, some don’t. Whatever comes, Matthias,’ her nails dug into his hands, ‘I will be with you!’

‘You must keep it a secret,’ Matthias whispered, folding her into his arms. ‘No one must know. To you I can speak the truth, others will not understand.’

Matthias gazed up at the sky. The clouds were massing to block out the sun. Shadows crossed the ruin. The breeze had turned chill. Somewhere a bird called low and haunting as nature mourned the passing of the year. Matthias pressed Rosamund fiercely to him. One thought had occurred, one he dare not share with her. He was being watched by that Dark Lord, that Duke of Hell, the Rose Demon, so what would happen now? Would the demon resent Rosamund? And, before he could stop it, Matthias began to pray, not to God — only halfway through did he stop in shock — he was praying to the Rose Demon! He was begging that invisible being not to lay his hand, or turn his power, against this, the love of his life. He recalled Parson Osbert and intoned the prayer, whispering, ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’

Rosamund pushed him away.

‘Do you pray often, Matthias? I mean, we all sketch the sign of the cross, babble our Paternosters or Ave Marias. We stick our tongues out and take the Eucharist but do you really ever pray?’

Matthias glanced down. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘God forgive me, Rosamund, I don’t. I pray as you say. I also become full of self-pity, and yet is my lot any worse than anyone else’s? The thousands of Oxford’s troops slaughtered on the banks of the Trent? Or Mairead, probably ravished before her throat was cut? Or Amasia, who probably died in some hapless accident? Or Agatha, who danced so well?’ He lifted Rosamund to her feet. ‘Or the poor ones, the little people of the soil, slaughtered and exploited in their thousands by the great barons?’ He gripped her hands. ‘Aristotle said nature is where the strong survive, the weak are helpless. I often wonder why God doesn’t intervene. We might believe in him but does He really believe in us?’

‘I pray.’ Rosamund’s answer was direct. ‘I pray and I mean it. God does intervene.’ She fought back her tears. ‘If there wasn’t a God, I wouldn’t have met you.’

Matthias found he could not answer that. He crouched down and neatly folded the pieces of linen which had held their food.

‘We must go,’ he muttered. ‘The weather is changing.’

Rosamund went behind him, putting her hands over his eyes.

‘I’ll never change,’ she whispered. ‘Remember that, Fitzosbert the Grim. I shall pray for both of us.’

They returned to the castle. Matthias felt himself purged, shriven, absolved. He had told Rosamund the truth and recognised she loved him all the more for that. Never once in the succeeding days did she refer to his story again but became more determined to build her life around him. Sir Humphrey, the ever-doting father, talked of extending the hall, of constructing special quarters for Rosamund and her husband.

Matthias, once the week of celebration was over, returned to his duties. There was parchment to prepare, skins to be treated, quills to be fashioned, ink to make. Accounts and letters had to be drawn up, stores checked. The change in the weather made itself felt: heavy, lowering clouds; biting winds. Sir Humphrey declared the castle well provisioned, the truce against the Scots was holding and life went on as before.

‘Indeed,’ the Constable announced, ‘we will celebrate All-Hallows and, in a few weeks when Advent comes, we must collect the holly and ivy. This Christmas,’ he declared, ‘will be one to remember.’

Matthias, sitting at his desk, tensed. He had always been wary of the feast of All-Hallows. In his youth he had, on that date, kept well away from others, greatly relieved when All-Hallows Eve, that dreadful anniversary of what had happened at Sutton Courteny, had come and gone.

On the day in question he woke tense and stiff, finding it difficult to concentrate. He was so abrupt and evasive that Sir Humphrey looked askance whilst Father Hubert wondered if he was coming down with a fever. Only Rosamund, sitting next to him at table, remained quiet and, when she could, gently stroked the back of his hand.

‘It’s just the change in the weather,’ he murmured.

‘Unless, dear Matthias,’ she replied, ‘you’re already sickening of the marriage state!’

He tried to joke back yet, for the rest of that day, he could not shake off a sense of foreboding, of quiet menace. He did not join the rest for supper in the hall but retired to his own chamber. He lit a candle beneath the crucifix which hung on the wall and, kneeling on the small prie-dieu beneath it, prayed for God’s protection, and that He’d bring those who had died at Sutton Courteny so many years ago to a place of peace and light. He lay down on the bed, pretending to leaf through a Book of Hours, studying the fine cursive script and jewel-like pictures. He was not surprised when, after a while, he heard a distant clamour, shouts of alarm, followed by pounding footsteps on the stairs outside. Vattier, still wearing his conical helmet and dressed in leather brigandine as captain of the night watch, burst into the room.

‘Master Matthias, you’d best come! Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert are outside the north tower!’

Matthias put his boots on and followed the sergeant-at-arms. The bailey was pitch-dark, lit only by cresset torches, which flickered and danced where they had been placed away from the biting night breeze. Soldiers had gathered at the foot of the steps. Vattier pushed through these, ignoring their murmuring, and led Matthias up into the gallery. At first the silence was so intense Matthias thought there had been some misunderstanding. Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert were sitting in a window embrasure. The lighted candle Sir Humphrey held in his hand made their faces look drawn and grey. Matthias looked towards the door leading to the north tower. He felt the cold but could see no light or detect any vile odour, nor any of the usual manifestations associated with this haunting. He was about to ask why they had brought him, when the most heart-rending screams came from the tower. These were followed by a man singing. At first Matthias thought it was the chanting of a monk until it turned into a loud, foulsome ranting, a macabre mimicking of the Divine Office: curses, foul epithets, obscene remarks.

‘It started within the hour,’ Father Hubert whispered. ‘I really do think I should go in.’

Matthias shook his head. ‘No, Father, I will.’ He smiled down at both of them. ‘Vattier can guard the door. Now is not my wedding night.’

‘In which case. .’ Father Hubert got to his feet. He brought from beneath his cloak a small, silver pyx which contained the consecrated host. It shimmered and glittered in the candlelight. Without asking, he thrust this into a small pocket inside the lining of Matthias’ jerkin. He also took the small, wooden cross he wore round his neck and looped the rough cord over Matthias’ head. ‘These will protect you,’ he whispered.

Matthias blessed himself and walked down the gallery. Vattier came with him. The sergeant-at-arms carried a torch. When they reached the door he thrust this into Matthias’ hand. Vattier’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, like a man sick with the fever.

‘Against sword and buckler,’ he whispered, ‘I have no fear. But, in God’s name, Master Matthias, what is this?’

‘I don’t know.’ Matthias’ reply was clipped. ‘But lock the door behind me. Only open it at my command.’

Vattier turned the key in the lock, the door swung open. Matthias stepped into the small alcove. He lifted the torch and saw the stairs twisting away up into the darkness. It was bitterly cold but he could detect nothing else. He walked up the stairs, carefully reciting a prayer. He reached the first gallery and stepped into the deserted room as he had done before. This time the door slammed quickly behind him. Matthias spun round.

‘In God’s name, who are you?’ he called.

‘In God’s name, who are you?’ The reply was low and mocking. ‘How dare you interfere in my pleasures?’

‘No pleasure!’

This time it was a woman’s voice, low and tired. Matthias lifted the torch. He could see nothing though he felt a presence, a feeling of sadness, of quiet despair.

‘I speak to the woman,’ he called out. ‘Who are you?’

‘Maude. My name is Maude.’

‘And why are you here?’

‘Tied here. Tied by sin. Unforgiven. No atonement. No reparation.’

‘Maude who?’ Matthias decided it was best if he talked as he would to strangers, not dwell upon the evil, sinister atmosphere.

‘Maude Beauchamp.’

‘Why are you held here?’

‘I committed a terrible sin. Unfaithful, led to murder. Imprisoned in darkness.’

‘And can you leave?’

‘In time, yes, when reparation is done. I’d love to continue my journey.’

‘Where to?’ Matthias asked.

‘Out of the darkness. Sometimes I can see the light, just a pinprick, like a star in the sky-’

‘She’s frightened of you, you whoreson bastard!’ the man’s voice interrupted, harsh, malicious. Matthias caught a hint of fear.

‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Matthias retorted quickly.

He felt something rush at him out of the darkness. He was pushed, staggering back against the wall, almost dropping the torch. Matthias gasped for breath even as the man’s voice screamed.

‘I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! I am sorry.’ The voice was now wheedling, importunate.

‘Then why are you frightened?’ Matthias gasped.

‘Oh, Matthias. Creatura.’ The man’s voice was still wheedling.

‘Why do you call me that?’

Matthias stood staring into the darkness. He heard a gasp, like a dog which had run far and fast and was now lolling, mouth open, jaws slavering. The sound made his flesh creep.

‘You know why.’ The man’s voice was soft. ‘You carry something sacred but I cannot name that-’

‘Oh, please help me!’ the woman’s voice cut across.

‘She’s frightened of you.’ The man’s voice rose as if to drown the woman’s. ‘She knows about the Dark Lord. She’s frightened that she will be hurt even more.’

‘What must I do?’ Matthias asked.

‘Piss off, just piss off!’

‘Masses, prayers.’ The woman’s voice came as a whisper.

Matthias stood for a while but no other voices came. The room grew warm as if braziers had been wheeled in, full of burning charcoal.

‘Matthias! Matthias!’ Vattier’s voice echoed up the steps. ‘Matthias, are you all right?’

Matthias went out of the chamber and down the steps. Vattier stood in the doorway, sword drawn. Matthias pushed him outside and slammed the door shut. He walked back to the priest and handed over the crucifix and pyx. Even as he did so, the murmuring and the clattering from the north tower began again.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Matthias declared, ‘at least for the moment. But in two days’ time it will be the Feast of All Souls. Yes?’

Father Hubert nodded.

‘The day the Church specially sets aside to pray for the dead. We’ll come back then, Father. You and I in the evening, after sunset. We’ll offer a Mass for the repose of the soul of Maude Beauchamp.’