The Rose Demon

23

At Lanercost Priory outside Carlisle, the chronicler transcribing local events during the second half of the year of Our Lord 1488 was as mystified as anyone by the strange stories brought by travellers, journeymen and packmen when they stayed in the guest house on the far side of Lanercost church. Brother Simon, the chronicler, avid for information, greedy for scandal and gossip, scratched his balding head and would spend a long time, pen poised, wondering how to record such mysterious events. True, Barnwick Castle had been destroyed in a Scottish raid in the winter of that year: the keep had been fired, the gatehouse demolished, any wooden building burnt to the ground whilst parts of the wall were brought to terrible ruin by the Scots marauders. The Warden of the Scottish march, too fearful of what might be happening in Scotland, left the place neglected. The castle became the haunt of ravens, owls, foxes, badgers and other wild animals which roamed the desolate heathland between Scotland and England.

Occasionally some traveller would stay there, taking shelter amongst the ruins, lighting a fire, cooking food and sleeping till dawn. However, they all felt that they were not alone. They would talk of footfalls in the darkness, the sound of someone moving around them. Of a dark shape or a figure glimpsed briefly in bright moonlight. In the morning the travellers would be only too willing to leave. Brother Simon listened to their stories and wove an embroidered tale of the ruins being haunted by a coven of ghosts.

Such stories helped Matthias. He had reached Barnwick early in August 1488, having successfully eluded Scottish patrols. He slipped over the border and, on one golden-filled summer day, arrived back at Barnwick. He had changed during those weeks since he’d fled the battle at Sauchieburn. He had been hunted by men and dogs. He knew, from the small villages and hamlets he passed through, that huge rewards had been posted for an Englishman, a devilish traitor, responsible for stabbing the Lord’s anointed, King James III, as well as the cowardly murder of Lord George Douglas. The latter, according to common report, had been ‘hurrying to help his king when a mysterious bowman, no less a person than the Englishman Matthias Fitzosbert, had sent a longbow shaft deep into Douglas’ neck, killing him instantly’. Matthias, disguised, his hair long and straggly, half his face covered by a moustache and beard, had secretly rejoiced at the news. He was innocent of spilling any royal blood but pleased that Lord George Douglas, who had shattered his own life, had, at last, received his just reward.

Matthias had not immediately fled to the border: that would have been a mistake. Instead, he had ridden to and fro across Scotland, lying low until the hunt died down and the Scottish Council became more concerned about who would control the young King rather than the death of his feckless father and a Douglas laird. Matthias had eventually crossed the Tweed, striking south-east, following the rugged Northumbrian coast before turning west. He was well armed and the horse he rode was a sturdy garron.

Now and again he’d stop to do some work on a farm or in a village where he would obtain free food or a few coins. He did not know what to do or where to go. He knew he should visit Barnwick, but after that? Matthias considered the problem many a lonely night and found he really didn’t care. Something had died in him. He was ruthless, determined not to become the cat’s-paw of any man, yet on that August afternoon when the ruined towers of Barnwick came into sight, Matthias sat stock-still in the saddle and cried for what might have been.

He rode on. The moat had been filled in with bricks, rocks and boulders from the ruined walls. The gatehouse was shattered. Local farmers and peasants had already plundered the ruins for stones and wood for their own barns and granges. Steel and iron from the portcullis had long been stripped. The outhouses in the castle baileys had simply vanished. The keep still stood but the north tower was a pile of shattered masonry. Of the hall, parlour and solar, only blackened timbers remained.

Some of the soldiers’ quarters, built into the small towers along the inner wall, were still usable. Matthias stabled his horse in one of them. He collected fodder, drew water from the well and made himself at home. He snared rabbits in the warren and, armed with bow and arrow, went out on the heathland to shoot quail and pheasant.

For the first two days Matthias found it impossible to go to the cemetery. When he did, he was astonished to discover that the grave had been carefully tended: the tumulus of soil neatly raked and weeded. The cross still stood secure and, at the other end of the grave, a small rose bush grew. The flowers, small and delicate, were white as snow. Matthias knelt down. He must have stayed for hours quietly sobbing. When he had finished, he lay down on his back staring up at the sky watching the day die. He poured his heart out, as if Rosamund were still alive, lying in his arms beside him. He told her about Scotland, about its mad king whose dreadful death he had witnessed; the intervention of the Rose Demon and his own long desperate flight to the border. When the wind stirred he caught the sweet smell of the roses and, on one occasion, just before he drifted into sleep, the faint fragrance of his dead wife’s perfume.

After that Matthias decided to stay at Barnwick: the grim life of a hermit had its own rewards. He was free of any responsibilities, of any duties. He had no one to care for but, there again, no one to bother him. He revelled in the silence and resented any intruders. Even when the weather changed, the winds turning harsh and the snow lying thick over the castle ruins, Matthias wouldn’t have exchanged it for the warmest, most luxurious of chambers in some royal palace.

Matthias spent some of his day hunting for food. Now and again, though very rarely, he would travel to one of the outlying farms or villages to beg, buy or work for bread, flour and other necessities. After a while he became accepted for what he claimed to be: a hermit, supposedly a man of God, though never once did he pray. He tended Rosamund’s grave and, when spring came, built a small mausoleum, using bricks and other materials he found in the castle. No one ever approached him and there were no mysterious phenomena. Matthias rejoiced. He had forgotten the world and perhaps the world had forgotten him? The local farmers told him, with some relish, how the stories were spreading that Barnwick was haunted. Matthias smiled grimly and did his best to encourage such local legends and lore.

Barnwick became a place most people avoided. One spring afternoon, however, Matthias was unexpectedly aroused from his afternoon slumber by terrible screams from the far side of the castle. He rose quickly, strapped on his war belt, took his crossbow and bolts and went to investigate. He crossed the inner bailey and peered through a gap in the wall to where the gatehouse had been. At first he couldn’t make out what was happening. Four men, dressed in a motley collection of rags and leather, guarded their captives. Two children lay on the ground, their hands and feet bound. Matthias couldn’t distinguish whether they were boys or girls. The three other prisoners were adults: the man had been stripped, his hands and feet bound and now he was being hoisted on a rope over a timber. A small fire had been lit beneath his feet. The two others, naked as they were born, were women. One was middle-aged, the other a young lass, probably sixteen or seventeen summers old. The women, pricked with daggers, were being made to dance whilst the children sobbed and the man screamed a mixture of pain and defiance.

Matthias studied the scene carefully. There were about six horses and two sumpter ponies. He realised that some merchant’s party, foolishly travelling by themselves, had been attacked by outlaws. The victorious wolf’s-heads were now intent on enjoying their ill-gotten gains. Matthias wondered whether he should intervene. But why should he? The moor-lands were haunted by outlaws, men who feared neither God nor man. Matthias did not wish to incur their enmity. Then a wolf’s-head went over and kicked one of the children lying on the ground. Matthias could stand no more. He slipped a bolt into the groove of his arbalest and walked out of his hiding-place. An outlaw caught sight of him and waved drunkenly. They were all the worse for drink.

‘It’s the hermit!’ another shouted. He lumbered forward, his cruel, unshaven face flushed with wine. ‘We caught them out on the moors, sitting there, feasting themselves.’

‘Christ Jesus, help us!’ The man hoisted on the beam stared beseechingly at Matthias. He was young, his beard and moustache finely trimmed but his face was grey with exhaustion and fear, his eyes almost starting out of his head. The two women clung to each other whilst the pathetic bundles on the grass just sobbed and moaned.

The outlaws did not regard Matthias as a threat.

‘There’s enough for five.’ One of the outlaws gestured to the pile of clothes, the bundles, saddlebags and sumpter ponies. ‘What we’ll do,’ he continued, ‘is have our pleasure and then,’ he pointed to the children, ‘they can be taken to one of the western ports and sold. The horses are good stock.’

Matthias studied the outlaws. One was old and grizzled but the others were young and vicious. They reminded Matthias of a group of stoats closing for the kill. None of them could stand upright. They had drunk much and, so secure in this desolate place, believed they could take their time over this villainy. Matthias felt ashamed that they should regard him as one of them.

‘Come on!’ the outlaw leader urged. ‘There’s enough for you!’

The older woman broke free, her long, jet-black hair falling down her back. She ran and grasped Matthias’ leg and stared beseechingly up at him.

‘Help us!’ she pleaded.

Matthias glanced away. The woman’s fingers dug deep into his thigh.

‘For the love of the Good Lord,’ she begged, ‘have pity!’

Matthias shook her away. ‘There are four of them and one of me.’

He smiled wolfishly at the outlaw leader, who was growing wary of this tall, silent hermit, the crossbow he carried and the great war belt strapped round his waist.

‘She asks for pity,’ Matthias mocked. ‘What is that? I’ll go and get my cup and join you.’

He turned his back. As he did so, he brought back the cord of the crossbow, looping it over the catch. The outlaws guffawed at the woman’s screams. They were still laughing when Matthias spun round: the crossbow bolt took the outlaw leader in the side of the head, digging deep into his skull, and then, sword and dagger drawn, Matthias was amongst them. They were so drunk, so taken by surprise that Matthias easily despatched two of them: the last was more agile, his cold, hard eyes and long nasty face more wary. Matthias and he circled each other. The male prisoner screamed in agony at the flames, which now licked the soles of his feet. Matthias shouted at the woman to kick the fire away: as he did so, the outlaw closed. Matthias swerved, the dagger skimmed his ear. Again they parted, continuing to circle in a half-crouch.

‘Why?’ the outlaw hissed.

‘I changed my mind,’ Matthias taunted.

The outlaw came in a rush. Matthias stepped aside: he caught the man deep, just beneath the rib cage, withdrew his sword and watched as the outlaw slumped to his knees, screaming at the terrible rent in his side. Matthias came behind. Dropping his dagger, he grasped the hilt of his sword and, with two hands, took the outlaw’s head in one cutting slice. Around him the young woman was screaming; the two children sobbed uncontrollably, their faces buried deep in the dirt as they tried to hide from any sight or sound of what was happening.

Matthias cut the captured man down: he was bruised, still terrified, the soles of his feet were slightly scorched but otherwise he’d suffered no serious injuries. Matthias then moved to the children, a young boy and girl. He cut their bonds and gently stroked their hair. He calmed them, assuring them that all was well and that he intended no injury. He went round the outlaws. Three were dead, one was grievously wounded. Matthias cut his throat and dragged all four corpses out of sight. The women had seized their clothing and gone elsewhere. The man, still acting like a dream-walker, had to be dressed by Matthias: he then sat on the ground, one arm round each of his children. The women returned. Matthias used some of the wine to bathe their bruises and cuts. As darkness fell, he cooked food and made them all drink deeply of the wine.

A full day passed before they began to recover from their shock, the mother first. She gathered her family together, talking to them softly, reaffirming Matthias’ assurances. Every so often she would grasp Matthias’ fingers and squeeze them.

‘My husband is a merchant,’ she whispered. ‘We were on a pilgrimage to York.’ Her face now looked comely, her hair tied decorously back. ‘We slept in one morning. We became separated from our party and then stopped to eat. The outlaws struck.’

Matthias gently stroked her cheek. ‘Did the outlaws harm you or your daughter?’

‘No, they found the wine. They were evil!’ She spat the words out. ‘Demons from hell!’

Matthias nodded and walked away. He knew about demons.

Two days passed. The man introduced himself as Gilbert Sempringham, a prosperous clothier.

‘I did a stupid thing,’ he confessed. ‘I thought it was safe.’

‘It is,’ Matthias reassured him. ‘You were just unlucky. Never ever do it again. Never leave the roads, never go on to the moors.’

At last the Sempringhams recovered from their shock. The children first, so absorbed in the present, they viewed the outlaws’ attack as a horrid nightmare to be quickly forgotten. Sempringham’s wife, Margaret, was a calm, common sense woman. Elizabeth, the daughter, comely, rather shy, spent most of the time gazing adoringly at Matthias as if he were some gallant knight errant clothed in silver armour rather than a wild-haired hermit. Matthias enjoyed their company. Then Master Gilbert said it was time they should leave, and would Matthias accompany them back to the nearest village? He quickly agreed. The fear and terror in young Elizabeth’s eyes at the prospect of the family being alone again and the beseeching look Mistress Margaret gave him could not be resisted.

‘What do we do with the outlaws’ corpses?’ the merchant asked. The corpses still lay where they had fallen.

‘They lived Godless. They died Godless,’ Matthias retorted. ‘Let them lie Godless!’

He led the Sempringhams out of Barnwick and on to the road to the nearest village. Again Master Gilbert importuned Matthias to stay with them and he agreed. The following morning he arranged for the family to join another party of merchants making their way south to York. When he said he’d go no further, the Sempringhams, their eyes filled with tears, gathered round him in the small cobbled yard of the tavern where they had stayed the night.

‘I’d best leave you now,’ he said.

Mistress Margaret caught at his hand. ‘I have talked to the landlord. He says there’s a hermit out at Barnwick. It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

Master Sempringham pushed a bag of silver into his hands.

‘No,’ he warned as Matthias made to refuse. ‘After what you have done, sir, it would be a grave insult. Please.’

‘What is your name?’ Elizabeth asked.

Matthias stared across at the tavern sign: the Two Brothers.

‘My name is Cain,’ he replied. He stared at these people, so homely, leading ordinary lives, deeply attached to each other. ‘I am cursed by God,’ he continued. ‘I bear His mark.’

‘Surely not?’ Mistress Margaret put her arms round his neck and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him on each cheek. ‘God will reward you,’ she whispered. ‘And we will never forget.’

Matthias made his farewells, collected his horse and rode out across the moorland. A slight mist was creeping in. He dismounted and stood stroking the muzzle of his horse, half-listening to the shriek of a curlew. He did not want to go back to Barnwick. Rosamund’s small tomb was built and the outlaw attack had shattered his peace. Others from the gang might come and they would certainly seek vengeance. Moreover, Matthias had enjoyed the company of the Sempringhams. He should rejoin the world of men, but go where? What should he do? He stared at the leather bag hanging on his saddle horn. He had weapons and a few pathetic possessions. He’d ride south, perhaps visit London.

Matthias travelled south. He kept well away from the main trackways and paths. The journey was an uneventful one. He reached Colchester ten days later, where he stayed at the Golden Fleece tavern and hired a barber to shave his face and cut his hair, closely cropped like that of a soldier. He bought new clothes in the marketplace — sober, dull attire — and then continued his journey. Two days later he arrived at St Giles, Cripplegate, and entered London.

At first Matthias found it difficult. So many people of different sorts: madcaps, beggars, white-eyed Abraham men dancing their mad jigs along the streets. Merchants and lawyers in their wool and samite robes. The gaudily decked whores, the courtiers in their taffeta; the city toughs and bravos with their tight hose and protuberant codpieces. These walked narrow-eyed, fingers constantly tapping the hilt of their swords or daggers. The streets were dirty and packed. People moved in shoals round the stalls, which sold everything from Spanish herbs to cloths from Bruges. Fights broke out. Apprentices touted for custom, bailiffs and beadles stood in the doorways of churches and shouted their messages. Iron-wheeled carts crashed and lumbered across the cobbles. Funeral processions wound their way to the city cemeteries.

Matthias grew so dizzy he had to dismount. He stood for a while in a tavern yard, sipping at a tankard of ale to calm his stomach and soothe his wits. A party of sheriff’s men ran by the gateway crying, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ in pursuit of a felon against whom the hue and cry had been raised. On the corner of St Martin’s Lane, just near the Shambles, an execution was being carried out: a rogue who had killed a shopkeeper was now being hanged from the sign of his victim’s shop. The crowds gathered round to watch him kick in his death throes. Matthias pushed his way through. He wondered if anyone would be interested in him. In law he’d received a pardon after East Stoke but, there again, he had not served his three years at Barnwick.

Matthias made his way up, past the grim, stinking prison of Newgate. He turned right after Cock Lane into the great expanse of Smithfield. The open area in front of St Bartholomew’s was fairly desolate. A group of beggars chattered beneath the huge gallows in the centre. A woman knelt before the great blackened stake where people were burnt, hands clasped, sobbing quietly to herself. Two rogues, caught selling bogus relics, had their hose removed, were tied back to back and forced to wander until darkness fell and their crime was purged. A madman ran up, a dribble of white foam coming out of the corner of his mouth. He was dressed in a dirty linen robe with a cord round his waist.

‘Have you heard?’ he screamed. ‘The Great Whore has returned to Babylon! Her dragon has been seen in the skies! The moon will turn to blood! The stars will fall from Heaven! The Antichrist is now on his way. Have you seen him?’

A long, sharp dagger appeared from the sleeve of his gown.

‘Have you seen him?’ he threatened.

‘Yes,’ Matthias replied soothingly, ‘I have. He’s been taken to Newgate.’

‘Thank you, thank you, brother.’ The madman ran off, brandishing the knife in his hand.

A whore slipped silently up beside him, her hand going out to stroke his genitals.

‘A fine cock there,’ she murmured. ‘And all fit for the crowing!’

‘I have a loathsome disease,’ Matthias replied, ‘which will rot your stomach and turn you blind.’

The whore screamed an obscenity and ran off. Matthias paused and glanced around. A long line of gong carts trundled out of Little Britain, the area behind St Bartholomew’s. They had just emptied the public jakes: the breeze wafted the stench, Matthias covered his mouth and nose. He glimpsed a tavern sign, the Bishop’s Mitre, and made his way across. He was tired, rather disturbed by his abrupt arrival in London so he bargained with the landlord for a stable for his horse and a narrow, dank garret for himself.

Matthias spent his first two days in London eating, drinking and sleeping. Then he asked the taverner for his advice and went to St Paul’s to stand by the ‘Si Quis’ door where merchants, traders, noblemen and lawyers came to hire servants and maids. The place was thronged: the great central aisle full of people waiting to be hired. Matthias paid a scrivener to write a short description of his name and his skill as a clerk. Matthias pinned this to his tunic and walked around the great tomb of Duke Humphrey but, though some expressed an interest, no one would hire him. He carried no letters of accreditation and was reluctant to discuss his recent service at Barnwick.

The days passed. Matthias’ supply of silver dwindled. He lost his garret but the landlord agreed, in return for Matthias doing tasks around the tavern, that he could sleep in the stable. Matthias eventually had to sell his horse and saddle but he kept his arms. He tired of walking St Paul’s and spent more time out in the graveyard where the thieves and rogues of London sheltered from the sheriff’s men.

One day, about a month after his arrival in London, Matthias was sitting with his back to the wall sunning himself. He was wondering if he should leave and go back to Baron Sanguis when someone tapped his foot. He raised his head, shading his eyes, and peered up at a grizzled-faced, one-eyed man.

‘God save us both, if it’s not Master Matthias Fitzosbert!’

The fellow crouched down. Matthias studied the narrow-seamed face, the white eye covered by a milky film, the other dancing with mischief. The man was dressed in a soiled ragged shirt, tattered leather jacket and hose. He wore two right boots of different size but Matthias noticed the sword and dirk pushed in the waistband were sharp and clean.

‘Do I know you, sir?’

‘Dickon,’ the fellow replied. ‘Don’t you remember, Master? The gatehouse at Barnwick? I served as an archer there. I held you down the day. .’ the good eye began to flutter, ‘. . the day young Rosamund was killed.’

Matthias closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Of course!’ He looked at the man. ‘So, what have you been doing?’

Dickon shrugged. ‘Well, when we were driven out of Barnwick, I thought that’s it: no more soldiering for Dickon boy! I travelled south, a little bit of fighting here, a touch of robbery there.’ Dickon was now peering at him carefully. ‘I’ve never forgotten you, Master Fitzosbert. Even now I still tell my friends about the north tower of the keep. Do you remember it?’

‘If I have to.’

‘You seem down on your luck.’ Dickon sat beside him.

‘I’d say that was a fair assessment of my situation.’

Dickon patted him on the thigh. ‘I thought you were dead.’ He shifted, his good eye studying Matthias. ‘But, of course, the likes of you don’t die, do they? Do you have any money?’ he continued.

Matthias flicked his empty wallet. ‘I have what you see. And, as for food, I’d give my right arm for a meat pie and a tankard of ale.’

Dickon scrambled to his feet. ‘Come on!’ he urged. ‘I have someone who would like to meet you.’

Matthias stayed where he was. ‘Who is he?’

‘Henry Emloe. He’s a. .’ Dickon grinned, ‘he’s a merchant, a trader. You’ll get more than a meat pie and a blackjack of ale from him.’

Matthias glanced round the graveyard: the tawdry stalls, the mummers and the jackanapes. Perhaps it might be best to stay rather than go, cap in hand, to Baron Sanguis. He scrambled to his feet and followed Dickon out along Bowyers Row, past Blackfriars. They crossed the Fleet river and entered the tangled maze of alleyways which surrounded the great convent of Whitefriars. Matthias had never been here before. It was a small town in itself: a ward dominated by thieves, cutthroats and wolf’s-heads. The great-storeyed houses were shabby and dilapidated. They rose up so close together, the lanes and alleys beneath narrow and gloomy. Ramshackle bridges stretched from one house to another. The doorways to the taverns were thronged with beggars, men and women who had good reason to hide from the law. There were no stalls, but hawkers and garishly dressed journeymen pushed their wheelbarrows around, piled high with goods and trinkets they had filched from the markets in Cheapside. Whores, guarded by their pimps, called out salacious invitations. Every so often Dickon and Matthias were stopped and asked their business. The men were some of the most depraved Matthias had ever seen: their faces showed their souls were steeped in villainy. Some bore the mutilations of previous punishments: brand marks upon their faces, slit noses and lips, their hair was often long to conceal cropped and clipped ears. A few had lost a hand or a foot. Nevertheless, they were all well armed and watchful over who passed along their respective street or alleyway. Dickon did not carry or show any pass, he simply murmured Emloe’s name and these self-appointed guardians slunk back into the darkness.

Dickon brought Matthias to a house standing at the mouth of an alleyway which led down to the river. The house was four-storeyed with wooden plaster. The paint was peeling, falling like flakes into the small, overgrown garden which stood in front of it. Dickon went down the uneven pathway and rapped hard at the knocker shaped like a grinning skull. The door opened, Dickon beckoned Matthias inside.

At first, because the passageway was so gloomy, Matthias had to blink and place his hand against the wall to get his bearings. The passageway was long. The wainscoting on either side was of black shiny wood: the strip of plaster above painted purple. A few candles, also purple, burnt in bright steel holders but they created more shadow than light.

‘Come on! Come on!’ Dickon whispered.

Matthias followed him deep into the house. They passed chambers, then went up a broad stairway, its woodwork also painted a glossy black. Matthias felt he was entering a house of death. The drapes which hung on the walls and galleries were all sombre, sometimes lined with silver silk. However, despite the poor light and the shabby exterior, the house was opulently furnished. Woollen rugs woven together covered most of the floor and deadened any sound. Heavy drapes covered walls and doorways. The tables and benches were all carefully sculptured and, again, painted black. Matthias was about to express his concern when Dickon turned abruptly, finger to his lips.

‘The walls have ears,’ he murmured. ‘And I mean what I say!’

They walked on. Matthias stopped to examine a painting, a man ladling out silver coins in a counting house, beside him two young women, the tops of their dresses cut low to expose full ripe breasts. Matthias pretended to be fascinated but he noticed a movement and realised that there were eyelets in the picture to allow others to peer out. Again Dickon hoarsely urged that he should hurry. Matthias was about to follow when out of the shadows stepped a man, his face hidden by a hood pulled well over his head. A sword peeped out from beneath his cloak and he carried a cudgel. Matthias bowed sardonically at this sinister, silent guard and hurried on.

The second gallery was much the same. Matthias was led into a small chamber. It had a window open: this offset the dark funereal cloths on the wall and the silver death’s-head placed in the middle of a shiny table which stood in the centre of the chamber. Matthias went to the window and stared out as Dickon closed the door behind him. He glimpsed the dark swirling waters of the Thames and watched as a seagull skimmed lazily over the surface. He heard a sound and turned.

The man who stood in the doorway was very tall and angular. His black hair was closely cropped well above his ears; his long, narrow face had a lantern jaw and protruding spiky nose, thin bloodless lips and eyes as dead as pieces of glass. He was dressed like a priest, in a black gown from neck to toe, his hands hidden up the sleeves of his habit. The man bowed.

‘I am Henry Emloe,’ he declared softly. ‘Welcome to my house. You wish some wine?’

And, before Matthias could answer, Emloe brought his hand up and clicked his fingers. Emloe continued staring at Matthias, as if memorising every single feature. A servant bustled in, his face hidden by a hood. He placed a silver tray bearing a jug and goblets on the table and scurried out. Emloe poured the wine himself. It came thick and red, swirling out like blood. He passed a cup to Matthias and toasted him.

‘Welcome to my house, Matthias Fitzosbert.’

Emloe’s eyes betrayed no emotion, still and glassy like those of a corpse. He sipped at his wine.

‘Dickon told me about Barnwick.’ The words slipped out, Emloe hardly moving his lips, talking in a guttural manner, as if that were the only exertion he could afford.

‘A frightening time,’ Matthias replied.

Emloe gave a crooked smile, turning his face sideways. ‘You’ll find London,’ he taunted, ‘is just as full of demons!’