The Rose Demon

24

Matthias entered Emloe’s household. He had a few pricks of conscience but shrugged these off, muttering that beggars can’t be choosers and, if wishes were horses, no man would walk. He was given a chamber in one of the galleries. Dickon said this was a mark of honour, most of Emloe’s retainers slept in the outhouse behind the gloomy mansion. Now and again Emloe entertained Matthias in a small hall below stairs. His cooks and scullions served up the most delicious meals. Once or twice they were alone, on other occasions they were joined by whores, city courtesans and Emloe’s henchmen.

Matthias soon learnt Emloe was a king of Whitefriars. He ruled by fear, with a finger in the profits of every housebreaker, foist, pickpocket and counterfeit man. Above all, he traded in stolen goods, sometimes returning these to the rightful owners for a heavy price. Or, if that was too dangerous, transporting them across to the stews in Southwark to be sold in the shabby night markets.

Emloe never interrogated Matthias, at least not outright; a question here, a question there; a tart observation or a wry comment. Yet within two weeks Emloe had created a patchwork picture of Matthias’ life. He treated Matthias most courteously, as did those around him. On occasions, however, Emloe would let Matthias witness his justice, summary and ruthless. A foist who refused to hand over his profits was brought into the cobbled yard behind the house, his hands spread out on the fleshing table: three fingers were neatly sliced off, the stumps smeared with boiling hot pitch. A courtesan who had rebuffed one of Emloe’s clients had her cheeks nicked with a dagger. Two ruffians who mistakenly attacked one of Emloe’s acquaintances coming in from the city abruptly found themselves arrested and handed over to the sheriff’s men. Matthias observed and took careful note and, apart from Dickon, he kept to himself. He never asked questions and found he was never entrusted with a task he could conscientiously refuse. Clothes, food, a chamber were provided, as well as a regular supply of silver which he entrusted to a Cheapside goldsmith. Matthias’ duties were comparatively light. He would stand on guard when Emloe met mysterious, cowled figures from the city. Matthias would guide them to and from Emloe’s house, carry messages to different parts of the city and, on one occasion, even as far as Canterbury. Emloe seemed to trust him except in one matter. Matthias, like the rest of the henchmen, was strictly excluded from the top gallery of the house. The stairs to this were guarded. Even Dickon, who revelled in gossip and collected as much tittle-tattle as he could, was unable to enlighten Matthias about what happened there.

Over the weeks Matthias discovered a little about his new lord. Emloe was a former priest who had been defrocked for certain nefarious practices. What was abundantly clear was that Emloe now had nothing to do with the Church or religion.

‘He’s an excommunicant,’ an elderly priest of a small parish near the Temple confided to Matthias. ‘Cut off from the Church now, and cut off from Heaven after death.’ He leant closer. ‘And the same goes for those who walk with him. He’s a warlock, a necromancer, a raiser of the dead. He communes with spirits.’

Matthias, who had been accosted by the priest while out on one of Emloe’s errands, at first rejected the accusation as scurrilous gossip. Dickon was more forthright.

‘He’s a master of the black arts,’ the one-eyed archer whispered, ‘and has been known to carry out the gibbet rites in cemeteries.’

They were sitting in a small tavern which overlooked the Thames where it curved to go down to Westminster.

‘So, why do you stay with him?’ Matthias asked.

‘I don’t intend to,’ Dickon confided. ‘Like you, Master Fitzosbert, I have got no place to go, no hearth I can call my own.’ The archer wetted his lips. ‘But it won’t always be so. Like you, I have been salting away the pennies and, when I have enough, I’ll be gone.’

Matthias listened, nodding wisely. He wasn’t too sure whether Dickon was a friend or a spy. He was coldly amused that Dickon had apparently followed him and knew that he was banking money with a goldsmith.

That was the last time Matthias saw Dickon alive. Three days later his drenched corpse, throat slashed from ear to ear, his face twisted into the rictus of his last agony, was wheeled on a hand barrow from the riverside into the yard behind Emloe’s house. Emloe himself came down to pay his respects. An old woman was hired to dress the corpse. Emloe even bought a shiny coffin and led a line of paid mourners up to St Thomas’ church. Emloe always prided himself that he looked after his kin in both life and death. Others whispered differently — that Dickon had held back certain monies and was punished.

By the middle of October Matthias had had enough. He tried not to provoke any suspicion but laid careful plans to take what monies he had banked, buy a good horse and ride as fast as he could to Gloucester. Emloe, however, kept him busy, almost as if the defrocked priest could read his thoughts. One day Matthias was summarily invited to Emloe’s chamber.

‘I see you are restless,’ the man began brusquely. ‘Do you want to leave us, Matthias?’

‘Perhaps it’s time I went my own way,’ he replied guardedly. ‘I have family elsewhere,’ he lied. ‘There are other things to do.’

Emloe nodded vigorously in agreement. He opened the small coffer on the table and took out a fistful of silver which he thrust into Matthias’ hand.

‘Then go. Don’t let me keep you. But do me one favour, Matthias. Stay until the first week of November, after the month’s accounts have been done. After that,’ he smiled sarcastically, sketching a blessing in Matthias’ direction, ‘you can go with my benediction.’

Matthias agreed. Nevertheless, due to what both the priest and Dickon had told him, Matthias became more watchful as the eve of All-Hallows approached. On the festival of Samhain, witches and warlocks came into their own: if Emloe were a warlock, it would certainly be celebrated by the likes of him. Memories of what had happened at Sutton Courteny and in the north tower of Barnwick came flooding back. Matthias was pleased when, on the day in question, Emloe kept him busy sending him on this minor errand or that. Matthias decided to spend the evening away from his master in some tavern or alehouse. However, when he’d finished his last task, visiting a blacksmith in Bride Lane who owed Emloe money, he found six of his master’s henchmen waiting for him in the cobbled street outside. They were all dressed in black leather jerkins and armed to the teeth. Their leader, a Portuguese named Roberto, stood, legs apart, slapping heavy leather gloves against his thighs.

‘Matthias, you are to come with us.’

‘Why?’ Matthias stood with his back to the wall.

Roberto’s men fanned out in a semi-circle around him.

‘You are to dine with the Master.’ The Portuguese’s sallow face broke into a smile. ‘You are to be his guest.’

‘I had other plans.’

‘Well, they can wait, can’t they?’ His smile faded. ‘Now, Matthias.’ The Portuguese stumbled on his name, which provoked a snigger from his companions. Roberto flushed and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘You are to come or you are to be brought.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t really care.’

‘How can I refuse such an invitation so prettily delivered?’ Matthias gave a mock bow and walked quickly down the alleyway, forcing Roberto and the rest to break into a run to keep up with him.

Emloe was waiting for him in the hall. The table had been laid out: silver plates, golden goblets, a jewel-encrusted salt cellar. Matthias was waved to a seat. Others joined them: Emloe’s principal henchmen, including Roberto, and some whom Matthias didn’t recognise. The meal was eaten in silence. Afterwards Emloe led his guests upstairs and into the top gallery. Armed guards stood about. A door was unlocked and Matthias entered a long, low, sombre chamber. The walls were covered in purple drapes. The floorboards and ceiling were painted black as elsewhere in the house. The candles fixed in sconces around the wall were of pure beeswax and gave off the most fragrant of perfumes. At the far end was a dais with a small altar covered in black and silver linen cloths. Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed to the gloom: the cross on the altar was upturned.

He tried to push his way back to the door but Emloe’s henchmen blocked his path. The defrocked priest had now taken off his black robe; beneath were the alb and surplice of a celebrant dressed for Mass: these, however, were of a deep purple with golden stars and silver pentangles sewn on them.

‘My dear Matthias, you are to stay.’ Emloe tossed his employee’s cloak to one of his assistants. He seized Matthias’ chin between his forefinger and thumb and squeezed gently. ‘You have powers, Matthias. Whether you concede to it or not. I, who am skilled in such matters, have sensed the presence around you. You are one of the chosen.’ Emloe’s voice thrilled with excitement, his eyes coming to life. ‘Tonight is the Feast of All Witches. If we make the sacrifice, because of you, the demon will be raised.’

Matthias struggled but his hands were pinioned behind him, lashed together with a silken cord. He was forced to kneel and watch as more torches were lit and Emloe intoned the blasphemous ritual. Matthias heard the muttered words and glimpsed the purple candles lit on either side of the altar. He kept his head down now and, for the first time in months, muttered a short prayer. A cock crow was followed by the smell of freshly spilt blood, incense and heavy wine. At last the ritual was over. Emloe’s henchmen squatted around the room, chanting phrases or responses when required.

Matthias opened his eyes. The muscles of his face and the back of his neck ached with pain. He grimaced and tried to stretch himself to ease the cramps. His body was damp with sweat yet the room had grown cold, reminding him of the north tower at Barnwick. Emloe and his henchmen were excited and expectant. The bloody remains of the cock, strewn over a silver platter on the altar, were quickly cleared away. Someone complained of the cold; another pointed out that some of the candles had gone out. Charcoal braziers were brought into the room and placed along one side. They blew hot and merry but still Matthias couldn’t stop shivering. New cloths were laid on the altar. The most exquisite mirror, about two feet high and the same across, held fast in a frame of golden snakes which coiled and writhed around each other, was also put in a special stand on the altar. This glowed as it caught the light from the candles and brazier.

Emloe walked round the room, sprinkling incense as he chanted softly to himself. He then knelt on a red-gold tasselled cushion before the altar. Head pulled back, he stared up into the mirror. A blasphemous prayer was offered, the others joined in. Matthias tried to keep his eyes closed but found he couldn’t. The mirror drew him on and he found himself falling into a trance as he watched the lights dance in the pure glass. There was silence. Emloe began a chant again, a blasphemous litany to Satan and all the armies of Hell. The lights in the mirror dimmed. Smoke curled there. Matthias’ throat went dry with fear; he found it difficult to swallow. He struggled at his bonds and his fingers caught a knot less tight than the rest. He plucked at it, working it loose. The mirror was now clear again: the lights danced and then the reflection rippled like the smooth surface of a lake. Emloe stopped his chanting and held his hand up for silence. The others watched, gasping in appreciation. Matthias worked the cord loose. He kept his hands behind him despite the pain in his arms and shoulders.

‘Le Seigneur is replying!’ Emloe’s voice was high with excitement. ‘Le Seigneur has deigned to look at us!’

The chanting began again. The mirror became black as if someone had thrown a cloak over it. Matthias watched intently. The darkness began to move, shift like fire smoke. A head appeared, lifting upwards, its eyes glowed, its mouth, half-open, had a small snake of blood running out of one corner, a ghoulish creature. Matthias shivered and closed his eyes as he recognised the Preacher. Other faces appeared, equally terrifying. Rahere the clerk, his arrogant, handsome features now twisted and leering. Santerre with his mocking eyes, Fitzgerald sneering. Emloe and his companions sat back on their heels staring in disbelief. The faces were frightening, disembodied heads, lips moving and cursing, eyes full of malevolence.

Emloe crowed softly with pleasure, already seeing himself as a great magus. Matthias recognised the danger signs. The Rose Demon was making his presence felt. Suddenly the braziers began to crackle, sparks began to fly up. Matthias shook his gaze from the mirror. The sparks grew more plentiful, combining in the air to make small balls of fire, rising like bubbles from a cauldron. These grew larger. One caught the mirror. It shattered. Other small balls of fire circled the room. Matthias saw one pass in front of his eyes: he recognised in it the tortured face of Amasia. The crackling braziers were now shooting out sparks, small tongues of flame. Emloe stood up, hands outstretched. He was still crowing in triumph when some of the fire caught at an arras on the wall. In seconds this was engulfed by a sheet of flame. Other sparks hit Emloe’s henchmen, setting fire to clothes.

Matthias sprang to his feet. He reached the door and fled out into the gallery. The guards ran to stop him but he knocked them aside, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs the fire had distracted them. Matthias ran down to his own chamber. He picked up his war belt, took what coins he had from his secret hiding-place and continued his flight. From the noise around him, the fire was spreading quickly. Matthias slipped through the kitchen, out by a postern door and into an alleyway. The curfew bell had long sounded and he could see the beacon light glowing from the steeple of St Mary Le Bow. Matthias ran up the alleyway. No one accosted him. Shadows moved from doorways but, when Matthias was recognised as one of Emloe’s henchmen, he was allowed safely on his way.

He spent the night out at Smithfield, sleeping beneath the hedgerows. The following morning he returned to the Bishop’s Mitre in Smithfield where he broke his fast and rehired his small garret.

Only when he was there, wrapped in blankets lying on the small pallet bed, did Matthias accept the full horror of what had happened. He slept fitfully, slipping in and out of dreams: of darkened chambers, glowing arrows of fire, men turned to human torches, dark shapes, the haunting voice of the hermit and those faces he had glimpsed in the balls of flame. Matthias got up late in the afternoon. He felt dull-headed, his stomach rather queasy. He understood what had happened during the Satanic rites the night before. Emloe, like any sorcerer, believed he could control the Powers of Darkness where, in fact, they were mocking his puny efforts. The ghosts of those possessed by the Rose Demon still hung around Matthias and, when provided with the opportunity, malevolently involved themselves in the affairs of men.

‘I am not alone,’ he whispered. ‘I must remember that. I am never alone.’

Matthias went down to the taproom. He studied the hour candle in the inglenook above the fireplace and realised it was much later than he thought, between four and five in the afternoon. He hurried out, back through the city gates past Newgate, pushing his way through the market crowds to the goldsmith’s shop which stood within the shadows of the hospital of St Thomas of Acon. Matthias was resolved to withdraw all his monies, buy a fresh horse and put as much distance between himself and London as possible. Nevertheless, he moved cautiously. He stepped into the hospital doorway and watched the crowds. A wild beggar, claiming he was St John the Baptist, came bounding along: in one hand a wooden cross, in the other a burning brand. He was screaming and yelling that Satan was in the city and, like Nineveh of old, the citizens should repent and don sackcloth and ashes. The crowd shifted and made a path to let him through. Matthias’ heart sank: at least half a dozen of Emloe’s bullyboys were watching the entrance to the goldsmith’s.

Matthias cursed his own stupidity at leaving it so long. He slipped back down an alleyway. He stopped at the alehouse which stood in Paternoster Row, just next to St Paul’s Cathedral. Matthias raged at himself and the obstacles placed in his path. Emloe must have survived the previous night: he was apparently more concerned about getting his hands on Matthias again than he was about any damage caused to his sinister mansion.

Matthias drank more than he had intended. When he lurched out of the tavern, it was dark: the stalls had been put away, only the hucksters and the tinkers tried to interest him in their gewgaws. Whores called out from the doorways. Somewhere a child cried and two women burst out of a doorway, hitting and kicking each other. The debtors from the Fleet, chained together and sent out to beg for alms, were now being rounded up. As he passed the cemetery of St Paul’s, Matthias paused and listened to a choir of beautiful-voiced boys singing the acclamation ‘Christus Vincit’. Matthias threw them a penny. He walked along Eel-Pie Alleyway and stopped: further down a group of men were struggling. One broke free.

‘I am a Franciscan!’ the man yelled. ‘I collect for the poor! I am Christ’s good priest!’

The three rifflers, however, closed again, tugging at the pouch on his girdle. The friar, a small, wiry individual, broke free and ran towards Matthias. He grasped his arm, his small, nut-brown face soaked in sweat.

‘I am a friar,’ he gasped. ‘I am unarmed.’ And then, as if it were an after-thought, ‘I am also very small.’

Matthias, still full of ale, grinned good-naturedly back.

‘On your way!’ The three rifflers now blocked his path.

Matthias stared at them.

‘On your way!’ the middle one repeated.

Matthias’ hand went to his sword. He gazed at their ugly faces and the rage he felt for Emloe surged against these night birds blocking his path.

‘Well, well, well.’ Matthias took a step backwards, pulling the Franciscan with him. ‘Never have I seen three such ugly gallows carrion.’

His assailants attacked. Matthias had his sword and dagger out. He caught the leading assailant a savage gash in the side of his neck. The other two closed: Matthias’ sword took one in the thigh whilst he struck with his dagger at the other. He heard the Franciscan scream and turned, just in time, to meet a fourth assailant who seemed to appear from nowhere and came at him, dagger up. Matthias ducked, stabbing out with his sword but the blade took him in the shoulder. The pain made him yell and, losing all control, Matthias lashed out with his sword.

‘They’ve gone! They’ve gone!’

Matthias calmed down. The pain in his shoulder was searing. He crouched against the wall of a house, gasping for breath. Two of his assailants lay on the cobbles in spreading pools of blood.

‘The other two have gone,’ the Franciscan remarked. ‘For a while you were just beating the air.’ He helped Matthias to his feet. ‘That was good of you.’

He prised the sword and dagger out of Matthias’ hand and pushed them back into their scabbards. Matthias swayed, the cobbles seemed to shift. The pain in his shoulder now reached the back of his neck. He felt sick and weak.

‘You’d best come with me,’ the Franciscan murmured.

He put Matthias’ arm round his neck. They hobbled out of the alleyway past the Chancellor’s Inn and along to Greyfriars.

‘My name is Father Anthony,’ the Franciscan gasped as he helped Matthias through the small postern gate, up through the darkened, sweet-smelling garden and into the cloisters. ‘I am infirmarian and almoner.’

Matthias paused and stared down at his benefactor. The friar’s round, kindly face was wreathed in concern.

‘You’d best come with me,’ Father Anthony murmured. ‘If that dagger were dirty, the wound might not be clean!’

He helped Matthias along stone-paved corridors and stopped to ring a small bell. Other brothers appeared, heavy-eyed from their slumbers. They helped Father Anthony take Matthias along the cloister and into a small, white-washed chamber. They threw a canvas sheet over a small trestle bed and laid Matthias down. His boots and war belt were removed, then his jerkin and his shirt. He struggled but a cup was held to his lips. He tasted a bittersweet potion and fell into a deep sleep.

When Matthias awoke, sunlight filled the chamber. A vacuous-faced lay brother looked down at him. The man muttered something. His voice seemed far off, as if he were speaking down a tunnel. Again the cup was forced between Matthias’ lips. He felt for the wound in his shoulder but it was numb. He gazed at the stark crucifix on the far wall. For some strange reason he thought he was back at his father’s church in Sutton Courteny and then he fell asleep again. This time he dreamt. Nothing frightening: he was chasing a goose along the village street. It ran into the Hungry Man tavern where Agatha Merryfeet was dancing barefoot on the table. Matthias gazed around, recognising his father’s parishioners.

‘I must go home,’ he declared. ‘Father and Mother will be anxious.’

‘Then, if you have to go, you should,’ John the bailiff declared.

‘Run like the wind!’ Piers the ploughman shouted from the inglenook. ‘Run as fast as you can, Matthias. Your father is waiting.’

Fulcher the blacksmith helped him to the door. Joscelyn the taverner pushed a piece of sweet bread into his hands. Matthias ran down the street and up the path to his house. The door was open, but when he went into the kitchen it was cold and dark. The windows were broken, the ceiling open to the night sky. Parson Osbert was sitting in his favourite chair but he was cloaked and cowled.

‘Father.’ Matthias went towards him.

Parson Osbert looked up, his kindly face was sad, his eyes seemed to search Matthias’ soul.

‘Father, what are you doing here?’

‘I am dead, Matthias.’

Matthias crouched down beside him.

‘Father, do you sleep when you die?’

Parson Osbert shook his head. ‘No, you don’t sleep, Matthias, you travel.’

‘And where have you been, Father? I’ve missed you. I’ve missed Christina. I want my mother!’

Parson Osbert smiled. ‘She travels ahead of us, Matthias. I cannot yet continue.’

‘Why? Where have you been, Father?’

‘I have visited every monastery, every friary in the world. I kneel in front of their altars and pray for you and for me.’

‘Why, Father? What is wrong?’

‘You’ll know soon enough, Matthias.’

His father got up and walked towards the door.

‘Come back! Come back!’ Matthias shouted.

He tried to follow but he couldn’t. Someone was holding him back. He opened his eyes. Father Anthony was staring down at him, brown eyes smiling.

‘Matthias, Matthias,’ he whispered, ‘you were having a dream.’

Matthias lay back against the bolsters.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Three days.’ Father Anthony pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed.

Matthias pulled his shoulder and felt a slight twinge of pain.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ The friar patted his hand. ‘It was deep but small. We’ve cleaned and tended it.’ The friar chewed the corner of his lip. ‘We gave you a potion to make you sleep but we thought something else was wrong. You seemed unwilling to wake.’ He patted his hand. ‘You had a bellyful of ale but you must have been very, very tired.’

Matthias stretched his legs. ‘I feel very, very hungry,’ he grinned.

The friar left and returned with a tray bearing a bowl of steaming broth, small chunks of bread, a dish of vegetables and a goblet of watered wine. The savoury smell whetted Matthias’ hunger. He ate ravenously and shame-facedly asked for more.

‘Of course! Of course!’

More food was brought. Matthias ate. He felt tired again and dozed for a while but, when he awoke, felt stronger. He spent the next two days in bed and found he couldn’t forget the dream about his father. The Franciscan seemed fascinated by him and, whenever his duties allowed, he’d slip into the chamber to chat about the affairs of the Friary. Slowly, gradually, he also began to probe as to where Matthias was from and what he was doing in that alleyway.

‘You had strange dreams, Matthias. The things you talked about. .’

Matthias smiled and shrugged.

‘Are you a soldier?’ the Franciscan asked.

Matthias told him about Barnwick.

‘And Rosamund?’

Matthias fell silent and, though he tried, he could not stop the tears brimming.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Father, she died.’

Matthias leant his head back against the wall and, eyes on the crucifix, told this Franciscan everything. Father Anthony listened intently. Now and again, he’d scratch his small white moustache and beard or run his fingers slowly up and down the side of his nose.

‘You’re hearing my confession, Father.’

‘Yes, I know I am.’

Matthias then continued. Occasionally the Franciscan would ask Matthias the same question: in that situation, whatever it was, be it Emloe or his bloody confrontation with the outlaws in the ruins of Barnwick, what did Matthias want? What did he wish? Matthias sometimes had to pause as he sifted amongst his memories.

‘You remind me of the hermit,’ he declared, half-jokingly. ‘He always said it was the will that matters. What you really wanted, rather than your actual acts.’

‘And that is true,’ Father Anthony replied. ‘Do you believe in God? Do you believe in the Lord Jesus?’

‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied. ‘As I live, Father, I don’t really know and, sometimes, I don’t really care. I, Matthias Fitzosbert, am a parson’s son. I trained to be a clerk and I have served as a soldier. As a man I love books and libraries. I like green fields, good food and a goblet of wine. I would love to go fishing or for a walk in the meadow. I wish I had friends, a place I could call my own. I am ordinary and I wish to be ordinary but life, the Rose Demon or whatever, will not leave me alone. I want to be free. I want to be free of all these shadows: the likes of Emloe, Fitzgerald, Douglas.’ Matthias put his face in his hands. ‘I try to break free but, whenever I do, I am always dragged back. So, Father,’ he looked at the friar, ‘that is my confession. What is my penance?’

Father Anthony lifted his hand and recited the words of absolution, making the sign of the cross over Matthias’ head.

‘Your penance is your life,’ he murmured. ‘This crisis, Matthias, is your life. You cannot escape it!’