The Rose Demon

25

Father Anthony gazed beseechingly at Matthias.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘you must make a choice. You can either accept this Rose Demon, and whatever his love means to you, or you can continue this struggle, this savage battle against bitterness, heartbreak and sorrow.’ He smiled wanly. ‘So far you seem to have made the right choice but, at a certain time, in a certain place, you must make the final choice.’

‘Is that all my life means?’ Matthias spat the words out.

‘Yes. There will be no Matthias Fitzosbert the clerk, the family man, the husband, the father. No Matthias the bibliophile, the scholar, the man who likes fishing or collecting apples on the dew-soft grass of an orchard. Oh, you will eat and you will drink, you will sleep, you may love, you may fight but the constant theme in your life will be this terrible struggle.

‘Why?’ Matthias pulled himself up on the bed. He flailed his hands. ‘Why me?’

‘Why not?’ Father Anthony replied. ‘Do you think you are alone? Don’t you ever think that someone like myself would like to be a father, a lover, a poet, a troubadour? Do you know what it’s like to wake in the early hours and be alone? To do good and be attacked in an alleyway? To pray into the darkness and get no reply?’

Matthias leant over and gently stroked the friar’s cheek.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised.

‘Such self-pity is no sin,’ the friar replied. ‘Even Christ protested that he hadn’t got a home to call his own or a pillow to lay his head on! It only becomes a sin when you wallow in it and make it a way of life.’

‘So, what should I do?’ Matthias asked.

‘Accept each day as it comes but try and plan for the future. Your association with the Rose Demon seems to begin with Hospitallers. The hermit claimed to have been one and, you say, he met another Hospitaller in Tewkesbury who fought for the House of Lancaster.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Now, across Smithfield,’ Father Anthony continued, ‘lies the Priory of St John of Jerusalem, the Mother House of the Hospitaller Order in England. I will write you a letter of introduction to Sir Edmund Hammond, the present Grand Master, a saintly man, shrewd and trustworthy. Tell your tale to him. God knows what other secrets the Priory may hold.’

Matthias agreed.

‘I can provide you with new clothes,’ Father Anthony continued. ‘I have also checked your purse; you have little money.’

‘A goldsmith in Cheapside holds?120 sterling,’ Matthias explained, ‘but the shop is watched by Emloe’s gang.’

‘That can be resolved.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘I will bring parchment and quill. You write out a letter handing over the entire amount held by the goldsmith to our Friary.’ He smiled. ‘In return, we will raid our coffers and give you that amount before you leave.’

Two days later Matthias, dressed in new clothes, a stout leather money belt wrapped around his waist, accompanied Father Anthony across the cloisters and into a little side chapel. It was no more than a white-washed cell. A small altar stood against the far wall: a statue of the Virgin and Child on one side and, on the other, a life-size effigy of St Anthony of Padua holding the Baby Jesus.

‘This is a chantry chapel,’ the friar explained, ‘where I say Mass. Often my duties prevent me from joining the brothers in the main church.’

He genuflected to the crucifix and took Matthias across to kneel first before the statue of the Virgin, where he lit a candle, and then before the statue of St Anthony of Padua.

‘He is my patron,’ the friar declared. ‘Anthony of Padua was one of St Francis’ first disciples, a great preacher, a formidable scholar. He was gentle to all, a mystic with a profound love of God and the incarnate Lord. He’s a wonder worker. Anything you ask him is never refused.’

Matthias stared up into the carved, serene face of this most famous Franciscan. The sculptor had carved an angelic, smooth-faced young man, the tonsure carefully cut, the eyes almost liquid in their gentleness. In one hand he carried a lily, in the other the Baby Jesus. Matthias found it difficult to believe that praying in front of this statue could help him, but he humoured the friar and, for a while, knelt then crossed himself and got to his feet.

‘I must be going,’ he said briskly. ‘I thank you for your kindnesses.’

The friar caught him by the sleeve. ‘I shall remember you at Mass every day, Matthias. Each evening I shall come and talk to St Anthony about you. I know you don’t believe, Matthias, but, at the appointed time, when the battle lines are drawn, if you keep faith, if you fight the good fight, help will come.’

A few minutes later, Matthias, Father Anthony’s good wishes still ringing in his ears, left Greyfriars. He kept to the alleyways and side streets and made his way across Farringdon, past the Bishop of Ely inn towards the great gatehouse of the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. Matthias felt strange to be away from the harmonious atmosphere of the Franciscans. He did his best to avoid the people thronging round the market stalls or pouring into Smithfield because it was Execution Day and the death carts were bringing the usual batch of prisoners for execution. Every so often he would stop and look round but no one was following him. The soldier on duty at the Priory gate waved him in: a servitor sitting in the garden beyond, trying to catch the last of the autumn sun, took Father Anthony’s letter. They went across an enclosed courtyard where fountains splashed, through a maze of tiled corridors and up a broad, wooden staircase to the Commander’s quarters.

For a while Matthias just kicked his heels in a small vestibule. He refused the watered wine and sweetmeats offered and went to look out of the window at the clipped box hedges and neatly laid out herb gardens of the Priory. He saw the trees were beginning to lose their leaves and realised how little notice he took of the seasons. Despite the sun, autumn was turning into winter and Matthias idly wondered what other horrors would be waiting for him before the year ended. He doubted whether the Hospitallers could help him. He had already resolved to collect his few belongings from the Bishop’s Mitre and return to Baron Sanguis. Perhaps the old manor lord could. .

‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’

He turned. The man standing in the doorway was of middle stature, silver hair swept back over his head to lie thick around the nape of his neck. His face was burnt dark by the sun, his moustache and beard were neatly clipped in a military fashion. Matthias couldn’t reckon his age. He was struck by the sheer intensity of the man’s gaze.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated, hitching the heavy furred robe closer round his shoulders.

‘Yes, sir!’

The Hospitaller smiled and held out his hand.

‘I am Sir Edmund Hammond.’ He patted the robe. ‘I am sorry I am swaddled like a baby but I spent most of my years in Cyprus and Malta. London will be the death of me.’

‘You seem to know me, sir.’

The Hospitaller opened his mouth to reply but paused and instead beckoned Matthias into a small, wooden panelled chamber. The windows were shuttered, a fire roared under the canopied hearth and chafing dishes, full of hot coals, stood around the room. A servitor came in and, under Sir Edmund’s directions, moved high-backed chairs in front of the fire. A small table was set between, and cups, brimming with white wine, were served and placed there. Sir Edmund waited until the servant closed the door behind him.

‘I know it is very hot,’ he smiled. ‘If you want, Matthias, take off your sword belt and jerkin; come and sit down.’

Matthias obeyed. For a while the Grand Master just sipped at his wine, cradling the cup between his fingers.

‘I don’t know you, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he began. ‘But I know of you. The execution of Sir Raymond Grandison at Tewkesbury eighteen years ago, the consequent massacre at Sutton Courteny, not to mention the death by burning of Sir Raymond’s brother, Otto. Oh yes,’ he caught the surprise in Matthias’ face, ‘they were brothers, Hospitallers. As young knights they were given a most sacred task to carry out before Constantinople fell to the Turks. They failed. The Rose Demon Father Anthony alludes to in his letter was, by their mistake, once again released into the world of men. Sir Raymond spent the rest of his life scouring Europe. He discovered that the Rose Demon was in England, so he tied his fortunes to those of Margaret of Anjou and the House of Lancaster.’ The Hospitaller sipped from his wine. ‘You know what happened to him. His brother, Otto, decided to live a life of reparation as a hermit out on the rock of Masada above the Dead Sea in Palestine. Otto disappeared. He was later seen in England, but there’s no doubt that by then the Rose Demon had become incarnated in him. He was the hermit the villagers of Sutton Courteny burnt to death.’ He sighed. ‘I suspect that the royal clerk Rahere was also possessed.’

Matthias put his wine cup down. He felt a thrill of excitement. For the first time ever, he was talking to someone who regarded the Rose Demon as a matter of fact, as a great danger which must be confronted.

The Hospitaller was watching Matthias closely. ‘I am only telling the little I know. The existence of the Rose Demon is one of the great secrets of our Order. There’s someone who knows more. Someone you may later meet. First I want to hear your story, from the beginning until now.’

Matthias forgot about the cloying warmth of the room. This time he told his life story in precise tones. He described scenes from his life as he would a painting or a carving. Now and again he would pause to sip at the wine or answer the occasional question. When he had finished, Sir Edmund sat, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers rubbing the side of his temple. He did not look up. Matthias sensed the Hospitaller was frightened, as if Matthias had said something which was most important though its significance was lost on him.

‘You should go back.’ The Hospitaller Commander got to his feet. His face was grey, his tone harsh. ‘You should go back to Sutton Courteny.’

‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘You said there was someone else who might help?’

‘There is, but not now. You cannot see her.’ The Commander walked across to a side table to refill his goblet. He came back and gingerly did the same for Matthias as if the old soldier wished to keep his distance. ‘There is a great mystery about what you have told me. First, did Parson Osbert ever keep a record?’

Matthias recalled the small, black and gold Book of Hours or breviary his father always carried. Sometimes he would make notes there, sermons or thoughts which occurred to him. Matthias rubbed his mouth. Strange, after his mother’s death Matthias couldn’t remember his father either holding or using the breviary.

‘You also say the hermit carved runes, strange marks on the wall in the derelict church at Tenebral?’

‘Yes,’ Matthias replied.

‘Go back there and copy them down,’ the Hospitaller commanded. ‘You are a clerk. Take quill and parchment. Copy them as accurately as you would a charter or a letter and, when you have done this, return here. If possible, try to find any record of your father’s past.’ Sir Edmund gazed at Matthias, as if he couldn’t really decide who the clerk was or claimed to be. ‘That is all the help I can give,’ he concluded. ‘At least for the time being.’

He did not shake Matthias’ hand. Indeed, the Hospitaller seemed eager to get him out of his chamber, away from the Priory as swiftly as possible. Matthias felt angry and embarrassed but the Hospitaller’s advice did not conflict with what he had already decided.

The sun was setting, the evening turning cold, so he walked briskly across Smithfield and into the musty, darkened taproom of the Bishop’s Mitre.

Matthias informed the landlord that he would be leaving that evening before the curfew sounded. He settled his account and followed the landlord out into the courtyard. Matthias inspected the horseflesh kept in the stables and brought out a sturdy, berry-brown mount which seemed sound of wind. Matthias checked the horse’s mouth and feet and declared himself satisfied, though he did not question the landlord too closely on where the horse came from. More haggling followed before Matthias was able to buy back the saddle and harness he had sold to the taverner when he had first arrived in the city. The fellow, pleased at making such a profitable sale, offered Matthias, free of charge, a small garret for the night.

‘You can also have a free meal and break your fast tomorrow, ’ he urged. ‘It will be far better than riding dark, wind-swept roads.’

Matthias agreed. He trotted his new horse around the cobbled yard to make sure that he had spent his silver well, checked the saddle and harness and returned to the taproom. He had supper with the rest at the common board and went up to his garret where he carefully packed his saddlebags, lay down on his bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke late the next morning, more refreshed and determined to leave as soon as possible. He ate bread and cheese in the taproom and, hiring a razor and a jug of hot water, returned to his garret to finish his preparations. The landlord was not as jovial as the night before but Matthias ignored that. He carefully shaved and was about to dry himself when the water in the bowl rippled and moved. Matthias stared, fascinated, at the shapes which appeared, as if he were looking through a window or staring into a mirror. The scene was commonplace. He recognised the stable in the yard below. He saw the berry-brown horse he had bought and his saddle and harness on a peg in the wall above the stall. Two men were talking to the landlord. They turned. Matthias’ heart skipped a beat: he recognised Roberto and another of Emloe’s henchmen. They had their war belts on. The landlord said something, they nodded then separated, going into the shadows at each end of the stable. Matthias touched the water and the scene disappeared. He dried his hands and face, put his war belt on, picked up the saddlebags and his small arbalest.

When he crossed the taproom, the landlord refused to meet his gaze but turned his back. Matthias went out. He placed his saddlebag and cloak on the ground, set a bolt in the groove of the crossbow, pulling back the cord, and walked into the darkened stable. He heard a sound from his right: the assassin came at a run. Matthias loosed the crossbow and the bolt took the man full in the chest, sending him crashing back against the stalls. The horses reared and neighed. Matthias turned, throwing the crossbow at Roberto’s head as he slipped silently towards him. It missed, the Portuguese moving sideways. Matthias drew his sword and dagger and stood back.

‘Leave!’ he pleaded. ‘Roberto, I don’t want your death. Go back and tell Emloe we are finished!’

‘Master Fitzosbert, you know I cannot do that. An order is an order.’

‘Please!’ Matthias begged.

Roberto rushed in, sword and dagger snaking out. Matthias countered, they drew apart. Again they closed in a clash of steel but the Portuguese was an indifferent swordsman. Matthias was able to block and, with one counterparry, thrust his dagger deep into Roberto’s belly. He pulled it out. Roberto staggered, bending over double, coughing on his own blood and fell with a groan to the ground. Matthias collected his cloak and saddlebag, then saddled his horse. As he left the stable, the landlord came running out, all a-fluster.

‘Lackaday! Lackaday!’ he cried. ‘What’s happening here?’

‘You are a liar,’ Matthias declared, swinging himself into the saddle. He gathered the reins. ‘You can send for the sheriff but then he might want to know why two assassins were waiting in your stables. Or you can send a courier to Master Emloe but he will ask why I expected to find his two men waiting for me. All in all,’ Matthias turned his horse’s head, ‘you are in for a very interesting day.’

Matthias left the city, riding up Aldersgate. After Charterhouse the houses became sparser, the crowds less dense. By noon he was out in the open countryside, taking the road west. He rode hard and fast, stopping occasionally to rest, feed and water his horse. At night he sheltered in a wayside tavern, the occasional friary and, on one occasion, slept in a small copse.

Five days after leaving London, he glimpsed the spire of Tewkesbury Abbey and, a short while later, urged his horse up trackways and passageways he remembered from boyhood days. Matthias felt the bitter sweetness of nostalgia as certain landmarks brought back memories of Parson Osbert or Christina. He avoided Sutton Courteny and Tenebral but took a more circuituous route to Baron Sanguis’ manor house. This was much decayed. The curtain wall had gaps in it. The gates hung askew. No soldiers stood on guard. Matthias glimpsed only a few servants, whilst the outlying barns and granges looked dilapidated. The manor house was no better: the paths leading to it were choked with weeds. The gardens had not been tilled, the windows were all shuttered and the paint on the front door was cracked and peeling. A servant answered his knock. Matthias asked for Taldo the seneschal.

‘He’s dead,’ the old man replied mournfully. ‘All are dead.’

‘And Baron Sanguis?’

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend from London.’

‘Then you’d best come in. Baron Sanguis has few friends now.’

The old manor lord was crouched on a chair before a fire in his shabby solar. Matthias was shocked by his appearance. Sanguis’ face was lined and seamed. He was rheumy-eyed, his hair fell in greasy locks and for a while he just peered at Matthias, who wondered if the old man’s wits were wandering.

‘I am Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he repeated. ‘You remember, my lord, Parson Osbert’s son? I came here often as a boy. You gave me sweetmeats.’

The old man’s fingers flew to his lips.

‘Has the devil come again?’ he asked, staring blankly at Matthias. ‘They say the devil flew down to Sutton Courteny. He killed the entire village. My lands are cursed, my family’s cursed. My boy was killed at Bosworth and the new King in London has never forgiven me.’ He gripped the arm of his chair with his rheumatic fingers. ‘I was the King’s good servant,’ he pleaded as with himself. ‘I fought under York’s banner.’ He scratched his unshaven chin. ‘But Satan crept in to Sutton Courteny and my fortunes changed. You say you are Matthias Fitzosbert. No, he died with the rest. You can’t be. They are all dead!’

Matthias bowed and made his way back to the door.

‘Wait!’

He turned. The old manor lord was now standing up, hands outstretched.

‘You are not to go there,’ he warned. ‘Stay well away from Sutton Courteny. The place is thronged with ghosts.’

The old servant was waiting outside in the hallway.

‘His wits have wandered?’ Matthias asked.

‘Sometimes,’ the fellow replied dourly. ‘Yet he speaks the truth. It’s common legend how Satan swept into Sutton Courteny and everything changed. The old lord’s right. I heard him shouting. You should not go there.’

Matthias collected his horse and left the manor. For a while he became lost but he remembered the forest trackways and found the path leading to the woods. He reached Tenebral late in the afternoon. Sharp memories flooded back. Nature was busy reclaiming its own. The houses were more ruined, some had disappeared altogether. Bushes and brambles now choked doorways and windows, and crept over walls to cover gardens.

Matthias dismounted and hobbled his horse. He searched out the place where the hermit had taken him to see the young foxes but this was all hidden by gorse and bramble so Matthias returned to what had been the old high street and made his way up to the ruined church. Part of the wall had now crumbled, the lych-gate had disappeared, but the church, with its ruined doorway and nave open to the sky, had changed little. Matthias made his way carefully down the path. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. He remembered his father standing there that terrible morning when they had reached Tenebral and Matthias believed Parson Osbert was going to kill him.

‘I am sorry,’ Matthias murmured. ‘I am truly sorry.’

He entered the church and made his way up into the sanctuary. He expected to see the rose on the wall much faded but the colours were as fresh and as vigorous as if they had been painted the day before. Matthias exclaimed in surprise at how beautiful and exquisite, how precise had been the hermit’s work. The rose was large and red; the golden centre still glowed like a sun whilst the silver stem had all the freshness of a dewy spring morning. Matthias crouched down and studied the runes written in column after column beneath the rose. He touched the lettering and wondered what they meant. Why had the hermit taken so much time, so much care with these?

He went out and brought back his horse. As he led the animal into the overgrown cemetery and through the doorway of the church, it abruptly became restive, shaking its head, rearing and Matthias had to stroke it and speak softly to it. He cut some of the wild grass from the cemetery and created a makeshift stall. He then unsaddled his horse and took the harness and his saddlebag up into the sanctuary.

He reckoned he had a few hours of daylight. Matthias started copying the runes as faithfully and as quickly as he could. He did not want to reflect on what this place meant to him, how it had changed and shattered his life. He had reflected and thought enough. Since leaving Oxford, apart from his time with Rosamund, he had wasted his life over too much brooding. He required answers and assistance. If he brought this information back to the Hospitallers, perhaps some solace, some comfort, or at least some explanation, would be given.

He crouched, using the saddlebag as a rest, his pieces of parchment spread out over it. Matthias quickly drew the rose and faithfully copied the symbols inscribed beneath it. He had to rest, his neck and arms becoming cramped and tired.

He stared up at the darkening sky and wondered about what had happened just before he had left London. The Rose Demon had come to his assistance once again. If it had not been for that vision, Emloe’s men would either have taken him prisoner or killed him. Matthias got up and walked vigorously the length and breadth of the church, stretching his arms, easing the cramp. He went out and stood in the doorway. Daylight was fading. The breeze had turned sharp and cold. He looked further down the ruined village and glimpsed the first faint tendrils of a mist creeping in.

Matthias decided to stay the night. He collected some brushwood, made a fire and took out the food he had bought on his journey to Sutton Courteny. He lit a second fire beneath the markings on the wall. He worked as faithfully as he could until, fearful he might make some mistake, he decided he would finish the task in the morning. He went down and checked his horse. The animal seemed to have lost its early fears.

Matthias heard a sound. He spun round. Two figures stood in the sanctuary, grey shapes, cloaked and hooded. Matthias could not make out their faces or who they were.

Matthias felt no fear but walked back. He drew his sword, not knowing whether these were phantasms or real. The figures turned and he realised they’d had their backs to him. They started to move towards him — not a run or charge but gliding swiftly across the ruined church floor. Matthias held his sword up. As they came towards him they parted. He glimpsed features hidden deep in a hood, pasty white with black-rimmed eyes. Matthias recognised one of the assassins he had killed in the Bishop’s Mitre. Swerving abruptly, he glanced at the other and recognised the corpse-like face of Roberto. A rush of cold wind wafted a smell of rottenness with them. By the time he had recovered his wits, the phantasms had disappeared.

Matthias stood in the centre of the church, chest heaving. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stared around but he could neither see nor hear anything untoward. He crouched down, gasping for breath, forcing himself to relax and soothe his mind. The occurrence reminded him of that journey back to Sutton Courteny, when he had sat on the saddle of the hermit’s horse and seen that line of ghosts coming towards him. Of course it was dusk, the same time of day as then. The visions were not threatening, apart from a malevolent glance, and did no injury. He went and sat on the cracked steps of the sanctuary. He recalled a lecture he had attended at Oxford, the words of a Master, ‘The dead, for a while, always stay with us.’ But why did he see such phantasms? And would he see any more?

Matthias returned and built up a fire. He decided after all to continue his copying but this time more slowly, more carefully. He gasped when he reached one line. By now he recognised that these signs made up words, with gaps between them. He already suspected he had copied his own name but now he was certain that he had copied that of Rosamund. There were nine symbols in all. The hermit had carved a small flower and, in the poor light, Matthias believed this was the shape of a rose. He put the parchment and quill down, carefully screwing on the top of the small ink pot. He sat chewing on the bread and meat he had laid out. Now and again taking mouthfuls from the wineskin.

‘How could that be?’ he asked. ‘How could the hermit have known about Rosamund?’ He stared up. The sky was overcast, no stars, no moon. ‘How could that be?’ he murmured again. ‘When these symbols were written I was only a child!’ He threw more wood on to the fire, watching it snap and break: the hungry flames danced high.

‘Matthias, is that you?’

He scrambled to his feet. The voice came from the far end of the church as if someone were standing in the doorway. Matthias took a burning brand from the fire and walked down.

‘Matthias, is that you? Why do you trouble me?’

He stopped, holding the burning ember out in front of him as far as he could.

‘Matthias!’

The voice became more insistent. A woman’s voice. Matthias’ mouth went dry. At first he couldn’t place it, but that slight stumble with the letter M.

‘Amasia!’ he called.

‘Just ignore her!’ A voice spoke from behind.

Matthias spun round. He held the torch up and, for a few seconds, glimpsed the grinning face of Santerre. Matthias returned to the fire. He threw more wood on and sat for a while, hands over his ears. He must have crouched for an hour whilst voices from his distant past, those who had been caught up in this deadly game, shouted his name through the darkness.