The Rose Demon

27

For the year 1490, the Chronicler of St Paul’s in London could only shake his head at the way God had visited the sins of the people upon their heads. The sweating sickness swept into the city, sparing neither rich nor poor, the strong as well as the weak, the young as well as the old. The hospitals at St Mary Bethlehem, and elsewhere in the city, were overflowing. Death carts constantly trundled the streets, trading stopped, those who could, fled the city, those who couldn’t, barred themselves indoors. Great communal graves were dug out at Charterhouse and to the north-west of the city. Streets were chained off, soldiers, masked and muffled, guarded the entrances. Huge bonfires burnt in every open space for the doctors believed that fire and smoke would fumigate the city.

Matthias heard about this as he came through Epping, on the London road: he stopped for a few days in the small village of Leighton before riding on. He took a chamber in a small hostelry in Clerkenwell and, the following day, presented himself at the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. Sir Edmund Hammond was a little more cordial than when they had first met. When he took Matthias up to his chamber, he rummaged in a chest and brought out a burnished piece of steel which served as a mirror.

‘Master Fitzosbert, it’s not my business to pry, but you seem like a man who has seen his own calvary.’ He thrust the mirror into Matthias’ hand.

Matthias held it up and stared at his own reflection. His face was still olive-skinned but he noticed the furrows around the corner of his mouth, lines under his eyes and, even though he was only twenty-six, his hair had pronounced streaks of grey. Matthias smiled and handed the mirror back.

‘My journey, sir, was not just to a place but to the past.’

‘A harrowing experience.’ Sir Edmund lifted his hand for silence as a servant came in to serve them bread and wine.

Once he had gone, Matthias described his visit to Baron Sanguis, the attack by Emloe’s men, their mysterious and brutal deaths.

‘I thought as much,’ Hammond interrupted. ‘The lay brothers noticed the Priory was being watched shortly after you left, and questions were asked.’ Hammond spread his hands. ‘Before I could stop it, some gave answers to seemingly innocent questions.’ Hammond jabbed a thumb to the window behind him. ‘It’s my view the Priory is still being watched — beggars, tinkers, traders, journeymen, all Emloe’s creatures, so you should be careful.’

Matthias described how he was staying at Clerkenwell, that he intended to leave the city as soon as possible. He took out of his saddlebags his father’s Book of Hours and handed it over, opening it at the page where Parson Osbert had written that last dramatic Confiteor. Hammond read it, his lips moving soundlessly and, although he tried to disguise it, Matthias sensed his agitation.

‘You did say,’ Matthias declared, ‘that someone here could help? You promised. .’

Hammond handed the Book of Hours back.

‘I cannot help you.’ His eyes were very sad. ‘I can pray for you, Master Fitzosbert, but I cannot help you carry your cross. I cannot take it away. Yes, there is a woman, an anchorite. Her name is Emma de St Clair, a woman of great piety.’ He smiled thinly. ‘As well as great age. She has, for the last fifty years, lived in a cell here within the hospital. She spends her days in prayer, meditation and reparation for her sins and those of others. She is the person I mentioned.’

‘Does she know about the Rose Demon?’ Matthias asked.

Hammond got to his feet. Although it was a sunny day, he pulled the shutters of the windows over, making the room dark, even more stuffy.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered.

He left, locking the door behind him. He was gone for well over an hour. Matthias sat dozing in a chair, half-listening to the sounds of the Priory and wondering how an old anchorite could help him. His eyes grew heavy.

His head was nodding when he felt a kiss on the side of his head. For a second Matthias thought it was Christina. He glanced up, the woman’s face was old but her eyes were young and vivacious. Dame Emma had slipped into the room, Hammond closing and locking the door behind her. Now she stood calm and serene, her hands clasped together, smiling down at him. She was dressed in white, a veil and wimple around her face, a long gown, which stretched from just beneath her chin to her sandalled feet. A green cord was tied round her waist. In her hands were a large string of Ave Maria beads which she constantly moved, slipping them between her fingers. Matthias sat, gaping up at her.

‘Are you so tired, Matthias? Or just overcome by how old I am?’

‘Madam.’ Matthias scrambled to his feet.

He knelt down as a sign of respect and kissed her on the back of each hand. She stroked his hair, her fingers smoothed the side of his face; they were cool and light.

‘It’s a long time since a man knelt before me, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ She laughed, a bubbling, merry sound like a young lady flirting with a courtier. She cupped her hand beneath Matthias’ chin and stared down at him. ‘I know what you are thinking, Matthias Fitzosbert. Sir Edmund has spoken of you many a time since your arrival here. He has told me briefly about your journey to Sutton Courteny and what you found.’ Her face became grave. ‘You are a good man, Matthias. I believe God’s grace is strong in you. I can see that in your eyes. You, Matthias, are a man of sorrow but your heart is good and your face is turned towards God. You struggle, you fall but you always get up.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Like you should now.’

Matthias did so. He was taken by this old woman, with her girlish eyes and soft voice. He could feel the sheer strength of her soul and knew that he had found a friend. Someone who might not be able to help but, at least, would make sense of this terrible world. She sat in Hammond’s chair and stared across at him, her fingers playing with a small parchment knife.

‘Sir Edmund, as I have said,’ she remarked, ‘has told me that you have just returned from Sutton Courteny.’

Matthias handed his father’s breviary over. She read the entry, carefully holding the page close up to her eyes. She closed the book, shrugged and handed it back.

‘I am not going to ask you to confess to me, Matthias. God knows you must have told your tale a number of times and, though the telling helps,’ she pulled a face, ‘it does not explain what is happening. So, for once, let me tell you a story. When I have finished, you’ll know why I am an anchorite here at the Priory and why there is a bond between us.’ She leant back in her chair, staring at a point above Matthias’ head. ‘I have a woman’s vanity,’ she began. ‘I always have had. Despite my years I like to be complimented.’ She closed her eyes and smiled. ‘I am ninety years of age, Matthias.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I was fifteen when the great Henry defeated the French at Agincourt. Well past my thirtieth year when they burnt the Maid at Rouen. However, the only part of my life which interests you is the summer and winter of 1426.’

She breathed in deeply. ‘My birth name is Emma de St Clair. My father owned lands along the Welsh march. I had two brothers, William and Martin. They were twins. They became Hospitallers with a vision of fighting God’s enemy here on earth. My mother died when I was young. I was spoilt, adored, loved; my every whim satisfied. I would only marry for love and my father hastened to agree. When my brothers, who had not yet entered the Hospitaller Order, decided to make a great pilgrimage through Russia to the city of Constantinople, I begged, I screamed, I wheedled and I flattered until my poor, exhausted father agreed that he and I should accompany them.’ She paused, fingering her rosary beads. ‘A glorious time, Matthias,’ she murmured. ‘France had been turned into a battlefield so we journeyed through the Low Countries and across the Rhine. We forded rivers deep and turbulent as the sea, through forests dark as night and across wheatlands which stretched like a golden carpet as far as the eye could see. We visited Cologne, Trier, the great cities along the Danube. We joined other pilgrims; knights, adventurers, scholars, all making their way to the Golden Horn, to the great city of Constantinople.

‘One day we were joined by a German knight, Ernst von Herschel. He was as handsome as an angel: tall, face like a hawk, golden-haired, a superb horseman. He flattered me and I flirted with him. I was in seventh heaven. We made our way slowly, stopping at taverns, hostelries, priories and monasteries — a golden summer until we heard about the deaths. In every town and village we stayed someone always died. A young man, or a woman, their corpses found out in the fields or some other lonely place. Always the same marks, their throats bitten deeply, their bodies drained of blood as if it had been sucked out of them like one would claret from a wineskin.’ She paused at Matthias’ sharp intake of breath. ‘We didn’t know this until our party began to be stopped and questioned by officials. It was clearly established that the assassin must be one of us, but who?’ She closed her eyes, rocking herself gently backwards and forwards.

‘We reached Constantinople,’ she continued. ‘The Emperor received us well. We were given a villa with beautiful gardens in the suburb of the city. The other pilgrims likewise. To cut a long story short, the imperial spies arrested Ernst von Herschel as the assassin responsible for those horrific murders.’ She shook her head. ‘I know very few details. He was defiant to the end, loudly proclaiming that he could not die. Nevertheless, they struck off his head and placed it on a pole on one of the approaches to the city.

‘For the rest of that year all was quiet. My father and brothers became very friendly with a noble family, the Alexiads, cousins to the Emperor. They had a daughter, Anastasia: one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. Yet, despite her looks, her exquisite manners, Anastasia was a merry soul, full of mischief and laughter, ever ready to mock herself. We became firm friends, close sisters. She had a vibrancy I’ve never met in another human being.’ Dame Emma wiped the tears away from her eyes. ‘The killings began again: horrid murders, this time young men. The spies came back: the city was watched.’

‘Anastasia now housed the Rose Demon?’ Matthias asked.

‘Oh yes. I couldn’t believe it. Even when she was arrested and brought into the imperial presence, she challenged, she questioned, she mocked. Sentence of death was passed against her. She was closely imprisoned. The Alexiads begged for her life. I joined with them. There was an important official, John Nicephorus. He had the Emperor’s ear, the power of life and death. I went to him and begged. Nicephorus was a lewd man, dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh.’ Dame Emma’s voice trembled. ‘He said he’d never slept with a Frankish woman.’ Dame Emma paused and picked at the beads wrapped round her fingers. ‘God forgive me,’ she whispered, ‘I slept with him to save Anastasia’s life. There would be no public execution, no degradation. An imperial physician was summoned. Anastasia was put into a deep sleep, her body sealed in a casket. The Alexiads paid a fortune to have a chamber beneath the Blachernae Palace especially laid out.’

‘Why?’ Matthias interrupted.

‘The Alexiads argued that Anastasia would slip from a deep sleep into death. No pain, no hurt, no blood. She was their beloved daughter. No expense was spared. A holy priest, Eutyches, argued differently. He said Anastasia should die. If not, her burial chamber should be protected, not only by thick walls and special doors but by holy relics. At the time we didn’t know what he meant.’ She sighed. ‘I thought that would be the end of the matter.’

‘But she didn’t die?’ Matthias asked.

‘No, she didn’t. In a short while, I’ll explain more fully. However, one thing I have learnt is this. The Rose Demon is a powerful spirit. Once it becomes incarnated in someone, it must stay there until that individual dies.’ She spread out her fingers. ‘You know that. The hermit, Amasia, Fitzgerald, all would have died. The Rose Demon moves on to a new dwelling place.’

Dame Emma rose and went to the side table. She filled two goblets with wine and brought one back for Matthias. She sat and sipped at hers.

‘Anastasia never died. When I returned to England I began to do my own studies. I lost all joy in life. Slowly I realised what a terrible thing I had done. My brothers became Hospitallers. Because of my sin in begging for Anastasia’s life, I realised reparation would have to be made. One year after my return to England, I took my vows as an anchorite before the Bishop of London and came here.’ She put the cup down. ‘I became obsessed with what I had done. In 1453 my nightmares became reality. I used to dream of that chamber, of Anastasia in her sarcophagus. When I heard the Turks were besieging Constantinople I went to the Grand Master and confessed everything. My brothers, still alive at the time, took solemn oaths that I was not lying. The Grand Master believed me. A squadron of Knights Hospitallers led by two brothers, Otto and Raymond Grandison, were despatched to Constantinople, ostensibly to help the Emperor. Their real task was to destroy that casket and whatever was in it. The Emperor also knew the terrible secret. Just before the city fell the Grandison brothers, together with the old priest Eutyches, were given orders to destroy the sarcophagus and all that was in it. They did not and Anastasia escaped. Once again the Rose Demon had entered the world of men.’ She stared at Matthias. ‘The rest you know. It becomes your story not mine.’

‘But what does it mean?’ Matthias asked. ‘Where will it end?’

‘I have been privileged,’ she replied, ‘to study all that is written about angels and demons. What I am going to tell you is not an article of faith but legends handed down from the Jewish into the Christian tradition. I believe your father, on the night he died, gave you certain texts?’ She held her hand out. ‘Do you have these now?’

Matthias felt deep into his jerkin. He drew out two pieces of parchment. One the scrap he had found at Barnwick with Rosamund’s handwriting all over it. He kissed this and put it back into his pocket. The other he handed to Dame Emma. She opened it and read it, nodding understandingly.

‘Your father was a learned man,’ she declared. ‘Now let me put these texts into context. Imagine, Matthias, a creation before the world existed. God and his angels — the latter are beings of pure light and intelligence.’ She tapped herself playfully on the wrist. ‘I must not forget, Matthias, that you studied in the halls at Oxford but what I am going to tell you has no evidence in scripture.’ She picked up the parchment knife. ‘Imagine a world of spirits. The angels are beings with intelligence, power and will. God reveals a plan to them. He will create a visible world. He will make man in his own image. More importantly, God will become incarnate. He will take flesh and become one of these beings. You’ve heard of that theory before?’

‘Yes.’ Matthias replied. ‘The great Anselm in his book Cur Deus Homo — Why God became Man proposed an original thesis: how the incarnation of Christ was planned from all eternity: that God would have become incarnate whether man had fallen from grace or not.’

‘Precisely,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘But this decision caused a great revolt in Heaven. One of the greatest beings, Archangel Lucifer, rose in revolt. He would not accept God’s plan. According to legend he fell from Heaven and took others with him. We know from Genesis that Lucifer, whom we now call Satan, brought man into his revolt to wage a cosmic and eternal war on God.’ She pulled a face. ‘This is the staple diet of many sermons.’ She tapped the parchment Matthias had given her. ‘However, there is this curious verse in Chapter Six of Genesis: “The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.” According to a Jewish legend, written in the Book of Enoch, one of the fallen angels, the Archangel Rosifer, joined Lucifer because of his love for Eve. He took a golden rose from the gardens of Heaven, a mystical, magical flower, and seduced Eve.’

‘Why?’ Matthias asked.

‘Because of her beauty,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘Because the Rosifer also wanted to experience what God had planned: the conception of a son. This is what happened at the incarnation when the Virgin Mary accepted God and conceived Christ.’

‘The Rosifer wished to imitate this?’

‘Yes, he did. Not just as an act of defiance but because of love.’ Dame Emma shrugged. ‘Some theologians even argue that that was the real cause of the fall of Satan and all his angels. To be like God in everything, in particular his plan to become incarnated, to be fully man.’ She picked up the parchment. ‘This explains the verse from the prophet Isaiah. Some commentators believe that the prophet is talking about the King of Babylon. Others claim that the verse, “I will exalt my throne above the stars of God”, is a reference to Lucifer and his brother the Rosifer: their determination to be like God in all things. Do you understand what I am saying, Matthias?’

‘Yes I do, but me?’

‘Time and again through history, the Rosifer has tried to conceive a child. The Book of Tobit, Chapter Three, Verse Eight, describes how the young, beautiful Jewess Sarah was the object of the Rosifer’s desire, a being we should properly call the Rose Demon. In the Jewish text he is called Asmadeus. So jealous was he of Sarah that any man who tried to have intercourse with her was promptly killed.’

‘And the last verse?’ Matthias asked. ‘The words of Christ: “If anyone loves me, I shall love him and my Father will love him. And my Father and I will come and make our home with him.”’

‘Ah, I’ll explain that in a short while, but what you must accept, Matthias, is that the Rosifer has, and does, love Eve and all her daughters. Some, like Sarah, are more special than others. Your mother, Christina, was his choice.’

‘But am I his son?’ Matthias asked.

‘I don’t know. But, Matthias, in God’s world, in the realm of the spirit, the intelligence and the will are all that matter. We humans recognise that. I can make you cry, Matthias. I can make you laugh. I can make you weep but I cannot make you love me. The Rosifer loves you. He sees you as his incarnation.’ She put the knife down. ‘Rightly or wrongly, yet that is not the important matter. What is important to the Rose Demon is that you know who he is, that you accept who he is, and that you love him in return.’

‘But the deaths?’ Matthias exclaimed. ‘The violence?’

‘Is your life any different from others’, Matthias? Go out on the streets of London. Men, women and children are dying in many barbaric ways. The Rose Demon sees that as a part of life.’

‘But why the deaths?’

‘Whatever his beauty,’ she replied, ‘whatever his power, whatever he says, whatever he does, the Rose Demon is a powerful being with his face and will turned against God. He will not be checked. He will not allow anyone to block his way. If people do, if they frustrate him, as happened in Sutton Courteny, they are to be punished.’

‘But why the blood-drinking?’ Matthias asked.

‘Again, a mockery of what God does. Christ came among us and the price he paid was in his own blood: the Rose Demon turns this on its head. If he becomes incarnated in someone, he needs, both physically and spiritually, the blood of others to sustain him.’

‘And he can do that?’ Matthias asked. ‘Move from one being to another?’

‘Of course. If the door to someone’s soul is open, he can enter. Read the gospels, Matthias. Remember how Judas betrayed Christ. The words used.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yes that’s it: “And Satan entered Judas.” We can all do it, Matthias. That’s why your father wrote the last quotation from the gospels about Christ and His Father making their home in any of us. If God the Creator can enter the human soul why can’t any other spirit? If we love Christ, if we love our neighbour, God will come to us. If we hate, if we steep our lives in wickedness, we send out a call which the Powers of Darkness will always answer.’

‘So, why doesn’t he enter me?’ Matthias asked.

‘Two reasons, I suppose. First, Matthias, whatever you’ve done, your face is turned towards God. Rosamund saw that: she recognised the goodness in you. As long as your will is turned to the good you are protected. Secondly, the Rose Demon himself wants to be accepted. You can force yourself into someone’s house, Matthias, but you are hardly welcome.’

‘But look at me,’ Matthias declared. ‘I am twenty-six years of age. My life has been shattered, my parents died barbarously, as did my neighbours and my beloved wife. I have the smell of death on me. Does the Rose Demon think he will persuade me?’

‘Of course.’ Dame Emma pointed to a crucifix. ‘Read the gospels, Matthias. We know the Devil confronted Christ on two important occasions. The first, when he was in the desert after fasting forty days. Satan thought Jesus would be vulnerable in mind, body and soul. He thought Christ would accept his offer. Christ, of course, refused.’

‘And the second occasion?’

‘By implication, in the garden of Gethsemane, the night He was betrayed. Jesus was tired, dispirited, full of anguish at Judas’ treachery. I am sure Satan would have been waiting for Him amongst the olive groves, ready to tempt, to place another reality before Him.’

‘And that will happen to me?’ Matthias asked.

Dame Emma blinked back the tears, her eyes full of pity.

‘Yes it will, Matthias. At the appointed time, in a chosen place, you will have your own Gethsemane. The offer will be made. The words will be put: “Look at the misery of life, Matthias. Deny everything and accept me.”’ Dame Emma leant across and grasped his hand. ‘And, whether you like it or not, young man, that is what all your life is about. And, before you ask, I do not know whether this has happened before or might happen again.’ She squeezed his fingers and withdrew her hand. ‘And don’t fuddle your brain or exhaust your spirit by wondering who you are or where you are from! That is not important. What is, is what you do and what you intend to do.’

‘These others?’ Matthias asked. ‘The woman Morgana? The witch Eleanor?’

Dame Emma just waved her hands. ‘God knows: they are just puffs of smoke, Matthias. The Rose Demon’s helpers and disciples. They are there to help carry out his will. They only pose danger if you let them.’ Dame Emma threaded the Ave beads through her fingers. ‘You are not a passive observer, Matthias. Don’t you realise how, time and again, you could have accepted the darkness? Made choices? Done evil? But you did not!’

‘But must I wait?’ Matthias asked. ‘Could I not give my life in some noble cause? Hide in a monastery?’ He smiled. ‘Or even join the Hospitallers?’

‘Matthias, I am just an anchorite, a woman who tries to pray and do good. I am not a prophet. Nevertheless, I think you could fly to the ends of the earth or hide on the other side of the moon but you cannot escape this. You must pray that the testing time comes soon. I know,’ she added softly, ‘and so does the Good Lord, that flesh and blood can only take so much.’ She paused and sipped from her wine cup. ‘Now you went to Tenebral and copied the marks down?’

Matthias rummaged in his saddlebag. He brought out the creased and yellowing roll of parchment he had used at Tenebral. Dame Emma studied this. She rose, complaining about the pain in her joints, and took a large eyeglass from a small table nearby. She pored over the manuscript.

‘I’ve never seen the likes before,’ she murmured. ‘They are a mixture of Anglo-Saxon runes and Ogham.’ She lifted her head. ‘The latter’s a Celtic sign code, very ancient.’

Matthias told her about his visit to the wall.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘Time and again in history, the Rose Demon makes its presence felt. There have been other occurrences. You’ve heard of the legend of Arthur? Master Caxton’s printed edition of the work provoked much admiration, both at court and here, where the knights read such tales avidly. You know the legend about Uther Pendragon and the conception of the mystical King Arthur? Sometimes I wonder if that was the work of the Rose Demon. I’ve heard similar stories brought back by knights who’ve served in the eastern marshes or the burning sands of North Africa. They, too, have tales of a mysterious prince, a powerful being and his love for a certain woman.’ Dame Emma put the eyeglass down. ‘Never believe, Matthias, that Satan and his legions are little black imps. St Thomas Aquinas teaches that there are seven choirs of angels, each more brilliant than the preceding one, and they are led by five archangels. Three of these we know: Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. I suppose the same is true of Hell: Lucifer is a king, the Rose Demon and the Destroying Angel, whom men called Achitophel, are his dukes. Beneath them the barons, counts and the lords of Hellfire.’

‘Do you understand what they mean?’ Matthias pointed at the parchment.

‘No, I don’t but there is an abbot, a holy man, a scholar, Benedict Haslett. He’s Abbot of the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s at Dymchurch on the Romney Marshes. It’s a Benedictine house: a lonely, bleak place surrounded by marshes and heathland which stretch down to the sea.’ She sipped from her wine cup. ‘I will arrange for a letter to be drawn up for you to give him. Benedict is old and venerable, the work may take some time. However, Dymchurch and the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s may be a good place for you to hide, Matthias. Give you time to think, to reflect, to plan what to do next.’

‘Will I be safe there?’ Matthias asked.

‘Never depend upon anyone,’ she replied. ‘Neither me, nor Abbot Benedict nor anyone else. Depend upon yourself, Matthias,’ she insisted. ‘Keep your heart pure. Take the Sacrament, attend Mass. The Rose Demon can never take the host but, unfortunately, he can work through those who do, who merely worship Christ with their lips and not with their hearts.’ She got up, came round the table and stood over him. ‘I will pray for you, Matthias,’ she continued. ‘I shall never forget you but a word of warning. I am housed here, an anchorite, yet Sir Edmund is kind to me. The gossip and chatter of the community, what is happening in the world outside, is full of interest to a garrulous old woman like myself.’ Her smile faded. ‘We know about Emloe: he is a very evil, wicked man. The sweating sickness may be raging in the city but he will have news of your arrival here. Some old woman begging for alms, some urchin playing with his toy — such may be his spies.’ She grasped Matthias’ hand and squeezed it. ‘I will help you prepare for the journey. Some food, a good night’s sleep and there’s that letter. Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Yes, Dame Emma, there is. In your cell, carve my name and that of Rosamund. Put a heart between them and pray for me.’