The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Before you ask, Creatura,’ the hermit laughingly teased, ‘they are friends I know.’

  ‘Who was the woman?’

  ‘Her name is Morgana. She is part-English, part-Spanish.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Matthias chattered on. ‘She’s like a princess I saw. It was in a Book of Hours Baron Sanguis loaned Father. A beautiful princess being attacked by a savage dragon. She was defended by a brave knight.’

  ‘And am I the dragon?’ the hermit asked.

  ‘No,’ Matthias replied. He leant back against the hermit’s chest. ‘You are the knight.’

  Matthias stared at the trackway; the jogging horse, the warmth of the hermit’s body and what he had drunk at the tavern made him heavy-eyed. He fought against it but eventually he was in a deep sleep full of dreams: beautiful princesses, knights covered in blood fighting to the death, dragons, executioners, wolf’s-heads and forest outlaws garbed in Lincoln green. He woke with a start. It was dusk, they were in the woods leading down to Sutton Courteny. The hermit reined in.

  ‘Are you well, Matthias? You should have slept on. This is dusk, the Watching Hour.’

  ‘I want to pee,’ Matthias replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll wet my breeches.’

  The hermit laughed and let him down. The boy ran into the bushes and undid his points. When he had finished, he shivered. He was glad the hermit was taking him home. It was growing dark and cold. He had seen enough. He wanted his mother, to say his prayers, to sit by his father near the fireside and chatter. He glanced over at the hermit. For the first time ever Matthias felt frightened of him. In the dusk he looked taller, more sombre, as if horse and man were one creature.

  ‘What’s the matter, Matthias?’

  The boy just took a step back. He couldn’t understand his fear.

  ‘I want to go home,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m frightened!’

  The hermit dismounted and walked towards him. When Matthias stood stock-still the hermit crouched down. The boy relaxed at those friendly, twinkling eyes and merry mouth.

  ‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Matthias?’

  ‘It was strange.’ The boy drew closer. ‘It’s dusk and the wood is quiet.’

  ‘This is the most dangerous hour,’ the hermit replied, catching Matthias’ hand and stroking it gently. ‘This and the hour before dawn.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ Matthias replied, recalling a sermon his father had given last Palm Sunday. ‘They say just before dusk Christ was buried and just before dawn he rose from the dead. So, about these times, ghosts walk.’

  The hermit led him back to the horse. ‘Then it’s also time little boys were home and in bed,’ he remarked.

  They continued on their journey. The hermit tried to make him go back to sleep but Matthias was now too alert.

  ‘Then close your eyes,’ the hermit said, ‘and do not be frightened by what you might see.’

  The horse jogged on. Matthias, of course, kept his eyes wide open. He felt the night breeze spring up, rustling the trees around him, then, through the gathering gloom, he saw a figure coming towards them.

  ‘I wonder who that is,’ Matthias murmured.

  The boy peered again. It wasn’t one, it was two, no three, four, five figures walking in single file, slowly, in step. Matthias began to shiver. There was something dreadfully wrong with them. They didn’t walk, they shuffled. He felt the hermit tense.

  ‘Look away, Matthias,’ he whispered. ‘Do not look at them as they pass. They can do us no harm.’

  He tried to cover the boy’s eyes with his hand. Matthias knocked it away: these figures approaching posed danger. He’d played in these woods and he knew no one ever came here after dark unless they had to. Journeymen and pedlars always stayed in the village, and why would any of his father’s parishioners be walking here at this hour? And why were they walking in single file like mourners at a funeral? And the wood was so quiet. . It should be full of birdsong, with rabbits, foxes, stoats and weasels scurrying about. The horse became restless, neighing and whinnying. The hermit leant down, gently pushing Matthias aside, and whispered some strange words. The horse became more docile though it still remained tense, ever ready to shy. The line of figures grew nearer. Matthias looked up at the hermit’s face, it was passive, eyes half-closed. Then the figures were upon them. Matthias looked quickly, his mouth went dry, his heart began to thud.

  ‘Edith!’ he exclaimed.

  The blacksmith’s daughter was one of the line, face white as snow, eyes rimmed with black. She walked, eyes sightless, behind her a face Matthias didn’t recognise. He also glimpsed the features of the man the hermit had been talking to in the abbey at Tewkesbury. Again the face was as white as a coffin cloth, dark staring eyes. And weren’t those the two soldiers? The ones who had attacked him the previous night? But they looked more dreadful, they had their chins up and he could see the cuts in their throats. The horse began to shy, then reared up as Matthias covered his face and began to scream.

  For a while all was confusion: the horse whirling round, the terrible faces staring at him. The hermit remained calm, talking fast. This time Matthias recognised he was speaking in Latin.

  Abruptly all went quiet. The horse stopped, its head drooping with exhaustion. Matthias couldn’t stop shaking but he felt the hermit’s hand on the back of his neck, stroking him gently. Birdsong broke out high in the trees. Matthias took his hands away from his face. The trackway was deserted. He could see nothing. A rabbit loped across the path and, above him, a nightingale began to serenade the setting sun. The hermit was talking softly, gently stroking him. Matthias calmed down, the sick feeling in his stomach disappeared. He twisted, the saddle horn catching his thigh, and stared up at the hermit.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I saw Edith, but she’s dead. That man, that man in Tewkesbury, he too is dead. Edith’s body lies before the altar. It is to be buried tomorrow!’

  ‘Open your mouth, Matthias.’

  The boy obeyed and the hermit popped a sugared almond into his mouth. Matthias chewed it, his throat became wet whilst the sweetness seemed to fill his mouth.

  ‘Do you like it?’ the hermit asked.

  The boy smiled and nodded.

  ‘It was nothing,’ the hermit continued in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Nothing at all, Matthias. The day has been long. Perhaps I should not have shown you the things I did. And, when you are half-awake at this time of shadows, the mind plays strange games.’

  ‘But the horse was frightened. .’

  The hermit gathered his reins and urged the horse on.

  ‘That’s because you were frightened, Matthias,’ he replied soothingly. ‘Creatura, you screamed loud enough to wake the dead.’ The hermit laughed quietly to himself.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Perhaps. But tonight, Matthias, sit by your fire, chatter, fill your stomach with bread and soup. Enjoy the warmth.’

  They rode on. At the edge of the village, the hermit reined in and lowered Matthias to the ground.

  ‘Run home, Creatura!’

  The boy stared up. He knew the hermit had tears in his eyes. He could see them glistening and was ashamed at what he had felt when he had first woken up in the wood.

  ‘I love being with you,’ he stammered. ‘I really do. It’s exciting.’

  The hermit leant down and gently stroked the top of Matthias’ head.

  ‘And I love you, Creatura. Now run like the wind. Your mother is waiting.’

  5

  As soon as he entered the village Matthias sensed something was wrong. It was quiet, the doors and shutters of the Hungry Man were firmly closed, though chinks of light peeped through the slats. Matthias heard a creak and, peering into the gloom, saw a corpse hung from the scaffold, twirling and turning in the evening breeze. He closed his eyes and ran past this. Further up the street, near the small cesspit covered by wooden boards, his foot caught on a piece of armour lying near the raised rim of the pit. He ran o
n but stopped as he approached the cemetery wall. He could hear voices and glimpsed torchlight amongst the trees. He took the long way round. The front door to his house was off the latch. He pushed this open and ran down the passageway.

  ‘Mother! Mother!’

  Christina was sitting by the fireside. She looked better, more colour in her cheeks. She scooped him into her arms, her lips brushing his cheeks. Matthias felt the wine on her breath and noticed how bright her eyes were.

  ‘You should have stayed here!’ she exclaimed, pushing him gently away towards his own stool. ‘There has been a great battle.’

  Matthias bit his tongue before he gave away how close he had been to it.

  ‘A great battle,’ Christina continued excitedly. ‘Horsemen, soldiers coming out of the woods, some wounded, others without a scratch on them.’ She put down the piece of embroidery, an altar cloth for the Lady Chapel. ‘And then others followed. The first ones caught one of Queen Margaret’s men and hanged him on the gallows. At the far end of the village, just near the great meadow, they trapped three more and killed them out of hand. Your father and the Preacher are now busy digging the graves.’

  ‘The Preacher? Who’s he?’ Matthias asked.

  Christina’s smile faded. ‘A wandering monk, friar or priest — I don’t know what.’ She waved her hands irritably. ‘He arrived about three hours ago and has been closeted with your father. Simon the reeve and John the bailiff have also been here.’ She laughed behind her hands. ‘We drank some wine, a little too much. Now, go and wash your hands in the rain butt.’

  Matthias did so, slightly alarmed at his mother’s mood, her air of frenetic gaiety. She set the table and served him a platter of dried pork, onions, some leeks covered in cream, and bread which tasted hard. Matthias ate slowly. His mother said she was tired and would lie on the bed. Matthias heard her go upstairs. After he had eaten he cleared the table and sat in his mother’s chair in front of the fire, half-dozing. He jumped as his father pushed back the front door with a crash and came down the passageway. Matthias leapt out of the chair. His father embraced him carefully.

  ‘I haven’t washed yet.’ He gently pushed his son away, lifting his hands, flecked with clay and mud.

  Matthias, however, was staring up at the Preacher, who stood just within the doorway. The boy’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a smile but he did not like this man. His black, greasy hair hung in ringlets down to his shoulders; his face was lean and swarthy with cruel eyes and a hooked nose. He reminded Matthias of one of Baron Sanguis’ kestrels.

  ‘Good morrow, Matthias, Christ’s blessing!’ The Preacher held out a hand and gently squeezed Matthias’.

  The boy thought his face would ache with the smile. He was glad when the Preacher let go, although the man’s eyes followed him as he went back to his chair.

  ‘What’s the matter, Father?’

  Matthias, eager to break the Preacher’s gaze, wanted his father to stay, not go out to the rain butt in the garden.

  ‘Why, hasn’t your mother told you? Men from the battle fled here. They were killed, one still hangs on the gallows. John the bailiff will cut the body down and bury it later tonight.’ Parson Osbert’s face looked tired. ‘We are men, not dogs. The corpses can’t be left to rot in a filthy ditch. God knows, I buried them without knowing their names. Tomorrow I’ll remember them when I celebrate the Mass for poor Edith.’ The parson gestured at the Preacher. ‘Our guest here helped me. You have a strong arm, sir, but now we must clean off the dirt.’

  The Preacher followed the parson out to wash his hands and face. Christina came downstairs, heavy-eyed. She sat in a chair. Matthias’ unease deepened. Something was about to happen, but what? His father and the Preacher returned. More wine was poured, Christina using their best pewter cups. They sat for a while in a semicircle round the fire, discussing the battle, the Preacher praising Parson Osbert’s generosity.

  Then he began to tell tales of his wanderings. Matthias sat open-mouthed as the Preacher described the great cities along the Rhine, Turkish galleys in a sky-blue sea, the white marble palaces of kingdoms in the middle of golden deserts. All the time he kept watching Matthias, studying him carefully.

  ‘Now,’ he concluded, ‘I have come to Sutton Courteny.’

  ‘The Preacher,’ Parson Osbert explained, ‘has learnt about Edith’s murder. He knows of similar deaths in the neighbourhood, across the valley outside Tredington. Also around Berkeley, Gloucester, even as far south as Bristol-’

  ‘Tell me about the hermit,’ the Preacher interrupted harshly. ‘You know the hermit, don’t you, Matthias?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Then tell me about him. What does he do?’

  Matthias glanced at his mother, who sat slumped in her chair, staring into the fire. He realised he had to be careful.

  ‘Come on, boy.’ Parson Osbert squeezed his son’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s a holy man,’ Matthias declared. ‘He lives in the old church in Tenebral. He paints on the walls: a large rose. He cares for animals and birds. He showed me foxes and he knows where the badger digs his sett.’ Matthias did not like the look of disdain on the Preacher’s face.

  ‘And has he done you any harm, boy?’

  ‘Of course not. He lets me go with him. We talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About God and Christ.’

  Matthias licked his lips, his mind now racing. What did the Preacher think they did? What did they talk about? Matthias suddenly realised the hermit was his friend, closer to him than any of the village children — he felt a pang of guilt — even closer than his mother or father. They had always been distant, more involved with each other than him. Oh, they loved him but it was as if he were a second thought.

  ‘And what does he say?’ the Preacher insisted.

  ‘That the Lord God,’ Matthias recalled his own lessons, ‘that the Lord God made Heaven and earth and that He sent His Son to redeem us.’

  ‘Does he ever practise magic, sorcery, the black arts?’

  ‘Pish!’ Parson Osbert spoke up. ‘The boy would know little about that.’

  ‘The Devil casts his net wide,’ the Preacher retorted.

  ‘He is only a child.’ Christina suddenly sat upright in her chair. ‘And a very tired one at that. Matthias, it’s time for bed.’ She stared defiantly across at the Preacher. ‘He is my son. He is only a child. He is very tired.’

  Matthias was only too pleased to escape. He kissed his mother and father, nodded quickly at the Preacher and almost ran from the parlour.

  Matthias was awoken the next morning just after dawn by the sound of the church bell tolling, and got up in alarm. Hastily wrapping a horsehair blanket round him, he hurried downstairs. The kitchen was clean and swept, his mother, rather pale-faced, was standing over a bowl of oatmeal bubbling above a weak fire.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Matthias cried.

  ‘Your father has decided to call the villagers to a meeting in the nave of the church, before he celebrates the Requiem for Fulcher’s daughter.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Hurry up and get dressed, Matthias. You and I are both going.’

  Matthias obeyed. He washed, put on his Sunday robes and went down to the kitchen to break his fast. His father and the Preacher came in. Parson Osbert was now dressed in his dark brown gown, fastened round the middle by a white cord. He had washed and shaved but the Preacher appeared no different. His sallow, dirty features had a look of excitement as if he savoured what was about to happen. They ate in silence, interrupted now and again by knocks on the door, as villagers enquired what was happening. Parson Osbert quietly told them to meet in the church. He and the Preacher left. Christina doused the fire and, taking Matthias’ hand, walked across the cemetery and through a side door into the nave.

  Matthias slipped away, back into the cemetery — God’s acre, as his father always termed it. He went to stand under a yew tree and watched as the villagers came into the graveyard.
Many of the peasants mumbled and protested at being called away from the fields but, after yesterday’s events, they were frightened of other occurrences. The law of the village was very clear: if the church bell was rung in alarm they all had a duty to assemble. They left their scythes, hoes and mattocks in a pile in a corner of the church wall. The women went straight in but the men stamped their feet and looked up at the brightening sky, bemoaning the waste of a good day. They fell silent as Fulcher, followed by his wife and family, came up the graveyard path. The blacksmith’s family were all dressed in their Sunday best with pieces of dyed black ribbon sewn on their tunics and gowns as a mark of mourning. The other villagers let them through, murmuring their condolences, before following the blacksmith into the church. Matthias stared round the cemetery: he glimpsed the fresh mounds of earth where his father had buried the unfortunates killed the day before. The boy chewed on his thumbnail. He did not know whether to stay or flee to Tenebral. The Preacher meant his friend the hermit no good and shouldn’t he be warned? Matthias stood up. Surely he wouldn’t be missed?

  ‘Matthias!’

  The boy turned. Christina was standing in the church porch.

  ‘Matthias, you are to come, your father is missing you.’ Matthias sighed and followed her into the church. Christina’s firm grip on his hand showed she would stand no nonsense and the way she kept looking down at him made him wonder. Did she know? Did she suspect what he had been planning? The nave was packed. All the families of Sutton Courteny, the old as well as the young, filled the small nave. Fulcher and his family sat at the front, grouped around the parish coffin, which stood on black-draped trestles guarded by six purple candles. The church bell began to ring again. The chattering and the gossip died. The bell ceased its tolling. Parson Osbert, dressed in the black chasuble of the Requiem Mass, came out through the rood screen followed by the Preacher. The villagers watched with interest. Any desire to go out into the fields or gossip outside the Hungry Man was now replaced by a thrill of excitement. Something was about to happen, to shatter the tedium of of their lives. Parson Osbert climbed the steps into the pulpit.