The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Ah no, not yet.’ Matthias drew his hand back. ‘Father, I intend to leave tomorrow morning just after dawn. I’d be grateful if you would inform the mayor, Port Reeve and bailiffs.’

  The priest smiled.

  ‘I also want you to hire two of your burliest parishioners. They are to come well armed and ride behind me until I reach Rye.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Father Aidan slurred. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. So it’s dawn tomorrow! Make sure you are ready. I’ll bring some wine and chicken for you tonight. If you are going to walk, you’ll need all the strength God and man can give you.’

  Once he left Matthias went back to the alcove. He packed his belongings and went through the contents of his saddlebag. He took out the scrap of parchment he had found at Barnwick covered in Rosamund’s handwriting. He held it to his face and kissed it, then put it inside a pocket of his jerkin. As he did, he noticed how soiled and dirty his clothes had become. He rubbed his unshaven cheek and chin.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘If you look like a cut-throat they might leave you alone.’

  For a while he dozed, dreaming of Rosamund. When he awoke he felt she was close to him.

  ‘Stay with me!’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, don’t leave me!’

  He went back to his saddlebag and found the piece of parchment Abbot Benedict had been working on. There was very little new. The old scholar had reached 1486: the words, ‘Santerre’, ‘Exeter Hall’ and ‘Amasia’ had all been deciphered in one long line. Then Abbot Benedict, as if he’d sensed death was close and realised Matthias needed this more than the past, had tried to jump. Matthias saw the name Rosamund. Abbot Benedict had got Barnwick wrong, as he had James Stewart’s name: each of these had a question mark beside them. Fitzgerald was translated ‘Fitzpatrick’. The other entries were even more vague. A mere collection of letters or words: Castile? Alhambra? Isabella? And a strange phrase: ‘Into the west to the “Beautiful Islands”.’ Matthias realised the old Abbot was anticipating his desire to travel to Spain. At the foot of the page Abbot Benedict had written a series of dates with numbers in brackets beside them: ‘1471 (7)? 1478 (14)? 1486 (21)? 1492 (28)?’ Matthias sat back and stared up at the glittering red sanctuary lamp.

  ‘What do these mean?’ he murmured.

  Of course, he concluded: when he had been at Oxford he had learnt that seven was a sacred number. It was also agreed that seven, and its multiples, be regarded as decisive stages in a man’s life. At the age of seven, a child reached the age of reason, according to the theologians. At fourteen a boy was regarded as a young man: at twenty-one a full adult.

  Matthias got to his feet. ‘I was just past my seventh birthday when I met the hermit,’ he murmured. ‘I was fourteen when I was sent to the abbey school. I was past twenty-one when my troubles began in Oxford.’

  Matthias paused in his pacing. Now he was in his twenty-eighth year. He recalled the date: mid-July 1491. In February 1492 he’d pass his twenty-eighth birthday. Would this be a decisive time? Would the Rose Demon show his hand? But where? How?

  After a while Matthias gave up this speculation and returned to planning what would happen tomorrow. Father Aidan came back with some food. He told Matthias that the Port Reeve had agreed to be here at dawn the following morning whilst two parishioners, in return for another piece of silver, could be persuaded to escort Matthias to Rye.

  The following morning, when the church was still dark, Father Aidan escorted Matthias down on to the front porch of the church. The Port Reeve was standing on the steps. A short distance away two burly parishioners sat on tired-looking hacks. Between them stood Matthias’ horse, saddled and harnessed. Father Aidan took his baggage down to this. The Port Reeve stuck a crude crucifix and a small scroll of parchment into Matthias’ hand and gabbled through a proclamation.

  ‘You, Matthias Fitzosbert, are to journey by foot to the nearest town, the port of Rye. You are not to leave the King’s highway. You are safe from malicious attack provided you do not. You are to carry the crucifix at all times. You are to be in Rye, whatever the weather, within five days. You are to declare yourself to the Port Reeve, show him the enclosed proclamation and be on board ship within three days. You are never to return to England without a royal pardon. If you do, you will suffer summary execution. Given at Rye on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, the twenty-second of July 1491.’

  The Port Reeve shoved Matthias down the steps.

  ‘Now piss off!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t come back!’

  Matthias, despite such rough handling, shouted his farewell and thanks to Father Aidan. The priest lifted his hand in blessing and Matthias walked off, across the market square and down the narrow thoroughfare to the town gates. Everything was quiet. The sun was beginning to rise but the market horn hadn’t been sounded: the houses he passed were shuttered and silent. Here and there a dog barked, beggars and whores scuttled in the shadows. A sleepy-eyed guard opened the gates and, within the hour, Matthias was in the open countryside. Behind him his two guardian angels, coarse-featured, rough-voiced men, trotted slowly, fighting hard to control Matthias’ horse.

  Matthias walked purposefully. He was glad to be free of the church. The day was a fine one. Birds swooped and warbled above him; on either side fields of golden wheat stretched to the far horizon. By mid-morning Matthias was tired and hungry. He and his guards paused to drink from a small brook and eat some of the bread and cheese Father Aidan had supplied. The two men were very taciturn, uneasy at what they were doing but their mood and faces brightened when Matthias promised them a shilling as soon as they reached Rye. They continued on their journey. One of the guards was hopeful that they could be in Rye that same day and Matthias agreed. The sky was blue, the sun strong, the trackway underfoot made easy going. Matthias thanked God it was summer, for heavy rains turned such trackways into mud-clogging morasses.

  Matthias kept up a vigorous walk. As he did so, he tried not to concentrate on the aches in his legs and the dryness in his throat. He thought of Rosamund and the day they went out to the Roman wall: so short a time ago, yet, to Matthias, it seemed an eternity away. He felt a flurry of excitement at leaving England and being free of people who wanted to use him. Once again he recalled his mood before the battle of East Stoke, not frightened or fearful, but waiting. He was not frightened of death. Life was so bitter, what further horrors could it hold for him? He wondered if a time would come when the Rose Demon might leave him alone? Would he be allowed to live a normal life and, if he did, what should he be? Clerk or soldier? Merchant or scholar? Would he ever meet another woman? No one would ever replace Rosamund but life could be lonely and Matthias was tired of being by himself.

  They forded a small river, Matthias stopping to bathe his hands and face in the clear water. The countryside then changed, the fields giving way to dark woods on either side. The sunlight was blocked out, the birdsong not so clear, yet Matthias was glad for the coolness. He wondered if they really would be in Rye by nightfall. He walked deeper into the forest, admiring how the sunlight showed up the different shades of green. He stopped to pluck a wild rose growing on the edge of the path. He heard a whirr like the flight of some bird, followed by a cry. He turned round to see both his guards fall from their horses, clutching at the arrows in their chests. Dark shapes slipped from the trees. Before Matthias could even move, these figures drew knives, quickly slitting his guards’ throats. Matthias whirled round. Other men, hooded and masked, crept on to the path, forming a ring around him. Matthias held his cross up though he knew the gesture was futile: it was struck from his hand. He was bundled on to his horse and led under the spreading branches of an oak tree. He struggled but his hands were bound behind him. A horseman rode up, his eyes glittering behind his mask.

  ‘Guilty of Emloe’s death!’ he rasped. ‘You’ll die the way you should!’

  A piece of sacking was put over Matthias’ head. A noose tightened round his neck. He dug his feet more firmly in
to the stirrups. His horse, nervous, shied and reared. Matthias hung on grimly, digging in his knees even as Emloe’s gang tried to pull the horse clear and leave him to die of excruciating strangulation. Matthias panicked. He struggled with all his might. Men were shouting. He heard the rasp of steel. His horse reared in agony, then collapsed beneath him. Matthias hung suspended, the noose biting deep into his throat. He heard, as if above the roaring of waves, the sound of horses, and the rope was cut. He fell and hit something lying on the road. The sacking was pulled off, the cord round his neck swiftly cut. For a while he just lay gasping and retching. The cords binding his hands were also sliced. He realised he was lying on the corpse of his horse.

  ‘Bastards!’ he muttered. ‘He was a brave animal!’

  ‘Aye,’ a voice said. ‘If he hadn’t fought back, we wouldn’t have been in time.’

  Matthias rolled over and stared into the smiling face of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. He struggled to his knees. The corpses of Emloe’s men littered the trackway and, by the sounds from the trees, others were being hunted and killed deep in the woods.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of exercise for my lads,’ Ratcliffe smiled, helping Matthias to his feet.

  For a while Matthias let himself be tended: one of Ratcliffe’s retainers bathed his neck and wrists with coarse wine. Another took him to sit beneath the trees, from where he watched his horse being lifted and the saddle taken off. Eventually Ratcliffe’s men, with bloody swords and daggers, returned on to the trackway. Sir Edgar came and squatted before Matthias.

  ‘I am sorry we couldn’t save your friends,’ he retorted. ‘But we came as fast as we could. Your messenger said that she knew we were leaving today and that she was frightened you would be attacked.’ Ratcliffe dug into his purse and brought out three pure gold coins. ‘There’s nothing like a pretty face and a bag of gold coins to spur on a knight errant.’ He turned. ‘Did you get the bastards?’ he shouted.

  A blond, surly-faced young man dressed in a black leather jerkin and red hose came swaggering across, thumbs pushed into his war belt. He had a cast in one eye which made him look sly.

  ‘City bullyboys,’ he declared. ‘They really should have kept to the alleyways. Two or three got away but the rest. .’ He pointed back to where Ratcliffe’s men were now stripping the dead. ‘They are as dead as those. Anyway, who’s he?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Ratcliffe replied. ‘A friend of mine. He’s the one the young lady told us about.’

  The man hawked and spat, then swaggered back to join the plundering. Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes and watched him go.

  ‘Gervase Craftleigh,’ he said, ‘my lieutenant. He’d like to command this troop. A good fighting man, but mean-spirited and choleric.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Matthias asked. ‘What young lady?’

  ‘Oh.’ Ratcliffe pulled back his chain mail coif and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘We heard rumours about your little trouble in Winchelsea. Ah well, I thought, that’s the end of that: we’ve lost a good recruit. Then this morning, just before dawn a beautiful, red-haired woman came to our camp. Matthias,’ Ratcliffe shook his head, ‘she was exquisite: hair like fire, creamy skin, eyes full of life. She was with a man. It was dark, I couldn’t make out his features. Anyway, she said that you were leaving Winchelsea today but that she feared for your safety. Well, to cut a long story short, she offered me a small purse of gold and kissed me on each cheek, so we struck camp and marched as quickly as we could. We could see you were in difficulties.’ He gestured back to the road. ‘Thank God for your horse. He was rearing and kicking until the bastards killed the poor brute. What was it all about?’

  Matthias told him about Emloe and his gang, depicting it as a blood feud. Ratcliffe heard him out and got to his feet.

  ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘We are going to camp out under the stars tonight: you are welcome to stay.’

  ‘Can I still join your company?’ Matthias asked.

  Ratcliffe pulled a face. ‘Matthias, we’ve signed articles. We are now a full free company, nothing can be decided without a full vote of the council. We’ll do that tonight.’

  Matthias was given one of the horses from Emloe’s gang. The soldiers stayed for a while to drag the corpses from the road, Ratcliffe insisting that they gave them some sort of decent burial. By the time they had finished, it had grown dark. They continued their journey through the woods and camped in the lee of a small hill. For a while all was bustle: horse lines were set up, a latrine dug, campfires lit, whilst some of Ratcliffe’s men went hunting, bringing back a pheasant and a couple of rabbits. These were quickly prepared for roasting. Coarse wine was served, everyone sitting round the campfire congratulating themselves on a good day’s work. Matthias gathered they were not only richer by the gold from Morgana, for it must have been she, but Emloe’s men had also provided horseflesh, armour, clothing, not to mention the contents of the purses.

  ‘Well, gentlemen?’ Ratcliffe got to his feet, clapping his hands. ‘The man we saved wants to join us. I offered him a post before we all sealed articles and left Winchelsea. Now, this time tomorrow, he could well be on board our transport and sailing with us to Spain.’

  A chorus of approval greeted his words.

  ‘We’ve all done good work today. So, perhaps before we continue, it’s only right to give thanks to God and our protector, St Raphael.’

  ‘St Raphael! St Raphael! St Raphael!’

  The cry was taken up. Sir Edgar recited a Paternoster, an Ave, a Gloria and, in a fine tenor voice, launched into a Latin hymn to Raphael, the great archangel who stood before God’s throne. The rest of the company joined in: a fine harmonious sound which filled the silence of the night. Matthias realised that, in the main, he was in the presence of good men who regarded themselves as soldiers of Christ. He closed his eyes and said his own quiet prayer that he would be allowed to join them.

  ‘Well,’ Sir Edgar declared once the hymn was finished, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, is he a member of our troop or not? I say he is.’

  The matter would have gone smoothly enough, the men already chorusing their ‘Ayes’, when Gervase Craftleigh sprang to his feet.

  ‘No!’ he cried.

  The rest looked at him in silence.

  ‘I say no!’

  ‘Why?’ Ratcliffe queried.

  ‘We are all fighting men,’ Craftleigh declared pugnaciously. ‘We all know each other — well, to a certain extent — but who is this Fitzosbert? He’s a felon. He killed a man in Winchelsea and took sanctuary in a church. We did say,’ he added to a chorus of ‘Ayes’ and nodding heads, ‘that no felon would be allowed into the company of St Raphael.’ He smiled maliciously at Ratcliffe. ‘We have no place for him. Thank God we lost no men in our recent fight. Oh, and by the way, when will the gold the red-haired woman brought be distributed?’

  ‘When I say,’ Ratcliffe replied calmly.

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘According to the articles,’ Ratcliffe reminded him, ‘all booty is distributed on a monthly basis. Those same articles also placed great trust in me. I am a knight and God’s own warrior, Master Craftleigh, I am no thief.’

  Craftleigh, however, remained unabashed.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘my vote is against Fitzosbert on two counts: he is a stranger and a murderer.’

  ‘I killed in self-defence!’ Matthias shouted.

  ‘In which case,’ Craftleigh sat down, ‘why didn’t you stand trial?’

  ‘You know the reason.’ Ratcliffe intervened. ‘The dead man was the leader of those assassins we killed on the road.’

  ‘Why did you kill him?’ Craftleigh glared at Matthias.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘And not your business to know.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ratcliffe asked quietly.

  Matthias got to his feet. ‘Take your vote!’ he said.

  He wandered off down the hill, bathing his hot face and hands in
a small brook. He heard the hum of conversation behind him, then silence. He splashed more water over his face. He turned at the sound of footsteps. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe crouched beside him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad.

  ‘The lads voted against you, Matthias. They would have taken you but Craftleigh is a troublemaker. He knows the famous articles, and so far the men-’ he shrugged — ‘they are still not too sure that I am truly their leader.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder and got up. ‘But you can keep the horse and we’ll take you into Rye. I am sorry I cannot do any more.’

  Matthias stared up in the star-strewn sky. A full moon bathed the meadow and hillside in a silvery light. The cool water looked inviting. He saw a fish snaking amongst the reeds. He watched it curl and turn. His eyes grew heavy, he lay back on the grass and drifted off to sleep.

  He began to dream immediately. He was lying in the camp, the fire was burning low. Across the red-hot embers Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, head back, mouth open, was sleeping like a baby. Matthias saw a shape move towards him. His hand went to his dagger, a thin Italian stiletto he always carried. He fumbled with his war belt but the dagger pouch was empty. In the dying light of the fire he saw Craftleigh lift a dagger — it was Matthias’ own — and with both hands plunge it into the chest of the sleeping Ratcliffe.

  ‘No!’ Matthias sat up.

  The night breeze was cold. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Ratcliffe and his company preparing for the night. Matthias scrambled to his feet and went back to the fireside. His saddle and belongings were piled high: he picked up his war belt, the stiletto was missing. He glanced up; Ratcliffe was watching him curiously.

  ‘Sir Edgar, may I have a word, please?’ He took the knight out of earshot of the others. ‘My dagger’s gone,’ he declared.

  Ratcliffe shrugged. ‘Matthias, I saved your life. I can’t account for every single item of your belongings.’

  ‘No, it was stolen,’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve had a dream, Sir Edgar. Tonight Craftleigh intends to kill you. He will stab you with my dirk. You will die and I will hang. Craftleigh will have the gold as well as the company of St Raphael.’