Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Matthias hurried on, his mind now full of stories of Black Vaughan and his ghostly henchmen who prowled the forests of the Severn valley. Matthias closed his eyes, but he stumbled so he opened them again. The moonlit trackway lay ahead of him and he grew fearful of what his father and mother might say about where he’d been, and at this hour. The bracken cracked and the shapes sprang out of the darkness: two men, soldiers, stinking of sweat, urine and stale wine, their boiled leather jackets hard and coarse, their dirt-smeared leggings now cut and torn by the brambles. Yet, they were armed, broad leather war belts round their waists. They seized the boy as swiftly as the hawk had the dove. A dirty, smelly hand across his mouth stopped Matthias screaming. He was dragged off the track into the trees. The two men, as they carried him, lashed his hands and feet. They threw him on to a bed of bracken. All Matthias could see were dark shapes, bearded faces framed by torn chain mail coifs.

‘Now, now, let’s see what we have here?’

A tinder was struck and a piece of candle flared into light. Matthias preferred the darkness: in the candlelight the soldiers’ faces, unshaven and dirty, were twisted and evil, their eyes glittering. One of them grasped Matthias’ genitals.

‘We have a boy! We have a boy, Petain, fresh and soft!’

Coarse fingers pulled at Matthias’ legs and cheeks. The other soldier turned him over on to his face. Matthias, rigid with terror, moaned softly as the man dug a finger between his buttocks.

‘Soft and pert,’ he whispered. ‘Any port in a storm eh, comrade?’

‘Hush!’

Both soldiers stopped. Matthias could now hear it. Someone was running towards them.

‘Matthias!’ The voice was low, unmistakably that of a young girl. ‘Matthias, where are you?’

‘Oh, twice fortunate!’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘Keep him there, Petain!’

Matthias was rolled over on his back as one of the soldiers, knife drawn, disappeared in the direction of the voice. The soldier left holding the candle leant down and jabbed Matthias’ chest.

‘Your sister?’ he whispered. ‘Your sister come to join the fun, has she?’ His teeth were yellow and cracked, his breath foul. ‘We will play Pass The Fardel. We’ll get some pleasure out of this!’

A soul-chilling scream cut the silence.

‘In Satan’s name!’

The soldier slapped Matthias and hurried into the trees. The boy just lay there whimpering like a puppy. He heard the soldier crashing and stumbling. He turned on his side. Something like a shadow, moving dark and fast as if some giant hawk were flying over the trees, caught his eye. The noise of the retreating soldier stopped. Again a blood-chilling scream shattered the night air and Matthias began to shake. Closing his eyes he tried to pray. He felt something warm press his cheek. The hermit was crouching over him. He carried the piece of tallow candle the soldiers had dropped. He lit this, his eyes and face a mask of concern.

‘Did they hurt you, Creatura?’ he whispered. ‘Did they hurt you, little one?’

‘They touched me,’ Matthias stammered. ‘They said they were going to!’ He began to shake.

The hermit put the candle on a crook of a tree. The ropes round Matthias’ hands and feet were slashed. The hermit picked him up like a mother would a baby. He held him close, rocking gently to and fro. Then the hermit lifted his head. He spoke sharply to the darkness in a tongue Matthias could not understand, like a wolfhound growling against the moon. Matthias stared up in alarm.

‘Don’t worry, little one,’ the hermit whispered. ‘I’ve cursed those evil ones. They will do no more terror in their journey to wherever they are destined. But, come now.’

He lifted a water bottle to Matthias’ lips. The juice it contained tasted sweeter than water. It cleansed Matthias’ mouth and brought the warmth back into his body. He felt invigorated, like he did when he splashed in a pool on a bright summer’s morning with the rest of the boys.

‘I must go.’ Matthias struggled to his feet.

‘And this time I shall go with you.’

The hermit extinguished the candle, took him by the hand and led him back on to the path. Despite the attack, Matthias now felt calm and refreshed. The hermit was telling him about the stars as Matthias hopped and skipped beside him. When they reached the edge of Sutton Courteny, the hermit crouched down and embraced him again.

‘Go on, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘Go through the village. But, remember, tomorrow, just after dawn, I’ll be waiting.’

The boy sped away like an arrow. The door to the Hungry Man was shut but candlelight and music poured through the unshuttered windows. Here and there a dog barked but Matthias was not afraid. He reached the church, opened the lych-gate and took a short cut across the cemetery. Usually he would never take such a path at night. The villagers were always telling stories of the ghosts and spirits which lived there, especially about the bell.

Years ago, Maud Brasenose, the widow of a wealthy peasant, had a great fear of being buried alive. So the priest at the time agreed that a bell be fixed in a small holder on the top of her tomb, attached, through a hole in the coffin, to her hand. Accordingly, if she woke and found herself buried alive, she only had to ring the bell. The stone still stood, the bell and chain now rusted. However, at midsummer or Samhain Eve when the fires were lit, some fool, full of ale, would always come down to the cemetery and try to ring the bell even though it was encrusted with rust. Or again, there was the black angel which adorned the tomb of Thomas Pepperel, a wealthy spicer who had moved from Tredington and spent his last years at Sutton Courteny. Parson Osbert had declared that, when the angel had first been carved, it had been white as snow but Pepperel had been cheated: the stone was of poor quality and had turned a horrid black so it looked as if some demonic imp, rather than an angel, guarded poor Pepperel’s tomb.

Matthias’ route took him over the wall and into the small vegetable plot which lay in front of the priest’s house. The windows were shuttered but he glimpsed chinks of light. Still full of courage, he knocked on the door, there was a slap of sandals, the door opened and his father stood staring down at him.

‘Oh, Matthias, where have you been?’

‘I’ve been to Tenebral.’ The boy decided it was best not to lie.

‘Come in. Your mother and I. .’

Parson Fitzosbert seized his son’s hand and led him down the stone-paved passageway into the small parlour. Matthias’ courage began to ebb. Oh, he was pleased to be home. The straw on the passageway floor was crisp and clean, sprinkled with fennel and rosemary. Small rushlights burnt in their shiny metal holders. The parlour was warm and inviting. Oil lamps hung from the great beam which ran down the length of the chamber. A fire leapt in the great hearth and the cauldron, hanging up on a hook above it, gave off the fragrant smell of freshly cooked meat.

Christina, his mother, was sitting at her spinning wheel under the light of a lantern. She looked busy but Matthias saw her face was still white, dark rings round those lustrous eyes. She put down the spindle and held out her hands. Matthias ran to her, snuggling his face deep into her woollen dress, savouring her lovely smell, a mixture of cooking, sweat and the fragrant herb water Christina always used to wash herself. Her fingers, long and cool, stroked his hot cheeks.

‘I was worried, Matthias, so very, very worried.’

Christina let him go and he stood up to face his father. Parson Osbert stared sadly down at him. Matthias abruptly realised how his father was beginning to age. Folds of skin hung loose on his neck; his cheeks looked a little sunken, those gentle eyes now lined with care.