Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘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.’

Even in summer, the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s, built amongst the fens and moors of Romney Marsh, which ran down to Dymchurch on the south coast, looked bleak and dour. The trackway leading to the main gate was laid with shingle collected from the nearby beaches: it rattled under Matthias’ horse’s hooves. He reined in before the main gate and stared up at the grey ragstone buildings before pulling at the bell rope. A small postern door opened. Matthias dismounted and led his horse through into the cobbled yard. Monks, clothed in black, were filing across the yard, answering the bell of the abbey church to attend Divine Office. They stopped and looked towards him. Not one of them smiled or raised his hand in greeting. The guestmaster, Brother Paul, was welcoming enough: a small tub of a man with a merry, red face, his auburn hair closely cropped, his cheeks and chin unshaven. Matthias was sure the guestmaster had been drinking rather deeply when summoned from his chamber.

‘Abbot Benedict is in church,’ Brother Paul declared, after Matthias had introduced himself. He gestured at the lay brothers dressed in grey, who stood silently behind him. ‘These will look after your horses and saddle and, whilst you wait, I may as well show you the monastery.’

They stopped at the buttery for two pots of tangy, highly flavoured ale and small finger slices of bread covered in toasted cheese. Afterwards, licking his fingers, Brother Paul led Matthias around the sprawling monastery. The buildings ringed a central court and cloister garth. On the north was the abbey church, to the west the long ground-floor dormitory with warming chambers below. On the south were the dining-hall or refectory, with more chambers and store rooms below; beyond these were the kitchens. On the south-east corner stood the Abbot’s apartments whilst on the east were the Chapter House, parlour and library. Matthias noticed how small streams surrounded the abbey grounds. Brother Paul explained these rivulets provided fresh water and also cleaned the latrines and sewers of the monastery. He then took Matthias round the cloister, which was made up of four covered ways or alleys: little cubicles or carrels were built along there so the monks could take advantage of the daylight to read or write. Brother Paul, wheezing and panting, his fat face covered in a sheen of sweat, led Matthias away from the main buildings. He pointed to a low, grey brick house which stood by itself in the corner of the great encircling wall of the monastery.