Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Matthias studied it carefully and his blood ran cold.

1471: Tewkesbury Battle, the Hospitaller dies. Matthias the Beloved watches this. 1471: Christina the Beloved is ill. Matthias, my son; the Preacher has come. The fires burn but I shall return. 1471: the clerk brings vengeance but the Beloved remains.

There were other entries for each succeeding year, 1472, 1473 and 1474 all describing Matthias’ whereabouts, predicting exactly what Matthias would be doing. Matthias looked up.

‘He knew the future. He could see what was happening.’

Abbot Benedict gazed soulfully across the table at him.

‘I don’t believe he could see the future, Matthias. I certainly don’t think he controlled it — no being under God can do that — but he could predict. Like the pilot of a ship who calls out the depths as he leads his craft through rocky shoals.’

‘Why did he write it?’ Matthias asked.

Abbot Benedict shrugged. ‘As an act of defiance. A last will and testament, only this was about the future rather than the past. Or, there again, he knew that one day you would return. You would try and decipher them and learn that the Rose Demon will never leave you.’

‘Can’t you hurry on?’ Matthias replied.

Abbot Benedict shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, Matthias. It’s like peeling an onion, you must take the top layers off first. Any other method and I’ll just become lost in a maze of puzzles. Matthias, I appreciate you have been here months, but soon I will reach the end.’

The following morning Prior Jerome, a spiteful look on his face, was waiting for Matthias outside the abbey church.

‘You must come with me, Master Matthias.’

‘Prior Jerome, I am under no obligation to go anywhere, least with you.’

The Prior stepped closer. In the early morning light, his face looked livid, his breath stank stale.

‘Brother Roger has been asking for you,’ he whispered, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘He says he has messages from your friends, Amasia and Santerre. Who are these, Brother Matthias?’ He cocked his head sideways. ‘They mean something to you, don’t they? Now why should a worthy man like you have anything in common with a mad, possessed monk? More importantly, how does such a person know so much about you?’ He stepped back, slipping his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. ‘Either you come with me or I will repeat Brother Roger’s request to the full chapter.’

‘Then you’d best show me,’ Matthias retorted. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

They walked across the dew-wet grass. Matthias hid his unease as he approached the squat, ragstone building: its iron-studded door was barred and bolted whilst the windows were mere arrow slits, so narrow, a person couldn’t even slide his hand through. As he approached, Matthias heard his name being called.

‘Come on, Matthias Fitzosbert! Hell awaits. Those who’ve gone in darkness before us require an answer!’

They reached the door. Prior Jerome pulled back the small wooden flap. Matthias turned away, revolted at the stench which seeped through the grille.

‘Oh, don’t be like that.’ The voice was soft, but the glaring eyes in the unshaven face were full of madness. Brother Roger pressed his lips against the grille and licked the cold iron. ‘I have messages for you, Matthias. Santerre stands in the darkness, as do Amasia and others. Fulcher and John the bailiff, Fitzgerald. Aye, and even a king, James Stewart, whose blood was spilt at Sauchieburn. Like children they are, lost in the night! They ask you to free them. They scream into the dark that they were innocent, their lives snatched away, sent unprepared into eternal night. I’ve drawn a rose,’ he whispered, ‘a lovely rose, red as the dawn, with a long, green stem. Prior Jerome gave me the paints and each leaf stands for one of your friends.’ The mad, crazed face fell back; dirty, long nails scrabbled at the bars. ‘Come in, Matthias, come in and meet your friends!’

Matthias pushed the slat of wood across the grille and turned away. On the other side of the door a terrible pounding and screaming broke out.

‘You’ve got to come in! You’ve got to come in!’ The voice grew so strident it cracked. ‘They are your friends yet they’ve become my guests! They haunt me at night!’

Matthias, however, was striding across the grass. Prior Jerome caught up.

‘What is all this?’ He caught at Matthias’ arm. ‘Tut, tut, Brother!’

Matthias grabbed the Prior by the front of his tunic and, drawing his dagger, pricked the side of his neck. Fear replaced malice in the Prior’s close-set eyes.

‘Stay away from me, you whoreson!’ Matthias cursed. He pressed the dagger tip against the Prior’s nose. ‘Keep that out of my business and out of my affairs!’ He pointed back to where Brother Roger still cursed and ranted. ‘And leave that poor soul be!’ He pushed the Prior away. ‘And don’t worry about our good abbot. He knows everything about me, as he will about this!’

Abbot Benedict was studying the accounts with his cellarer. He took one look at Matthias’ face and quietly asked the monk to leave.

‘What is it, Matthias?’

Matthias sat down and, in halting phrases, told the Abbot about Brother Roger’s wild rantings and threats.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do these dead always walk with me? I was not guilty of their deaths. Nor did I ask the Rose Demon to house himself in their souls. My hands are free of any blood or guilt.’

‘Matthias, Matthias.’ Abbot Benedict came round the desk and stood over him. ‘These were souls who were plucked, unprepared, from life. Our theology of life after death is so small, it could be summed up in two or three sentences. Yet death is probably like birth. A baby does not want to leave the womb and, when he does, he is born in blood and pain. He’s confused and, perhaps, that’s what happens to the dead. These men and women were thrust out unprepared and do not know where they are or what really happened. They blame you. They stay with you because of the strong bond forged between them and you during life. Now, as for Prior Jerome,’ the Abbot beat his hands against the desk, ‘it’s time some other house had the benefit of his expertise.’

Two days later, Matthias was woken by the tolling of the bell. Not the solemn calling to prayer or other duties but the wild clang of a tocsin. He tried to open his door but it had been locked from the outside. In the passageway beyond he could hear the slap of sandals, the shouts of monks. He went to the window but could see little so he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, trying to calm the panic seething within him. He’d spent most of the previous day in the library trying to hide himself in a world of study away from the rantings of Brother Roger and the cold malice of Prior Jerome. In the evening he had dined by himself, but when Brother Paul brought a tray of food across he whispered how the entire monastery knew that Prior Jerome had been summoned to the Abbot’s chamber.

‘The brothers are beside themselves with glee,’ the guestmaster informed Matthias. ‘The cellarer overheard the Abbot say that, by the end of the week, Prior Jerome will be gone.’

Matthias wondered what had happened. He went across and lifted his clothes from a peg on the wall. His war belt had been removed! Someone had slipped into his chamber during the night and quietly taken it. A key turned in the lock. He whirled round. Prior Jerome, accompanied by four burly lay brothers, all carrying staffs, burst into the chamber. The Prior was grinning cynically. He pushed Matthias back on to the bed.

‘Assassin!’ he snarled, his finger thrust only inches away from Matthias’ face. ‘Assassin and son of the Devil!’