Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

She got up and hobbled towards him. Matthias recalled how she was supposed to have been born with a club foot.

‘Clever, clever boy,’ she declared. ‘They say,’ her head came forward, scrawny neck now tight, ‘they say you are a clever boy.’ One hand, thin and cold like a claw, reached out and touched him gently on the cheek. Matthias flinched but held his ground. ‘I know where you are going, boy. To the village of the dead, to meet your friend the hermit.’

She was trying to be sweet but Matthias caught the venom in her words. She was now watching him closely, her one good eye studying his face as if she intended to remember every feature.

‘Can’t I go with you?’ she simpered.

‘The hermit’s not your friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘If you want to see him, you should go yourself.’

‘One has to be invited into a great lord’s presence,’ she cooed back. ‘But remember me to him, won’t you, boy? Say sweet things about poor Margot. Tell him how fond I am of you.’ She drew closer and Matthias caught her stink. ‘I am your servant, Matthias. Anything you want, a potion, an elixir. .?’ She grasped him by the shoulder, her nails dug deep into his skin.

Matthias squirmed. ‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘You are hurting me! I’ll tell-’ He was going to say his father but he stopped short because the change in Margot was so dramatic.

She clasped her hands together, bowing, making small jigging movements like Matthias had seen other old women do in front of the sanctuary lamp.

‘Oh, don’t tell the hermit,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I never intended to hurt, only to serve you. Look!’ Again the clawlike hand came up.

This time Matthias didn’t wait. He ran like the wind along the trackway into the wood. He went as fast as he could. Only once did he stop, where the soldiers had attacked him last night. He looked fearfully into the undergrowth: he could see where the grass and plants had been beaten down but nothing else. He hurried on. The hermit was true to his word. Matthias found him waiting outside the old, crumbling lych-gate.

‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’

The hermit crouched down. He drew the boy to him, hugging him gently, softly stroking the back of his head.

‘It’s good to see you, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘You are well?’

‘Those soldiers,’ the boy blurted out. ‘Those wicked men last night-’

‘I followed you,’ the hermit replied. ‘I wanted to show you that you had nothing to fear.’

‘But the soliders? That voice!’

‘They have gone.’ The hermit grinned. ‘And I am the best of mimics.’

‘Did you kill them?’

‘They have gone.’ The hermit stood up. ‘And they’ll never trouble you again, Creatura.’ He stared down in mock anger. ‘You are later than I expected.’

‘I met the witch. Margot, Old Bogglebow. She wishes to be remembered to you. She was strange. She wanted to meet you. She said she was my servant but I don’t think she is.’

‘No, she isn’t.’ The hermit picked up a staff leaning against the wall. ‘Such people, Creatura, are nothing but meddlers. They crawl into the darkness and take to themselves powers they should not, and cannot have. I do not like Margot. But, come, we must be in Tewkesbury soon.’

‘Are we walking there?’

‘No, no. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

He led him along a trackway. Matthias didn’t understand how he knew his way but, just before they left the wood, the hermit took Matthias into a small clearing where a horse, saddled and harnessed, stood hobbled, eating the grass. It was a fine, smooth, deep-chested bay. The hermit stroked its muzzle and whispered gently in its ear.

‘Where did you get it from?’ Matthias asked as the hermit swung him into the saddle and climbed up behind.

‘You ask too many questions, Creatura. I found it wandering. It’s probably from one of the armies. You are comfortable?’

Matthias enjoyed the ride. The trackways were hard, the horse fresh and strong, and it moved along in a fine canter. The hermit was silent. Now and again he’d pause at the top of a hill and stare down, murmur to himself and then ride on.

As they skirted Tredington and took the road to Tewkesbury, Matthias began to realise something was wrong. His parents had taken him here on market days. He was used to the carts and barrows, the hucksters and the traders, the cheerful banter of men looking forward to a good day’s trading. Now the people on the roads were different: grim-faced, heads down, they hurried along as if they wished to be indoors, well away from what might happen. On two occasions they met parties of soldiers, horsemen galloping hither and thither, their clothes stained with mud, white flecks of foam on their tired horses. Two foot soldiers, probably deserters, drew their swords and approached the man and the boy, but when the hermit turned to face them they slunk away.

They entered Tewkesbury just as the bells of the great abbey were tolling for morning prayers. The streets and lanes were strangely empty. No stalls or shops were open. Journeymen and traders stayed in the taverns with the doors closed and windows shuttered. No children played in the streets, even the wandering hogs and dogs had been penned in. A funeral cortege passed them, the mourners walking quickly, and the old priest who preceded them gasping and stammering at his prayers.

‘What’s the matter?’ Matthias asked.

‘It’s the battle,’ the hermit replied. ‘As I told you, Matthias, blood will be spilt, armies will shatter. Princes will topple. The ravens will feast well tonight. Women will be widowed and children made fatherless. This is a dreadful day.’ His voice grew grim. ‘Remember, Creatura, all life preys on life. Now, I have someone to see.’

They rode through the small town and up into the abbey close. They dismounted and the hermit led the horse around into the monastic enclosure. A lay brother, followed by the guestmaster, came out to greet them. The latter apparently recognised the hermit and shook his hand warmly as his companion led the horse away to the stables.

‘It’s good to see you.’ The old monk’s tired face was lit by a smile. ‘And who’s this?’ He pointed down at Matthias.

‘My friend and companion, Matthias Fitzosbert. His father is priest at Sutton Courteny.’

The man’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, quite. And what do you wish here?’

‘To pray in the abbey.’

The guestmaster blinked and wetted dry lips.

‘It is not safe to be in Tewkesbury today, my friend. Father Abbot has received news from the battlefield. A terrible and bloody struggle has taken place. Edward of York carries all before him. Men from the Lancastrian army have been deserting all night, stopping at our house, begging for alms.’

‘I just want to pray,’ the hermit replied.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The monk led them forward. ‘Morning Office is finished and Mass has been said. Do you wish food, drink from our refectory?’

The hermit shook his head and, clasping Matthias’ hand, he went through a side door into the soaring nave. Matthias stared in disbelief: great columns marched the length of the church up to a gloriously painted sanctuary whilst the carved roof above him looked as if it were held up by magic. He stared in amazement at the shafts of light pouring through the multicoloured, painted windows.

‘I have loved, oh Lord,’ the hermit whispered, ‘the beauty of Thy house, the place where Your glory dwells. This, Matthias, is the gate of Heaven and, indeed, a terrible place.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Matthias whispered.

His father had never brought him here and, caught up in wonderment, Matthias did not know where to gaze first. The wall paintings drew him, striking in their glorious vigour: angels swooped, satyr-faced demons were spat out of the fire of Hell, the just were carried by Christ in judgment; St Anthony preached to the fishes; Lazarus was swept up into the bosom of Abraham.