Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

He felt his brother’s arms but his brother stared impassively back.

‘Look at me, Sir Raymond! Stare into my eyes!’

The Hospitaller did so, his heart skipped a beat, his blood ran cold. The hair, the face, the arms, the body, these were his brother’s — but those eyes! The same hateful stare as that Byzantine princess.

‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You!’

He would have collapsed but the hermit helped him to sit on the cushioned kneeler of the prie-dieu.

‘You have been hunting me,’ the hermit declared. ‘Otto has gone. I am here. I see through his eyes. I speak through his tongue and his heart beats for me.’

Sir Raymond turned away.

‘How?’ he asked weakly.

‘Have you not read your Scriptures?’ the hermit mocked gently. ‘How the demons can enter a man and make their home there?’

‘But why?’

‘That is not for you to know.’

‘No, why do you hate us?’

‘I do not hate you, Sir Raymond. Truly, I thank you. You rescued me from the vault but then you failed me. You broke your pledge and let me be taken. What is worse, you pursued me and sent others hunting me along the highways and byways of Europe. I will not be interfered with!’

Sir Raymond saw the fury blazing in the hermit’s eyes.

‘I am not some rabbit or fox to be hunted. Always remember, Sir Raymond: when you declare war on Hell, Hell declares war on you.’ Lifting his finger he brushed some of the blood from Raymond’s face and licked it carefully.

‘Here in God’s house!’ Raymond felt his courage return. ‘You dare to come into God’s house!’

‘Have you not studied your Scriptures, Sir Raymond?’ the hermit taunted again. ‘Read the Book of Job. Satan is allowed to come before the throne of God and, according to the Gospels, even into the presence of Christ.’ The hermit gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘Do you think we are like that, Sir Raymond? Dirty little imps with the faces of monkeys and the heads of goats? Don’t you realise we are pure spirit, powerful, brooding for all eternity? We have not withdrawn from Heaven, Heaven has unjustly withdrawn from us.’ He would have touched Sir Raymond’s face again but the Hospitaller flinched. ‘Heaven and Hell are the same. Think of that before you die.’

‘And the boy?’ Sir Raymond asked. ‘Another of your victims?’

‘More sacred than life itself,’ the hermit replied. ‘He is nothing to you.’

The Hospitaller got to his feet, refusing to be cowed.

‘There are others,’ he said.

‘Ah, you mean the Preacher?’ The hermit shrugged. ‘I will take care of him as I have taken care of others. Once he is dead the hunt will end. Farewell, brother!’

The hermit, turning on his heel, walked back through the shadows and collected the boy.

Sir Raymond went back to his prayers. He felt cold as if his heart had turned to stone. He did not care about his companions or their endless speculation. Instead he prayed, preparing himself for death. When the Yorkist captains returned later in the day with warrants for their arrest, Sir Raymond did not struggle as the others did, but allowed his hands to be lashed behind his back. He was pushed out of the main door, blinking at the strong afternoon sunlight.

Just beyond the abbey close a great table had been set up, covered by a green baize cloth. Behind the table soared a black-draped scaffold. On it stood the executioner, his face masked, a huge two-sided axe in his hand, one foot resting on the block and, beside that, a great wicker basket. The townspeople thronged about, held back by a line of archers wearing the royal livery. Each prisoner was taken before the table, Somerset first. Two men were seated there. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his henchman John Howard of Norfolk, their faces still bearing the marks of recent battle. They shouted questions, jabbing their fingers at the fallen Duke. Somerset just shook his head. Gloucester, his pale, pinched face framed by red hair, sprang to his feet, screaming how the Beauforts were responsible for the death of his father. Somerset brought his head back, hawked and spat, the globule of phlegm hitting Gloucester on his cheek. Gloucester bent down and picked up one of the captured standards of Margaret of Anjou and wiped his face. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. The soldiers hustled Somerset away, up the steps to the scaffold. He refused the blindfold offered by the executioner, lay down and placed his head on the block.

Sir Raymond saw the axe lifting, a flash of sunlight, the blade fell with a thud. He looked away as the executioner picked up the head and showed it to the cheering crowd. Other trials followed. Some prisoners pleaded for mercy and were taken away. Others, Sir Raymond noticed with wry amusement, were greeted as long-lost friends, their bonds cut, and he realised there had been traitors in the Lancastrian ranks. A few, like Somerset, refused to bend the knee and the scaffold behind the makeshift court dripped with blood.

Eventually his turn came. His arms pinioned by two archers, he was pushed up against a table and stared into the catlike eyes of Richard of Gloucester. The Duke’s prim lips formed a thin, bloodless line; his face bore cuts whilst his right hand was swathed in bandages.

‘A Hospitaller.’ John of Norfolk lounged in his chair. He scratched a blood-veined, red cheek, his blue, watery eyes staring contemptuously at Sir Raymond. ‘What’s a Hospitaller doing amongst the forces of Lancaster?’

‘What’s a farmer from Norfolk doing amongst those of York?’ Raymond retorted.

Norfolk sat straight in his chair. He took his dagger from his belt and dug into the green baize cloth.

‘You are in no position to taunt, Hospitaller.’

‘What position is that?’ Sir Raymond replied.

‘Come, come, come!’ Richard of Gloucester forced a smile. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, is it not? You’ll bend the knee and accept the King’s pardon?’

‘From now on,’ Sir Raymond replied slowly, ‘I’ll bend the knee to neither York nor Lancaster. A curse on both your houses!’

‘You want to die?’ Norfolk jibed.

Sir Raymond smiled. ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘Why?’ Gloucester asked curiously.

‘I broke my vow,’ the Hospitaller replied, staring up at the executioner. ‘I broke my vow to a prince better than you, to my superiors, to my God. I have failed. I deserve to die. I can do no more!’

Richard of Gloucester sat back in his chair and flinched at the hostility in the Hospitaller’s gaze.

‘You and your sort,’ Sir Raymond added softly, ‘are soon for the dark. You squabble about the fold whilst the sheep are ravished by wolves.’

‘Enough!’ Gloucester banged on the table with his fist. ‘Sir Raymond Grandison, you are a traitor taken in arms against the King. You have offered nothing in your defence.’ His face lost some of its hardness. ‘God knows why you want to die but, God knows, I will not stop you. Take him away!’

Sir Raymond was hustled up the steps of the scaffold. It was higher than he had thought and, above the crowds, he could catch the breeze coming in from the meadows. He gazed up at the sky.

‘It will be a beautiful evening,’ he murmured as the executioner forced him down on his knees.

Sir Raymond closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. He heard his name called. He looked up and stared into the crowd. The hermit was standing in the front row, staring across at the scaffold, beside him the boy whom Sir Raymond had only glimpsed in the shadows. The hermit had his hand on the lad’s shoulder. Sir Raymond stared at him and felt the sweat break out on his body.

‘It cannot be!’ he whispered.

‘It is,’ the executioner replied.

He forced the condemned man to lie down. Sir Raymond closed his eyes but all he could see was the hermit’s face and that of the young boy. He heard a roar and the axe fell.