Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘Why did you take me there?’ Matthias twisted round in the saddle and stared up into the hermit’s face.

‘I told you, I had to see someone before he died.’

‘But how did you know he would be in Tewkesbury, in the cathedral? Are you like the crone Margot? Can you see into the future?’

The hermit laughed, a merry chuckle deep in his chest, and he gently stroked Matthias’ hair.

‘Creatura, Creatura, I would love to tell you that I can see the future and all its glory as well as what present you will receive on your birthing day.’ His voice became grave. ‘But that’s not true. Margaret of Anjou was doomed to lose. The House of York is strong as long as Edward its prince rules but, there again, that might not be as long as they think. I knew the Lancastrians would lose the battle and, if they did, though it was foolish to fight, they would have nowhere to flee for sanctuary but the abbey. So I went there to wait.’

Matthias closed his eyes. He would never forget today. He would not dare tell his parents what he had seen. That terrible bloody fight up the nave, men hacking and screaming at each other. And then the executions, though he had seen men die before; poachers and outlaws jerking and dangling on Baron Sanguis’ gallows, but nothing as bloody as that!

‘I know what you are going to ask me, Creatura,’ the hermit said, guiding his horse along the woodland path. ‘Why did you have to see it? But that’s the nature of life. Struggling, fighting, dying. In the trees around us, life struggles for existence. The death of one animal is the life of another. The world of man is no different.’

‘And will you take me to Tenebral now?’

‘No, not tonight. You were home late yesterday; that must not happen again. Will you tell your parents what you have seen?’

Matthias shook his head.

‘I suppose it’s best,’ the hermit replied drily.

‘And who was that man?’ Matthias asked. ‘The one you were talking to, who later died?’

‘Someone I knew from my past,’ the hermit retorted. ‘I had to say farewell before his end.’ The hermit pointed further up the forest path. ‘Look!’

Matthias peered down the long tunnel formed by the overhanging trees and glimpsed a small wayside tavern built of wood and wattle. Two horses stood tied to a post outside.

‘We’ll stop there,’ the hermit said. ‘A tankard of ale, something to drink. Would you like a sweetmeat, Matthias?’

The boy immediately forgot about Tewkesbury and clapped his hands. When they reached the tavern, the hermit lowered him gently from the saddle and told him to sit on the bench. He dismounted and tied the horse, then walked into the little taproom. He came out a short while later carrying a small trencher of sweetened bread baked in honey and a delicious drink of herbs mixed with watered ale. He placed these on to Matthias’ lap.

‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I will not be long.’

The hermit went back inside. Matthias leaned against the wall of the tavern and slowly chewed on the honey-drenched morsels. He sipped at the pewter cup, staring across the trackway, watching the squirrels scramble up the trunks of trees whilst, above them, a magpie chattered noisily. The sun was still warm. Matthias felt his eyes grow heavy but, curious why the hermit had not returned, he put the trencher down and stared through the unshuttered window.

The taproom was gloomy but, as Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed, he saw the hermit. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, his back to him, talking to two people. One looked like a monk, cowled and hooded. The other was a beautiful young woman, the fairest Matthias had seen. She had lustrous, flaming red hair. Large earrings glittered in the darkness, a gleaming necklace hung round the swanlike neck. She was whispering earnestly to the hermit. Now and again the woman would pause and lean across to her hooded companion as if to ask for confirmation. The hooded one would simply nod. She said something to the hermit, who laughed. She turned and saw Matthias staring at her through the window. She raised her hand prettily. Matthias blushed, looked away and returned to his sweetmeats. After a short while the hermit came out and, without a word, untethered his horse and lifted Matthias into the saddle. They left the tavern.

‘Before you ask, Creatura,’ the hermit laughingly teased, ‘they are friends I know.’

‘Who was the woman?’

‘Her name is Morgana. She is part-English, part-Spanish.’

‘She’s beautiful.’ Matthias chattered on. ‘She’s like a princess I saw. It was in a Book of Hours Baron Sanguis loaned Father. A beautiful princess being attacked by a savage dragon. She was defended by a brave knight.’

‘And am I the dragon?’ the hermit asked.

‘No,’ Matthias replied. He leant back against the hermit’s chest. ‘You are the knight.’

Matthias stared at the trackway; the jogging horse, the warmth of the hermit’s body and what he had drunk at the tavern made him heavy-eyed. He fought against it but eventually he was in a deep sleep full of dreams: beautiful princesses, knights covered in blood fighting to the death, dragons, executioners, wolf’s-heads and forest outlaws garbed in Lincoln green. He woke with a start. It was dusk, they were in the woods leading down to Sutton Courteny. The hermit reined in.

‘Are you well, Matthias? You should have slept on. This is dusk, the Watching Hour.’

‘I want to pee,’ Matthias replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll wet my breeches.’

The hermit laughed and let him down. The boy ran into the bushes and undid his points. When he had finished, he shivered. He was glad the hermit was taking him home. It was growing dark and cold. He had seen enough. He wanted his mother, to say his prayers, to sit by his father near the fireside and chatter. He glanced over at the hermit. For the first time ever Matthias felt frightened of him. In the dusk he looked taller, more sombre, as if horse and man were one creature.

‘What’s the matter, Matthias?’

The boy just took a step back. He couldn’t understand his fear.

‘I want to go home,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m frightened!’

The hermit dismounted and walked towards him. When Matthias stood stock-still the hermit crouched down. The boy relaxed at those friendly, twinkling eyes and merry mouth.

‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Matthias?’

‘It was strange.’ The boy drew closer. ‘It’s dusk and the wood is quiet.’

‘This is the most dangerous hour,’ the hermit replied, catching Matthias’ hand and stroking it gently. ‘This and the hour before dawn.’

‘I’ve heard of that,’ Matthias replied, recalling a sermon his father had given last Palm Sunday. ‘They say just before dusk Christ was buried and just before dawn he rose from the dead. So, about these times, ghosts walk.’

The hermit led him back to the horse. ‘Then it’s also time little boys were home and in bed,’ he remarked.

They continued on their journey. The hermit tried to make him go back to sleep but Matthias was now too alert.

‘Then close your eyes,’ the hermit said, ‘and do not be frightened by what you might see.’

The horse jogged on. Matthias, of course, kept his eyes wide open. He felt the night breeze spring up, rustling the trees around him, then, through the gathering gloom, he saw a figure coming towards them.

‘I wonder who that is,’ Matthias murmured.

The boy peered again. It wasn’t one, it was two, no three, four, five figures walking in single file, slowly, in step. Matthias began to shiver. There was something dreadfully wrong with them. They didn’t walk, they shuffled. He felt the hermit tense.

‘Look away, Matthias,’ he whispered. ‘Do not look at them as they pass. They can do us no harm.’