Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Baron Sanguis had vowed retribution but his main quarry had been the Preacher who had dared to usurp his seigneurial powers. In this he had been more successful. The Preacher had taken sanctuary with the monks at Tewkesbury where his conduct had alarmed Father Abbot. He had become witless, a madcap who kept proclaiming he had been possessed by a devil. This hadn’t saved him from the Baron’s vengeance. He had been dragged, a halter round his neck, through the village, and thrown into one of Baron Sanguis’ dungeons. Now the villagers waited for a new arrival: a royal commissioner, armed with special powers, was coming from London to investigate the matter — a royal justiciar who would make a tally of the corpses and put the Preacher on trial.

Matthias started: that was the clop of a horse! He stole down the church and peered out. Near the lych-gate a horseman sat, tall and erect, in the shiny red leather saddle, his great cloak about him, the sword belt around his waist beautifully embroidered. The horse was a destrier, a noble-looking animal with arched neck and glossy hide. Its housing and harness were those of a great lord, the leather soft and gleaming, the buckles glittering in the sunlight. The rider was looking back at a sumpter pony piled high with possessions under a clean canvas sheet. The man dismounted, the spurs on his high-heeled leather riding boots jingling like little bells. Matthias noticed how the man’s oiled black hair was tied back in a queue. He went to check his sumpter pony, lifting one of its forelegs. Matthias heard him talking quietly to the animal.

The boy, intrigued, stole out of the ruins and down the weed-filled path. The destrier snickered, its hooves pawing the earth. The sumpter pony drew back its head and brayed. Something skimmed over Matthias’ head and smacked into the wall of the church behind him. He looked back but could see nothing except a puff of dust where something had hit the wall.

‘You shouldn’t steal up on people like that, boy!’

Matthias whirled round. The man was now standing at the lych-gate, in his hand a small arbalest. He was putting a second bolt into the groove. Matthias’ heart lurched. He extended his hands.

‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I was hiding here. I often do. No one ever rides by here!’

The man came towards him. He moved elegantly, like a cat, fluid movements: a man certain of himself, arrogant in his power. He stopped before the boy, his dark-blue eyes studying him carefully: the arbalest cord was still pulled back, though the crossbow was held down.

‘How do I know,’ the man asked, ‘that you are not an outlaw brat?’

‘And how do I know you are not an outlaw?’ Matthias retorted.

The man smiled. He gently loosed the cord, removed the bolt and put it into a small pouch on his belt. He crouched down so that his face was level with that of Matthias. A kind, handsome face; the eyes crinkled when he smiled and the smooth-shaven cheeks showed dimples, as if the man loved life but found everything slightly amusing.

‘Well, if you are not an outlaw brat, who are you?’ He took off his leather, gold-fringed gauntlets.

Matthias noticed the ring on his finger. It bore the arms of England. He had seen similar insignia when he had been in Tewkesbury with the hermit.

‘I’m the priest’s brat,’ Matthias replied. ‘Matthias, son of Osbert the priest at Sutton Courteny.’

The man stood up and extended his hand.

‘And I am Rahere, the royal clerk.’ His hand was soft and warm. He gripped Matthias’ gently.

‘You are the clerk?’ Matthias exclaimed.

‘I am the clerk,’ Rahere mimicked back. ‘Sent by His Grace the King, at the request of Baron Sanguis, to carry out the King’s justice.’ He looked around. ‘I thought I’d come by this way.’ He pointed to the church. ‘One of the old villages, I suppose, wiped out by the plague? And this is your hiding place?’

‘No, it was the home of a friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was a hermit. He was taken prisoner and burnt as a witch by the villagers. Now Baron Sanguis has caught the man responsible.’

Rahere nodded, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh, though he gazed at the church, smiling faintly.

‘And did you like the hermit?’

‘He was my great friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was strange, very strange, but kind to me. I come here because I miss him.’ His voice trembled. ‘I am a little sad.’

Rahere crouched down again. ‘You shouldn’t be sad, Matthias, not on a summer’s day like this.’

‘He showed me foxes,’ Matthias continued, his lower lip trembling. ‘He did no one any harm. He used to live there.’ He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder towards the church. ‘He drew a beautiful rose.’

Rahere stood up. ‘And I have come to do justice for his death,’ he declared, his voice harsh and low. ‘So, little Matthias, the day is drawing on. Show me the path to Sutton Courteny.’

‘I thought your pony was lame?’ Matthias chattered as they walked back towards the lych-gate.

‘Oh, just a pebble in his shoe.’

Without asking, the clerk picked Matthias up and put him on the saddle and climbed up behind him. He gathered his reins, clicked his tongue and the horse moved on, the pony trotting behind. The clerk wore a perfume, a faint fragrance. Matthias felt warm and secure, though he wondered why such a clerk should come by forest paths.

‘Before I arrive anywhere,’ Rahere spoke up, as if he could read Matthias’ mind, ‘I like to ride around, speak to people, acquaint myself with the place in which I am going to work. I learn a lot that way. So, Matthias, this ride is not free. Tell me about Sutton Courteny.’

The boy began to chatter. How his father was the priest, that Christina, his mother, was ill. About the different accidents which had occurred since the hermit’s death. How he hated the Preacher. How Baron Sanguis was kind and how Bogglebow, the witch woman, had died so mysteriously.

The clerk listened. Now and again he would interrupt with a question. Matthias was so engrossed in this series of questions and answers, he hardly noticed the wolf’s-heads until they were upon them. Just where the path narrowed, before it turned the corner, the outlaws, seven in number, came like shadows out of the trees. Armed with sword and dagger, they blocked the path: two carried longbows, arrows notched to the string. Their leader, dressed in dirty green, his head covered by animal skins, swaggered forward.

‘A traveller and a boy.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Get down from your horse!’

‘Stay still,’ the clerk murmured to Matthias.

‘We could have shot you from the forest,’ the outlaw continued. He moved sideways and whistled under his breath. ‘But that horse looks expensive and it’s the horse we want to save, and your clothes, of course.’ He laughed over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Nothing like a bloody arrow wound to ruin a good shirt. So, down you get, fine sir, you and the boy. We’ll take your clothes, your purse, your weapons, your horse. If you are good and do what we say, you can keep your lives.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am all compassion.’

‘You promise our lives?’ Rahere replied.

‘On my mother’s honour. Or rather your father’s.’ The outlaw laughed aloud. ‘That is if you have one!’

‘When I put you down,’ Rahere whispered, ‘run like the wind!’

He lowered Matthias gently to the ground. The boy scampered into the undergrowth. Even as he did so he heard the horse behind him neigh. He stopped and turned round. The clerk had moved with lightning speed, digging his spurs in savagely. The great war horse had leapt forward in rage, its hooves scything the air. The outlaw leader was knocked over like a twirling ninepin. The bowmen were unable to loose but now they closed. Matthias, fingers to his mouth, saw them slice the clerk’s body with sword and dagger and heard the yells of expectant triumph. These faded as the clerk just turned his horse and came back. Sword raised, he struck the outlaws like an avenging angel. The horse, trained to war and quickened by the scent of blood, struck out with iron-shod hooves. One outlaw, hands to his face, staggered away screaming, the blood pumping between his fingers. Matthias stood stock-still. He had seen Baron Sanguis’ mounted men practise at the tourney but never anything like this. For a short while the stillness of the forest was shattered by the scrape of steel, the cries and oaths of men locked in mortal combat.