Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘Let it be done!’ Rahere’s voice broke the stillness. ‘Let the King’s justice be done!’

The horse was led away. The Preacher danced, jerking like a doll at the end of the rope, twisting and turning, his legs kicking. Matthias fled inside the Hungry Man and sat in the darkened taproom. He was still there when the men returned from the gallows. He was about to slip away when a hand caught at his shoulder. He glanced up. Rahere was smiling down at him.

‘It had to be done, boy,’ he murmured. ‘It had to be done.’ He leant down. ‘Enough of royal justice,’ he whispered. ‘Will you show me the woods?’

‘Tomorrow.’ Matthias stepped back. He felt weak, slightly sick. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he promised. ‘But my father needs me.’

Rahere tapped him on the shoulder. ‘An obedient son,’ he murmured, ‘brings pleasure to all!’

Matthias left the Hungry Man and ran up the highroad. Matthias found his father in the kitchen at home, sitting before the hearth, staring into the ashes. He was already on his second goblet of wine. Matthias tried to talk to him but his father just shook his head. Matthias stole up the stairs. The door to his parents’ bedchamber was open. He went inside. It was dark and stale. He narrowed his eyes. His mother was lying on the bed. She had her back to him. He went across.

‘Mother, Mother, it’s Matthias.’ He tapped again but she didn’t stir. ‘Mother, it’s Matthias. Are you well?’

Again no reply. He tiptoed out and went up the stairs to his own little garret. He lay down on the bed. Images flitted through his mind. The hermit, arms extended; the Preacher, dancing at the end of the rope; Rahere smiling down at him. Matthias drifted into sleep. He was awoken violently: his mother, grasping him by the shoulders, was shaking him up and down, banging his head against the feather-filled bolster. Matthias stared in horror. Christina’s face was white as a sheet, a blueish tinge high in her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark circled. She was glaring sightlessly at him, lips moving.

‘Mother!’ Matthias moaned. ‘Mother, what is wrong? You are hurting!’

Christina had a madcap, vacant look. Her nails were digging deep into his shoulder. Matthias closed his eyes and started to cry. He heard a pounding on the stairs and his father was dragging Christina away, arms locked tightly round her. Christina struggled. She began to cry and then went limp. Osbert let her slip gently to the floor, placing her back against the wall. She sat, legs out, her bare feet dirty, her hands crossed. Her head went slack, a trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of her mouth. She lifted her face, her eyes puffy with tears.

‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Matthias, I am very sorry.’ She held a hand out to her husband. ‘Take me back to my bed,’ she murmured. ‘Some food. Hear my confession.’

Matthias, alarmed, swung his legs off the bed.

‘Stay there, Matthias!’ Osbert ordered. Picking his wife up, he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.

Matthias waited for a while, looking through the window. He had slept longer than he had thought. He felt hungry and went down to the kitchen. He ate some fruit and cheese, finished his father’s wine, then returned to his own room. The wine and the shock made Matthias feel depleted. He’d never felt such tiredness before. His legs and arms seemed to weigh like lead and, throwing himself on to the bed, he fell fast asleep.

Matthias awoke cold and stiff just after dawn. He felt stronger, refreshed. He went downstairs. His father sat on his mother’s chair. Matthias’ heart lurched: Osbert had aged, his face was pale and drawn and he was rocking himself backwards and forwards, his hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. Matthias became frightened. He didn’t want to be here any more. He just wanted to flee.

‘Your mother is dead.’ Osbert didn’t even turn his head. ‘I heard her confession last night. She died in the early hours!’ He drew his hands from his sleeves. ‘Gone!’ he added, fingers clawing the air. ‘Like a candle going out!’

Matthias began to tremble. His world was falling apart. His mother was dead, his father was sitting there like a madcap, talking to himself.

‘Perhaps she’s just asleep.’

Matthias couldn’t think of anything else to say. Osbert turned his head, lips curled in a sneer.

‘Asleep? You stupid little boy. She’s dead! My Christina is dead! Your mother is dead and all you can say is that she’s asleep!’ Osbert’s shoulders began to shake. He put his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Matthias backed towards the door. He couldn’t make sense of this. His mother would never die. He was in a dream.

‘Where are you going?’ The priest staggered from the chair and pounced threateningly on him. ‘Where are you going, brat? You little bastard!’

‘Father!’ Matthias screamed.

The priest blinked.

‘Father, I don’t know!’

The priest breathed in deeply, closing his eyes; he crossed himself three times.

‘This hermit of yours? This hermit of yours?’ he repeated.

‘He’s dead,’ Matthias whimpered.

The priest muttered something to himself. Then: ‘I want to go there,’ he declared. ‘Go on, boy! Get your cloak, put your boots on and don’t run away!’

Matthias hurried to obey. When he came downstairs his father was all ready; a water bottle filled with wine in one hand, a greasy leather bag in the other. ‘Food and drink,’ he explained.

They went to the stable. Parson Osbert brought out the little palfrey he kept there. Matthias thought he’d lift him up into the saddle but the parson hung the leather bag on the saddle horn and mounted.

‘Run beside me, brat!’

Along the high street Parson Osbert stopped, hammering at the door of Widow Blanche. He told her, in harsh, halting sentences, what had happened, and would she dress the corpse and watch the house until he returned? After that the parson rode on. He stopped at the gallows and stared at the Preacher’s body, now coated with pitch and tar. It hung, head askew, neck still clenched by the rough, thick hemp. Again Parson Osbert muttered something to himself and, with Matthias trotting beside him, entered the woods, following the path to Tenebral.

Matthias did not know what kind of morning it was. He did not seem to be able to hear or see anything. His mother was dead. Christina would never talk to him again. Now his father rode like a madcap, while he himself scampered along like some mongrel dog.

Matthias’ head and stomach pained him. He was aware that it had rained the night before. There were puddles on the trackway. The trees overhead still dripped water. He had to pause to catch his breath, to relieve the stitch in his side but his father rode on. Matthias, sobbing and gasping, followed. He didn’t bother to keep up but left the forest path, making his way along his secret trackway into Tenebral. The tendrils of the morning mist still seeped through its broken-down houses, hanging like a cloud around the old church.

Matthias waited at the lych-gate. His father came up and dismounted. He gripped the boy’s shoulder.

‘I told you to stay with me!’ he snapped. ‘Now, mind the horse!’

The parson strode up the pathway to the church. Matthias didn’t follow. He was frightened. He’d caught a look in his father’s eye of something he had never seen before. He must have stayed an hour until his father came out of the ruins.

‘Matthias, come here to me, boy!’

Matthias stood stock-still. Parson Osbert stepped forward. Matthias cringed at the look on his father’s face.

‘I am not what I appear, boy.’ The parson was trying to keep his voice sweet and low yet Matthias sensed a terrible danger. He was sure that if he went into the church, he would never leave alive. He noticed his father had taken off his belt, this was tightly wrapped round his right hand.