Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘Master Fitzosbert, oh Lord be thanked! I thought you were dead. You have a visitor. A priest has come to shrive you.’

Matthias struggled back against the wall and stared down the passageway. In the poor light he made out the man he had seen in St Mary’s church just before he had been sentenced.

‘Do you want a priest?’ the gaoler asked. He crouched down. ‘It can help. When it comes to being taken out, you’ll not be so fearful.’

The gaoler withdrew as the priest came into the cell. As he did so, he dropped a coin into the gaoler’s hand.

‘Lock the door,’ he muttered. ‘A man’s confession is between him and God.’

The door slammed shut, the key turned. The priest, despite his fine, woollen robes, sat down on the rushes next to Matthias.

‘It’s good of you to come,’ Matthias declared.

The priest stared coolly back. Matthias studied his visitor. A youngish man, his auburn hair was neatly tonsured. Close up, his face was not pleasant: the square jaw was offset by narrow, close-set eyes and a rather spiteful cast to the thin lips, as if the man disapproved of everything he saw and heard.

‘Father, are you really here to shrive me?’ Matthias asked. ‘And, if you are, how do I know you are a priest?’

‘My name is Richard Symonds. I am a priest of Oxford.’

The man undid his cloak, revealing his long, black cassock as well as a small silver cross on a copper chain round his neck. He opened the large pouch on his belt and drew out a letter. The turnkey had lit the cresset torch in the cell. Matthias, with a rattle of chains, studied the document carefully. It was a licence, signed and sealed by the Bishop of London, giving one Richard Symonds the faculty to preach, celebrate Mass and hear confessions in London and in the counties of Oxford and Berkshire.

‘You have a parish, Father?’

‘No, I am a tutor in Lord Audley’s household.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And you are right, I am not here to shrive you. I come to ask for your help.’

Matthias lifted his hands in a jangle of chains.

‘Father, I’m dirty, unshaven and, in about four days, I’m going to be burnt to death. How can I help you?’

‘I was at your trial. They said you were a Yorkist.’

‘They also said I was an assassin and a sorcerer.’

‘But you do have powers, don’t you?’

Symonds’ head came forward, his eyes gleaming, lips parted. Matthias wondered if the priest were not a little insane: something about the eyes, that slight tilt to the head. A secretive man, Matthias thought, constantly engaged in subtle schemes.

‘Father, if I had such powers, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

‘She said you’d be diffident.’

Matthias’ heart skipped a beat.

‘Who said that?’

‘Morgana. She approached me after the trial. She said you were a Yorkist, not a murderer, a man of great power.’

‘What do you propose?’ Matthias asked wearily. ‘And speak low, for the turnkey is very suspicious.’ He smiled weakly. ‘He thinks I’ll sprout wings and fly away.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s already searched me and is richer by two coins.’

Symonds edged a little closer. ‘I shall speak and speak quickly. Edward IV of blessed memory died three years ago. Two years later his brother Richard of Gloucester, having assumed the crown, was defeated at Market Bosworth, by Henry Tudor.’

‘And I understand George, Duke of Clarence, the third brother,’ Matthias added drily, ‘died rather mysteriously in the Tower. As did Edward IV’s two boys, the Princes. People said they were murdered by their Uncle Richard so that is the end of the House of York.’

‘I cannot speak for any of them,’ Symonds replied. ‘The fate of the Princes is a mystery but Henry Tudor is a usurper.’ He drew himself up, his eyes glittering: a fanatic, Matthias thought, a man obsessed with a cause.

‘The Yorkists are dead,’ Matthias declared. ‘And the power of Henry Tudor is more than manifest. You saw it at my trial.’

‘One Yorkist prince still lives,’ Symonds whispered dramatically. ‘Edward of Warwick, Clarence’s son.’

The doings of kings and princes did not interest Matthias but he tried to recall what Baron Sanguis had told him.

‘He’s in the Tower!’ Matthias exclaimed. ‘Warwick was kept prisoner by his Uncle Richard as well as Henry Tudor.’

‘He’s an imposter,’ Symonds snapped. ‘The true Warwick has escaped. He has the support of Yorkist lords and he is safe in a house outside Oxford.’ Symonds clapped his hands. ‘I intend to take him to Dublin. The Irish lords led by the Earl of Kildare will rise in revolt to support him. Other English lords, including de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, and my Lord Lovell will join us there. His aunt Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, will supply us with mercenaries and gold.’

‘So, why do you need me? A scholar about to be burnt to death?’

‘Morgana says you are a man of great power. You will aid our cause, a talisman for our success.’ The priest got to his feet. ‘You really have little choice in the matter, do you?’

Matthias shook his head. ‘Any fate is better than burning.’

‘I shall return tomorrow night.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ Matthias replied drily, ‘my face shaved, my saddlebags packed.’

The priest smirked, sketched a blessing in the air and shouted for the turnkey.

Matthias spent the night speculating on whether Symonds was insane or just foolhardy. Late the following evening, Amasia came: she, too, bribed the gaoler: he leered at Matthias and said he would keep the door to the cell open. Amasia’s face was hidden in the shadow of her hood. She sat in a corner of the cell well away from him.

‘Why have you come?’ Matthias snapped. ‘To gloat? To say you are sorry? You might as well go to the execution ground and spit in the flames!’

‘ Oh, Creatura bona atque parva! ’

Matthias’ head jerked back. It was Amasia’s voice, low and sweet, but the words and the tone were that of the hermit.

‘Do not get excited.’ Amasia turned her face and whispered. ‘The oaf at the end of the gallery is watching us. I know what you are going to ask. How and why?’ Amasia played with a tendril of her hair. ‘When a soul dies, Matthias, it’s like light from a candle, it travels so quickly, so far, so fast. The journey lasts for eternity. I am different: I am locked in the same moment of eternity because of my will, because of my love. All I see, all I deal with, is the eternal now. Imagine,’ her voice was low and soft, ‘imagine, Matthias, you are back at Sutton Courteny. There are houses all along the street. You can go into any of them and do whatever you like — eat, drink. So it is with me.’

‘And Amasia?’ Matthias asked. ‘The girl I knew?’

‘Some people,’ she replied, ‘because of their strength and the spiritual state of their souls, can resist me, like a powerful householder can bar the windows and doors against an intruder. Others? I can slip in like a thief in the night. They have weakened their spirit. Remember the words of the gospel, Matthias: “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Have you ever wondered, Matthias, how you can lose something which is eternal?’ Amasia glanced quickly down the gallery and leant across. ‘It’s so easy, Matthias. Amasia lost her soul when she betrayed you.’ She smiled. ‘Remember the gospels, Matthias? When Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus, Satan entered.’

‘Why not possess me?’ Matthias taunted.

Amasia’s head went back.

‘Why not me?’ Matthias repeated, shuffling his chains. He sat back when he glimpsed the turnkey stand and stare down. ‘You can’t, can you?’ Matthias whispered. ‘Someone, something is blocking you.’