Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘Sit down, Mother,’ he said.

Her wizened, lined face broke into a smile. She supped at the ale, the white foam catching the hairs on her upper lip. She muttered her thanks. Matthias resheathed his sword and dagger and collected his cloak. He was about to leave when the old woman called out, pointing her finger at him.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Matthias called.

She said something but he couldn’t understand it.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I am English.’

Again the cracked smile. ‘You are well protected.’ Her voice was halting, the words clipped.

Matthias patted the hilt of his sword.

‘No, no, not that.’ The old woman pointed as if someone were standing beside Matthias. ‘He protects you.’

Matthias tried to hide his unease.

‘They say I am a witch.’ The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You really can’t see him, can you? Cowled and hooded he is, but he has a beautiful face, except for the eyes.’ She was now staring at a point beyond Matthias. ‘Like coals they are! Burning coals! He’s smiling at me.’ The old woman crouched back on her stool. ‘And the teeth,’ she added. ‘He is the Dearghul!’

‘The what?’ Matthias asked.

‘The Drinker of Blood, Englishman!’

Matthias swallowed hard, realising what, as he had suspected, had frightened the ruffians who had attacked him earlier. The old woman now had her back to him. She looked slyly over her shoulder.

‘You shouldn’t worry, Englishman. He’s gone now but the Dearghul never leave you alone!’

Matthias returned to the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald and Mairead were waiting for him.

‘Are you well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You look pale.’

‘The cold always has that effect on me,’ Matthias retorted.

He excused himself, went up to his chamber and prepared for bed. He left a candle, hooded and capped, burning on the table beside him. As he lay staring at the flickering flame, Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon would manifest itself. He vaguely recalled his dreams, the nightmare of his delirium, and reflected on what had happened since he had fled Oxford.

‘That’s what I’ve become,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a spectator: I watch my own life but I do not live it.’

He recalled his childhood prayer as he drifted into sleep. When he woke the candle was out. The chamber was clothed in darkness. The windows, firmly shuttered, kept out any moonlight or sound from the courtyard below. Matthias lay listening to the darkness. He felt something on the coverlet, moving over his leg. Matthias cursed the rats which plagued the Archbishop’s palace. The rat did not flee. Instead Matthias felt it running backwards and forwards across his legs, squeaking loudly in the darkness. He half-propped himself up, his fingers scrabbling for the tinder. After some difficulty he removed the candle cap and lit the wick. The rat was still there, so he sat up, holding out the candle. The rat was long and black, its head turned away, its sleek body nestling in the folds of the coverlet. Matthias kicked his feet and shouted. The rat turned its head. Matthias stared in horror. Instead of the pointed nose it had human features: face, small and shrunken; glittering eyes, sharp nose and harsh mouth. Matthias screamed and kicked; when he looked again, the rat was gone.

For a while Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, his body drenched in sweat. He didn’t know whether he had been dreaming or, half-asleep, had seen some phantasm. He took a cloth and dried his face and neck. He started to shiver. The fire had died and so had the glowing brazier in the corner — not even a wink of red, as if it had been drenched with water. The room grew freezing cold. Matthias heard a sound near the door, as if someone were moving quietly in the darkness — a footfall, the creak of leather. Matthias lunged across the bed and grasped his war belt. He pulled this across and, taking out his sword, picked up the candle. He ignored the cold, which was like a savage biting wind blowing through the chamber. Holding the candle out in front of him, Matthias edged across the room, his eyes fixed on the pool of light. He turned slightly sideways, his sword out ready for any secret assault or hidden attack. Still, the sound came of someone shuffling near the door. Matthias reached the place, his body soaked in sweat, his chest heaving. He moved the candle backwards and forwards. He could see nothing nor detect anything undisturbed.

Matthias was about to go back to his bed when he stopped, rigid as a statue. Whoever was in the room was now behind him, breathing noisily. Matthias turned. He glimpsed a dark shape. He held the candle up and stared in horror: Rahere the clerk was standing there but no longer the court fop. His hair was streaked with grey, his face was haggard, his skin covered with pustules, red-rimmed eyes and lips soaked with blood. On his neck, where the dirty shirt opened at the throat, Matthias could see suppurating lacerations, as if the man had been clawed by a bear or a wolf. Matthias took a step backwards.

‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘who or what are you?’

Rahere stepped closer. His upper lip curled like that of a dog about to attack: his teeth were long and white, the eyeteeth drooping like those of a mastiff.

‘You.’ The voice was low, throaty and full of hate. ‘Taken before my time!’ A hand came up, fingers long and dirt-stained. ‘Called before my time I was, because of you!’

Matthias lashed out with his sword. As he did so the candle fell from his hand, the flame was extinguished. Matthis could smell putrefaction. Filled with terror as well as anger at being haunted and hounded, he seized his sword in two hands, striking out and screaming abuse. Fitzgerald and Mairead, blankets wrapped round their shoulders, burst into the room. Matthias stopped. He drove the point of his sword into the wooden planks of the floor and stood there clasping the hilt, chest heaving, eyes glaring.

‘Now, now, boyo!’

Fitzgerald came forward slowly as Mairead lit candles round the room and opened the shutters.

‘Come on, boyo.’ Fitzgerald gestured at Matthias’ sword. ‘Let it drop. We are friends!’

Mairead rushed by him and, crouching down, loosened Matthias’ fingers from round the sword hilt. Matthias let it go. He slumped down to the floor. Mairead put her arms round him, rocking him gently like a baby.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ she whispered.

‘There was someone here,’ Matthias replied. ‘Frightening, the stench of the grave.’

‘Tush, that’s nonsense,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no one here. And, as for the stench, Matthias, I thought you had a woman here. Can’t you smell the perfume?’

‘The room smells like a summer’s day,’ Fitzgerald declared.

Matthias stood up and stared round the chamber. Apart from cuts to the wood caused by his sword, the candle lying on the floor, he could see nothing out of place. Then he caught the fragrance, the sweet heady smell of roses.

‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

‘Oh, boyo, that’s not good enough.’ Fitzgerald went across to the hearth and, scraping aside the ash, he took some kindling, a few of the dried logs and soon the fire was burning merrily. Matthias glanced towards the brazier. It was lit and glowing, though he was certain that when he had woken up the charcoal had been cold and bare. He sat on the stool before the fire. Mairead and Fitzgerald joined him, one on either side. Mairead served them wine.

‘You didn’t have a dream,’ she said. ‘Matthias, you were awake. You were terrified. What is it?’

Matthias, not shifting his gaze from the fire, told them slowly and haltingly about the events of Sutton Courteny; the silence of the intervening fourteen years; Santerre, the Bocardo, Symonds and his flight to Dublin. They heard him out. When he had finished Matthias turned and smiled at Mairead.