Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘It’s all right,’ one of the soldiers called.

An old man, his hood pushed back, stepped into the firelight. Thin-faced, his skin lined and seamed, mere tufts of hair on his almost bald head but the owner of a luxuriant white beard and moustache. He had good stout boots and the robe he wore was serge cloth, bound round the waist by a rope through which a long Welsh stabbing dagger was pushed. In one hand he carried a thick staff, in the other a tattered, leather bag. He sat down without a by-your-leave and glared at Vane.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? Eh? Do you have some jam? Or some honey? A piece of honey would be really nice.’

‘Aye, we’ve got twenty pounds of it,’ Vane joked back. ‘Don’t you know who we are, old man? We carry the King’s commission. Who gave you the right to blunder into our camp and start asking for honey?’

‘I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart for you,’ the old man replied. ‘I serve the King of Heaven. My name’s Pender. I live here. You are in my house.’ He waved his hand airily. ‘All of this is mine.’

‘You are a hermit?’ Vane asked.

‘Yes, I am a hermit. I came here for peace and quiet, to pray to God. I might as well have stayed in bloody Durham. Tinkers, traders, pedlars, soldiers from Barnwick. Not to mention Scots, English, outlaws and wolf’s-heads. You’d think all the world and his sister were here. I went to Castleton to beg. I got bugger all. I’ve come back.’ He glared suspiciously at Vane. ‘I come back to find half the royal army camp here.’

Matthias got up and went to their stores. He took out a small, dried loaf and a jar of honey which they had bought in one of the villages. He brought these back and pushed them into Pender’s hand.

‘Be our guest,’ he offered.

Vane leant across and threw two pennies on the ground before Pender.

‘We’ll pay honest rent,’ he joked.

The change in Pender was wondrous. He gave a broad toothless grin, pocketed the pennies, ripped off the piece of linen that covered the jar of honey, stuck his fingers into the honey and began to lick it. Every so often he closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards.

‘Oh, beauteous taste! Truly the psalmist is right when he says sweeter than the honeycomb!’ Pender tore at the bread. ‘Blessed be the Lord God!’ he intoned. ‘And blessed be you in all your bodily functions!’ He opened one eye. ‘Are you, to crown my pleasure, to give me some wine?’

Vane filled one of their pewter cups and handed it across. The hermit crossed himself, sketched a blessing in the air and continued to fill his stomach. Afterwards he burped and smiled beatifically.

‘Lovely!’ he breathed. ‘Welcome guests all.’

‘How long have you lived here?’ Vane asked.

‘Oh, a good score of years and a few more.’ Pender patted the crumbling brickwork. ‘This is my palace, my church!’

‘You are not frightened?’ Matthias asked. ‘Of the loneliness?’

The hermit peered across. ‘Sometimes! Sometimes at night I hear sounds: cries and calls, dark shapes moving in the heather outside, and they are not Scots. During the day, especially late in the afternoon, I sit in a place like this with my back to the wall. I hear the clink of the armour, the legionaries and, on the breeze, their Latin tongue: orders and commands being shouted.’

The nape of Matthias’ neck turned cold.

‘I am not being fanciful,’ Pender continued, his eyes now watching Matthias intently. ‘Ghosts and spirits walk here, still hung between Heaven and earth.’

‘Who destroyed this?’ Vane asked.

‘Some say the weather,’ Pender joked. ‘But I’ve had dreams. When this wall stood firm and Rome’s legions walked the parapets, it would take more than the weather to cast these stones down. There are legends,’ he continued. ‘Further down the wall stands a ruined temple. On its wall a huge rose has been carved.’ His eyes never left Matthias, who swallowed hard and gazed back. ‘There are also strange rune marks scratched in the masonry. Some say they tell a story of the wall’s destruction but no one can really make them out or understand them. According to local lore, when the legions left, the soldiers here did not receive the order to depart so they went on guarding, as if there were an empire still left to guard. Now, in the ancient days, to the north were two great peoples who ruled the glens of Scotland. The Picti, or Painted People, and the Caledones. They were united into one army by a famous war chief whose emblem was a rose wound round a staff.’

Matthias stiffened: this ancient legend was connected to his own life, his own experience of that strange force, the sinister Dark Lord who had haunted him all his years.

‘If the legend is to be believed,’ Pender continued, ‘the great Rose Lord fell in love with a Roman lady, daughter of a commander on the wall. He asked for her in marriage. The Roman refused so the Rose Lord brought his great army south and, in one terrible night, annihilated the soldiers of Rome. Every man was killed and the fortifications levelled. For a while the Picts and the Caledones lived on the wall, honouring their great leader but he, on finding the love of his life had been killed in the attack, mysteriously disappeared. His great army broke up and drifted away.’ Pender stared into the fire. ‘That’s only legend. Nevertheless,’ he added in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘at night the ghosts of all who died here still house themselves in the shadows and corners.’ He hitched his cloak around him. ‘So, kind though you be, sirs, I hope you are gone by the morrow.’

The hermit wrapped himself up in his cloak and lay down near the fire, resting his head on the tattered, leather bag he carried.

Vane got up, saying he would check on the sentries. Matthias lay down on the ground and stared up at the stars. Who was this Rose Demon? He glanced across the fire. Pender lay there, eyes open, staring at him.

‘You should sleep,’ the hermit murmured. ‘You’ve nothing to fear. I can see around you those sent to guard you.’

Matthias pulled himself up.

‘Nothing but shadows,’ the hermit whispered. ‘That’s all I see.’ He grinned. ‘And you’ve got nothing to lose but your soul!’

Barnwick Castle was built on the brow of a hill which gently sloped away into a wild sea of tangled grass, flowers, purple heather and gorse which stretched up towards the Scottish border.

‘It looks solitary,’ Vane observed as they reined in, ‘but any Scottish army which wants to plunder the northern march will have to either take it or bypass it. Both would be difficult, especially the former.’

As they rode along the white, dusty track up through the great gateway into the castle, Vane pointed out its principal features: two encircling walls, a broad moat fed by underground springs. The outer wall had small towers along it, whilst the inner wall was built slightly higher. The top was crenellated so, even if an enemy did take the gateway, they would find themselves trapped between two lines of fire. The wooden drawbridge they crossed was good and solid. The soldiers on guard in the dark, sombre gatehouse were well turned out, vigilant but not fussy or overweening. The outer bailey had houses built against the walls; small cottages, workshops, a smithy, forge and stables. The inner bailey was approached by a smaller gateway protected by a heavy, wooden and steel portcullis. A foursquare keep dominated the inner bailey. This soared up against the blue sky. It was built of heavy grey ragstone and looked older than the rest of the castle. Vane explained that this had been built earlier than the rest.

The inner bailey was surprisingly quiet. Some geese and pigs wandered about, chickens pecked at the hard-packed earth, a few soldiers lounged in the shade. One of these came across to take their horses and explained that the rest of the garrison were in the chapel. Matthias remembered it was the Feast of St Peter and St Paul, a Holy Day of Obligation. He asked Vane about the castle.