Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

After that Matthias decided to stay at Barnwick: the grim life of a hermit had its own rewards. He was free of any responsibilities, of any duties. He had no one to care for but, there again, no one to bother him. He revelled in the silence and resented any intruders. Even when the weather changed, the winds turning harsh and the snow lying thick over the castle ruins, Matthias wouldn’t have exchanged it for the warmest, most luxurious of chambers in some royal palace.

Matthias spent some of his day hunting for food. Now and again, though very rarely, he would travel to one of the outlying farms or villages to beg, buy or work for bread, flour and other necessities. After a while he became accepted for what he claimed to be: a hermit, supposedly a man of God, though never once did he pray. He tended Rosamund’s grave and, when spring came, built a small mausoleum, using bricks and other materials he found in the castle. No one ever approached him and there were no mysterious phenomena. Matthias rejoiced. He had forgotten the world and perhaps the world had forgotten him? The local farmers told him, with some relish, how the stories were spreading that Barnwick was haunted. Matthias smiled grimly and did his best to encourage such local legends and lore.

Barnwick became a place most people avoided. One spring afternoon, however, Matthias was unexpectedly aroused from his afternoon slumber by terrible screams from the far side of the castle. He rose quickly, strapped on his war belt, took his crossbow and bolts and went to investigate. He crossed the inner bailey and peered through a gap in the wall to where the gatehouse had been. At first he couldn’t make out what was happening. Four men, dressed in a motley collection of rags and leather, guarded their captives. Two children lay on the ground, their hands and feet bound. Matthias couldn’t distinguish whether they were boys or girls. The three other prisoners were adults: the man had been stripped, his hands and feet bound and now he was being hoisted on a rope over a timber. A small fire had been lit beneath his feet. The two others, naked as they were born, were women. One was middle-aged, the other a young lass, probably sixteen or seventeen summers old. The women, pricked with daggers, were being made to dance whilst the children sobbed and the man screamed a mixture of pain and defiance.

Matthias studied the scene carefully. There were about six horses and two sumpter ponies. He realised that some merchant’s party, foolishly travelling by themselves, had been attacked by outlaws. The victorious wolf’s-heads were now intent on enjoying their ill-gotten gains. Matthias wondered whether he should intervene. But why should he? The moor-lands were haunted by outlaws, men who feared neither God nor man. Matthias did not wish to incur their enmity. Then a wolf’s-head went over and kicked one of the children lying on the ground. Matthias could stand no more. He slipped a bolt into the groove of his arbalest and walked out of his hiding-place. An outlaw caught sight of him and waved drunkenly. They were all the worse for drink.

‘It’s the hermit!’ another shouted. He lumbered forward, his cruel, unshaven face flushed with wine. ‘We caught them out on the moors, sitting there, feasting themselves.’

‘Christ Jesus, help us!’ The man hoisted on the beam stared beseechingly at Matthias. He was young, his beard and moustache finely trimmed but his face was grey with exhaustion and fear, his eyes almost starting out of his head. The two women clung to each other whilst the pathetic bundles on the grass just sobbed and moaned.

The outlaws did not regard Matthias as a threat.

‘There’s enough for five.’ One of the outlaws gestured to the pile of clothes, the bundles, saddlebags and sumpter ponies. ‘What we’ll do,’ he continued, ‘is have our pleasure and then,’ he pointed to the children, ‘they can be taken to one of the western ports and sold. The horses are good stock.’

Matthias studied the outlaws. One was old and grizzled but the others were young and vicious. They reminded Matthias of a group of stoats closing for the kill. None of them could stand upright. They had drunk much and, so secure in this desolate place, believed they could take their time over this villainy. Matthias felt ashamed that they should regard him as one of them.

‘Come on!’ the outlaw leader urged. ‘There’s enough for you!’

The older woman broke free, her long, jet-black hair falling down her back. She ran and grasped Matthias’ leg and stared beseechingly up at him.

‘Help us!’ she pleaded.

Matthias glanced away. The woman’s fingers dug deep into his thigh.

‘For the love of the Good Lord,’ she begged, ‘have pity!’

Matthias shook her away. ‘There are four of them and one of me.’

He smiled wolfishly at the outlaw leader, who was growing wary of this tall, silent hermit, the crossbow he carried and the great war belt strapped round his waist.

‘She asks for pity,’ Matthias mocked. ‘What is that? I’ll go and get my cup and join you.’

He turned his back. As he did so, he brought back the cord of the crossbow, looping it over the catch. The outlaws guffawed at the woman’s screams. They were still laughing when Matthias spun round: the crossbow bolt took the outlaw leader in the side of the head, digging deep into his skull, and then, sword and dagger drawn, Matthias was amongst them. They were so drunk, so taken by surprise that Matthias easily despatched two of them: the last was more agile, his cold, hard eyes and long nasty face more wary. Matthias and he circled each other. The male prisoner screamed in agony at the flames, which now licked the soles of his feet. Matthias shouted at the woman to kick the fire away: as he did so, the outlaw closed. Matthias swerved, the dagger skimmed his ear. Again they parted, continuing to circle in a half-crouch.

‘Why?’ the outlaw hissed.

‘I changed my mind,’ Matthias taunted.

The outlaw came in a rush. Matthias stepped aside: he caught the man deep, just beneath the rib cage, withdrew his sword and watched as the outlaw slumped to his knees, screaming at the terrible rent in his side. Matthias came behind. Dropping his dagger, he grasped the hilt of his sword and, with two hands, took the outlaw’s head in one cutting slice. Around him the young woman was screaming; the two children sobbed uncontrollably, their faces buried deep in the dirt as they tried to hide from any sight or sound of what was happening.

Matthias cut the captured man down: he was bruised, still terrified, the soles of his feet were slightly scorched but otherwise he’d suffered no serious injuries. Matthias then moved to the children, a young boy and girl. He cut their bonds and gently stroked their hair. He calmed them, assuring them that all was well and that he intended no injury. He went round the outlaws. Three were dead, one was grievously wounded. Matthias cut his throat and dragged all four corpses out of sight. The women had seized their clothing and gone elsewhere. The man, still acting like a dream-walker, had to be dressed by Matthias: he then sat on the ground, one arm round each of his children. The women returned. Matthias used some of the wine to bathe their bruises and cuts. As darkness fell, he cooked food and made them all drink deeply of the wine.

A full day passed before they began to recover from their shock, the mother first. She gathered her family together, talking to them softly, reaffirming Matthias’ assurances. Every so often she would grasp Matthias’ fingers and squeeze them.

‘My husband is a merchant,’ she whispered. ‘We were on a pilgrimage to York.’ Her face now looked comely, her hair tied decorously back. ‘We slept in one morning. We became separated from our party and then stopped to eat. The outlaws struck.’