Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘Welcome to my house, Matthias Fitzosbert.’

Emloe’s eyes betrayed no emotion, still and glassy like those of a corpse. He sipped at his wine.

‘Dickon told me about Barnwick.’ The words slipped out, Emloe hardly moving his lips, talking in a guttural manner, as if that were the only exertion he could afford.

‘A frightening time,’ Matthias replied.

Emloe gave a crooked smile, turning his face sideways. ‘You’ll find London,’ he taunted, ‘is just as full of demons!’

Matthias entered Emloe’s household. He had a few pricks of conscience but shrugged these off, muttering that beggars can’t be choosers and, if wishes were horses, no man would walk. He was given a chamber in one of the galleries. Dickon said this was a mark of honour, most of Emloe’s retainers slept in the outhouse behind the gloomy mansion. Now and again Emloe entertained Matthias in a small hall below stairs. His cooks and scullions served up the most delicious meals. Once or twice they were alone, on other occasions they were joined by whores, city courtesans and Emloe’s henchmen.

Matthias soon learnt Emloe was a king of Whitefriars. He ruled by fear, with a finger in the profits of every housebreaker, foist, pickpocket and counterfeit man. Above all, he traded in stolen goods, sometimes returning these to the rightful owners for a heavy price. Or, if that was too dangerous, transporting them across to the stews in Southwark to be sold in the shabby night markets.

Emloe never interrogated Matthias, at least not outright; a question here, a question there; a tart observation or a wry comment. Yet within two weeks Emloe had created a patchwork picture of Matthias’ life. He treated Matthias most courteously, as did those around him. On occasions, however, Emloe would let Matthias witness his justice, summary and ruthless. A foist who refused to hand over his profits was brought into the cobbled yard behind the house, his hands spread out on the fleshing table: three fingers were neatly sliced off, the stumps smeared with boiling hot pitch. A courtesan who had rebuffed one of Emloe’s clients had her cheeks nicked with a dagger. Two ruffians who mistakenly attacked one of Emloe’s acquaintances coming in from the city abruptly found themselves arrested and handed over to the sheriff’s men. Matthias observed and took careful note and, apart from Dickon, he kept to himself. He never asked questions and found he was never entrusted with a task he could conscientiously refuse. Clothes, food, a chamber were provided, as well as a regular supply of silver which he entrusted to a Cheapside goldsmith. Matthias’ duties were comparatively light. He would stand on guard when Emloe met mysterious, cowled figures from the city. Matthias would guide them to and from Emloe’s house, carry messages to different parts of the city and, on one occasion, even as far as Canterbury. Emloe seemed to trust him except in one matter. Matthias, like the rest of the henchmen, was strictly excluded from the top gallery of the house. The stairs to this were guarded. Even Dickon, who revelled in gossip and collected as much tittle-tattle as he could, was unable to enlighten Matthias about what happened there.

Over the weeks Matthias discovered a little about his new lord. Emloe was a former priest who had been defrocked for certain nefarious practices. What was abundantly clear was that Emloe now had nothing to do with the Church or religion.

‘He’s an excommunicant,’ an elderly priest of a small parish near the Temple confided to Matthias. ‘Cut off from the Church now, and cut off from Heaven after death.’ He leant closer. ‘And the same goes for those who walk with him. He’s a warlock, a necromancer, a raiser of the dead. He communes with spirits.’

Matthias, who had been accosted by the priest while out on one of Emloe’s errands, at first rejected the accusation as scurrilous gossip. Dickon was more forthright.

‘He’s a master of the black arts,’ the one-eyed archer whispered, ‘and has been known to carry out the gibbet rites in cemeteries.’

They were sitting in a small tavern which overlooked the Thames where it curved to go down to Westminster.

‘So, why do you stay with him?’ Matthias asked.

‘I don’t intend to,’ Dickon confided. ‘Like you, Master Fitzosbert, I have got no place to go, no hearth I can call my own.’ The archer wetted his lips. ‘But it won’t always be so. Like you, I have been salting away the pennies and, when I have enough, I’ll be gone.’

Matthias listened, nodding wisely. He wasn’t too sure whether Dickon was a friend or a spy. He was coldly amused that Dickon had apparently followed him and knew that he was banking money with a goldsmith.

That was the last time Matthias saw Dickon alive. Three days later his drenched corpse, throat slashed from ear to ear, his face twisted into the rictus of his last agony, was wheeled on a hand barrow from the riverside into the yard behind Emloe’s house. Emloe himself came down to pay his respects. An old woman was hired to dress the corpse. Emloe even bought a shiny coffin and led a line of paid mourners up to St Thomas’ church. Emloe always prided himself that he looked after his kin in both life and death. Others whispered differently — that Dickon had held back certain monies and was punished.

By the middle of October Matthias had had enough. He tried not to provoke any suspicion but laid careful plans to take what monies he had banked, buy a good horse and ride as fast as he could to Gloucester. Emloe, however, kept him busy, almost as if the defrocked priest could read his thoughts. One day Matthias was summarily invited to Emloe’s chamber.

‘I see you are restless,’ the man began brusquely. ‘Do you want to leave us, Matthias?’

‘Perhaps it’s time I went my own way,’ he replied guardedly. ‘I have family elsewhere,’ he lied. ‘There are other things to do.’

Emloe nodded vigorously in agreement. He opened the small coffer on the table and took out a fistful of silver which he thrust into Matthias’ hand.

‘Then go. Don’t let me keep you. But do me one favour, Matthias. Stay until the first week of November, after the month’s accounts have been done. After that,’ he smiled sarcastically, sketching a blessing in Matthias’ direction, ‘you can go with my benediction.’

Matthias agreed. Nevertheless, due to what both the priest and Dickon had told him, Matthias became more watchful as the eve of All-Hallows approached. On the festival of Samhain, witches and warlocks came into their own: if Emloe were a warlock, it would certainly be celebrated by the likes of him. Memories of what had happened at Sutton Courteny and in the north tower of Barnwick came flooding back. Matthias was pleased when, on the day in question, Emloe kept him busy sending him on this minor errand or that. Matthias decided to spend the evening away from his master in some tavern or alehouse. However, when he’d finished his last task, visiting a blacksmith in Bride Lane who owed Emloe money, he found six of his master’s henchmen waiting for him in the cobbled street outside. They were all dressed in black leather jerkins and armed to the teeth. Their leader, a Portuguese named Roberto, stood, legs apart, slapping heavy leather gloves against his thighs.

‘Matthias, you are to come with us.’

‘Why?’ Matthias stood with his back to the wall.

Roberto’s men fanned out in a semi-circle around him.

‘You are to dine with the Master.’ The Portuguese’s sallow face broke into a smile. ‘You are to be his guest.’

‘I had other plans.’

‘Well, they can wait, can’t they?’ His smile faded. ‘Now, Matthias.’ The Portuguese stumbled on his name, which provoked a snigger from his companions. Roberto flushed and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘You are to come or you are to be brought.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t really care.’