Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘How can I refuse such an invitation so prettily delivered?’ Matthias gave a mock bow and walked quickly down the alleyway, forcing Roberto and the rest to break into a run to keep up with him.

Emloe was waiting for him in the hall. The table had been laid out: silver plates, golden goblets, a jewel-encrusted salt cellar. Matthias was waved to a seat. Others joined them: Emloe’s principal henchmen, including Roberto, and some whom Matthias didn’t recognise. The meal was eaten in silence. Afterwards Emloe led his guests upstairs and into the top gallery. Armed guards stood about. A door was unlocked and Matthias entered a long, low, sombre chamber. The walls were covered in purple drapes. The floorboards and ceiling were painted black as elsewhere in the house. The candles fixed in sconces around the wall were of pure beeswax and gave off the most fragrant of perfumes. At the far end was a dais with a small altar covered in black and silver linen cloths. Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed to the gloom: the cross on the altar was upturned.

He tried to push his way back to the door but Emloe’s henchmen blocked his path. The defrocked priest had now taken off his black robe; beneath were the alb and surplice of a celebrant dressed for Mass: these, however, were of a deep purple with golden stars and silver pentangles sewn on them.

‘My dear Matthias, you are to stay.’ Emloe tossed his employee’s cloak to one of his assistants. He seized Matthias’ chin between his forefinger and thumb and squeezed gently. ‘You have powers, Matthias. Whether you concede to it or not. I, who am skilled in such matters, have sensed the presence around you. You are one of the chosen.’ Emloe’s voice thrilled with excitement, his eyes coming to life. ‘Tonight is the Feast of All Witches. If we make the sacrifice, because of you, the demon will be raised.’

Matthias struggled but his hands were pinioned behind him, lashed together with a silken cord. He was forced to kneel and watch as more torches were lit and Emloe intoned the blasphemous ritual. Matthias heard the muttered words and glimpsed the purple candles lit on either side of the altar. He kept his head down now and, for the first time in months, muttered a short prayer. A cock crow was followed by the smell of freshly spilt blood, incense and heavy wine. At last the ritual was over. Emloe’s henchmen squatted around the room, chanting phrases or responses when required.

Matthias opened his eyes. The muscles of his face and the back of his neck ached with pain. He grimaced and tried to stretch himself to ease the cramps. His body was damp with sweat yet the room had grown cold, reminding him of the north tower at Barnwick. Emloe and his henchmen were excited and expectant. The bloody remains of the cock, strewn over a silver platter on the altar, were quickly cleared away. Someone complained of the cold; another pointed out that some of the candles had gone out. Charcoal braziers were brought into the room and placed along one side. They blew hot and merry but still Matthias couldn’t stop shivering. New cloths were laid on the altar. The most exquisite mirror, about two feet high and the same across, held fast in a frame of golden snakes which coiled and writhed around each other, was also put in a special stand on the altar. This glowed as it caught the light from the candles and brazier.

Emloe walked round the room, sprinkling incense as he chanted softly to himself. He then knelt on a red-gold tasselled cushion before the altar. Head pulled back, he stared up into the mirror. A blasphemous prayer was offered, the others joined in. Matthias tried to keep his eyes closed but found he couldn’t. The mirror drew him on and he found himself falling into a trance as he watched the lights dance in the pure glass. There was silence. Emloe began a chant again, a blasphemous litany to Satan and all the armies of Hell. The lights in the mirror dimmed. Smoke curled there. Matthias’ throat went dry with fear; he found it difficult to swallow. He struggled at his bonds and his fingers caught a knot less tight than the rest. He plucked at it, working it loose. The mirror was now clear again: the lights danced and then the reflection rippled like the smooth surface of a lake. Emloe stopped his chanting and held his hand up for silence. The others watched, gasping in appreciation. Matthias worked the cord loose. He kept his hands behind him despite the pain in his arms and shoulders.

‘Le Seigneur is replying!’ Emloe’s voice was high with excitement. ‘Le Seigneur has deigned to look at us!’

The chanting began again. The mirror became black as if someone had thrown a cloak over it. Matthias watched intently. The darkness began to move, shift like fire smoke. A head appeared, lifting upwards, its eyes glowed, its mouth, half-open, had a small snake of blood running out of one corner, a ghoulish creature. Matthias shivered and closed his eyes as he recognised the Preacher. Other faces appeared, equally terrifying. Rahere the clerk, his arrogant, handsome features now twisted and leering. Santerre with his mocking eyes, Fitzgerald sneering. Emloe and his companions sat back on their heels staring in disbelief. The faces were frightening, disembodied heads, lips moving and cursing, eyes full of malevolence.

Emloe crowed softly with pleasure, already seeing himself as a great magus. Matthias recognised the danger signs. The Rose Demon was making his presence felt. Suddenly the braziers began to crackle, sparks began to fly up. Matthias shook his gaze from the mirror. The sparks grew more plentiful, combining in the air to make small balls of fire, rising like bubbles from a cauldron. These grew larger. One caught the mirror. It shattered. Other small balls of fire circled the room. Matthias saw one pass in front of his eyes: he recognised in it the tortured face of Amasia. The crackling braziers were now shooting out sparks, small tongues of flame. Emloe stood up, hands outstretched. He was still crowing in triumph when some of the fire caught at an arras on the wall. In seconds this was engulfed by a sheet of flame. Other sparks hit Emloe’s henchmen, setting fire to clothes.

Matthias sprang to his feet. He reached the door and fled out into the gallery. The guards ran to stop him but he knocked them aside, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs the fire had distracted them. Matthias ran down to his own chamber. He picked up his war belt, took what coins he had from his secret hiding-place and continued his flight. From the noise around him, the fire was spreading quickly. Matthias slipped through the kitchen, out by a postern door and into an alleyway. The curfew bell had long sounded and he could see the beacon light glowing from the steeple of St Mary Le Bow. Matthias ran up the alleyway. No one accosted him. Shadows moved from doorways but, when Matthias was recognised as one of Emloe’s henchmen, he was allowed safely on his way.

He spent the night out at Smithfield, sleeping beneath the hedgerows. The following morning he returned to the Bishop’s Mitre in Smithfield where he broke his fast and rehired his small garret.

Only when he was there, wrapped in blankets lying on the small pallet bed, did Matthias accept the full horror of what had happened. He slept fitfully, slipping in and out of dreams: of darkened chambers, glowing arrows of fire, men turned to human torches, dark shapes, the haunting voice of the hermit and those faces he had glimpsed in the balls of flame. Matthias got up late in the afternoon. He felt dull-headed, his stomach rather queasy. He understood what had happened during the Satanic rites the night before. Emloe, like any sorcerer, believed he could control the Powers of Darkness where, in fact, they were mocking his puny efforts. The ghosts of those possessed by the Rose Demon still hung around Matthias and, when provided with the opportunity, malevolently involved themselves in the affairs of men.