Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘I am not alone,’ he whispered. ‘I must remember that. I am never alone.’

Matthias went down to the taproom. He studied the hour candle in the inglenook above the fireplace and realised it was much later than he thought, between four and five in the afternoon. He hurried out, back through the city gates past Newgate, pushing his way through the market crowds to the goldsmith’s shop which stood within the shadows of the hospital of St Thomas of Acon. Matthias was resolved to withdraw all his monies, buy a fresh horse and put as much distance between himself and London as possible. Nevertheless, he moved cautiously. He stepped into the hospital doorway and watched the crowds. A wild beggar, claiming he was St John the Baptist, came bounding along: in one hand a wooden cross, in the other a burning brand. He was screaming and yelling that Satan was in the city and, like Nineveh of old, the citizens should repent and don sackcloth and ashes. The crowd shifted and made a path to let him through. Matthias’ heart sank: at least half a dozen of Emloe’s bullyboys were watching the entrance to the goldsmith’s.

Matthias cursed his own stupidity at leaving it so long. He slipped back down an alleyway. He stopped at the alehouse which stood in Paternoster Row, just next to St Paul’s Cathedral. Matthias raged at himself and the obstacles placed in his path. Emloe must have survived the previous night: he was apparently more concerned about getting his hands on Matthias again than he was about any damage caused to his sinister mansion.

Matthias drank more than he had intended. When he lurched out of the tavern, it was dark: the stalls had been put away, only the hucksters and the tinkers tried to interest him in their gewgaws. Whores called out from the doorways. Somewhere a child cried and two women burst out of a doorway, hitting and kicking each other. The debtors from the Fleet, chained together and sent out to beg for alms, were now being rounded up. As he passed the cemetery of St Paul’s, Matthias paused and listened to a choir of beautiful-voiced boys singing the acclamation ‘ Christus Vincit ’. Matthias threw them a penny. He walked along Eel-Pie Alleyway and stopped: further down a group of men were struggling. One broke free.

‘I am a Franciscan!’ the man yelled. ‘I collect for the poor! I am Christ’s good priest!’

The three rifflers, however, closed again, tugging at the pouch on his girdle. The friar, a small, wiry individual, broke free and ran towards Matthias. He grasped his arm, his small, nut-brown face soaked in sweat.

‘I am a friar,’ he gasped. ‘I am unarmed.’ And then, as if it were an after-thought, ‘I am also very small.’

Matthias, still full of ale, grinned good-naturedly back.

‘On your way!’ The three rifflers now blocked his path.

Matthias stared at them.

‘On your way!’ the middle one repeated.

Matthias’ hand went to his sword. He gazed at their ugly faces and the rage he felt for Emloe surged against these night birds blocking his path.

‘Well, well, well.’ Matthias took a step backwards, pulling the Franciscan with him. ‘Never have I seen three such ugly gallows carrion.’

His assailants attacked. Matthias had his sword and dagger out. He caught the leading assailant a savage gash in the side of his neck. The other two closed: Matthias’ sword took one in the thigh whilst he struck with his dagger at the other. He heard the Franciscan scream and turned, just in time, to meet a fourth assailant who seemed to appear from nowhere and came at him, dagger up. Matthias ducked, stabbing out with his sword but the blade took him in the shoulder. The pain made him yell and, losing all control, Matthias lashed out with his sword.

‘They’ve gone! They’ve gone!’

Matthias calmed down. The pain in his shoulder was searing. He crouched against the wall of a house, gasping for breath. Two of his assailants lay on the cobbles in spreading pools of blood.

‘The other two have gone,’ the Franciscan remarked. ‘For a while you were just beating the air.’ He helped Matthias to his feet. ‘That was good of you.’

He prised the sword and dagger out of Matthias’ hand and pushed them back into their scabbards. Matthias swayed, the cobbles seemed to shift. The pain in his shoulder now reached the back of his neck. He felt sick and weak.

‘You’d best come with me,’ the Franciscan murmured.

He put Matthias’ arm round his neck. They hobbled out of the alleyway past the Chancellor’s Inn and along to Greyfriars.

‘My name is Father Anthony,’ the Franciscan gasped as he helped Matthias through the small postern gate, up through the darkened, sweet-smelling garden and into the cloisters. ‘I am infirmarian and almoner.’

Matthias paused and stared down at his benefactor. The friar’s round, kindly face was wreathed in concern.

‘You’d best come with me,’ Father Anthony murmured. ‘If that dagger were dirty, the wound might not be clean!’

He helped Matthias along stone-paved corridors and stopped to ring a small bell. Other brothers appeared, heavy-eyed from their slumbers. They helped Father Anthony take Matthias along the cloister and into a small, white-washed chamber. They threw a canvas sheet over a small trestle bed and laid Matthias down. His boots and war belt were removed, then his jerkin and his shirt. He struggled but a cup was held to his lips. He tasted a bittersweet potion and fell into a deep sleep.

When Matthias awoke, sunlight filled the chamber. A vacuous-faced lay brother looked down at him. The man muttered something. His voice seemed far off, as if he were speaking down a tunnel. Again the cup was forced between Matthias’ lips. He felt for the wound in his shoulder but it was numb. He gazed at the stark crucifix on the far wall. For some strange reason he thought he was back at his father’s church in Sutton Courteny and then he fell asleep again. This time he dreamt. Nothing frightening: he was chasing a goose along the village street. It ran into the Hungry Man tavern where Agatha Merryfeet was dancing barefoot on the table. Matthias gazed around, recognising his father’s parishioners.

‘I must go home,’ he declared. ‘Father and Mother will be anxious.’

‘Then, if you have to go, you should,’ John the bailiff declared.

‘Run like the wind!’ Piers the ploughman shouted from the inglenook. ‘Run as fast as you can, Matthias. Your father is waiting.’

Fulcher the blacksmith helped him to the door. Joscelyn the taverner pushed a piece of sweet bread into his hands. Matthias ran down the street and up the path to his house. The door was open, but when he went into the kitchen it was cold and dark. The windows were broken, the ceiling open to the night sky. Parson Osbert was sitting in his favourite chair but he was cloaked and cowled.

‘Father.’ Matthias went towards him.

Parson Osbert looked up, his kindly face was sad, his eyes seemed to search Matthias’ soul.

‘Father, what are you doing here?’

‘I am dead, Matthias.’

Matthias crouched down beside him.

‘Father, do you sleep when you die?’

Parson Osbert shook his head. ‘No, you don’t sleep, Matthias, you travel.’

‘And where have you been, Father? I’ve missed you. I’ve missed Christina. I want my mother!’

Parson Osbert smiled. ‘She travels ahead of us, Matthias. I cannot yet continue.’

‘Why? Where have you been, Father?’

‘I have visited every monastery, every friary in the world. I kneel in front of their altars and pray for you and for me.’

‘Why, Father? What is wrong?’

‘You’ll know soon enough, Matthias.’

His father got up and walked towards the door.

‘Come back! Come back!’ Matthias shouted.