Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

He tried to follow but he couldn’t. Someone was holding him back. He opened his eyes. Father Anthony was staring down at him, brown eyes smiling.

‘Matthias, Matthias,’ he whispered, ‘you were having a dream.’

Matthias lay back against the bolsters.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Three days.’ Father Anthony pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed.

Matthias pulled his shoulder and felt a slight twinge of pain.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ The friar patted his hand. ‘It was deep but small. We’ve cleaned and tended it.’ The friar chewed the corner of his lip. ‘We gave you a potion to make you sleep but we thought something else was wrong. You seemed unwilling to wake.’ He patted his hand. ‘You had a bellyful of ale but you must have been very, very tired.’

Matthias stretched his legs. ‘I feel very, very hungry,’ he grinned.

The friar left and returned with a tray bearing a bowl of steaming broth, small chunks of bread, a dish of vegetables and a goblet of watered wine. The savoury smell whetted Matthias’ hunger. He ate ravenously and shame-facedly asked for more.

‘Of course! Of course!’

More food was brought. Matthias ate. He felt tired again and dozed for a while but, when he awoke, felt stronger. He spent the next two days in bed and found he couldn’t forget the dream about his father. The Franciscan seemed fascinated by him and, whenever his duties allowed, he’d slip into the chamber to chat about the affairs of the Friary. Slowly, gradually, he also began to probe as to where Matthias was from and what he was doing in that alleyway.

‘You had strange dreams, Matthias. The things you talked about. .’

Matthias smiled and shrugged.

‘Are you a soldier?’ the Franciscan asked.

Matthias told him about Barnwick.

‘And Rosamund?’

Matthias fell silent and, though he tried, he could not stop the tears brimming.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Father, she died.’

Matthias leant his head back against the wall and, eyes on the crucifix, told this Franciscan everything. Father Anthony listened intently. Now and again, he’d scratch his small white moustache and beard or run his fingers slowly up and down the side of his nose.

‘You’re hearing my confession, Father.’

‘Yes, I know I am.’

Matthias then continued. Occasionally the Franciscan would ask Matthias the same question: in that situation, whatever it was, be it Emloe or his bloody confrontation with the outlaws in the ruins of Barnwick, what did Matthias want? What did he wish? Matthias sometimes had to pause as he sifted amongst his memories.

‘You remind me of the hermit,’ he declared, half-jokingly. ‘He always said it was the will that matters. What you really wanted, rather than your actual acts.’

‘And that is true,’ Father Anthony replied. ‘Do you believe in God? Do you believe in the Lord Jesus?’

‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied. ‘As I live, Father, I don’t really know and, sometimes, I don’t really care. I, Matthias Fitzosbert, am a parson’s son. I trained to be a clerk and I have served as a soldier. As a man I love books and libraries. I like green fields, good food and a goblet of wine. I would love to go fishing or for a walk in the meadow. I wish I had friends, a place I could call my own. I am ordinary and I wish to be ordinary but life, the Rose Demon or whatever, will not leave me alone. I want to be free. I want to be free of all these shadows: the likes of Emloe, Fitzgerald, Douglas.’ Matthias put his face in his hands. ‘I try to break free but, whenever I do, I am always dragged back. So, Father,’ he looked at the friar, ‘that is my confession. What is my penance?’

Father Anthony lifted his hand and recited the words of absolution, making the sign of the cross over Matthias’ head.

‘Your penance is your life,’ he murmured. ‘This crisis, Matthias, is your life. You cannot escape it!’

Father Anthony gazed beseechingly at Matthias.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘you must make a choice. You can either accept this Rose Demon, and whatever his love means to you, or you can continue this struggle, this savage battle against bitterness, heartbreak and sorrow.’ He smiled wanly. ‘So far you seem to have made the right choice but, at a certain time, in a certain place, you must make the final choice.’

‘Is that all my life means?’ Matthias spat the words out.

‘Yes. There will be no Matthias Fitzosbert the clerk, the family man, the husband, the father. No Matthias the bibliophile, the scholar, the man who likes fishing or collecting apples on the dew-soft grass of an orchard. Oh, you will eat and you will drink, you will sleep, you may love, you may fight but the constant theme in your life will be this terrible struggle.

‘Why?’ Matthias pulled himself up on the bed. He flailed his hands. ‘Why me?’

‘Why not?’ Father Anthony replied. ‘Do you think you are alone? Don’t you ever think that someone like myself would like to be a father, a lover, a poet, a troubadour? Do you know what it’s like to wake in the early hours and be alone? To do good and be attacked in an alleyway? To pray into the darkness and get no reply?’

Matthias leant over and gently stroked the friar’s cheek.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised.

‘Such self-pity is no sin,’ the friar replied. ‘Even Christ protested that he hadn’t got a home to call his own or a pillow to lay his head on! It only becomes a sin when you wallow in it and make it a way of life.’

‘So, what should I do?’ Matthias asked.

‘Accept each day as it comes but try and plan for the future. Your association with the Rose Demon seems to begin with Hospitallers. The hermit claimed to have been one and, you say, he met another Hospitaller in Tewkesbury who fought for the House of Lancaster.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Now, across Smithfield,’ Father Anthony continued, ‘lies the Priory of St John of Jerusalem, the Mother House of the Hospitaller Order in England. I will write you a letter of introduction to Sir Edmund Hammond, the present Grand Master, a saintly man, shrewd and trustworthy. Tell your tale to him. God knows what other secrets the Priory may hold.’

Matthias agreed.

‘I can provide you with new clothes,’ Father Anthony continued. ‘I have also checked your purse; you have little money.’

‘A goldsmith in Cheapside holds?120 sterling,’ Matthias explained, ‘but the shop is watched by Emloe’s gang.’

‘That can be resolved.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘I will bring parchment and quill. You write out a letter handing over the entire amount held by the goldsmith to our Friary.’ He smiled. ‘In return, we will raid our coffers and give you that amount before you leave.’

Two days later Matthias, dressed in new clothes, a stout leather money belt wrapped around his waist, accompanied Father Anthony across the cloisters and into a little side chapel. It was no more than a white-washed cell. A small altar stood against the far wall: a statue of the Virgin and Child on one side and, on the other, a life-size effigy of St Anthony of Padua holding the Baby Jesus.

‘This is a chantry chapel,’ the friar explained, ‘where I say Mass. Often my duties prevent me from joining the brothers in the main church.’

He genuflected to the crucifix and took Matthias across to kneel first before the statue of the Virgin, where he lit a candle, and then before the statue of St Anthony of Padua.

‘He is my patron,’ the friar declared. ‘Anthony of Padua was one of St Francis’ first disciples, a great preacher, a formidable scholar. He was gentle to all, a mystic with a profound love of God and the incarnate Lord. He’s a wonder worker. Anything you ask him is never refused.’