Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

The sun was setting, the evening turning cold, so he walked briskly across Smithfield and into the musty, darkened taproom of the Bishop’s Mitre.

Matthias informed the landlord that he would be leaving that evening before the curfew sounded. He settled his account and followed the landlord out into the courtyard. Matthias inspected the horseflesh kept in the stables and brought out a sturdy, berry-brown mount which seemed sound of wind. Matthias checked the horse’s mouth and feet and declared himself satisfied, though he did not question the landlord too closely on where the horse came from. More haggling followed before Matthias was able to buy back the saddle and harness he had sold to the taverner when he had first arrived in the city. The fellow, pleased at making such a profitable sale, offered Matthias, free of charge, a small garret for the night.

‘You can also have a free meal and break your fast tomorrow, ’ he urged. ‘It will be far better than riding dark, wind-swept roads.’

Matthias agreed. He trotted his new horse around the cobbled yard to make sure that he had spent his silver well, checked the saddle and harness and returned to the taproom. He had supper with the rest at the common board and went up to his garret where he carefully packed his saddlebags, lay down on his bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke late the next morning, more refreshed and determined to leave as soon as possible. He ate bread and cheese in the taproom and, hiring a razor and a jug of hot water, returned to his garret to finish his preparations. The landlord was not as jovial as the night before but Matthias ignored that. He carefully shaved and was about to dry himself when the water in the bowl rippled and moved. Matthias stared, fascinated, at the shapes which appeared, as if he were looking through a window or staring into a mirror. The scene was commonplace. He recognised the stable in the yard below. He saw the berry-brown horse he had bought and his saddle and harness on a peg in the wall above the stall. Two men were talking to the landlord. They turned. Matthias’ heart skipped a beat: he recognised Roberto and another of Emloe’s henchmen. They had their war belts on. The landlord said something, they nodded then separated, going into the shadows at each end of the stable. Matthias touched the water and the scene disappeared. He dried his hands and face, put his war belt on, picked up the saddlebags and his small arbalest.

When he crossed the taproom, the landlord refused to meet his gaze but turned his back. Matthias went out. He placed his saddlebag and cloak on the ground, set a bolt in the groove of the crossbow, pulling back the cord, and walked into the darkened stable. He heard a sound from his right: the assassin came at a run. Matthias loosed the crossbow and the bolt took the man full in the chest, sending him crashing back against the stalls. The horses reared and neighed. Matthias turned, throwing the crossbow at Roberto’s head as he slipped silently towards him. It missed, the Portuguese moving sideways. Matthias drew his sword and dagger and stood back.

‘Leave!’ he pleaded. ‘Roberto, I don’t want your death. Go back and tell Emloe we are finished!’

‘Master Fitzosbert, you know I cannot do that. An order is an order.’

‘Please!’ Matthias begged.

Roberto rushed in, sword and dagger snaking out. Matthias countered, they drew apart. Again they closed in a clash of steel but the Portuguese was an indifferent swordsman. Matthias was able to block and, with one counterparry, thrust his dagger deep into Roberto’s belly. He pulled it out. Roberto staggered, bending over double, coughing on his own blood and fell with a groan to the ground. Matthias collected his cloak and saddlebag, then saddled his horse. As he left the stable, the landlord came running out, all a-fluster.

‘Lackaday! Lackaday!’ he cried. ‘What’s happening here?’

‘You are a liar,’ Matthias declared, swinging himself into the saddle. He gathered the reins. ‘You can send for the sheriff but then he might want to know why two assassins were waiting in your stables. Or you can send a courier to Master Emloe but he will ask why I expected to find his two men waiting for me. All in all,’ Matthias turned his horse’s head, ‘you are in for a very interesting day.’

Matthias left the city, riding up Aldersgate. After Charterhouse the houses became sparser, the crowds less dense. By noon he was out in the open countryside, taking the road west. He rode hard and fast, stopping occasionally to rest, feed and water his horse. At night he sheltered in a wayside tavern, the occasional friary and, on one occasion, slept in a small copse.

Five days after leaving London, he glimpsed the spire of Tewkesbury Abbey and, a short while later, urged his horse up trackways and passageways he remembered from boyhood days. Matthias felt the bitter sweetness of nostalgia as certain landmarks brought back memories of Parson Osbert or Christina. He avoided Sutton Courteny and Tenebral but took a more circuituous route to Baron Sanguis’ manor house. This was much decayed. The curtain wall had gaps in it. The gates hung askew. No soldiers stood on guard. Matthias glimpsed only a few servants, whilst the outlying barns and granges looked dilapidated. The manor house was no better: the paths leading to it were choked with weeds. The gardens had not been tilled, the windows were all shuttered and the paint on the front door was cracked and peeling. A servant answered his knock. Matthias asked for Taldo the seneschal.

‘He’s dead,’ the old man replied mournfully. ‘All are dead.’

‘And Baron Sanguis?’

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend from London.’

‘Then you’d best come in. Baron Sanguis has few friends now.’

The old manor lord was crouched on a chair before a fire in his shabby solar. Matthias was shocked by his appearance. Sanguis’ face was lined and seamed. He was rheumy-eyed, his hair fell in greasy locks and for a while he just peered at Matthias, who wondered if the old man’s wits were wandering.

‘I am Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he repeated. ‘You remember, my lord, Parson Osbert’s son? I came here often as a boy. You gave me sweetmeats.’

The old man’s fingers flew to his lips.

‘Has the devil come again?’ he asked, staring blankly at Matthias. ‘They say the devil flew down to Sutton Courteny. He killed the entire village. My lands are cursed, my family’s cursed. My boy was killed at Bosworth and the new King in London has never forgiven me.’ He gripped the arm of his chair with his rheumatic fingers. ‘I was the King’s good servant,’ he pleaded as with himself. ‘I fought under York’s banner.’ He scratched his unshaven chin. ‘But Satan crept in to Sutton Courteny and my fortunes changed. You say you are Matthias Fitzosbert. No, he died with the rest. You can’t be. They are all dead!’

Matthias bowed and made his way back to the door.

‘Wait!’

He turned. The old manor lord was now standing up, hands outstretched.

‘You are not to go there,’ he warned. ‘Stay well away from Sutton Courteny. The place is thronged with ghosts.’

The old servant was waiting outside in the hallway.

‘His wits have wandered?’ Matthias asked.

‘Sometimes,’ the fellow replied dourly. ‘Yet he speaks the truth. It’s common legend how Satan swept into Sutton Courteny and everything changed. The old lord’s right. I heard him shouting. You should not go there.’

Matthias collected his horse and left the manor. For a while he became lost but he remembered the forest trackways and found the path leading to the woods. He reached Tenebral late in the afternoon. Sharp memories flooded back. Nature was busy reclaiming its own. The houses were more ruined, some had disappeared altogether. Bushes and brambles now choked doorways and windows, and crept over walls to cover gardens.