Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘One of Emloe’s men,’ Matthias muttered.

He laughed wildly. Emloe’s men must have followed him here. Of course, the warlock must have surmised that Matthias would return to Sutton Courteny. Matthias stumbled across the cemetery. Another corpse lay like a broken toy over a graveyard slab. The head was twisted like that of a hanged man, as if someone had come behind him and snapped his neck. At the lych-gate the third corpse was a mass of bruises, his face disfigured into a bloody mass. Matthias didn’t know how the other two had died but his third would-be assassin must have been holding the horses. Something had sent them mad with terror and, rearing up, lashing out with their hooves, they had pounded this man into the ground. Now all was quiet. The graveyard grass was covered in a thick white hoar frost. No sound broke the silence. Of the horses, Matthias could find no trace.

He returned to the priest’s house. His own mount was safe and secure where he had put it in the ruined stables behind. Matthias stroked its muzzle. He released the cord and took it on to the high street.

‘Go on,’ he urged, striking its rump. ‘Go on, I won’t need you any more!’

The horse, puzzled, made to stay. Matthias drew his dagger and pricked it gently on the rump.

‘Go on!’ he yelled. ‘Go on! No one will come here!’

The horse, now frightened, galloped further down the street then stopped. Matthias, who had already decided what to do, went into the small herb garden. He stopped for a while to clear his head and stared around. This was where Christina grew her herbs: camomile, briony, bogbean, hound’s tongue, comfrey, sorrel, basil and thyme. The garden was a tangle of weeds but, in the far corner, Matthias found what he was looking for. His mother had always warned him to keep well away from this tall, green, perennial herb with its much branched stems and bell-like leaves, deadly nightshade. Christina and the other villagers had used this in very small doses for stomach upsets but, in any quantity, it brought death. Matthias cut a few of the stems. He took these to the church and ground both stem and leaf. Matthias took what was left of his wine, poured it into the small metal cup he carried and put the nightshade in, stirring it constantly with his finger. Matthias had no other thoughts in his head. He felt unreal as if watching himself in a dream. He did not want to go on. How could he? How could he accept that he was a bastard child, the cause of so much death and terror? He glanced down the church and recalled the deaths of the villagers.

‘If they could come back,’ he whispered, ‘they’d all vote for my execution.’

In his mind’s eye he saw Father Hubert and Father Anthony’s kindly faces, then Rosamund as on the day she had come to the top of the tower, bringing food, only seconds before the arrow had struck her.

‘And you,’ he whispered. He lifted the wine cup in a silent toast and took a sip. His mouth caught the acrid taste. ‘Not here!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll go where all felons die!’

He staggered out of the church and, holding the wine cup steady, made his way down towards the hanging stone. Now and again he would stop outside some desolate house.

‘Don’t worry!’ he shouted. ‘Justice has been done and will be seen to be done! I’ll be with you soon!’

He reached the gibbet and sat on the stone. He stared back up the street. His horse still stood there gazing forlornly at him. He looked the other way, along the track into the woods to Tenebral. He caught a flash of colour.

‘If it’s Emloe’s men,’ he whispered, ‘they are welcome to my corpse.’

He lifted the cup and drank. Closing his eyes he heard the sound of hoof beats and his name being called. He drank again, shaking the last dregs into his mouth. The first pains caught him in the belly but then he felt himself seized. Gazing up, he stared into Morgana’s beautiful face, her red hair hidden in a fur-edged cowl.

‘Open your mouth!’ Her eyes were hard as glass. ‘Open your mouth, you stupid man!’

Someone else came behind, an arm tight around his throat. Matthias gasped. Morgana was pushing something into his mouth, like the quill of a pen, scratching the back of his throat. Matthias’ belly and chest felt like a sea of fire. Yet he still vomited. He broke free, crouching on the ground like a dog as the spasms shook him, emptying his stomach. Again he was seized, the feather pushed down, scouring his throat. The pain in his stomach and chest was intense. A cup, forced between his lips, poured in a sweet, sticky substance: his head was held back forcing him to swallow. Again he retched. Once more he was forced to drink and, just when he thought he could bear it no longer, Matthias slipped into unconsciousness.

Now and again he would wake. He was on his horse, Morgana riding in front of him. Somebody else was riding close alongside. Matthias’ limbs felt heavy. He had no strength, his throat was so dry, parched by a raging thirst. He slipped into unconsciousness again.

The next time he awoke he was in a chamber, white sheets pulled up to his chin. Matthias could feel warming stones against his feet and, when he moved his hands, he found they were gloved, his body was coated with sweat.

‘Drink a little of this.’ Morgana was holding his head up, allowing him to sip at the delicious water.

He fell asleep again. Every so often he would wake fitfully. A tall, serene-faced woman with a creamy complexion, large soulful eyes, full red lips and hair as black as a raven, sat next to him. She would feed him thin gruel, soups, watered wine, or ground meat as if he were a baby.

At last Matthias woke fully, it was dark. He stared round. The room was comfortable and clean. He was in a large four-poster bed. There were tables on each side, and coffers and chests stood around the room. A thick woollen drape covered the windows and, on one wall, a woven tapestry showed Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. Matthias pulled himself up. He felt very weak, clammy. A dog barked and there were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and the tall, raven-haired woman came into the room. She was dressed in a dark red gown, a sky-blue cloak pulled over her shoulders. Her face was slightly pinched with the cold but she smiled and clapped her hands.

‘So, you are awake, Matthias!’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ The woman came and sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand. Matthias realised that she was not only soothing him but checking to see if there was any fever or hotness. ‘You were brought here at the end of November. Another year has come since then.’

Matthias gaped.

‘It’s the twelfth of January 1490,’ she laughed. ‘And you, Matthias, have been very sick.’ She leant over and tapped him on the forehead. ‘In body as well as mind.’

‘Morgana?’

‘Oh, she’s gone.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Why, the Master’s handmaid. As I am.’

‘And who is the Master?’

‘Matthias, Matthias!’ She smiled slyly at him. ‘The Seigneur is the One we worship.’

‘You are a witch?’

‘Yes. If you were a church official, you would call me a witch. I am also a physician and, as you will see, a very good cook.’

‘But I’ve been asleep for two months!’ Matthias exclaimed.

‘What did you expect?’ she snapped. ‘The deadly nightshade is a most potent poison. Did you dream?’

Matthias shook his head. ‘If I did,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Good,’ she replied and grasped his hand more firmly.

‘Matthias, nightshade is a deadly plant and the body must purge that. However, you were sick of another fever. Something snapped in your mind. If you hadn’t slept and taken the potions I gave you, your wits would have wandered. I made you sleep and now,’ she got to her feet, ‘I will make you strong.’