The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘This is what I’ve decided, priest. The villagers will pay a fine of twenty shillings. You will not pay it. I have also sent a messenger to London. I have friends.’ He preened himself. ‘At court, my Lord of Hastings.’

  Parson Osbert bowed. Hastings was the King’s personal friend. After the royal brothers, George and Richard, he was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

  ‘I have asked him to send down a royal clerk, someone to investigate this business. The real culprit is the Preacher.’ Baron Sanguis ticked the points off on his finger. ‘He had no right to hold a court. He had no right to condemn.’ His hands fell away. ‘And, for all we know, boy, the Preacher himself could be the assassin?’

  Matthias’ heart leapt with joy. For the first time since the hermit’s death, he smiled. He also forgot Baron Sanguis’ advice, drank his apple juice a little too fast and had to be carried home by his father.

  Rahere, the royal clerk, swaggered down the King’s Steps at Westminster and into the waiting barge. The wherrymen, dressed in the royal livery, took one look at the chancery ring on his left hand and the red sealed warrant in the other and ushered him to the cushioned seat in the stern as if he were the King himself. Royal clerks ruled the roost. They were the King’s lawyers, his money-men, the searchers out of his prerogative. They had the power of the Chancery and, on their advice, a man rose or fell. This clerk looked the part: tall, elegantly dressed in a soft, woollen tunic, hose of the same colour and texture and high-heeled morocco boots, he gathered his cloak about him and lounged in the stern. Now and again he’d turn his head to study a Spanish caravel, a two-masted ship of the Hanse or the long, wolflike galleys from Venice as they made their way up and down the Thames.

  Rahere was young and ambitious; with his black-raven hair, smooth, olive-skinned face and lustrous eyes, he had even caught the attention of the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. Rahere was one of her henchmen, being sent hither and thither on royal business. Now he had received a fresh charge. He had been appointed the King’s Commissioner in the Western Shires, with powers of life and death. He was to search out the person responsible for the dreadful murders which had been committed outside Tewkesbury and bring the culprit to summary justice.

  Rahere played with the hem of his pure wool cloak, deftly brushing off some crumbs which were clinging to his thick, burgundy-coloured tunic. I will act the part, he thought. I will take the swiftest, sleekest horse and sumpter pony from the royal stables and ride through the shires like a King’s Justice. Rahere smiled. Like a King’s Justice! He would be the King’s Justice, girt with sword and carrying a royal pennant. Every knee would have to bow.

  Rahere looked up at the sky. The summer sun was beginning to set. He would celebrate his good fortune in Southwark with a tasty meal; good wine, venison soaked in claret — and afterwards? Beneath his cloak, Rahere’s hand stole to his groin and plucked at his protuberant codpiece. A fresh whore from one of the stews: some young palfrey he could strip, mount and ride through the night. A young girl who would be fresh and quick beneath him. Rahere smacked his lips.

  ‘You’d best pull harder!’ he snapped.

  The wherrymen bent over their oars, quietly cursing this pompous young lord. Their barge turned, making its way through the little bumboats which always thronged around the great ships, offering the sailors everything: fruit, almonds, sweetmeats, roasted chicken, apples, pears and, if the officers didn’t mind, some of the painted whores who always paid to tout their services from such boats. Rahere studied these surreptitiously. Now and again he’d turn to admire one of the King’s cogs; the royal men-of-war beginning to assemble in the Thames. Now the war was over, Edward of England was determined to teach the French not to support his enemies.

  At last the royal wherry reached Southwark, just between the inn called the Bishop of Winchester and the Priory of St Mary Overy. To his left, Rahere could see the mass of London Bridge and the long, jutting poles bearing the severed heads of Lancastrian traitors. Rahere smiled. That was what was so good about being a clerk. Whoever won, men like himself were always valued: scholars from the Halls of Oxford or Cambridge who knew the law and the secrets of the Chancery. Rahere tossed a coin and went up the water-soaked steps and into the crowds milling along the quayside.

  Rahere loved Southwark, thronged with every villain under the sun: cutthroats, naps, foists, apple-squires and a glorious profusion of whores of every age offering all forms of delicacies for a young lord like himself. He arrogantly pushed his way through them and into the Grey Goose tavern. The landlord and tapsters greeted him like a prince. They knew how he liked his dishes served: venison cooked though left pink in the middle; the sauce had to be thick and full of mushrooms and onions. No watered wine or vineyard dregs but the best Gascony.

  Rahere was shown to his table next to the window. His meal was served piping hot, not on a dirty trencher but clean pewter plates with a special horn spoon in a leather purse.

  Rahere ate well and drank deeply. He was staring out over the garden, picking at his teeth, when he heard soft steps. He turned and his wine-filled belly clenched in excitement. The young woman was ravishingly beautiful, hair as red as a burning flame, skin like alabaster, light-green eyes slanted at the corners. Her rosebud mouth parted in a half-smile. .

  Matthias sat in the ruined sanctuary of Tenebral church. He gazed at the rose painted on the wall and let the tears stream down his cheeks. Above him a wood pigeon cooed, breaking the silence of the summer afternoon. Matthias felt truly alone. At that moment, he realised how, apart from the hermit, he always had been by himself. As long as he could remember he had been only tolerated by the village children. They resented his knowledge of letters, his ability to read his hornbook. Matthias didn’t recognise that. He just felt their cruelty, their dismissive taunts as the ‘priest’s brat’. At home it had been no different. His father and mother were engrossed in themselves. Sometimes he felt they were embarrassed by him. His father was kind and generous but Christina was aloof; so much so that in his private dreams and games, Matthias considered her a fairy-tale princess locked up in an ivory tower. The hermit had been different: his friendship had been the first time Matthias had ever experienced such closeness. Now he was gone, everything was changing, including himself. Matthias was upset, yet he felt stronger whilst his parents seemed more like strangers. Christina had now totally drawn into herself whilst his father fumbled like an old man. Despite their visit to Baron Sanguis ten days ago, the parson had not improved whilst matters in the village went from bad to worse.

  Sigherd, a lonely crofter who owned two messuages of land, became drunk and, one night, stumbled into the millpond where he had drowned. Peterlinus, one of the baker’s sons, had fallen from a tree and broken an arm. An outlaw band had crossed the Severn and were now plaguing travellers and journeymen on the Sutton Courteny road. Despite the best efforts of Baron Sanguis, this small band of wolf’s-heads were driving journeymen and merchants away from the village. At night, so it was said, devils danced around Sutton Courteny. Death, astride a purple horse, had ridden slowly through the village, a death’s-head helmet over its skeletal face, a huge scythe in his hand. Behind him, so rumours alleged, trailed a legion of imps to plague the villagers of Sutton Courteny.

  Matthias folded his arms and pricked up his ears. He was sure he heard a horse’s hooves yet no one came this way. Sometimes when he was here, particularly just before dusk, he sensed the hermit’s presence, his voice calling him Creatura bona atque parva. Matthias had ruefully recognised this must be his own wishful longing.

  He went back to contemplating the rose and reflecting on what had happened in the village over the last few days. People knew Baron Sanguis had honoured Matthias. Now they respected, even feared him. People recalled how only the boy had spoken for the hermit. Baron Sanguis had also been affected by the ill fortune which afflicted the village. Margot, Old Bogglebow, had been found dead at the foot of the tower of the manor house. Some claimed she had sli
pped and broken her neck. Others claimed a devil, a great dark shape, had been hunting her for days. The demon had seized her by the neck and flung her down the steps. Baron Sanguis’ carp and stew ponds had also been broken into. People pointed the finger at the wolf’s-heads who, besides poaching the King’s venison, were not averse to helping themselves to a fat carp or a succulent tench.

  Baron Sanguis had vowed retribution but his main quarry had been the Preacher who had dared to usurp his seigneurial powers. In this he had been more successful. The Preacher had taken sanctuary with the monks at Tewkesbury where his conduct had alarmed Father Abbot. He had become witless, a madcap who kept proclaiming he had been possessed by a devil. This hadn’t saved him from the Baron’s vengeance. He had been dragged, a halter round his neck, through the village, and thrown into one of Baron Sanguis’ dungeons. Now the villagers waited for a new arrival: a royal commissioner, armed with special powers, was coming from London to investigate the matter — a royal justiciar who would make a tally of the corpses and put the Preacher on trial.

  Matthias started: that was the clop of a horse! He stole down the church and peered out. Near the lych-gate a horseman sat, tall and erect, in the shiny red leather saddle, his great cloak about him, the sword belt around his waist beautifully embroidered. The horse was a destrier, a noble-looking animal with arched neck and glossy hide. Its housing and harness were those of a great lord, the leather soft and gleaming, the buckles glittering in the sunlight. The rider was looking back at a sumpter pony piled high with possessions under a clean canvas sheet. The man dismounted, the spurs on his high-heeled leather riding boots jingling like little bells. Matthias noticed how the man’s oiled black hair was tied back in a queue. He went to check his sumpter pony, lifting one of its forelegs. Matthias heard him talking quietly to the animal.

  The boy, intrigued, stole out of the ruins and down the weed-filled path. The destrier snickered, its hooves pawing the earth. The sumpter pony drew back its head and brayed. Something skimmed over Matthias’ head and smacked into the wall of the church behind him. He looked back but could see nothing except a puff of dust where something had hit the wall.

  ‘You shouldn’t steal up on people like that, boy!’

  Matthias whirled round. The man was now standing at the lych-gate, in his hand a small arbalest. He was putting a second bolt into the groove. Matthias’ heart lurched. He extended his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I was hiding here. I often do. No one ever rides by here!’

  The man came towards him. He moved elegantly, like a cat, fluid movements: a man certain of himself, arrogant in his power. He stopped before the boy, his dark-blue eyes studying him carefully: the arbalest cord was still pulled back, though the crossbow was held down.

  ‘How do I know,’ the man asked, ‘that you are not an outlaw brat?’

  ‘And how do I know you are not an outlaw?’ Matthias retorted.

  The man smiled. He gently loosed the cord, removed the bolt and put it into a small pouch on his belt. He crouched down so that his face was level with that of Matthias. A kind, handsome face; the eyes crinkled when he smiled and the smooth-shaven cheeks showed dimples, as if the man loved life but found everything slightly amusing.

  ‘Well, if you are not an outlaw brat, who are you?’ He took off his leather, gold-fringed gauntlets.

  Matthias noticed the ring on his finger. It bore the arms of England. He had seen similar insignia when he had been in Tewkesbury with the hermit.

  ‘I’m the priest’s brat,’ Matthias replied. ‘Matthias, son of Osbert the priest at Sutton Courteny.’

  The man stood up and extended his hand.

  ‘And I am Rahere, the royal clerk.’ His hand was soft and warm. He gripped Matthias’ gently.

  ‘You are the clerk?’ Matthias exclaimed.

  ‘I am the clerk,’ Rahere mimicked back. ‘Sent by His Grace the King, at the request of Baron Sanguis, to carry out the King’s justice.’ He looked around. ‘I thought I’d come by this way.’ He pointed to the church. ‘One of the old villages, I suppose, wiped out by the plague? And this is your hiding place?’

  ‘No, it was the home of a friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was a hermit. He was taken prisoner and burnt as a witch by the villagers. Now Baron Sanguis has caught the man responsible.’

  Rahere nodded, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh, though he gazed at the church, smiling faintly.

  ‘And did you like the hermit?’

  ‘He was my great friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was strange, very strange, but kind to me. I come here because I miss him.’ His voice trembled. ‘I am a little sad.’

  Rahere crouched down again. ‘You shouldn’t be sad, Matthias, not on a summer’s day like this.’

  ‘He showed me foxes,’ Matthias continued, his lower lip trembling. ‘He did no one any harm. He used to live there.’ He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder towards the church. ‘He drew a beautiful rose.’

  Rahere stood up. ‘And I have come to do justice for his death,’ he declared, his voice harsh and low. ‘So, little Matthias, the day is drawing on. Show me the path to Sutton Courteny.’

  ‘I thought your pony was lame?’ Matthias chattered as they walked back towards the lych-gate.

  ‘Oh, just a pebble in his shoe.’

  Without asking, the clerk picked Matthias up and put him on the saddle and climbed up behind him. He gathered his reins, clicked his tongue and the horse moved on, the pony trotting behind. The clerk wore a perfume, a faint fragrance. Matthias felt warm and secure, though he wondered why such a clerk should come by forest paths.

  ‘Before I arrive anywhere,’ Rahere spoke up, as if he could read Matthias’ mind, ‘I like to ride around, speak to people, acquaint myself with the place in which I am going to work. I learn a lot that way. So, Matthias, this ride is not free. Tell me about Sutton Courteny.’

  The boy began to chatter. How his father was the priest, that Christina, his mother, was ill. About the different accidents which had occurred since the hermit’s death. How he hated the Preacher. How Baron Sanguis was kind and how Bogglebow, the witch woman, had died so mysteriously.

  The clerk listened. Now and again he would interrupt with a question. Matthias was so engrossed in this series of questions and answers, he hardly noticed the wolf’s-heads until they were upon them. Just where the path narrowed, before it turned the corner, the outlaws, seven in number, came like shadows out of the trees. Armed with sword and dagger, they blocked the path: two carried longbows, arrows notched to the string. Their leader, dressed in dirty green, his head covered by animal skins, swaggered forward.

  ‘A traveller and a boy.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Get down from your horse!’

  ‘Stay still,’ the clerk murmured to Matthias.

  ‘We could have shot you from the forest,’ the outlaw continued. He moved sideways and whistled under his breath. ‘But that horse looks expensive and it’s the horse we want to save, and your clothes, of course.’ He laughed over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Nothing like a bloody arrow wound to ruin a good shirt. So, down you get, fine sir, you and the boy. We’ll take your clothes, your purse, your weapons, your horse. If you are good and do what we say, you can keep your lives.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am all compassion.’

  ‘You promise our lives?’ Rahere replied.

  ‘On my mother’s honour. Or rather your father’s.’ The outlaw laughed aloud. ‘That is if you have one!’

  ‘When I put you down,’ Rahere whispered, ‘run like the wind!’

  He lowered Matthias gently to the ground. The boy scampered into the undergrowth. Even as he did so he heard the horse behind him neigh. He stopped and turned round. The clerk had moved with lightning speed, digging his spurs in savagely. The great war horse had leapt forward in rage, its hooves scything the air. The outlaw leader was knocked over like a twirling ninepin. The bowmen were unable to loose but now they closed. Matthias, fingers to his mouth, s
aw them slice the clerk’s body with sword and dagger and heard the yells of expectant triumph. These faded as the clerk just turned his horse and came back. Sword raised, he struck the outlaws like an avenging angel. The horse, trained to war and quickened by the scent of blood, struck out with iron-shod hooves. One outlaw, hands to his face, staggered away screaming, the blood pumping between his fingers. Matthias stood stock-still. He had seen Baron Sanguis’ mounted men practise at the tourney but never anything like this. For a short while the stillness of the forest was shattered by the scrape of steel, the cries and oaths of men locked in mortal combat.

  And then it was over. The clerk still sat on his horse, face sweating, chest heaving, his sword covered in blood from tip to hilt. Five of the outlaws lay dead; one knelt whimpering, still holding his face. Another groaned in agony, twisting on the ground. The clerk nudged his horse towards them. Twice his sword was lifted, coming down in cutting scythes and the two surviving outlaws died. Rahere dismounted. He cleaned his sword on one of the outlaw’s cloaks, took a water bottle from his saddle horn and splashed his hands and face. He then inspected the horses.

  ‘They are fine,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They are trained for war, Matthias. Notice how the sumpter pony stayed stock-still and how the destrier fought like a warrior.’

  Rahere picked up his sword where he had placed it against a corpse, resheathed it and walked along the trackway. He pulled the small, red ribbon from his hair, shook his hair loose around his face like Matthias had seen Christina do. Then he took a comb from his wallet and began to comb his hair, all the time staring at Matthias.

  ‘A bloody day’s work, eh?’

  The boy just stared at the corpses. It had happened so quickly. One minute these were living men, dangerous, now they lay scattered about like hunks of meat.