The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  At the end of May James, astride a snow-white palfrey, the saddle and harness of burnished leather edged with silver, led his royal army out of the grounds of Holyrood, down through the stinking wynds of Edinburgh. They paused at the great open space before St Giles’ Cathedral where the priests blessed them. The royal army then continued. James had a body of archers and men-at-arms who wore coats of mail. These soldiers were well armed with bows and arrows, broadswords and daggers, but the rest were bare-footed clans-men, dressed in loose plaids and saffron-dyed shirts, and they carried little except a stout dagger in their belts, a spear and shield. Nevertheless, what they lacked in armour they made up in courage and determination. They did not care a whit about the King but were eager for war, to burn, pillage and, above all, wreak vengeance on their deadly enemies the Humes and the Douglases.

  The King moved to Blackness on the Firth of Forth. His army caught sight of the enemy mustering in the distance. They, too, carried the royal banner of Scotland, having amongst their ranks the King’s eldest son. James’s courage now cooled. He refused to give battle but marched his troops further west. Kennedy told Matthias that he thought they were going for Stirling to seek protection behind its fortified walls. The King’s enemies moved faster and, when the royal army tried to cross Sauchieburn, a river which snaked its way across Stirling Plain, they found their way blocked by the Humes and Douglases and a greatly swollen rebel army.

  James, Matthias in tow, rode up and down the lines of his troops, exhorting them to stand and fight, interfering in the commands and orders of his captains. The royal forces were not fully deployed when the rebel army moved with incredible speed. Matthias stared unbelievingly at the great line of horse and foot which raced towards them. This was no Tewkesbury or East Stoke but a wild rush of men. Most of James’s soldiers simply turned and fled: the levies from Edinburgh and other towns were the first to leave the field. The King, watching the flight of his troops from a nearby hill, panicked, took his helmet off and, turning his horse, left the field. Most of his bodyguard had been deployed in the line of battle and, as the King began his wild ride, Matthias realised only he and Kennedy were left to guard him. Behind them the roars of battle, the cries and shrieks of dying men faded as the King rode away.

  They crossed a small stream, driving their horses up the wet slippery bank, and were about to pass a mill when James’s palfrey, unused to such mad gallops, slipped and rolled, tossing the king. He managed to extricate himself but, in doing so, hurt his legs. He lay gasping, screaming for Cochrane and beating his gauntleted hand on the ground like a spoilt child who has been deprived of a toy. Then he groaned and, clutching his side, fell back on the ground.

  ‘Englishman,’ Kennedy dismounted, ‘see if there is any pursuit.’

  Whilst he crouched beside his king, Matthias turned his horse’s head and rode back to the top of the bank. He took his helmet off, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat on his face. He pulled back the mailed coif and drank from the waterskin slung over his saddle. He didn’t give a fig about James or the pursuers and, for some time, his attention was caught by a small white cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. He stared at it, lost in a reverie: the sky, the cloud, the warm sun reminded him of that day at the wall when he had told Rosamund about his past.

  ‘Englishman, are you asleep?’

  Matthias shook his head, splashed some water over his face and stared across the heathland. At first he could see nothing but, straining his eyes, he glimpsed colour behind a copse of trees and saw some riders emerge. Half a dozen, these fanned out as they rode towards them. Behind them came another party. Matthias tried to make out the colours. He glimpsed a banner, green and white. The breeze blew more strongly, the riders turned direction and he saw the black and gold banner of Lord George Douglas.

  ‘There are pursuers!’ Matthias shouted. ‘And they are coming fast.’ He trotted his horse down. ‘What now?’

  Kennedy had grasped the King by the shoulder and was lifting him up from the ground. A faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of the King’s mouth. His face was white. He was grasping his side.

  ‘He has broken a rib, bruised something inside.’ Puzzlingly, Kennedy smiled up at Matthias. ‘Who’s leading the pursuit?’

  ‘Lord George Douglas.’

  ‘Aye,’ the King muttered, opening his eyes. ‘He has pursued me in life, he will pursue me to the death.’ He grasped Kennedy’s arm. ‘Archibald man, kill him.’ He pointed at Matthias. ‘We’ll take his horse.’

  ‘Sire,’ the Scottish captain dabbed at the King’s face with a rag, ‘you cannot be moved.’

  The King stared at him wildly. ‘But, for God’s sake man, if we stay the Douglas will take my head!’

  ‘Get him some water!’ Kennedy ordered.

  Matthias offered the small leather bottle.

  ‘Ach no,’ the King groaned. ‘Bring me fresh from the burn!’

  Matthias ran up the bank, grasped his helmet and went down to the burn. He filled his helmet with water and looked up. Douglas and his party were drawing closer. He heard a faint shout as they glimpsed him running back up the bank. He went to kneel by the King. Kennedy snatched the helmet from his hand and poured the water over the King’s face.

  ‘Are they drawing closer?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘For God’s sake, yes, man!’ Matthias retorted.

  ‘Kill him,’ the King murmured. ‘Kill the Englishman and fetch me a priest!’

  Kennedy drew his dagger. Matthias didn’t know whether to spring at him or jump away. He caught a look in the Scotsman’s eyes, gentle, kindly: then the dagger was brought down. One swift thrust into the exposed throat of King James III of Scotland, who wriggled and choked as Kennedy held the dagger firm, all the time his eyes staring at Matthias.

  ‘Go on, Creatura! Go on now!’

  ‘Why?’ Matthias asked, getting to his feet.

  ‘Win or lose, the King had given orders for your death but his soul was ours. Go on, Creatura, ride like the wind.’ He pointed to his own horse and the longbow looped over the saddle horn. ‘I have unfinished business with the Lord Douglas!’

  23

  At Lanercost Priory outside Carlisle, the chronicler transcribing local events during the second half of the year of Our Lord 1488 was as mystified as anyone by the strange stories brought by travellers, journeymen and packmen when they stayed in the guest house on the far side of Lanercost church. Brother Simon, the chronicler, avid for information, greedy for scandal and gossip, scratched his balding head and would spend a long time, pen poised, wondering how to record such mysterious events. True, Barnwick Castle had been destroyed in a Scottish raid in the winter of that year: the keep had been fired, the gatehouse demolished, any wooden building burnt to the ground whilst parts of the wall were brought to terrible ruin by the Scots marauders. The Warden of the Scottish march, too fearful of what might be happening in Scotland, left the place neglected. The castle became the haunt of ravens, owls, foxes, badgers and other wild animals which roamed the desolate heathland between Scotland and England.

  Occasionally some traveller would stay there, taking shelter amongst the ruins, lighting a fire, cooking food and sleeping till dawn. However, they all felt that they were not alone. They would talk of footfalls in the darkness, the sound of someone moving around them. Of a dark shape or a figure glimpsed briefly in bright moonlight. In the morning the travellers would be only too willing to leave. Brother Simon listened to their stories and wove an embroidered tale of the ruins being haunted by a coven of ghosts.

  Such stories helped Matthias. He had reached Barnwick early in August 1488, having successfully eluded Scottish patrols. He slipped over the border and, on one golden-filled summer day, arrived back at Barnwick. He had changed during those weeks since he’d fled the battle at Sauchieburn. He had been hunted by men and dogs. He knew, from the small villages and hamlets he passed through, that huge rewards had been posted for an Englishman, a devilish traitor, responsible for
stabbing the Lord’s anointed, King James III, as well as the cowardly murder of Lord George Douglas. The latter, according to common report, had been ‘hurrying to help his king when a mysterious bowman, no less a person than the Englishman Matthias Fitzosbert, had sent a longbow shaft deep into Douglas’ neck, killing him instantly’. Matthias, disguised, his hair long and straggly, half his face covered by a moustache and beard, had secretly rejoiced at the news. He was innocent of spilling any royal blood but pleased that Lord George Douglas, who had shattered his own life, had, at last, received his just reward.

  Matthias had not immediately fled to the border: that would have been a mistake. Instead, he had ridden to and fro across Scotland, lying low until the hunt died down and the Scottish Council became more concerned about who would control the young King rather than the death of his feckless father and a Douglas laird. Matthias had eventually crossed the Tweed, striking south-east, following the rugged Northumbrian coast before turning west. He was well armed and the horse he rode was a sturdy garron.

  Now and again he’d stop to do some work on a farm or in a village where he would obtain free food or a few coins. He did not know what to do or where to go. He knew he should visit Barnwick, but after that? Matthias considered the problem many a lonely night and found he really didn’t care. Something had died in him. He was ruthless, determined not to become the cat’s-paw of any man, yet on that August afternoon when the ruined towers of Barnwick came into sight, Matthias sat stock-still in the saddle and cried for what might have been.

  He rode on. The moat had been filled in with bricks, rocks and boulders from the ruined walls. The gatehouse was shattered. Local farmers and peasants had already plundered the ruins for stones and wood for their own barns and granges. Steel and iron from the portcullis had long been stripped. The outhouses in the castle baileys had simply vanished. The keep still stood but the north tower was a pile of shattered masonry. Of the hall, parlour and solar, only blackened timbers remained.

  Some of the soldiers’ quarters, built into the small towers along the inner wall, were still usable. Matthias stabled his horse in one of them. He collected fodder, drew water from the well and made himself at home. He snared rabbits in the warren and, armed with bow and arrow, went out on the heathland to shoot quail and pheasant.

  For the first two days Matthias found it impossible to go to the cemetery. When he did, he was astonished to discover that the grave had been carefully tended: the tumulus of soil neatly raked and weeded. The cross still stood secure and, at the other end of the grave, a small rose bush grew. The flowers, small and delicate, were white as snow. Matthias knelt down. He must have stayed for hours quietly sobbing. When he had finished, he lay down on his back staring up at the sky watching the day die. He poured his heart out, as if Rosamund were still alive, lying in his arms beside him. He told her about Scotland, about its mad king whose dreadful death he had witnessed; the intervention of the Rose Demon and his own long desperate flight to the border. When the wind stirred he caught the sweet smell of the roses and, on one occasion, just before he drifted into sleep, the faint fragrance of his dead wife’s perfume.

  After that Matthias decided to stay at Barnwick: the grim life of a hermit had its own rewards. He was free of any responsibilities, of any duties. He had no one to care for but, there again, no one to bother him. He revelled in the silence and resented any intruders. Even when the weather changed, the winds turning harsh and the snow lying thick over the castle ruins, Matthias wouldn’t have exchanged it for the warmest, most luxurious of chambers in some royal palace.

  Matthias spent some of his day hunting for food. Now and again, though very rarely, he would travel to one of the outlying farms or villages to beg, buy or work for bread, flour and other necessities. After a while he became accepted for what he claimed to be: a hermit, supposedly a man of God, though never once did he pray. He tended Rosamund’s grave and, when spring came, built a small mausoleum, using bricks and other materials he found in the castle. No one ever approached him and there were no mysterious phenomena. Matthias rejoiced. He had forgotten the world and perhaps the world had forgotten him? The local farmers told him, with some relish, how the stories were spreading that Barnwick was haunted. Matthias smiled grimly and did his best to encourage such local legends and lore.

  Barnwick became a place most people avoided. One spring afternoon, however, Matthias was unexpectedly aroused from his afternoon slumber by terrible screams from the far side of the castle. He rose quickly, strapped on his war belt, took his crossbow and bolts and went to investigate. He crossed the inner bailey and peered through a gap in the wall to where the gatehouse had been. At first he couldn’t make out what was happening. Four men, dressed in a motley collection of rags and leather, guarded their captives. Two children lay on the ground, their hands and feet bound. Matthias couldn’t distinguish whether they were boys or girls. The three other prisoners were adults: the man had been stripped, his hands and feet bound and now he was being hoisted on a rope over a timber. A small fire had been lit beneath his feet. The two others, naked as they were born, were women. One was middle-aged, the other a young lass, probably sixteen or seventeen summers old. The women, pricked with daggers, were being made to dance whilst the children sobbed and the man screamed a mixture of pain and defiance.

  Matthias studied the scene carefully. There were about six horses and two sumpter ponies. He realised that some merchant’s party, foolishly travelling by themselves, had been attacked by outlaws. The victorious wolf’s-heads were now intent on enjoying their ill-gotten gains. Matthias wondered whether he should intervene. But why should he? The moor-lands were haunted by outlaws, men who feared neither God nor man. Matthias did not wish to incur their enmity. Then a wolf’s-head went over and kicked one of the children lying on the ground. Matthias could stand no more. He slipped a bolt into the groove of his arbalest and walked out of his hiding-place. An outlaw caught sight of him and waved drunkenly. They were all the worse for drink.

  ‘It’s the hermit!’ another shouted. He lumbered forward, his cruel, unshaven face flushed with wine. ‘We caught them out on the moors, sitting there, feasting themselves.’

  ‘Christ Jesus, help us!’ The man hoisted on the beam stared beseechingly at Matthias. He was young, his beard and moustache finely trimmed but his face was grey with exhaustion and fear, his eyes almost starting out of his head. The two women clung to each other whilst the pathetic bundles on the grass just sobbed and moaned.

  The outlaws did not regard Matthias as a threat.

  ‘There’s enough for five.’ One of the outlaws gestured to the pile of clothes, the bundles, saddlebags and sumpter ponies. ‘What we’ll do,’ he continued, ‘is have our pleasure and then,’ he pointed to the children, ‘they can be taken to one of the western ports and sold. The horses are good stock.’

  Matthias studied the outlaws. One was old and grizzled but the others were young and vicious. They reminded Matthias of a group of stoats closing for the kill. None of them could stand upright. They had drunk much and, so secure in this desolate place, believed they could take their time over this villainy. Matthias felt ashamed that they should regard him as one of them.

  ‘Come on!’ the outlaw leader urged. ‘There’s enough for you!’

  The older woman broke free, her long, jet-black hair falling down her back. She ran and grasped Matthias’ leg and stared beseechingly up at him.

  ‘Help us!’ she pleaded.

  Matthias glanced away. The woman’s fingers dug deep into his thigh.

  ‘For the love of the Good Lord,’ she begged, ‘have pity!’

  Matthias shook her away. ‘There are four of them and one of me.’

  He smiled wolfishly at the outlaw leader, who was growing wary of this tall, silent hermit, the crossbow he carried and the great war belt strapped round his waist.

  ‘She asks for pity,’ Matthias mocked. ‘What is that? I’ll go and get my cup and join you.’

  He
turned his back. As he did so, he brought back the cord of the crossbow, looping it over the catch. The outlaws guffawed at the woman’s screams. They were still laughing when Matthias spun round: the crossbow bolt took the outlaw leader in the side of the head, digging deep into his skull, and then, sword and dagger drawn, Matthias was amongst them. They were so drunk, so taken by surprise that Matthias easily despatched two of them: the last was more agile, his cold, hard eyes and long nasty face more wary. Matthias and he circled each other. The male prisoner screamed in agony at the flames, which now licked the soles of his feet. Matthias shouted at the woman to kick the fire away: as he did so, the outlaw closed. Matthias swerved, the dagger skimmed his ear. Again they parted, continuing to circle in a half-crouch.

  ‘Why?’ the outlaw hissed.

  ‘I changed my mind,’ Matthias taunted.

  The outlaw came in a rush. Matthias stepped aside: he caught the man deep, just beneath the rib cage, withdrew his sword and watched as the outlaw slumped to his knees, screaming at the terrible rent in his side. Matthias came behind. Dropping his dagger, he grasped the hilt of his sword and, with two hands, took the outlaw’s head in one cutting slice. Around him the young woman was screaming; the two children sobbed uncontrollably, their faces buried deep in the dirt as they tried to hide from any sight or sound of what was happening.

  Matthias cut the captured man down: he was bruised, still terrified, the soles of his feet were slightly scorched but otherwise he’d suffered no serious injuries. Matthias then moved to the children, a young boy and girl. He cut their bonds and gently stroked their hair. He calmed them, assuring them that all was well and that he intended no injury. He went round the outlaws. Three were dead, one was grievously wounded. Matthias cut his throat and dragged all four corpses out of sight. The women had seized their clothing and gone elsewhere. The man, still acting like a dream-walker, had to be dressed by Matthias: he then sat on the ground, one arm round each of his children. The women returned. Matthias used some of the wine to bathe their bruises and cuts. As darkness fell, he cooked food and made them all drink deeply of the wine.