by Paul Doherty
When Matthias awoke, sunlight filled the chamber. A vacuous-faced lay brother looked down at him. The man muttered something. His voice seemed far off, as if he were speaking down a tunnel. Again the cup was forced between Matthias’ lips. He felt for the wound in his shoulder but it was numb. He gazed at the stark crucifix on the far wall. For some strange reason he thought he was back at his father’s church in Sutton Courteny and then he fell asleep again. This time he dreamt. Nothing frightening: he was chasing a goose along the village street. It ran into the Hungry Man tavern where Agatha Merryfeet was dancing barefoot on the table. Matthias gazed around, recognising his father’s parishioners.
‘I must go home,’ he declared. ‘Father and Mother will be anxious.’
‘Then, if you have to go, you should,’ John the bailiff declared.
‘Run like the wind!’ Piers the ploughman shouted from the inglenook. ‘Run as fast as you can, Matthias. Your father is waiting.’
Fulcher the blacksmith helped him to the door. Joscelyn the taverner pushed a piece of sweet bread into his hands. Matthias ran down the street and up the path to his house. The door was open, but when he went into the kitchen it was cold and dark. The windows were broken, the ceiling open to the night sky. Parson Osbert was sitting in his favourite chair but he was cloaked and cowled.
‘Father.’ Matthias went towards him.
Parson Osbert looked up, his kindly face was sad, his eyes seemed to search Matthias’ soul.
‘Father, what are you doing here?’
‘I am dead, Matthias.’
Matthias crouched down beside him.
‘Father, do you sleep when you die?’
Parson Osbert shook his head. ‘No, you don’t sleep, Matthias, you travel.’
‘And where have you been, Father? I’ve missed you. I’ve missed Christina. I want my mother!’
Parson Osbert smiled. ‘She travels ahead of us, Matthias. I cannot yet continue.’
‘Why? Where have you been, Father?’
‘I have visited every monastery, every friary in the world. I kneel in front of their altars and pray for you and for me.’
‘Why, Father? What is wrong?’
‘You’ll know soon enough, Matthias.’
His father got up and walked towards the door.
‘Come back! Come back!’ Matthias shouted.
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!’
25
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.
‘Accep
t 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.’
Matthias stared up into the carved, serene face of this most famous Franciscan. The sculptor had carved an angelic, smooth-faced young man, the tonsure carefully cut, the eyes almost liquid in their gentleness. In one hand he carried a lily, in the other the Baby Jesus. Matthias found it difficult to believe that praying in front of this statue could help him, but he humoured the friar and, for a while, knelt then crossed himself and got to his feet.
‘I must be going,’ he said briskly. ‘I thank you for your kindnesses.’
The friar caught him by the sleeve. ‘I shall remember you at Mass every day, Matthias. Each evening I shall come and talk to St Anthony about you. I know you don’t believe, Matthias, but, at the appointed time, when the battle lines are drawn, if you keep faith, if you fight the good fight, help will come.’
A few minutes later, Matthias, Father Anthony’s good wishes still ringing in his ears, left Greyfriars. He kept to the alleyways and side streets and made his way across Farringdon, past the Bishop of Ely inn towards the great gatehouse of the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. Matthias felt strange to be away from the harmonious atmosphere of the Franciscans. He did his best to avoid the people thronging round the market stalls or pouring into Smithfield because it was Execution Day and the death carts were bringing the usual batch of prisoners for execution. Every so often he would stop and look round but no one was following him. The soldier on duty at the Priory gate waved him in: a servitor sitting in the garden beyond, trying to catch the last of the autumn sun, took Father Anthony’s letter. They went across an enclosed courtyard where fountains splashed, through a maze of tiled corridors and up a broad, wooden staircase to the Commander’s quarters.
For a while Matthias just kicked his heels in a small vestibule. He refused the watered wine and sweetmeats offered and went to look out of the window at the clipped box hedges and neatly laid out herb gardens of the Priory. He saw the trees were beginning to lose their leaves and realised how little notice he took of the seasons. Despite the sun, autumn was turning into winter and Matthias idly wondered what other horrors would be waiting for him before the year ended. He doubted whether the Hospitallers could help him. He had already resolved to collect his few belongings from the Bishop’s Mitre and return to Baron Sanguis. Perhaps the old manor lord could. .
‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’
He turned. The man standing in the doorway was of middle stature, silver hair swept back over his head to lie thick around the nape of his neck. His face was burnt dark by the sun, his moustache and beard were neatly clipped in a military fashion. Matthias couldn’t reckon his age. He was struck by the sheer intensity of the man’s gaze.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated, hitching the heavy furred robe closer round his shoulders.
‘Yes, sir!’
The Hospitaller smiled and held out his hand.
‘I am Sir Edmund Hammond.’ He patted the robe. ‘I am sorry I am swaddled like a baby but I spent most of my years in Cyprus and Malta. London will be the death of me.’
‘You seem to know me, sir.’
The Hospitaller opened his mouth to reply but paused and instead beckoned Matthias into a small, wooden panelled chamber. The windows were shuttered, a fire roared under the canopied hearth and chafing dishes, full of hot coals, stood around the room. A servitor came in and, under Sir Edmund’s directions, moved high-backed chairs in front of the fire. A small table was set between, and cups, brimming with white wine, were served and placed there. Sir Edmund waited until the servant closed the door behind him.
‘I know it is very hot,’ he smiled. ‘If you want, Matthias, take off your sword belt and jerkin; come and sit down.’
Matthias obeyed. For a while the Grand Master just sipped at his wine, cradling the cup between his fingers.
‘I don’t know you, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he began. ‘But I know of you. The execution of Sir Raymond Grandison at Tewkesbury eighteen years ago, the consequent massacre at Sutton Courteny, not to mention the death by burning of Sir Raymond’s brother, Otto. Oh yes,’ he caught the surprise in Matthias’ face, ‘they were brothers, Hospitallers. As young knights they were given a most sacred task to carry out before Constantinople fell to the Turks. They failed. The Rose Demon Father Anthony alludes to in his letter was, by their mistake, once again released into the world of men. Sir Raymond spent the rest of his life scouring Europe. He discovered that the Rose Demon was in England, so he tied his fortunes to those of Margaret of Anjou and the House of Lancaster.’ The Hospitaller sipped from his wine. ‘You know what happened to him. His brother, Otto, decided to live a life of reparation as a hermit out on the rock of Masada above the Dead Sea in Palestine. Otto disappeared. He was later seen in England, but there’s no doubt that by then the Rose Demon had become incarnated in him. He was the hermit the villagers of Sutton Courteny burnt to death.’ He sighed. ‘I suspect that the royal clerk Rahere was also possessed.’
Matthias put his wine cup down. He felt a thrill of excitement. For the first time ever, he was talking to someone who regarded the Rose Demon as a matter of fact, as a great danger which must be confronted.
The Hospitaller was watching Matthias closely. ‘I am only telling the little I know. The existence of the Rose Demon is one of the great secrets of our Order. There’s someone who knows more. Someone you may later meet. First I want to hear your story, from the beginning until now.’
Matthias forgot about the cloying warmth of the room. This time he told his life story in precise tones. He described scenes from his life as he would a painting or a carving. Now and again he would pause to sip at the wine or answer the occasional question. When he had finished, Sir Edmund sat, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers rubbing the side of his temple. He did not look up. Matthias sensed the Hospitaller was frightened, as if Matthias had said something which was mos
t important though its significance was lost on him.
‘You should go back.’ The Hospitaller Commander got to his feet. His face was grey, his tone harsh. ‘You should go back to Sutton Courteny.’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘You said there was someone else who might help?’
‘There is, but not now. You cannot see her.’ The Commander walked across to a side table to refill his goblet. He came back and gingerly did the same for Matthias as if the old soldier wished to keep his distance. ‘There is a great mystery about what you have told me. First, did Parson Osbert ever keep a record?’
Matthias recalled the small, black and gold Book of Hours or breviary his father always carried. Sometimes he would make notes there, sermons or thoughts which occurred to him. Matthias rubbed his mouth. Strange, after his mother’s death Matthias couldn’t remember his father either holding or using the breviary.
‘You also say the hermit carved runes, strange marks on the wall in the derelict church at Tenebral?’
‘Yes,’ Matthias replied.
‘Go back there and copy them down,’ the Hospitaller commanded. ‘You are a clerk. Take quill and parchment. Copy them as accurately as you would a charter or a letter and, when you have done this, return here. If possible, try to find any record of your father’s past.’ Sir Edmund gazed at Matthias, as if he couldn’t really decide who the clerk was or claimed to be. ‘That is all the help I can give,’ he concluded. ‘At least for the time being.’
He did not shake Matthias’ hand. Indeed, the Hospitaller seemed eager to get him out of his chamber, away from the Priory as swiftly as possible. Matthias felt angry and embarrassed but the Hospitaller’s advice did not conflict with what he had already decided.