The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Yes.’ Matthias replied. ‘The great Anselm in his book Cur Deus Homo — Why God became Man proposed an original thesis: how the incarnation of Christ was planned from all eternity: that God would have become incarnate whether man had fallen from grace or not.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘But this decision caused a great revolt in Heaven. One of the greatest beings, Archangel Lucifer, rose in revolt. He would not accept God’s plan. According to legend he fell from Heaven and took others with him. We know from Genesis that Lucifer, whom we now call Satan, brought man into his revolt to wage a cosmic and eternal war on God.’ She pulled a face. ‘This is the staple diet of many sermons.’ She tapped the parchment Matthias had given her. ‘However, there is this curious verse in Chapter Six of Genesis: “The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.” According to a Jewish legend, written in the Book of Enoch, one of the fallen angels, the Archangel Rosifer, joined Lucifer because of his love for Eve. He took a golden rose from the gardens of Heaven, a mystical, magical flower, and seduced Eve.’

  ‘Why?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Because of her beauty,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘Because the Rosifer also wanted to experience what God had planned: the conception of a son. This is what happened at the incarnation when the Virgin Mary accepted God and conceived Christ.’

  ‘The Rosifer wished to imitate this?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Not just as an act of defiance but because of love.’ Dame Emma shrugged. ‘Some theologians even argue that that was the real cause of the fall of Satan and all his angels. To be like God in everything, in particular his plan to become incarnated, to be fully man.’ She picked up the parchment. ‘This explains the verse from the prophet Isaiah. Some commentators believe that the prophet is talking about the King of Babylon. Others claim that the verse, “I will exalt my throne above the stars of God”, is a reference to Lucifer and his brother the Rosifer: their determination to be like God in all things. Do you understand what I am saying, Matthias?’

  ‘Yes I do, but me?’

  ‘Time and again through history, the Rosifer has tried to conceive a child. The Book of Tobit, Chapter Three, Verse Eight, describes how the young, beautiful Jewess Sarah was the object of the Rosifer’s desire, a being we should properly call the Rose Demon. In the Jewish text he is called Asmadeus. So jealous was he of Sarah that any man who tried to have intercourse with her was promptly killed.’

  ‘And the last verse?’ Matthias asked. ‘The words of Christ: “If anyone loves me, I shall love him and my Father will love him. And my Father and I will come and make our home with him.”’

  ‘Ah, I’ll explain that in a short while, but what you must accept, Matthias, is that the Rosifer has, and does, love Eve and all her daughters. Some, like Sarah, are more special than others. Your mother, Christina, was his choice.’

  ‘But am I his son?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But, Matthias, in God’s world, in the realm of the spirit, the intelligence and the will are all that matter. We humans recognise that. I can make you cry, Matthias. I can make you laugh. I can make you weep but I cannot make you love me. The Rosifer loves you. He sees you as his incarnation.’ She put the knife down. ‘Rightly or wrongly, yet that is not the important matter. What is important to the Rose Demon is that you know who he is, that you accept who he is, and that you love him in return.’

  ‘But the deaths?’ Matthias exclaimed. ‘The violence?’

  ‘Is your life any different from others’, Matthias? Go out on the streets of London. Men, women and children are dying in many barbaric ways. The Rose Demon sees that as a part of life.’

  ‘But why the deaths?’

  ‘Whatever his beauty,’ she replied, ‘whatever his power, whatever he says, whatever he does, the Rose Demon is a powerful being with his face and will turned against God. He will not be checked. He will not allow anyone to block his way. If people do, if they frustrate him, as happened in Sutton Courteny, they are to be punished.’

  ‘But why the blood-drinking?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Again, a mockery of what God does. Christ came among us and the price he paid was in his own blood: the Rose Demon turns this on its head. If he becomes incarnated in someone, he needs, both physically and spiritually, the blood of others to sustain him.’

  ‘And he can do that?’ Matthias asked. ‘Move from one being to another?’

  ‘Of course. If the door to someone’s soul is open, he can enter. Read the gospels, Matthias. Remember how Judas betrayed Christ. The words used.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yes that’s it: “And Satan entered Judas.” We can all do it, Matthias. That’s why your father wrote the last quotation from the gospels about Christ and His Father making their home in any of us. If God the Creator can enter the human soul why can’t any other spirit? If we love Christ, if we love our neighbour, God will come to us. If we hate, if we steep our lives in wickedness, we send out a call which the Powers of Darkness will always answer.’

  ‘So, why doesn’t he enter me?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Two reasons, I suppose. First, Matthias, whatever you’ve done, your face is turned towards God. Rosamund saw that: she recognised the goodness in you. As long as your will is turned to the good you are protected. Secondly, the Rose Demon himself wants to be accepted. You can force yourself into someone’s house, Matthias, but you are hardly welcome.’

  ‘But look at me,’ Matthias declared. ‘I am twenty-six years of age. My life has been shattered, my parents died barbarously, as did my neighbours and my beloved wife. I have the smell of death on me. Does the Rose Demon think he will persuade me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dame Emma pointed to a crucifix. ‘Read the gospels, Matthias. We know the Devil confronted Christ on two important occasions. The first, when he was in the desert after fasting forty days. Satan thought Jesus would be vulnerable in mind, body and soul. He thought Christ would accept his offer. Christ, of course, refused.’

  ‘And the second occasion?’

  ‘By implication, in the garden of Gethsemane, the night He was betrayed. Jesus was tired, dispirited, full of anguish at Judas’ treachery. I am sure Satan would have been waiting for Him amongst the olive groves, ready to tempt, to place another reality before Him.’

  ‘And that will happen to me?’ Matthias asked.

  Dame Emma blinked back the tears, her eyes full of pity.

  ‘Yes it will, Matthias. At the appointed time, in a chosen place, you will have your own Gethsemane. The offer will be made. The words will be put: “Look at the misery of life, Matthias. Deny everything and accept me.”’ Dame Emma leant across and grasped his hand. ‘And, whether you like it or not, young man, that is what all your life is about. And, before you ask, I do not know whether this has happened before or might happen again.’ She squeezed his fingers and withdrew her hand. ‘And don’t fuddle your brain or exhaust your spirit by wondering who you are or where you are from! That is not important. What is, is what you do and what you intend to do.’

  ‘These others?’ Matthias asked. ‘The woman Morgana? The witch Eleanor?’

  Dame Emma just waved her hands. ‘God knows: they are just puffs of smoke, Matthias. The Rose Demon’s helpers and disciples. They are there to help carry out his will. They only pose danger if you let them.’ Dame Emma threaded the Ave beads through her fingers. ‘You are not a passive observer, Matthias. Don’t you realise how, time and again, you could have accepted the darkness? Made choices? Done evil? But you did not!’

  ‘But must I wait?’ Matthias asked. ‘Could I not give my life in some noble cause? Hide in a monastery?’ He smiled. ‘Or even join the Hospitallers?’

  ‘Matthias, I am just an anchorite, a woman who tries to pray and do good. I am not a prophet. Nevertheless, I think you could fly to the ends of the earth or hide on the other side of the moon but you cannot escape this. You must pray that the testing time comes soon. I know,’ she added sof
tly, ‘and so does the Good Lord, that flesh and blood can only take so much.’ She paused and sipped from her wine cup. ‘Now you went to Tenebral and copied the marks down?’

  Matthias rummaged in his saddlebag. He brought out the creased and yellowing roll of parchment he had used at Tenebral. Dame Emma studied this. She rose, complaining about the pain in her joints, and took a large eyeglass from a small table nearby. She pored over the manuscript.

  ‘I’ve never seen the likes before,’ she murmured. ‘They are a mixture of Anglo-Saxon runes and Ogham.’ She lifted her head. ‘The latter’s a Celtic sign code, very ancient.’

  Matthias told her about his visit to the wall.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Dame Emma replied. ‘Time and again in history, the Rose Demon makes its presence felt. There have been other occurrences. You’ve heard of the legend of Arthur? Master Caxton’s printed edition of the work provoked much admiration, both at court and here, where the knights read such tales avidly. You know the legend about Uther Pendragon and the conception of the mystical King Arthur? Sometimes I wonder if that was the work of the Rose Demon. I’ve heard similar stories brought back by knights who’ve served in the eastern marshes or the burning sands of North Africa. They, too, have tales of a mysterious prince, a powerful being and his love for a certain woman.’ Dame Emma put the eyeglass down. ‘Never believe, Matthias, that Satan and his legions are little black imps. St Thomas Aquinas teaches that there are seven choirs of angels, each more brilliant than the preceding one, and they are led by five archangels. Three of these we know: Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. I suppose the same is true of Hell: Lucifer is a king, the Rose Demon and the Destroying Angel, whom men called Achitophel, are his dukes. Beneath them the barons, counts and the lords of Hellfire.’

  ‘Do you understand what they mean?’ Matthias pointed at the parchment.

  ‘No, I don’t but there is an abbot, a holy man, a scholar, Benedict Haslett. He’s Abbot of the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s at Dymchurch on the Romney Marshes. It’s a Benedictine house: a lonely, bleak place surrounded by marshes and heathland which stretch down to the sea.’ She sipped from her wine cup. ‘I will arrange for a letter to be drawn up for you to give him. Benedict is old and venerable, the work may take some time. However, Dymchurch and the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s may be a good place for you to hide, Matthias. Give you time to think, to reflect, to plan what to do next.’

  ‘Will I be safe there?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Never depend upon anyone,’ she replied. ‘Neither me, nor Abbot Benedict nor anyone else. Depend upon yourself, Matthias,’ she insisted. ‘Keep your heart pure. Take the Sacrament, attend Mass. The Rose Demon can never take the host but, unfortunately, he can work through those who do, who merely worship Christ with their lips and not with their hearts.’ She got up, came round the table and stood over him. ‘I will pray for you, Matthias,’ she continued. ‘I shall never forget you but a word of warning. I am housed here, an anchorite, yet Sir Edmund is kind to me. The gossip and chatter of the community, what is happening in the world outside, is full of interest to a garrulous old woman like myself.’ Her smile faded. ‘We know about Emloe: he is a very evil, wicked man. The sweating sickness may be raging in the city but he will have news of your arrival here. Some old woman begging for alms, some urchin playing with his toy — such may be his spies.’ She grasped Matthias’ hand and squeezed it. ‘I will help you prepare for the journey. Some food, a good night’s sleep and there’s that letter. Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘Yes, Dame Emma, there is. In your cell, carve my name and that of Rosamund. Put a heart between them and pray for me.’

  28

  Even in summer, the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s, built amongst the fens and moors of Romney Marsh, which ran down to Dymchurch on the south coast, looked bleak and dour. The trackway leading to the main gate was laid with shingle collected from the nearby beaches: it rattled under Matthias’ horse’s hooves. He reined in before the main gate and stared up at the grey ragstone buildings before pulling at the bell rope. A small postern door opened. Matthias dismounted and led his horse through into the cobbled yard. Monks, clothed in black, were filing across the yard, answering the bell of the abbey church to attend Divine Office. They stopped and looked towards him. Not one of them smiled or raised his hand in greeting. The guestmaster, Brother Paul, was welcoming enough: a small tub of a man with a merry, red face, his auburn hair closely cropped, his cheeks and chin unshaven. Matthias was sure the guestmaster had been drinking rather deeply when summoned from his chamber.

  ‘Abbot Benedict is in church,’ Brother Paul declared, after Matthias had introduced himself. He gestured at the lay brothers dressed in grey, who stood silently behind him. ‘These will look after your horses and saddle and, whilst you wait, I may as well show you the monastery.’

  They stopped at the buttery for two pots of tangy, highly flavoured ale and small finger slices of bread covered in toasted cheese. Afterwards, licking his fingers, Brother Paul led Matthias around the sprawling monastery. The buildings ringed a central court and cloister garth. On the north was the abbey church, to the west the long ground-floor dormitory with warming chambers below. On the south were the dining-hall or refectory, with more chambers and store rooms below; beyond these were the kitchens. On the south-east corner stood the Abbot’s apartments whilst on the east were the Chapter House, parlour and library. Matthias noticed how small streams surrounded the abbey grounds. Brother Paul explained these rivulets provided fresh water and also cleaned the latrines and sewers of the monastery. He then took Matthias round the cloister, which was made up of four covered ways or alleys: little cubicles or carrels were built along there so the monks could take advantage of the daylight to read or write. Brother Paul, wheezing and panting, his fat face covered in a sheen of sweat, led Matthias away from the main buildings. He pointed to a low, grey brick house which stood by itself in the corner of the great encircling wall of the monastery.

  ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. ‘Brother Roger is kept close confined.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Gone in his wits, he is.’ The guestmaster went to go on but the abbey bell began to toll.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Abbot Benedict will be waiting.’

  The Abbot’s quarters were a collection of rooms with glass in the windows, carved wooden ceilings, red hangings on the walls, with gold and silver gilt-covered plate and cups on tops of chests and cupboards. Abbot Benedict was seated on a throne-like chair behind a great, broad table. A small fire burnt in the square stone mantel hearth beside him. He rose as Matthias entered. Abbot Benedict was tall and thin, his white hair now a mere circlet round his dome-like head. His severe face was lined and marked with care, yet the eyes were kindly and the grip of his vein-streaked hand was surprisingly strong and warm. He thanked Brother Paul and, when the guestmaster had left, waved Matthias to a chair, offering refreshments. Matthias refused — the ale he had drunk so quickly was beginning to curdle in his stomach.

  For a while they chatted about Matthias’ journey. Abbot Benedict described the monastery and then courteously asked the reason for Matthias’ visit. He handed across the letter Dame Emma had drawn up before he left Clerkenwell. Abbot Benedict picked up a pair of eyeglasses, perched them on the end of his nose, broke the seal and carefully read the letter. Now and again he’d pause and stare at Matthias as if he wished to memorise every detail of his face.

  ‘Your journey was uneventful?’ Abbot Benedict rolled up the letter.

  Matthias recalled, when he left Clerkenwell, two beggars, standing on the corner of St John Street, who had followed him for a while, watching him carefully before disappearing up some alleyway. He had expected trouble but none had come and his journey south had been uneventful

  ‘Dame Emma says you might have been troubled?’ the Abbot explained.

  ‘No, Father. I think the Good Lord sent an angel to guide me.’

  Abbot Benedict tapped the letter. ‘If this is tru
e, and I am sure it is, then Matthias Fitzosbert, you need a legion of angels to guard you.’ He pushed the letter away. ‘St Wilfrid’s is a strange place, Matthias. In our chapel we have a relic of the great saint. He who worked and preached in these parts. We are of the Benedictine Order. We are pledged to prayer, work and study but,’ he rubbed his brow, ‘being a monk, Matthias, is no protection against anything. St Wilfrid’s is not an ordinary monastery. It belongs to an Order which stretches from Scotland through France, Spain to the eastern marches. In such a great Order,’ Abbot Benedict continued slowly, ‘we have our saints and we have our sinners.’ He smiled grimly. ‘St Wilfrid’s is where — how can I put it — my Order, in its wisdom, sends those who have sinned, who have broken their vows. It is my task, and that of my prior, Jerome, to bring back these lost souls to a clearer understanding of the monastic life.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I tell you this because you may find some of the brothers’ behaviour,’ he shrugged, ‘rather eccentric. Now, today, you can settle in. You may have a chamber in our guest house: feel free to wander the buildings. Dame Emma says that you are a clerk, so any help you can give to Brother John Wessington, our librarian, would be greatly appreciated.

  The Abbot rang a small handbell. A lay brother answered. ‘Tell Prior Jerome that I would like to see him now,’ Abbot Benedict instructed.