The Rose Demon

time to think and reflect.

    The next morning they reached the Great North Road, a busy thoroughfare with pedlars, packmen, tinkers, wandering friars, scholars, beggars and peasants. The road also carried grim testimony to the royal victory at East Stoke. At every half-mile, for at least a hundred miles, scaffolds and gibbets had been set up: from each hung rotting cadavers. Corruption fouled the air; so great was the stink under the summer sun, Vane ordered the soldiers to leave the highway and use country lanes and trackways.

    ‘The Tudor intends there will be no more Yorkist revolts,’ he commented. ‘The news of his victory will soon be known to everyone.’

    They continued their journey: progress was slow but Vane didn’t really care.

    ‘The longer we take,’ he joked, ‘the more time we can enjoy ourselves. Up to Barnwick by the end of July, it will be September before we dawdle back to Newark. Who knows?’ he added. ‘We may even avoid another battle!’

    They made their way to York, skirting the city, going up towards the moors. The weather remained good, with only an occasional shower. Matthias used the time to calm his soul and soothe his mind. He decided his best course of action was to accept things as they were, not complain and wait for the Rose Demon to make its presence felt. The moors they now crossed were a vast sea of gorse and purple heather, grass turning brown under a searing sun; curlew and snipe whirling above them. Now and again they passed a farm but large, fierce-looking dogs kept them well away. Sometimes there would be a break in the land, a small village clustered around a narrow church. They bought supplies but the villagers were unwelcoming and, most evenings, they slept out under the stars. The weather changed slightly as they travelled north, the breeze colder, brisker, tugging at their hoods and cloaks. One sumpter pony damaged a leg and had to be destroyed, its baggage piled high in one of the carts. Vane became more vigilant.

    ‘We are into the war lands,’ he explained. ‘James III of Scotland, not to mention the Douglases, often launch cattle raids. They always choose the moors, especially in summer. A small army could march for days and remain undetected.’

    In the end Vane’s precautions were not necessary. Late one afternoon Matthias reined in and exclaimed in surprise at the long range of disused and derelict buildings, a wall of small forts stretching to east and west as far as he could see.

    ‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Where does it begin? Where does it end?’

    ‘The Romans built it,’ Vane explained. ‘They say it stretches from sea to sea. We’ll shelter there tonight, tomorrow we’ll be at Barnwick.’

    They entered the ruins of one of the castles. Matthias found the sprawling, crumbling walls fascinating and marvelled at the genius which had built it. The horses were hobbled and put out to grass; sentries patrolled the crumbling walls, fires were lit. Matthias thought the men would be happy with some place to shelter but Vane explained how, like sailors, soldiers were suspicious: they feared the ghosts and demons which haunted here.

    ‘Just like Barnwick,’ he added enigmatically.

    ‘What do you mean?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘You’ll see!’

    Vane picked up a water bottle and splashed some water on his head and face, wiping it off with his hands.

    ‘I served at Barnwick. I used to belong to the household of Richard III.’ He grinned slyly. ‘Oh yes, I’ve served them all. Just like a dance, you must know when to change your partner. Anyway, I was up there in 1482 - a little trouble with some of the black Douglases. I tell you this, the cattle up here must get dizzy: Scotland, England, Scotland, England - around here, thievery and poaching are a way of life and having your roof burnt about your head an occupational hazard. Anyway, it’s a sprawling affair, Barnwick. It has a large Norman keep, four towers, one on each corner: it’s the north tower you have to watch. They say a demon dwells there.’

    ‘Go on,’ Matthias urged. He smiled to hide his anxiety. ‘After all, if I’m to spend three years there . . .’

    ‘Well, the castle was built, you know how it is, little bits added here and there. According to one story, in 1320 a Lord Andrew Harclay was betrothed to Maude Beauchamp. One day he discovered his betrothed and a young squire making love in a bedchamber high in the tower. Now Harclay was an evil man. He