The Rose Demon

the other a tattered, leather bag. He sat down without a by-your-leave and glared at Vane.

    ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? Eh? Do you have some jam? Or some honey? A piece of honey would be really nice.’

    ‘Aye, we’ve got twenty pounds of it,’ Vane joked back. ‘Don’t you know who we are, old man? We carry the King’s commission. Who gave you the right to blunder into our camp and start asking for honey?’

    ‘I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart for you,’ the old man replied. ‘I serve the King of Heaven. My name’s Pender. I live here. You are in my house.’ He waved his hand airily. ‘All of this is mine.’

    ‘You are a hermit?’ Vane asked.

    ‘Yes, I am a hermit. I came here for peace and quiet, to pray to God. I might as well have stayed in bloody Durham. Tinkers, traders, pedlars, soldiers from Barnwick. Not to mention Scots, English, outlaws and wolf’s-heads. You’d think all the world and his sister were here. I went to Castleton to beg. I got bugger all. I’ve come back.’ He glared suspiciously at Vane. ‘I come back to find half the royal army camp here.’

    Matthias got up and went to their stores. He took out a small, dried loaf and a jar of honey which they had bought in one of the villages. He brought these back and pushed them into Pender’s hand.

    ‘Be our guest,’ he offered.

    Vane leant across and threw two pennies on the ground before Pender.

    ‘We’ll pay honest rent,’ he joked.

    The change in Pender was wondrous. He gave a broad toothless grin, pocketed the pennies, ripped off the piece of linen that covered the jar of honey, stuck his fingers into the honey and began to lick it. Every so often he closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards.

    ‘Oh, beauteous taste! Truly the psalmist is right when he says sweeter than the honeycomb!’ Pender tore at the bread. ‘Blessed be the Lord God!’ he intoned. ‘And blessed be you in all your bodily functions!’ He opened one eye. ‘Are you, to crown my pleasure, to give me some wine?’

    Vane filled one of their pewter cups and handed it across. The hermit crossed himself, sketched a blessing in the air and continued to fill his stomach. Afterwards he burped and smiled beatifically.

    ‘Lovely!’ he breathed. ‘Welcome guests all.’

    ‘How long have you lived here?’ Vane asked.

    ‘Oh, a good score of years and a few more.’ Pender patted the crumbling brickwork. ‘This is my palace, my church!’

    ‘You are not frightened?’ Matthias asked. ‘Of the loneliness?’

    The hermit peered across. ‘Sometimes! Sometimes at night I hear sounds: cries and calls, dark shapes moving in the heather outside, and they are not Scots. During the day, especially late in the afternoon, I sit in a place like this with my back to the wall. I hear the clink of the armour, the legionaries and, on the breeze, their Latin tongue: orders and commands being shouted.’

    The nape of Matthias’ neck turned cold.

    ‘I am not being fanciful,’ Pender continued, his eyes now watching Matthias intently. ‘Ghosts and spirits walk here, still hung between Heaven and earth.’

    ‘Who destroyed this?’ Vane asked.

    ‘Some say the weather,’ Pender joked. ‘But I’ve had dreams. When this wall stood firm and Rome’s legions walked the parapets, it would take more than the weather to cast these stones down. There are legends,’ he continued. ‘Further down the wall stands a ruined temple. On its wall a huge rose has been carved.’ His eyes never left Matthias, who swallowed hard and gazed back. ‘There are also strange rune marks scratched in the masonry. Some say they tell a story of the wall’s destruction but no one can really make them out or understand them. According to local lore, when the legions left, the soldiers here did not receive the order to depart so they went on guarding, as if there were an empire still left to guard. Now, in the ancient days, to the north were two great peoples who ruled the glens of Scotland. The Picti, or Painted People, and the Caledones. They were united into one army by a famous war chief whose emblem was a rose wound round a staff.’

    Matthias stiffened: this ancient legend was connected to his own life, his own experience of that strange force, the sinister Dark Lord who had haunted him all his years.

    ‘If the legend is to be believed,’ Pender continued, ‘the great Rose Lord fell in love with a Roman lady, daughter of a commander on