The Rose Demon

call out but, when I glanced up, the figure was gone.’

    Matthias got to his feet. ‘I can’t answer that, Father. All I can say is that I try to be a good man.’ He went across to the door and turned. ‘But, if you want your answer regarding Rosamund, I love her as much as she does me.’

    Matthias went down the steps, both elated and concerned at what the priest had told him. He went across to the small scriptorium where Sir Humphrey kept his keys, each neatly tagged on its hook. The key to the north tower was large and brassy. Matthias took this and hurried down. Thankfully, no one was about. Sir Humphrey had gone hawking; the soldiers were preparing for another day’s routine. Matthias entered the keep and unlocked the iron-studded door leading to the north tower. He pushed this open, went through, then locked it behind him. He stood for a moment staring up the spiral stone steps. He sniffed. Nothing but must and mildew. It was colder than the rest of the keep, perhaps because of its position, and that the windows were shuttered and barred. He climbed the steps, stopping at each level. The doors to the small chambers stood open. They were bare, gaunt and swept clean, not a stick of furniture. Matthias walked into one. He went across, pulled up the bar on a shutter and opened it. He stared out across the wild heathland beyond the castle walls. A party of horsemen rode there, Sir Humphrey’s favourite hawk soaring in the breezes above them. He closed the shutter.

    ‘Help me! Oh, please help me!’ A woman’s voice, low and pleading.

    Matthias’ spine tingled. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

    ‘ Aidez-moi! ’ The woman lapsed into Norman French. ‘ Aidez-moi maintenant! Priez pour mon âme! Help me now! Pray for my soul!’

    Matthias walked to the door.

    ‘Piss off, clerk!’ This time the voice was male, guttural. ‘Go away! Leave us alone! Why do you bring the seigneur here?’

    Matthias stood in the entrance to the chamber. The door, half-open, swung as if to smash into him. He stepped sideways. The door abruptly stopped moving as if some invisible hand had gripped it. Matthias continued on down the stairs. It was now biting cold as on a harsh winter’s day. He refused to be cowed.

    ‘Plead for us!’ The woman’s voice was low, soothing. ‘Please, plead for us!’

    Matthias glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and stared open-mouthed: a young woman’s face was forming in the wall as if some invisible sculptor were carving quickly. He glimpsed high cheekbones, parted lips, wide staring eyes and, beside it, another face, as if the plaster on the wall were bubbling under some tremendous heat. This second face was like that of a gargoyle, harsh and cruel, with pointed nose and slobbering lips. Matthias retreated down the steps. Despite a feeling of wild panic, he moved carefully. He sniffed. The stench was terrible, like that from an open coffin or a sewer full of putrid dirt. There was a sound behind him, he whirled round. A man stood there. His pasty white face, popping eyes and parted lips reminded Matthias of the face being formed on the wall. He was dressed like a priest in a black mantle from neck to toe. Matthias’ hand fell to his dagger. The man was coming towards him, not climbing the steps but gliding slowly.

    ‘Get ye gone!’

    Matthias nipped his thigh. Was he asleep? In the space behind this awful figure which moved so slowly, so smoothly towards him, were others: Rahere the clerk, the Preacher, Santerre, Amasia, Fitzgerald but not Mairead. There were others, he couldn’t make out their faces: a host from Hell, their staring eyes full of blood. Matthias opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry, his tongue clove to the top of his mouth. Then suddenly he felt warm. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the stairway. The phantasms retreated and vanished like puffs of smoke swirling up into the air.

19

    Matthias and Rosamund were betrothed within the week and, on 18 October, the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist, they were married in the castle chapel by Father Hubert. Matthias’ courtship had been impulsive and passionate. The deep love between the new clerk and the Constable’s daughter was the worst kept secret in the castle. Once Rosamund knew Matthias felt the same, she was too headstrong, too impulsive, too honest to assume the role of the coy, simpering maid. She just sat through every meal smiling at Matthias. He, in turn, stared