The Rose Demon

choices, Rosamund. Imperfect, mistaken but they are still choices. The same is true later on. I chose Baron Sanguis’ patronage. I chose to go to Oxford. I chose Santerre as my friend. I chose to alienate Rokesby. I accepted Symonds’ help. I stayed with the rebels.’ Matthias spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Yes, at times I feel my life is not my own. But is anybody’s? Would you have been different, Rosamund, if your mother had lived?’ he asked. ‘And, you forget, if what has happened had not happened to me, how would we have ever met? Once you begin to unravel the past nothing remains.’ He got to his feet. ‘How do I know?’ he continued. ‘What might have happened to me without the Demon? Would I have spent my days as the bastard son of a village parson, digging the soil, worrying about the price of corn, or a leak in my thatched roof? True, I blame the Rose Demon for the evil in my life. A theologian might argue that he is also the author of my good fortune.’

    ‘Does that include me?’ Rosamund moved a tendril of hair from her face.

    ‘No, it doesn’t, that’s my point. I have made choices, Rosamund. I married you because I love you, not because of any invisible force or lord of the air. I just love you. You are the beginning and the end of my life.’ He crouched down beside her. ‘And you?’

    ‘If I did not love you, Matthias, if I did not trust you completely,’ her eyes held his, ‘I would say you were a madcap, witless, yet I have seen the pain. I can see the shadows in your eyes.’ She grasped his hand. ‘And I tell you this, Fitzosbert the Grim. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor height nor breadth, no power on earth or beyond will ever stop me loving you.’ She touched his lips. ‘I believe what Father Hubert says, what you say. Every person born on this earth has their own demon to fight. And you are right: it is a matter of the will - some give in, some don’t. Whatever comes, Matthias,’ her nails dug into his hands, ‘I will be with you!’

    ‘You must keep it a secret,’ Matthias whispered, folding her into his arms. ‘No one must know. To you I can speak the truth, others will not understand.’

    Matthias gazed up at the sky. The clouds were massing to block out the sun. Shadows crossed the ruin. The breeze had turned chill. Somewhere a bird called low and haunting as nature mourned the passing of the year. Matthias pressed Rosamund fiercely to him. One thought had occurred, one he dare not share with her. He was being watched by that Dark Lord, that Duke of Hell, the Rose Demon, so what would happen now? Would the demon resent Rosamund? And, before he could stop it, Matthias began to pray, not to God - only halfway through did he stop in shock - he was praying to the Rose Demon! He was begging that invisible being not to lay his hand, or turn his power, against this, the love of his life. He recalled Parson Osbert and intoned the prayer, whispering, ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’

    Rosamund pushed him away.

    ‘Do you pray often, Matthias? I mean, we all sketch the sign of the cross, babble our Paternosters or Ave Marias. We stick our tongues out and take the Eucharist but do you really ever pray?’

    Matthias glanced down. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘God forgive me, Rosamund, I don’t. I pray as you say. I also become full of self-pity, and yet is my lot any worse than anyone else’s? The thousands of Oxford’s troops slaughtered on the banks of the Trent? Or Mairead, probably ravished before her throat was cut? Or Amasia, who probably died in some hapless accident? Or Agatha, who danced so well?’ He lifted Rosamund to her feet. ‘Or the poor ones, the little people of the soil, slaughtered and exploited in their thousands by the great barons?’ He gripped her hands. ‘Aristotle said nature is where the strong survive, the weak are helpless. I often wonder why God doesn’t intervene. We might believe in him but does He really believe in us?’

    ‘I pray.’ Rosamund’s answer was direct. ‘I pray and I mean it. God does intervene.’ She fought back her tears. ‘If there wasn’t a God, I wouldn’t have met you.’

    Matthias found he could not answer that. He crouched down and neatly folded the pieces of linen which had held their food.

    ‘We must go,’ he muttered. ‘The weather is changing.’

    Rosamund went behind him, putting her hands over his eyes.

    ‘I’ll