The Rose Demon

for me, until this place is reduced by fire.’

    Father Hubert walked slowly back into the room and, without any coaxing from Matthias, continued with the Mass. He took the Eucharist and gave Matthias the host and the chalice. When he had finished, he sat back on the small stool, staring through the doorway. Matthias was deeply concerned by the look on the priest’s face. He had aged and sat like a broken man, chest heaving, eyes flitting round the room as if he could barely sense where he was.

    ‘What is it, Father?’ Matthias came up beside him.

    The priest smiled gently. He tugged at a lock of Matthias’ hair.

    ‘I think we were successful, Matthias. The tortured soul who dwelt here has moved on. But the other?’ He shook his head. ‘There is nothing you or I can do any more.’

    The priest’s words proved prophetic. In the days following the Feast of All Souls, the strange manifestation in the north tower subsided. The cost to the old priest, however, was great. He collapsed one morning in the chapel, just after saying Mass, and was carried to his bed. Matthias found there was nothing he could do.

    ‘Don’t send for a physician.’ Father Hubert grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, I was born to be a priest. I have tried to live my life as a priest. I am going to die as a priest.’ His head went back on the bolster. ‘I’m at peace with God, with my fellow man. I have nothing to take with me.’ He coughed. ‘I am only sorry I am leaving my friends.’

    Matthias studied the old priest’s drooping eyes, the sheen of sweat on his head, his rapid breathing. He immediately sent for Sir Humphrey, Rosamund and Vattier. They came at once. Sir Humphrey brought his Book of Hours and, apart from Vattier who couldn’t read, they passed round, reciting prayers and psalms. The old priest lay silent, eyes closed. Only by touching the faint pulse in his neck did Matthias learn he was still with them. The hours passed. It was night before Matthias advised all three of them to leave, that he would stay by the bed and watch. Sir Humphrey and Vattier went. Rosamund remained but, when her eyes began to close and her head drooped, Matthias whispered she should leave. She had hardly left, her footsteps faint down the gallery, when Father Hubert turned, his eyes open, staring fixedly at Matthias.

    ‘I’m going now,’ he whispered.

    Matthias made to rise but the priest’s hands caught his arm.

    ‘Stay with me, Matthias. We’ll all meet again merrily in Heaven. I shall pray for you, Matthias. I have dreamt about you. You face such a hideous struggle but when it comes, the time of testing . . .’ The breath in the priest’s throat rattled. He paused. ‘When it comes,’ he continued weakly, ‘the time of testing, I shall be with you.’

    His fingers slipped away. Father Hubert gave one sigh, his head slumping to the side. Matthias leant over. There was no longer any blood beat in the neck. The flesh was already growing cold. Matthias closed his eyes, whispered the requiem for this good little priest and sent for the others.

    Three days later, a priest came from one of the outlying villages. He sang the requiem in the castle chapel and Father Hubert’s corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was buried in the small cemetery in a far corner of the outer bailey. His death created gloom and despondency in the castle. The priest had been respected and popular. For weeks afterwards, little mementoes were placed on his grave. A collection was made amongst the garrison for a special cross to be carved and Father Hubert’s name be inscribed upon it. The general mood was not helped as the weather grew worse: dark, lowering clouds, bitter winds.

    At the beginning of December, just as the garrison prepared for Christmas, the snow began to fall. At first, it was only small flurries, but by Christmas Eve it started to lie and there was no break in the clouds. Matthias, together with Sir Humphrey and Rosamund, celebrated a quiet Christmas. Father Hubert’s death still affected them and it didn’t seem right for no Christmas Mass to be sung or prayers to be said.

    ‘It’s the same in every castle,’ Sir Humphrey declared as they sat before the fire in the solar, sipping mulled wine. ‘It will take months before we get a suitable replacement.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘It will mean plenty of letters to the abbots and priors of local monasteries.’

    ‘I wish he was here.’ Rosamund, wrapped in a fur robe, cradled the