The Rose Demon

a fig about James or the pursuers and, for some time, his attention was caught by a small white cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. He stared at it, lost in a reverie: the sky, the cloud, the warm sun reminded him of that day at the wall when he had told Rosamund about his past.

    ‘Englishman, are you asleep?’

    Matthias shook his head, splashed some water over his face and stared across the heathland. At first he could see nothing but, straining his eyes, he glimpsed colour behind a copse of trees and saw some riders emerge. Half a dozen, these fanned out as they rode towards them. Behind them came another party. Matthias tried to make out the colours. He glimpsed a banner, green and white. The breeze blew more strongly, the riders turned direction and he saw the black and gold banner of Lord George Douglas.

    ‘There are pursuers!’ Matthias shouted. ‘And they are coming fast.’ He trotted his horse down. ‘What now?’

    Kennedy had grasped the King by the shoulder and was lifting him up from the ground. A faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of the King’s mouth. His face was white. He was grasping his side.

    ‘He has broken a rib, bruised something inside.’ Puzzlingly, Kennedy smiled up at Matthias. ‘Who’s leading the pursuit?’

    ‘Lord George Douglas.’

    ‘Aye,’ the King muttered, opening his eyes. ‘He has pursued me in life, he will pursue me to the death.’ He grasped Kennedy’s arm. ‘Archibald man, kill him.’ He pointed at Matthias. ‘We’ll take his horse.’

    ‘Sire,’ the Scottish captain dabbed at the King’s face with a rag, ‘you cannot be moved.’

    The King stared at him wildly. ‘But, for God’s sake man, if we stay the Douglas will take my head!’

    ‘Get him some water!’ Kennedy ordered.

    Matthias offered the small leather bottle.

    ‘Ach no,’ the King groaned. ‘Bring me fresh from the burn!’

    Matthias ran up the bank, grasped his helmet and went down to the burn. He filled his helmet with water and looked up. Douglas and his party were drawing closer. He heard a faint shout as they glimpsed him running back up the bank. He went to kneel by the King. Kennedy snatched the helmet from his hand and poured the water over the King’s face.

    ‘Are they drawing closer?’ Kennedy asked.

    ‘For God’s sake, yes, man!’ Matthias retorted.

    ‘Kill him,’ the King murmured. ‘Kill the Englishman and fetch me a priest!’

    Kennedy drew his dagger. Matthias didn’t know whether to spring at him or jump away. He caught a look in the Scotsman’s eyes, gentle, kindly: then the dagger was brought down. One swift thrust into the exposed throat of King James III of Scotland, who wriggled and choked as Kennedy held the dagger firm, all the time his eyes staring at Matthias.

    ‘Go on, Creatura! Go on now!’

    ‘Why?’ Matthias asked, getting to his feet.

    ‘Win or lose, the King had given orders for your death but his soul was ours. Go on, Creatura, ride like the wind.’ He pointed to his own horse and the longbow looped over the saddle horn. ‘I have unfinished business with the Lord Douglas!’

23

    At Lanercost Priory outside Carlisle, the chronicler transcribing local events during the second half of the year of Our Lord 1488 was as mystified as anyone by the strange stories brought by travellers, journeymen and packmen when they stayed in the guest house on the far side of Lanercost church. Brother Simon, the chronicler, avid for information, greedy for scandal and gossip, scratched his balding head and would spend a long time, pen poised, wondering how to record such mysterious events. True, Barnwick Castle had been destroyed in a Scottish raid in the winter of that year: the keep had been fired, the gatehouse demolished, any wooden building burnt to the ground whilst parts of the wall were brought to terrible ruin by the Scots marauders. The Warden of the Scottish march, too fearful of what might be happening in Scotland, left the place neglected. The castle became the haunt of ravens, owls, foxes, badgers and other wild animals which roamed the desolate heathland between Scotland and England.

    Occasionally some traveller would stay there, taking shelter amongst the ruins, lighting a fire, cooking food and sleeping till dawn. However, they all felt that they were not alone. They would talk of footfalls in the darkness, the sound of someone moving around them. Of a dark shape or a figure glimpsed briefly in bright