The Rose Demon

moonlight. In the morning the travellers would be only too willing to leave. Brother Simon listened to their stories and wove an embroidered tale of the ruins being haunted by a coven of ghosts.

    Such stories helped Matthias. He had reached Barnwick early in August 1488, having successfully eluded Scottish patrols. He slipped over the border and, on one golden-filled summer day, arrived back at Barnwick. He had changed during those weeks since he’d fled the battle at Sauchieburn. He had been hunted by men and dogs. He knew, from the small villages and hamlets he passed through, that huge rewards had been posted for an Englishman, a devilish traitor, responsible for stabbing the Lord’s anointed, King James III, as well as the cowardly murder of Lord George Douglas. The latter, according to common report, had been ‘hurrying to help his king when a mysterious bowman, no less a person than the Englishman Matthias Fitzosbert, had sent a longbow shaft deep into Douglas’ neck, killing him instantly’. Matthias, disguised, his hair long and straggly, half his face covered by a moustache and beard, had secretly rejoiced at the news. He was innocent of spilling any royal blood but pleased that Lord George Douglas, who had shattered his own life, had, at last, received his just reward.

    Matthias had not immediately fled to the border: that would have been a mistake. Instead, he had ridden to and fro across Scotland, lying low until the hunt died down and the Scottish Council became more concerned about who would control the young King rather than the death of his feckless father and a Douglas laird. Matthias had eventually crossed the Tweed, striking south-east, following the rugged Northumbrian coast before turning west. He was well armed and the horse he rode was a sturdy garron.

    Now and again he’d stop to do some work on a farm or in a village where he would obtain free food or a few coins. He did not know what to do or where to go. He knew he should visit Barnwick, but after that? Matthias considered the problem many a lonely night and found he really didn’t care. Something had died in him. He was ruthless, determined not to become the cat’s-paw of any man, yet on that August afternoon when the ruined towers of Barnwick came into sight, Matthias sat stock-still in the saddle and cried for what might have been.

    He rode on. The moat had been filled in with bricks, rocks and boulders from the ruined walls. The gatehouse was shattered. Local farmers and peasants had already plundered the ruins for stones and wood for their own barns and granges. Steel and iron from the portcullis had long been stripped. The outhouses in the castle baileys had simply vanished. The keep still stood but the north tower was a pile of shattered masonry. Of the hall, parlour and solar, only blackened timbers remained.

    Some of the soldiers’ quarters, built into the small towers along the inner wall, were still usable. Matthias stabled his horse in one of them. He collected fodder, drew water from the well and made himself at home. He snared rabbits in the warren and, armed with bow and arrow, went out on the heathland to shoot quail and pheasant.

    For the first two days Matthias found it impossible to go to the cemetery. When he did, he was astonished to discover that the grave had been carefully tended: the tumulus of soil neatly raked and weeded. The cross still stood secure and, at the other end of the grave, a small rose bush grew. The flowers, small and delicate, were white as snow. Matthias knelt down. He must have stayed for hours quietly sobbing. When he had finished, he lay down on his back staring up at the sky watching the day die. He poured his heart out, as if Rosamund were still alive, lying in his arms beside him. He told her about Scotland, about its mad king whose dreadful death he had witnessed; the intervention of the Rose Demon and his own long desperate flight to the border. When the wind stirred he caught the sweet smell of the roses and, on one occasion, just before he drifted into sleep, the faint fragrance of his dead wife’s perfume.

    After that Matthias decided to stay at Barnwick: the grim life of a hermit had its own rewards. He was free of any responsibilities, of any duties. He had no one to care for but, there again, no one to bother him. He revelled in the silence and resented any intruders. Even when the weather changed, the winds turning harsh and the snow lying thick over the castle