The Rose Demon

Portuguese’s sallow face broke into a smile. ‘You are to be his guest.’

    ‘I had other plans.’

    ‘Well, they can wait, can’t they?’ His smile faded. ‘Now, Matthias.’ The Portuguese stumbled on his name, which provoked a snigger from his companions. Roberto flushed and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘You are to come or you are to be brought.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t really care.’

    ‘How can I refuse such an invitation so prettily delivered?’ Matthias gave a mock bow and walked quickly down the alleyway, forcing Roberto and the rest to break into a run to keep up with him.

    Emloe was waiting for him in the hall. The table had been laid out: silver plates, golden goblets, a jewel-encrusted salt cellar. Matthias was waved to a seat. Others joined them: Emloe’s principal henchmen, including Roberto, and some whom Matthias didn’t recognise. The meal was eaten in silence. Afterwards Emloe led his guests upstairs and into the top gallery. Armed guards stood about. A door was unlocked and Matthias entered a long, low, sombre chamber. The walls were covered in purple drapes. The floorboards and ceiling were painted black as elsewhere in the house. The candles fixed in sconces around the wall were of pure beeswax and gave off the most fragrant of perfumes. At the far end was a dais with a small altar covered in black and silver linen cloths. Matthias’ eyes grew accustomed to the gloom: the cross on the altar was upturned.

    He tried to push his way back to the door but Emloe’s henchmen blocked his path. The defrocked priest had now taken off his black robe; beneath were the alb and surplice of a celebrant dressed for Mass: these, however, were of a deep purple with golden stars and silver pentangles sewn on them.

    ‘My dear Matthias, you are to stay.’ Emloe tossed his employee’s cloak to one of his assistants. He seized Matthias’ chin between his forefinger and thumb and squeezed gently. ‘You have powers, Matthias. Whether you concede to it or not. I, who am skilled in such matters, have sensed the presence around you. You are one of the chosen.’ Emloe’s voice thrilled with excitement, his eyes coming to life. ‘Tonight is the Feast of All Witches. If we make the sacrifice, because of you, the demon will be raised.’

    Matthias struggled but his hands were pinioned behind him, lashed together with a silken cord. He was forced to kneel and watch as more torches were lit and Emloe intoned the blasphemous ritual. Matthias heard the muttered words and glimpsed the purple candles lit on either side of the altar. He kept his head down now and, for the first time in months, muttered a short prayer. A cock crow was followed by the smell of freshly spilt blood, incense and heavy wine. At last the ritual was over. Emloe’s henchmen squatted around the room, chanting phrases or responses when required.

    Matthias opened his eyes. The muscles of his face and the back of his neck ached with pain. He grimaced and tried to stretch himself to ease the cramps. His body was damp with sweat yet the room had grown cold, reminding him of the north tower at Barnwick. Emloe and his henchmen were excited and expectant. The bloody remains of the cock, strewn over a silver platter on the altar, were quickly cleared away. Someone complained of the cold; another pointed out that some of the candles had gone out. Charcoal braziers were brought into the room and placed along one side. They blew hot and merry but still Matthias couldn’t stop shivering. New cloths were laid on the altar. The most exquisite mirror, about two feet high and the same across, held fast in a frame of golden snakes which coiled and writhed around each other, was also put in a special stand on the altar. This glowed as it caught the light from the candles and brazier.

    Emloe walked round the room, sprinkling incense as he chanted softly to himself. He then knelt on a red-gold tasselled cushion before the altar. Head pulled back, he stared up into the mirror. A blasphemous prayer was offered, the others joined in. Matthias tried to keep his eyes closed but found he couldn’t. The mirror drew him on and he found himself falling into a trance as he watched the lights dance in the pure glass. There was silence. Emloe began a chant again, a blasphemous litany to Satan and all the armies of Hell. The lights in the mirror dimmed. Smoke curled there. Matthias’ throat went dry with fear; he found it difficult to swallow.