The Rose Demon

hermit carved runes, strange marks on the wall in the derelict church at Tenebral?’

    ‘Yes,’ Matthias replied.

    ‘Go back there and copy them down,’ the Hospitaller commanded. ‘You are a clerk. Take quill and parchment. Copy them as accurately as you would a charter or a letter and, when you have done this, return here. If possible, try to find any record of your father’s past.’ Sir Edmund gazed at Matthias, as if he couldn’t really decide who the clerk was or claimed to be. ‘That is all the help I can give,’ he concluded. ‘At least for the time being.’

    He did not shake Matthias’ hand. Indeed, the Hospitaller seemed eager to get him out of his chamber, away from the Priory as swiftly as possible. Matthias felt angry and embarrassed but the Hospitaller’s advice did not conflict with what he had already decided.

    The sun was setting, the evening turning cold, so he walked briskly across Smithfield and into the musty, darkened taproom of the Bishop’s Mitre.

    Matthias informed the landlord that he would be leaving that evening before the curfew sounded. He settled his account and followed the landlord out into the courtyard. Matthias inspected the horseflesh kept in the stables and brought out a sturdy, berry-brown mount which seemed sound of wind. Matthias checked the horse’s mouth and feet and declared himself satisfied, though he did not question the landlord too closely on where the horse came from. More haggling followed before Matthias was able to buy back the saddle and harness he had sold to the taverner when he had first arrived in the city. The fellow, pleased at making such a profitable sale, offered Matthias, free of charge, a small garret for the night.

    ‘You can also have a free meal and break your fast tomorrow, ’ he urged. ‘It will be far better than riding dark, wind-swept roads.’

    Matthias agreed. He trotted his new horse around the cobbled yard to make sure that he had spent his silver well, checked the saddle and harness and returned to the taproom. He had supper with the rest at the common board and went up to his garret where he carefully packed his saddlebags, lay down on his bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke late the next morning, more refreshed and determined to leave as soon as possible. He ate bread and cheese in the taproom and, hiring a razor and a jug of hot water, returned to his garret to finish his preparations. The landlord was not as jovial as the night before but Matthias ignored that. He carefully shaved and was about to dry himself when the water in the bowl rippled and moved. Matthias stared, fascinated, at the shapes which appeared, as if he were looking through a window or staring into a mirror. The scene was commonplace. He recognised the stable in the yard below. He saw the berry-brown horse he had bought and his saddle and harness on a peg in the wall above the stall. Two men were talking to the landlord. They turned. Matthias’ heart skipped a beat: he recognised Roberto and another of Emloe’s henchmen. They had their war belts on. The landlord said something, they nodded then separated, going into the shadows at each end of the stable. Matthias touched the water and the scene disappeared. He dried his hands and face, put his war belt on, picked up the saddlebags and his small arbalest.

    When he crossed the taproom, the landlord refused to meet his gaze but turned his back. Matthias went out. He placed his saddlebag and cloak on the ground, set a bolt in the groove of the crossbow, pulling back the cord, and walked into the darkened stable. He heard a sound from his right: the assassin came at a run. Matthias loosed the crossbow and the bolt took the man full in the chest, sending him crashing back against the stalls. The horses reared and neighed. Matthias turned, throwing the crossbow at Roberto’s head as he slipped silently towards him. It missed, the Portuguese moving sideways. Matthias drew his sword and dagger and stood back.

    ‘Leave!’ he pleaded. ‘Roberto, I don’t want your death. Go back and tell Emloe we are finished!’

    ‘Master Fitzosbert, you know I cannot do that. An order is an order.’

    ‘Please!’ Matthias begged.

    Roberto rushed in, sword and dagger snaking out. Matthias countered, they drew apart. Again they closed in a clash of steel but the Portuguese was an indifferent swordsman. Matthias was able to block and, with one counterparry, thrust his dagger deep into Roberto’s