The Rose Demon

hear anything untoward. He crouched down, gasping for breath, forcing himself to relax and soothe his mind. The occurrence reminded him of that journey back to Sutton Courteny, when he had sat on the saddle of the hermit’s horse and seen that line of ghosts coming towards him. Of course it was dusk, the same time of day as then. The visions were not threatening, apart from a malevolent glance, and did no injury. He went and sat on the cracked steps of the sanctuary. He recalled a lecture he had attended at Oxford, the words of a Master, ‘The dead, for a while, always stay with us.’ But why did he see such phantasms? And would he see any more?

    Matthias returned and built up a fire. He decided after all to continue his copying but this time more slowly, more carefully. He gasped when he reached one line. By now he recognised that these signs made up words, with gaps between them. He already suspected he had copied his own name but now he was certain that he had copied that of Rosamund. There were nine symbols in all. The hermit had carved a small flower and, in the poor light, Matthias believed this was the shape of a rose. He put the parchment and quill down, carefully screwing on the top of the small ink pot. He sat chewing on the bread and meat he had laid out. Now and again taking mouthfuls from the wineskin.

    ‘How could that be?’ he asked. ‘How could the hermit have known about Rosamund?’ He stared up. The sky was overcast, no stars, no moon. ‘How could that be?’ he murmured again. ‘When these symbols were written I was only a child!’ He threw more wood on to the fire, watching it snap and break: the hungry flames danced high.

    ‘Matthias, is that you?’

    He scrambled to his feet. The voice came from the far end of the church as if someone were standing in the doorway. Matthias took a burning brand from the fire and walked down.

    ‘Matthias, is that you? Why do you trouble me?’

    He stopped, holding the burning ember out in front of him as far as he could.

    ‘Matthias!’

    The voice became more insistent. A woman’s voice. Matthias’ mouth went dry. At first he couldn’t place it, but that slight stumble with the letter M.

    ‘Amasia!’ he called.

    ‘Just ignore her!’ A voice spoke from behind.

    Matthias spun round. He held the torch up and, for a few seconds, glimpsed the grinning face of Santerre. Matthias returned to the fire. He threw more wood on and sat for a while, hands over his ears. He must have crouched for an hour whilst voices from his distant past, those who had been caught up in this deadly game, shouted his name through the darkness.

26

    By midnight the voices had stopped. Matthias was left in peace. He slept fitfully and, when he awoke, a thick mist had swirled up the nave of the ruined church. Matthias built up the fire, broke his fast on the sparse rations left, then finished copying the runes from the wall. After he had finished, he saddled his horse and rode back to the manor to buy fresh supplies. The servant he had met the day before was generous in the portions he allocated, wrapping them up in linen cloths.

    ‘We have few visitors here.’ His watery eyes smiled. ‘Baron Sanguis still does not know who you are.’

    ‘What will happen?’ Matthias asked, gazing round the dusty, cluttered kitchen.

    ‘I doubt if the old lord will survive the winter. And the royal lawyers are waiting. He’ll hardly be cold in his grave when the Exchequer officials arrive to claim all this for the Crown.’

    Matthias thanked him and left. He took the pathway to Sutton Courteny. The mist still hung thick, deadening all sound. Matthias soon found himself in the woods. Memories flooded back: how he used to run and play here before the hermit ever arrived. The night the soldiers attacked him: the hermit’s intervention and how, as a boy, he’d run, lungs fit to burst, to warn the hermit of what the villagers were planning.

    Matthias was in Sutton Courteny before he knew it, the hanging stone looming up before him. The gibbet, which soared above it, still stood firm. A piece of rope, the strands decaying, danced in the morning breeze. Matthias rode on. He stopped outside the Hungry Man tavern. He dismounted and looked through where the sturdy front door had once hung. He couldn’t stop the tears flowing. The last time he had been here was on that dreadful night when the storm had broken. Matthias walked on. He felt as if he were a ghost walking through the