The Rose Demon

had struck her.

    ‘And you,’ he whispered. He lifted the wine cup in a silent toast and took a sip. His mouth caught the acrid taste. ‘Not here!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll go where all felons die!’

    He staggered out of the church and, holding the wine cup steady, made his way down towards the hanging stone. Now and again he would stop outside some desolate house.

    ‘Don’t worry!’ he shouted. ‘Justice has been done and will be seen to be done! I’ll be with you soon!’

    He reached the gibbet and sat on the stone. He stared back up the street. His horse still stood there gazing forlornly at him. He looked the other way, along the track into the woods to Tenebral. He caught a flash of colour.

    ‘If it’s Emloe’s men,’ he whispered, ‘they are welcome to my corpse.’

    He lifted the cup and drank. Closing his eyes he heard the sound of hoof beats and his name being called. He drank again, shaking the last dregs into his mouth. The first pains caught him in the belly but then he felt himself seized. Gazing up, he stared into Morgana’s beautiful face, her red hair hidden in a fur-edged cowl.

    ‘Open your mouth!’ Her eyes were hard as glass. ‘Open your mouth, you stupid man!’

    Someone else came behind, an arm tight around his throat. Matthias gasped. Morgana was pushing something into his mouth, like the quill of a pen, scratching the back of his throat. Matthias’ belly and chest felt like a sea of fire. Yet he still vomited. He broke free, crouching on the ground like a dog as the spasms shook him, emptying his stomach. Again he was seized, the feather pushed down, scouring his throat. The pain in his stomach and chest was intense. A cup, forced between his lips, poured in a sweet, sticky substance: his head was held back forcing him to swallow. Again he retched. Once more he was forced to drink and, just when he thought he could bear it no longer, Matthias slipped into unconsciousness.

    Now and again he would wake. He was on his horse, Morgana riding in front of him. Somebody else was riding close alongside. Matthias’ limbs felt heavy. He had no strength, his throat was so dry, parched by a raging thirst. He slipped into unconsciousness again.

    The next time he awoke he was in a chamber, white sheets pulled up to his chin. Matthias could feel warming stones against his feet and, when he moved his hands, he found they were gloved, his body was coated with sweat.

    ‘Drink a little of this.’ Morgana was holding his head up, allowing him to sip at the delicious water.

    He fell asleep again. Every so often he would wake fitfully. A tall, serene-faced woman with a creamy complexion, large soulful eyes, full red lips and hair as black as a raven, sat next to him. She would feed him thin gruel, soups, watered wine, or ground meat as if he were a baby.

    At last Matthias woke fully, it was dark. He stared round. The room was comfortable and clean. He was in a large four-poster bed. There were tables on each side, and coffers and chests stood around the room. A thick woollen drape covered the windows and, on one wall, a woven tapestry showed Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. Matthias pulled himself up. He felt very weak, clammy. A dog barked and there were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and the tall, raven-haired woman came into the room. She was dressed in a dark red gown, a sky-blue cloak pulled over her shoulders. Her face was slightly pinched with the cold but she smiled and clapped her hands.

    ‘So, you are awake, Matthias!’

    ‘How long have I been here?’

    ‘Don’t you remember?’ The woman came and sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand. Matthias realised that she was not only soothing him but checking to see if there was any fever or hotness. ‘You were brought here at the end of November. Another year has come since then.’

    Matthias gaped.

    ‘It’s the twelfth of January 1490,’ she laughed. ‘And you, Matthias, have been very sick.’ She leant over and tapped him on the forehead. ‘In body as well as mind.’

    ‘Morgana?’

    ‘Oh, she’s gone.’

    ‘Who is she?’

    ‘Why, the Master’s handmaid. As I am.’

    ‘And who is the Master?’

    ‘Matthias, Matthias!’ She smiled slyly at him. ‘The Seigneur is the One we worship.’

    ‘You are a witch?’

    ‘Yes. If you were a church official, you would call me a witch. I am also a physician and, as you will see, a very good cook.’

    ‘But I’ve been asleep for two