The Rose Demon

Matthias retorted. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

    They walked across the dew-wet grass. Matthias hid his unease as he approached the squat, ragstone building: its iron-studded door was barred and bolted whilst the windows were mere arrow slits, so narrow, a person couldn’t even slide his hand through. As he approached, Matthias heard his name being called.

    ‘Come on, Matthias Fitzosbert! Hell awaits. Those who’ve gone in darkness before us require an answer!’

    They reached the door. Prior Jerome pulled back the small wooden flap. Matthias turned away, revolted at the stench which seeped through the grille.

    ‘Oh, don’t be like that.’ The voice was soft, but the glaring eyes in the unshaven face were full of madness. Brother Roger pressed his lips against the grille and licked the cold iron. ‘I have messages for you, Matthias. Santerre stands in the darkness, as do Amasia and others. Fulcher and John the bailiff, Fitzgerald. Aye, and even a king, James Stewart, whose blood was spilt at Sauchieburn. Like children they are, lost in the night! They ask you to free them. They scream into the dark that they were innocent, their lives snatched away, sent unprepared into eternal night. I’ve drawn a rose,’ he whispered, ‘a lovely rose, red as the dawn, with a long, green stem. Prior Jerome gave me the paints and each leaf stands for one of your friends.’ The mad, crazed face fell back; dirty, long nails scrabbled at the bars. ‘Come in, Matthias, come in and meet your friends!’

    Matthias pushed the slat of wood across the grille and turned away. On the other side of the door a terrible pounding and screaming broke out.

    ‘You’ve got to come in! You’ve got to come in!’ The voice grew so strident it cracked. ‘They are your friends yet they’ve become my guests! They haunt me at night!’

    Matthias, however, was striding across the grass. Prior Jerome caught up.

    ‘What is all this?’ He caught at Matthias’ arm. ‘Tut, tut, Brother!’

    Matthias grabbed the Prior by the front of his tunic and, drawing his dagger, pricked the side of his neck. Fear replaced malice in the Prior’s close-set eyes.

    ‘Stay away from me, you whoreson!’ Matthias cursed. He pressed the dagger tip against the Prior’s nose. ‘Keep that out of my business and out of my affairs!’ He pointed back to where Brother Roger still cursed and ranted. ‘And leave that poor soul be!’ He pushed the Prior away. ‘And don’t worry about our good abbot. He knows everything about me, as he will about this!’

    Abbot Benedict was studying the accounts with his cellarer. He took one look at Matthias’ face and quietly asked the monk to leave.

    ‘What is it, Matthias?’

    Matthias sat down and, in halting phrases, told the Abbot about Brother Roger’s wild rantings and threats.

    ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do these dead always walk with me? I was not guilty of their deaths. Nor did I ask the Rose Demon to house himself in their souls. My hands are free of any blood or guilt.’

    ‘Matthias, Matthias.’ Abbot Benedict came round the desk and stood over him. ‘These were souls who were plucked, unprepared, from life. Our theology of life after death is so small, it could be summed up in two or three sentences. Yet death is probably like birth. A baby does not want to leave the womb and, when he does, he is born in blood and pain. He’s confused and, perhaps, that’s what happens to the dead. These men and women were thrust out unprepared and do not know where they are or what really happened. They blame you. They stay with you because of the strong bond forged between them and you during life. Now, as for Prior Jerome,’ the Abbot beat his hands against the desk, ‘it’s time some other house had the benefit of his expertise.’

    Two days later, Matthias was woken by the tolling of the bell. Not the solemn calling to prayer or other duties but the wild clang of a tocsin. He tried to open his door but it had been locked from the outside. In the passageway beyond he could hear the slap of sandals, the shouts of monks. He went to the window but could see little so he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, trying to calm the panic seething within him. He’d spent most of the previous day in the library trying to hide himself in a world of study away from the rantings of Brother Roger and the cold malice of Prior Jerome. In the evening he had dined by himself, but when Brother Paul brought a tray of