The Rose Demon

neck.’

    ‘The brothers consider this God’s judgment,’ Brother Paul declared. ‘Prior Jerome’s accusations against you are false yet the brothers do not wish you to stay. You are to leave immediately. Don’t worry,’ he pointed to the saddlebags, ‘I found the parchments you asked for in Abbot Benedict’s room. You will find everything in order. Now, you must be gone. Some of the older brothers wish to bring in the sheriff.’ He looked back through the doorway. ‘Three deaths in one week, all in mysterious circumstances.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder. ‘The sheriff might detain you till he knows more about your past, Matthias. So, it’s best if you go now.’

    Matthias hurriedly changed. Brother Paul helped him put his belongings into a bundle tied with some cord. These and other possessions were fastened securely to his saddle.

    Matthias clasped the guestmaster’s hand.

    ‘I cannot thank you enough, Brother Paul.’

    ‘Yes you can.’ The guestmaster smiled back. ‘Four of the lay brothers are to take you on to whatever road you wish.’ He raised his hand. ‘ Au revoir , Matthias.’

    A short while later, escorted by four burly lay brothers, Matthias left the Monastery of St Wilfrid’s. He felt tired and depleted, not sure of what to do. When he came to the crossroads, the lay brothers stopped and looked expectantly up at him.

    ‘Rye or Winchelsea?’ one of them asked.

    Matthias recalled Brother Paul’s warnings about people asking about him in Rye so he turned his horse towards the Winchelsea road.

    ‘Oh.’ The lay brother proffered a small, sealed parchment. ‘Brother Paul asked us to give you that. You are to go now,’ he added flatly, ‘and we are to make sure you never come back.’

    ‘Of that,’ Matthias declared, ‘there is no worry.’

    And, digging in his spurs, Matthias cantered along the lonely trackway which wound through fields of ripening corn towards Winchelsea. When he was out of sight he reined in. He ate some of the food and drank a little of the wine he’d been given, then opened the guestmaster’s letter.

    Brother Paul to Matthias Fitzosbert, greetings. I have not long to live. My body decays. Take the writings from Tenebral. They have little import. They were my memorial to you, Creatura bona atque parva . Brother Paul.

    Matthias folded the manuscript and stared up at a bird wheeling in the blue sky.

    ‘When?’ he murmured. ‘When did the Rose Demon come?’ Matthias smiled to himself. Of course, he reasoned, now he understood Brother Paul’s bold defiance of Prior Jerome: his stalwart defence, the bringing of food and, of course, Prior Jerome’s fall. Matthias realised it was no accident. The steps up the tower of the abbey church were steep and sharp-edged. If a man was pushed, he would find it difficult to keep his balance. Such a fall would shatter bone and sinew, as it did for Prior Jerome.

    Matthias put the parchment away and continued on his journey.

    He arrived in Winchelsea late that evening. Even before he entered the town he caught the salty tang of the sea, the smell of fish mixed with tar. A prosperous place, Winchelsea, with its winding alleys and streets, was a thriving port; the best place, Matthias reasoned, for a man to lose himself. He stabled his horse and took a chamber at the Cog of War inn just within the town walls. He was well supplied with silver and began to plan for the future.

    He felt safe enough, and spent the first week wandering the town. He became interested in the different companies of soldiers, wearing no particular insignia, who camped out on the open commons beyond the city walls. One night he went and wandered through the campsites. One banner caught his attention: a golden angel, on a blue background, a shield in one hand, a sword in the other. Matthias, intrigued, drew closer to study it.

    ‘Why the interest, sir?’ A figure came out of the darkness.

    The standard was set well away from where a group of men squatted round the fire: one of them was idly turning a spit. The air was rich with the sweet smell of roasting rabbit.

    ‘The insignia interested me,’ Matthias replied.

    ‘I chose it myself,’ the man said proudly. ‘St Raphael.’ He stretched a hand out. ‘My name is Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. I am from Totton in Yorkshire.’

    Matthias shook his hand. Ratcliffe was a young man with a strong, boyish face which he tried to hide by growing a luxurious moustache and beard. He