The Rose Demon

had found at Barnwick covered in Rosamund’s handwriting. He held it to his face and kissed it, then put it inside a pocket of his jerkin. As he did, he noticed how soiled and dirty his clothes had become. He rubbed his unshaven cheek and chin.

    ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘If you look like a cut-throat they might leave you alone.’

    For a while he dozed, dreaming of Rosamund. When he awoke he felt she was close to him.

    ‘Stay with me!’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, don’t leave me!’

    He went back to his saddlebag and found the piece of parchment Abbot Benedict had been working on. There was very little new. The old scholar had reached 1486: the words, ‘Santerre’, ‘Exeter Hall’ and ‘Amasia’ had all been deciphered in one long line. Then Abbot Benedict, as if he’d sensed death was close and realised Matthias needed this more than the past, had tried to jump. Matthias saw the name Rosamund. Abbot Benedict had got Barnwick wrong, as he had James Stewart’s name: each of these had a question mark beside them. Fitzgerald was translated ‘Fitzpatrick’. The other entries were even more vague. A mere collection of letters or words: Castile? Alhambra? Isabella? And a strange phrase: ‘Into the west to the “Beautiful Islands”.’ Matthias realised the old Abbot was anticipating his desire to travel to Spain. At the foot of the page Abbot Benedict had written a series of dates with numbers in brackets beside them: ‘1471 (7)? 1478 (14)? 1486 (21)? 1492 (28)?’ Matthias sat back and stared up at the glittering red sanctuary lamp.

    ‘What do these mean?’ he murmured.

    Of course, he concluded: when he had been at Oxford he had learnt that seven was a sacred number. It was also agreed that seven, and its multiples, be regarded as decisive stages in a man’s life. At the age of seven, a child reached the age of reason, according to the theologians. At fourteen a boy was regarded as a young man: at twenty-one a full adult.

    Matthias got to his feet. ‘I was just past my seventh birthday when I met the hermit,’ he murmured. ‘I was fourteen when I was sent to the abbey school. I was past twenty-one when my troubles began in Oxford.’

    Matthias paused in his pacing. Now he was in his twenty-eighth year. He recalled the date: mid-July 1491. In February 1492 he’d pass his twenty-eighth birthday. Would this be a decisive time? Would the Rose Demon show his hand? But where? How?

    After a while Matthias gave up this speculation and returned to planning what would happen tomorrow. Father Aidan came back with some food. He told Matthias that the Port Reeve had agreed to be here at dawn the following morning whilst two parishioners, in return for another piece of silver, could be persuaded to escort Matthias to Rye.

    The following morning, when the church was still dark, Father Aidan escorted Matthias down on to the front porch of the church. The Port Reeve was standing on the steps. A short distance away two burly parishioners sat on tired-looking hacks. Between them stood Matthias’ horse, saddled and harnessed. Father Aidan took his baggage down to this. The Port Reeve stuck a crude crucifix and a small scroll of parchment into Matthias’ hand and gabbled through a proclamation.

    ‘You, Matthias Fitzosbert, are to journey by foot to the nearest town, the port of Rye. You are not to leave the King’s highway. You are safe from malicious attack provided you do not. You are to carry the crucifix at all times. You are to be in Rye, whatever the weather, within five days. You are to declare yourself to the Port Reeve, show him the enclosed proclamation and be on board ship within three days. You are never to return to England without a royal pardon. If you do, you will suffer summary execution. Given at Rye on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, the twenty-second of July 1491.’

    The Port Reeve shoved Matthias down the steps.

    ‘Now piss off!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t come back!’

    Matthias, despite such rough handling, shouted his farewell and thanks to Father Aidan. The priest lifted his hand in blessing and Matthias walked off, across the market square and down the narrow thoroughfare to the town gates. Everything was quiet. The sun was beginning to rise but the market horn hadn’t been sounded: the houses he passed were shuttered and silent. Here and there a dog barked, beggars and whores scuttled in the shadows. A sleepy-eyed guard opened the gates and, within