The Rose Demon

right to give thanks to God and our protector, St Raphael.’

    ‘St Raphael! St Raphael! St Raphael!’

    The cry was taken up. Sir Edgar recited a Paternoster, an Ave, a Gloria and, in a fine tenor voice, launched into a Latin hymn to Raphael, the great archangel who stood before God’s throne. The rest of the company joined in: a fine harmonious sound which filled the silence of the night. Matthias realised that, in the main, he was in the presence of good men who regarded themselves as soldiers of Christ. He closed his eyes and said his own quiet prayer that he would be allowed to join them.

    ‘Well,’ Sir Edgar declared once the hymn was finished, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, is he a member of our troop or not? I say he is.’

    The matter would have gone smoothly enough, the men already chorusing their ‘Ayes’, when Gervase Craftleigh sprang to his feet.

    ‘No!’ he cried.

    The rest looked at him in silence.

    ‘I say no!’

    ‘Why?’ Ratcliffe queried.

    ‘We are all fighting men,’ Craftleigh declared pugnaciously. ‘We all know each other - well, to a certain extent - but who is this Fitzosbert? He’s a felon. He killed a man in Winchelsea and took sanctuary in a church. We did say,’ he added to a chorus of ‘Ayes’ and nodding heads, ‘that no felon would be allowed into the company of St Raphael.’ He smiled maliciously at Ratcliffe. ‘We have no place for him. Thank God we lost no men in our recent fight. Oh, and by the way, when will the gold the red-haired woman brought be distributed?’

    ‘When I say,’ Ratcliffe replied calmly.

    ‘Why not now?’

    ‘According to the articles,’ Ratcliffe reminded him, ‘all booty is distributed on a monthly basis. Those same articles also placed great trust in me. I am a knight and God’s own warrior, Master Craftleigh, I am no thief.’

    Craftleigh, however, remained unabashed.

    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘my vote is against Fitzosbert on two counts: he is a stranger and a murderer.’

    ‘I killed in self-defence!’ Matthias shouted.

    ‘In which case,’ Craftleigh sat down, ‘why didn’t you stand trial?’

    ‘You know the reason.’ Ratcliffe intervened. ‘The dead man was the leader of those assassins we killed on the road.’

    ‘Why did you kill him?’ Craftleigh glared at Matthias.

    ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘And not your business to know.’

    ‘Are you sure?’ Ratcliffe asked quietly.

    Matthias got to his feet. ‘Take your vote!’ he said.

    He wandered off down the hill, bathing his hot face and hands in a small brook. He heard the hum of conversation behind him, then silence. He splashed more water over his face. He turned at the sound of footsteps. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe crouched beside him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad.

    ‘The lads voted against you, Matthias. They would have taken you but Craftleigh is a troublemaker. He knows the famous articles, and so far the men--’ he shrugged - ‘they are still not too sure that I am truly their leader.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder and got up. ‘But you can keep the horse and we’ll take you into Rye. I am sorry I cannot do any more.’

    Matthias stared up in the star-strewn sky. A full moon bathed the meadow and hillside in a silvery light. The cool water looked inviting. He saw a fish snaking amongst the reeds. He watched it curl and turn. His eyes grew heavy, he lay back on the grass and drifted off to sleep.

    He began to dream immediately. He was lying in the camp, the fire was burning low. Across the red-hot embers Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, head back, mouth open, was sleeping like a baby. Matthias saw a shape move towards him. His hand went to his dagger, a thin Italian stiletto he always carried. He fumbled with his war belt but the dagger pouch was empty. In the dying light of the fire he saw Craftleigh lift a dagger - it was Matthias’ own - and with both hands plunge it into the chest of the sleeping Ratcliffe.

    ‘No!’ Matthias sat up.

    The night breeze was cold. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Ratcliffe and his company preparing for the night. Matthias scrambled to his feet and went back to the fireside. His saddle and belongings were piled high: he picked up his war belt, the stiletto was missing. He glanced up; Ratcliffe was watching him curiously.

    ‘Sir Edgar, may I have a word, please?’ He took the knight out of earshot of the others. ‘My dagger’s gone,’ he declared.

    Ratcliffe shrugged.