The Rose Demon

the abbey close. They dismounted and the hermit led the horse around into the monastic enclosure. A lay brother, followed by the guestmaster, came out to greet them. The latter apparently recognised the hermit and shook his hand warmly as his companion led the horse away to the stables.

    ‘It’s good to see you.’ The old monk’s tired face was lit by a smile. ‘And who’s this?’ He pointed down at Matthias.

    ‘My friend and companion, Matthias Fitzosbert. His father is priest at Sutton Courteny.’

    The man’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, quite. And what do you wish here?’

    ‘To pray in the abbey.’

    The guestmaster blinked and wetted dry lips.

    ‘It is not safe to be in Tewkesbury today, my friend. Father Abbot has received news from the battlefield. A terrible and bloody struggle has taken place. Edward of York carries all before him. Men from the Lancastrian army have been deserting all night, stopping at our house, begging for alms.’

    ‘I just want to pray,’ the hermit replied.

    ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The monk led them forward. ‘Morning Office is finished and Mass has been said. Do you wish food, drink from our refectory?’

    The hermit shook his head and, clasping Matthias’ hand, he went through a side door into the soaring nave. Matthias stared in disbelief: great columns marched the length of the church up to a gloriously painted sanctuary whilst the carved roof above him looked as if it were held up by magic. He stared in amazement at the shafts of light pouring through the multicoloured, painted windows.

    ‘I have loved, oh Lord,’ the hermit whispered, ‘the beauty of Thy house, the place where Your glory dwells. This, Matthias, is the gate of Heaven and, indeed, a terrible place.’

    ‘It’s beautiful,’ Matthias whispered.

    His father had never brought him here and, caught up in wonderment, Matthias did not know where to gaze first. The wall paintings drew him, striking in their glorious vigour: angels swooped, satyr-faced demons were spat out of the fire of Hell, the just were carried by Christ in judgment; St Anthony preached to the fishes; Lazarus was swept up into the bosom of Abraham.

    ‘Look!’ he cried, but the hermit had walked away. He was staring at a painting on the far wall. Matthias, curious, ran across, his sandals slapping on the hard paved floor. Matthias gazed at the painting: a beautiful woman, her naked body white as alabaster, hair of spun gold, stood beneath a tree: one hand covered her breasts, the other the secret place between her thighs. She was staring at the figure of a glorious young man clothed in the sun. Olive-skinned, lustrous-eyed, he was holding a rose towards the woman. Matthias noticed it had no thorns. When he looked at the hermit, his friend’s face was tragic and sad, silent tears running down his cheeks. The hermit extended his hands and touched the painted rose, then the beautiful woman. He muttered something Matthias didn’t understand then, folding his arms across his chest, went and sat at the foot of a pillar lost in his own thoughts.

4

    The Lancastrian retreat into Tewkesbury had turned into a bloody rout. Most of Margaret of Anjou’s army fled across the open countryside, only to be cut down in the great meadows which stretched down to the Severn. Somerset and the other commanders, Sir Raymond included, decided to seek sanctuary in Tewkesbury Abbey. They had to fight every foot of the way into the town. The Yorkists, moving fast, tried to cut them off in a ring of steel. Sir Raymond fought like a man demented, with all his fury, rage and frustration, not only at the defeat, but in the certain knowledge that he would never fulfil his vow. On the edge of the town they ran into a party of Yorkist horse but the Hospitaller led his companions through. Tying his reins to his belt, Sir Raymond wielded his sword, cutting and slashing at the contorted faces and eager hands ready to pluck him from the saddle. His sword scythed the air, slicing through armour and chain mail, biting deep into bone and flesh. The cobbled streets ran with blood, turning the town into a butcher’s yard. At last they were through, though three of their party were down, two killed, one a prisoner.

    By the time they reached the abbey they were splattered in blood from head to toe. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, had lost all his hauteur. A weary, dispirited man, he slid from his horse and almost ran through the small door into the abbey