The Rose Demon

I know.’

    ‘Who was the woman?’

    ‘Her name is Morgana. She is part-English, part-Spanish.’

    ‘She’s beautiful.’ Matthias chattered on. ‘She’s like a princess I saw. It was in a Book of Hours Baron Sanguis loaned Father. A beautiful princess being attacked by a savage dragon. She was defended by a brave knight.’

    ‘And am I the dragon?’ the hermit asked.

    ‘No,’ Matthias replied. He leant back against the hermit’s chest. ‘You are the knight.’

    Matthias stared at the trackway; the jogging horse, the warmth of the hermit’s body and what he had drunk at the tavern made him heavy-eyed. He fought against it but eventually he was in a deep sleep full of dreams: beautiful princesses, knights covered in blood fighting to the death, dragons, executioners, wolf’s-heads and forest outlaws garbed in Lincoln green. He woke with a start. It was dusk, they were in the woods leading down to Sutton Courteny. The hermit reined in.

    ‘Are you well, Matthias? You should have slept on. This is dusk, the Watching Hour.’

    ‘I want to pee,’ Matthias replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll wet my breeches.’

    The hermit laughed and let him down. The boy ran into the bushes and undid his points. When he had finished, he shivered. He was glad the hermit was taking him home. It was growing dark and cold. He had seen enough. He wanted his mother, to say his prayers, to sit by his father near the fireside and chatter. He glanced over at the hermit. For the first time ever Matthias felt frightened of him. In the dusk he looked taller, more sombre, as if horse and man were one creature.

    ‘What’s the matter, Matthias?’

    The boy just took a step back. He couldn’t understand his fear.

    ‘I want to go home,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m frightened!’

    The hermit dismounted and walked towards him. When Matthias stood stock-still the hermit crouched down. The boy relaxed at those friendly, twinkling eyes and merry mouth.

    ‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Matthias?’

    ‘It was strange.’ The boy drew closer. ‘It’s dusk and the wood is quiet.’

    ‘This is the most dangerous hour,’ the hermit replied, catching Matthias’ hand and stroking it gently. ‘This and the hour before dawn.’

    ‘I’ve heard of that,’ Matthias replied, recalling a sermon his father had given last Palm Sunday. ‘They say just before dusk Christ was buried and just before dawn he rose from the dead. So, about these times, ghosts walk.’

    The hermit led him back to the horse. ‘Then it’s also time little boys were home and in bed,’ he remarked.

    They continued on their journey. The hermit tried to make him go back to sleep but Matthias was now too alert.

    ‘Then close your eyes,’ the hermit said, ‘and do not be frightened by what you might see.’

    The horse jogged on. Matthias, of course, kept his eyes wide open. He felt the night breeze spring up, rustling the trees around him, then, through the gathering gloom, he saw a figure coming towards them.

    ‘I wonder who that is,’ Matthias murmured.

    The boy peered again. It wasn’t one, it was two, no three, four, five figures walking in single file, slowly, in step. Matthias began to shiver. There was something dreadfully wrong with them. They didn’t walk, they shuffled. He felt the hermit tense.

    ‘Look away, Matthias,’ he whispered. ‘Do not look at them as they pass. They can do us no harm.’

    He tried to cover the boy’s eyes with his hand. Matthias knocked it away: these figures approaching posed danger. He’d played in these woods and he knew no one ever came here after dark unless they had to. Journeymen and pedlars always stayed in the village, and why would any of his father’s parishioners be walking here at this hour? And why were they walking in single file like mourners at a funeral? And the wood was so quiet . . . It should be full of birdsong, with rabbits, foxes, stoats and weasels scurrying about. The horse became restless, neighing and whinnying. The hermit leant down, gently pushing Matthias aside, and whispered some strange words. The horse became more docile though it still remained tense, ever ready to shy. The line of figures grew nearer. Matthias looked up at the hermit’s face, it was passive, eyes half-closed. Then the figures were upon them. Matthias looked quickly, his mouth went dry, his heart began to thud.

    ‘Edith!’ he exclaimed.

    The blacksmith’s daughter was one of the line, face