The Rose Demon

man dismounted, the spurs on his high-heeled leather riding boots jingling like little bells. Matthias noticed how the man’s oiled black hair was tied back in a queue. He went to check his sumpter pony, lifting one of its forelegs. Matthias heard him talking quietly to the animal.

    The boy, intrigued, stole out of the ruins and down the weed-filled path. The destrier snickered, its hooves pawing the earth. The sumpter pony drew back its head and brayed. Something skimmed over Matthias’ head and smacked into the wall of the church behind him. He looked back but could see nothing except a puff of dust where something had hit the wall.

    ‘You shouldn’t steal up on people like that, boy!’

    Matthias whirled round. The man was now standing at the lych-gate, in his hand a small arbalest. He was putting a second bolt into the groove. Matthias’ heart lurched. He extended his hands.

    ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I was hiding here. I often do. No one ever rides by here!’

    The man came towards him. He moved elegantly, like a cat, fluid movements: a man certain of himself, arrogant in his power. He stopped before the boy, his dark-blue eyes studying him carefully: the arbalest cord was still pulled back, though the crossbow was held down.

    ‘How do I know,’ the man asked, ‘that you are not an outlaw brat?’

    ‘And how do I know you are not an outlaw?’ Matthias retorted.

    The man smiled. He gently loosed the cord, removed the bolt and put it into a small pouch on his belt. He crouched down so that his face was level with that of Matthias. A kind, handsome face; the eyes crinkled when he smiled and the smooth-shaven cheeks showed dimples, as if the man loved life but found everything slightly amusing.

    ‘Well, if you are not an outlaw brat, who are you?’ He took off his leather, gold-fringed gauntlets.

    Matthias noticed the ring on his finger. It bore the arms of England. He had seen similar insignia when he had been in Tewkesbury with the hermit.

    ‘I’m the priest’s brat,’ Matthias replied. ‘Matthias, son of Osbert the priest at Sutton Courteny.’

    The man stood up and extended his hand.

    ‘And I am Rahere, the royal clerk.’ His hand was soft and warm. He gripped Matthias’ gently.

    ‘You are the clerk?’ Matthias exclaimed.

    ‘I am the clerk,’ Rahere mimicked back. ‘Sent by His Grace the King, at the request of Baron Sanguis, to carry out the King’s justice.’ He looked around. ‘I thought I’d come by this way.’ He pointed to the church. ‘One of the old villages, I suppose, wiped out by the plague? And this is your hiding place?’

    ‘No, it was the home of a friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was a hermit. He was taken prisoner and burnt as a witch by the villagers. Now Baron Sanguis has caught the man responsible.’

    Rahere nodded, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh, though he gazed at the church, smiling faintly.

    ‘And did you like the hermit?’

    ‘He was my great friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘He was strange, very strange, but kind to me. I come here because I miss him.’ His voice trembled. ‘I am a little sad.’

    Rahere crouched down again. ‘You shouldn’t be sad, Matthias, not on a summer’s day like this.’

    ‘He showed me foxes,’ Matthias continued, his lower lip trembling. ‘He did no one any harm. He used to live there.’ He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder towards the church. ‘He drew a beautiful rose.’

    Rahere stood up. ‘And I have come to do justice for his death,’ he declared, his voice harsh and low. ‘So, little Matthias, the day is drawing on. Show me the path to Sutton Courteny.’

    ‘I thought your pony was lame?’ Matthias chattered as they walked back towards the lych-gate.

    ‘Oh, just a pebble in his shoe.’

    Without asking, the clerk picked Matthias up and put him on the saddle and climbed up behind him. He gathered his reins, clicked his tongue and the horse moved on, the pony trotting behind. The clerk wore a perfume, a faint fragrance. Matthias felt warm and secure, though he wondered why such a clerk should come by forest paths.

    ‘Before I arrive anywhere,’ Rahere spoke up, as if he could read Matthias’ mind, ‘I like to ride around, speak to people, acquaint myself with the place in which I am going to work. I learn a lot that way. So, Matthias, this ride is not free. Tell me about Sutton Courteny.’

    The boy began to chatter. How his father was the