The Rose Demon

him. Matthias was touched by the youth’s simple generosity. Symonds, however, was surly. The playing of the tarot cards had unsettled him and he resented his protégé’s liking for Matthias. Now and again they would stop at other lonely houses or taverns for fresh horses, provisions and a change of clothing. They entered Lancashire, the countryside becoming harsher, the weather betraying the first signs of the end of summer.

    As they rode, Matthias became unsettled. His stomach hurt and he complained of gripping pains in his back and head. He grew feverish and, by the time they reached the Lancashire coast, Matthias couldn’t care whether he lived or died. His body was racked with pain, covered in sweat, whilst his stomach couldn’t keep down either food or drink. He was aware of the smell of the sea, salt and fish, a cold breeze, clouds scurrying against the darkening sky. He was in a taproom where men, some heavily armed, sat and discussed the tides and winds. Matthias realised a cog was waiting offshore to take them to Dublin. He stumbled outside to be sick, falling to his knees, retching until his stomach hurt. He was aware of Edward of Warwick coming out, pulling him to his feet, but Matthias’ legs felt weak. The night sky whirled above him.

    ‘Bring him in! Bring him in!’ a voice called.

    ‘Has he got the pestilence?’ another asked.

    ‘Examine his armpits and groin for buboes. If he has the Death, cut his throat!’

    Matthias blinked, his mouth was dry. He could feel someone stripping his clothes off, hands punching into his armpits and groin feeling for the telltale buboes, the first signs of the plague.

    ‘No,’ a voice declared. ‘He hasn’t the plague but he is weak and fevered.’

    ‘Kill him!’ another voice shouted. ‘Cut his throat! He can’t be left here!’

    Matthias heard Edward of Warwick’s voice high in protest. A cup was forced to his lips: his mouth was full with a bittersweet drink and he slipped into a fever-filled sleep.

    Matthias did not know whether he was alive or dead, awake or asleep. Images came and went: he was on a sheet being taken across slippery sands and tossed unceremoniously into a bumboat. The creak of oars and the nauseous pitching which seemed to go on for ever. He was being raised up, laid out on a deck, sailors cursing, men shouting orders . . . a stinking darkness, which smelt like a jakes, rats scurrying by him. Edward of Warwick bending over, dabbing his face with a cool rag.

    Matthias tried to croak his thanks. More of the bittersweet potion was poured into his mouth. He let slip of his reality, grateful for the darkness. Dreams, deep in his soul, rose to torment his mind.

    He was in the church at Tenebral, examining the runes on the wall. The air was thick with a fragrant perfume. White doves fluttered all around him. The sunshine was strong until a dark shape blotted out the sky. Matthias looked up. A hawk, black and massive, covered the sun. It was hurtling down, talons outstretched. Matthias cried out but, as the hawk drew closer, it changed in shape:the Preacher, dressed in black from head to toe, his head still twisted from the gallows rope, eyes like burning coals and mouth frothing yellow spittle, hands like claws stretched out to kill. Matthias screamed. The hermit appeared but this time in the shape of a woman with soft brown hair, red chapped skin and light green eyes. He could now smell incense: a drink was forced between his lips. The dreams disappeared. Matthias slept on.

    When he awoke Matthias could hardly believe it. No horse pounding beneath him. No lonely manor house or shabby tavern by the seashore. No pitching bumboat or dank, fetid hold. He lay in a broad four-poster bed in a white-washed chamber. The room was neat and tidy, the floor tiled and polished. A huge crucifix hung on the wall opposite. Chests and stools and other pieces of furniture lay around the room. To his left a fire burnt vigorously in the mantled hearth. Braziers full of glowing charcoal stood in each corner. Matthias moved his hands and feet. He felt weak and tired. He glimpsed the bell on the table beside him. He stretched out to grasp it but it fell to the floor with a crash. Matthias fell back against the bolsters and drifted into sleep. He heard voices, the accent musical, the words lilting.

    ‘He’s been awake, that’s good!’

    Some more potion was pushed between his lips. He tried to open his eyes. All he could do was blink, then