The Rose Demon

he just smiled weakly back, shrugged and returned to caressing the hair of the young slattern who had served Matthias. The tormenters returned to their task until Matthias, upset by the old woman’s screechings, walked across, drawing his sword and dagger. The youths stopped their baiting, shouted abuse and disappeared through the door into the night. Matthias filled the old lady’s tankard, tossing a coin at the slattern. He took the tankard back and pushed it into her hands.

    ‘Sit down, Mother,’ he said.

    Her wizened, lined face broke into a smile. She supped at the ale, the white foam catching the hairs on her upper lip. She muttered her thanks. Matthias resheathed his sword and dagger and collected his cloak. He was about to leave when the old woman called out, pointing her finger at him.

    ‘What is it, Mother?’ Matthias called.

    She said something but he couldn’t understand it.

    ‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I am English.’

    Again the cracked smile. ‘You are well protected.’ Her voice was halting, the words clipped.

    Matthias patted the hilt of his sword.

    ‘No, no, not that.’ The old woman pointed as if someone were standing beside Matthias. ‘He protects you.’

    Matthias tried to hide his unease.

    ‘They say I am a witch.’ The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You really can’t see him, can you? Cowled and hooded he is, but he has a beautiful face, except for the eyes.’ She was now staring at a point beyond Matthias. ‘Like coals they are! Burning coals! He’s smiling at me.’ The old woman crouched back on her stool. ‘And the teeth,’ she added. ‘He is the Dearghul!’

    ‘The what?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘The Drinker of Blood, Englishman!’

    Matthias swallowed hard, realising what, as he had suspected, had frightened the ruffians who had attacked him earlier. The old woman now had her back to him. She looked slyly over her shoulder.

    ‘You shouldn’t worry, Englishman. He’s gone now but the Dearghul never leave you alone!’

15

    Matthias returned to the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald and Mairead were waiting for him.

    ‘Are you well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You look pale.’

    ‘The cold always has that effect on me,’ Matthias retorted.

    He excused himself, went up to his chamber and prepared for bed. He left a candle, hooded and capped, burning on the table beside him. As he lay staring at the flickering flame, Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon would manifest itself. He vaguely recalled his dreams, the nightmare of his delirium, and reflected on what had happened since he had fled Oxford.

    ‘That’s what I’ve become,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a spectator: I watch my own life but I do not live it.’

    He recalled his childhood prayer as he drifted into sleep. When he woke the candle was out. The chamber was clothed in darkness. The windows, firmly shuttered, kept out any moonlight or sound from the courtyard below. Matthias lay listening to the darkness. He felt something on the coverlet, moving over his leg. Matthias cursed the rats which plagued the Archbishop’s palace. The rat did not flee. Instead Matthias felt it running backwards and forwards across his legs, squeaking loudly in the darkness. He half-propped himself up, his fingers scrabbling for the tinder. After some difficulty he removed the candle cap and lit the wick. The rat was still there, so he sat up, holding out the candle. The rat was long and black, its head turned away, its sleek body nestling in the folds of the coverlet. Matthias kicked his feet and shouted. The rat turned its head. Matthias stared in horror. Instead of the pointed nose it had human features: face, small and shrunken; glittering eyes, sharp nose and harsh mouth. Matthias screamed and kicked; when he looked again, the rat was gone.

    For a while Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, his body drenched in sweat. He didn’t know whether he had been dreaming or, half-asleep, had seen some phantasm. He took a cloth and dried his face and neck. He started to shiver. The fire had died and so had the glowing brazier in the corner - not even a wink of red, as if it had been drenched with water. The room grew freezing cold. Matthias heard a sound near the door, as if someone were moving quietly in the darkness - a footfall, the creak of leather. Matthias lunged across the bed and grasped his war belt. He pulled this across and, taking out his sword, picked up the candle. He ignored the cold,