The Rose Demon

which was like a savage biting wind blowing through the chamber. Holding the candle out in front of him, Matthias edged across the room, his eyes fixed on the pool of light. He turned slightly sideways, his sword out ready for any secret assault or hidden attack. Still, the sound came of someone shuffling near the door. Matthias reached the place, his body soaked in sweat, his chest heaving. He moved the candle backwards and forwards. He could see nothing nor detect anything undisturbed.

    Matthias was about to go back to his bed when he stopped, rigid as a statue. Whoever was in the room was now behind him, breathing noisily. Matthias turned. He glimpsed a dark shape. He held the candle up and stared in horror: Rahere the clerk was standing there but no longer the court fop. His hair was streaked with grey, his face was haggard, his skin covered with pustules, red-rimmed eyes and lips soaked with blood. On his neck, where the dirty shirt opened at the throat, Matthias could see suppurating lacerations, as if the man had been clawed by a bear or a wolf. Matthias took a step backwards.

    ‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘who or what are you?’

    Rahere stepped closer. His upper lip curled like that of a dog about to attack: his teeth were long and white, the eyeteeth drooping like those of a mastiff.

    ‘You.’ The voice was low, throaty and full of hate. ‘Taken before my time!’ A hand came up, fingers long and dirt-stained. ‘Called before my time I was, because of you!’

    Matthias lashed out with his sword. As he did so the candle fell from his hand, the flame was extinguished. Matthis could smell putrefaction. Filled with terror as well as anger at being haunted and hounded, he seized his sword in two hands, striking out and screaming abuse. Fitzgerald and Mairead, blankets wrapped round their shoulders, burst into the room. Matthias stopped. He drove the point of his sword into the wooden planks of the floor and stood there clasping the hilt, chest heaving, eyes glaring.

    ‘Now, now, boyo!’

    Fitzgerald came forward slowly as Mairead lit candles round the room and opened the shutters.

    ‘Come on, boyo.’ Fitzgerald gestured at Matthias’ sword. ‘Let it drop. We are friends!’

    Mairead rushed by him and, crouching down, loosened Matthias’ fingers from round the sword hilt. Matthias let it go. He slumped down to the floor. Mairead put her arms round him, rocking him gently like a baby.

    ‘What’s the matter, love?’ she whispered.

    ‘There was someone here,’ Matthias replied. ‘Frightening, the stench of the grave.’

    ‘Tush, that’s nonsense,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no one here. And, as for the stench, Matthias, I thought you had a woman here. Can’t you smell the perfume?’

    ‘The room smells like a summer’s day,’ Fitzgerald declared.

    Matthias stood up and stared round the chamber. Apart from cuts to the wood caused by his sword, the candle lying on the floor, he could see nothing out of place. Then he caught the fragrance, the sweet heady smell of roses.

    ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

    ‘Oh, boyo, that’s not good enough.’ Fitzgerald went across to the hearth and, scraping aside the ash, he took some kindling, a few of the dried logs and soon the fire was burning merrily. Matthias glanced towards the brazier. It was lit and glowing, though he was certain that when he had woken up the charcoal had been cold and bare. He sat on the stool before the fire. Mairead and Fitzgerald joined him, one on either side. Mairead served them wine.

    ‘You didn’t have a dream,’ she said. ‘Matthias, you were awake. You were terrified. What is it?’

    Matthias, not shifting his gaze from the fire, told them slowly and haltingly about the events of Sutton Courteny; the silence of the intervening fourteen years; Santerre, the Bocardo, Symonds and his flight to Dublin. They heard him out. When he had finished Matthias turned and smiled at Mairead.

    ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you? Madcap, witless, leaping about like a March hare?’

    Mairead shook her head and gently caressed his cheek.

    ‘Here in Ireland, Matthias, we believe in magic. The Devil walks the country lanes and misty glades. The hidden glens and dark woods are full of beings we cannot see but who take an active interest in the affairs of men. There is the banshee,’ she continued, ‘a grotesque, red-haired woman with a disfigured face and protruding teeth.