Matthias put his wine cup down. He felt a thrill of excitement. For the first time ever, he was talking to someone who regarded the Rose Demon as a matter of fact, as a great danger which must be confronted.
The Hospitaller was watching Matthias closely. ‘I am only telling the little I know. The existence of the Rose Demon is one of the great secrets of our Order. There’s someone who knows more. Someone you may later meet. First I want to hear your story, from the beginning until now.’
Matthias forgot about the cloying warmth of the room. This time he told his life story in precise tones. He described scenes from his life as he would a painting or a carving. Now and again he would pause to sip at the wine or answer the occasional question. When he had finished, Sir Edmund sat, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers rubbing the side of his temple. He did not look up. Matthias sensed the Hospitaller was frightened, as if Matthias had said something which was most important though its significance was lost on him.
‘You should go back.’ The Hospitaller Commander got to his feet. His face was grey, his tone harsh. ‘You should go back to Sutton Courteny.’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘You said there was someone else who might help?’
‘There is, but not now. You cannot see her.’ The Commander walked across to a side table to refill his goblet. He came back and gingerly did the same for Matthias as if the old soldier wished to keep his distance. ‘There is a great mystery about what you have told me. First, did Parson Osbert ever keep a record?’
Matthias recalled the small, black and gold Book of Hours or breviary his father always carried. Sometimes he would make notes there, sermons or thoughts which occurred to him. Matthias rubbed his mouth. Strange, after his mother’s death Matthias couldn’t remember his father either holding or using the breviary.
‘You also say the hermit carved runes, strange marks on the wall in the derelict church at Tenebral?’
‘Yes,’ Matthias replied.
‘Go back there and copy them down,’ the Hospitaller commanded. ‘You are a clerk. Take quill and parchment. Copy them as accurately as you would a charter or a letter and, when you have done this, return here. If possible, try to find any record of your father’s past.’ Sir Edmund gazed at Matthias, as if he couldn’t really decide who the clerk was or claimed to be. ‘That is all the help I can give,’ he concluded. ‘At least for the time being.’
He did not shake Matthias’ hand. Indeed, the Hospitaller seemed eager to get him out of his chamber, away from the Priory as swiftly as possible. Matthias felt angry and embarrassed but the Hospitaller’s advice did not conflict with what he had already decided.
The sun was setting, the evening turning cold, so he walked briskly across Smithfield and into the musty, darkened taproom of the Bishop’s Mitre.
Matthias informed the landlord that he would be leaving that evening before the curfew sounded. He settled his account and followed the landlord out into the courtyard. Matthias inspected the horseflesh kept in the stables and brought out a sturdy, berry-brown mount which seemed sound of wind. Matthias checked the horse’s mouth and feet and declared himself satisfied, though he did not question the landlord too closely on where the horse came from. More haggling followed before Matthias was able to buy back the saddle and harness he had sold to the taverner when he had first arrived in the city. The fellow, pleased at making such a profitable sale, offered Matthias, free of charge, a small garret for the night.
‘You can also have a free meal and break your fast tomorrow, ’ he urged. ‘It will be far better than riding dark, wind-swept roads.’
Matthias agreed. He trotted his new horse around the cobbled yard to make sure that he had spent his silver well, checked the saddle and harness and returned to the taproom. He had supper with the rest at the common board and went up to his garret where he carefully packed his saddlebags, lay down on his bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke late the next morning, more refreshed and determined to leave as soon as possible. He ate bread and cheese in the taproom and, hiring a razor and a jug of hot water, returned to his garret to finish his preparations. The landlord was not as jovial as the night before but Matthias ignored that. He carefully shaved and was about to dry himself when the water in the bowl rippled and moved. Matthias stared, fascinated, at the shapes which appeared, as if he were looking through a window or staring into a mirror. The scene was commonplace. He recognised the stable in the yard below. He saw the berry-brown horse he had bought and his saddle and harness on a peg in the wall above the stall. Two men were talking to the landlord. They turned. Matthias’ heart skipped a beat: he recognised Roberto and another of Emloe’s henchmen. They had their war belts on. The landlord said something, they nodded then separated, going into the shadows at each end of the stable. Matthias touched the water and the scene disappeared. He dried his hands and face, put his war belt on, picked up the saddlebags and his small arbalest.
When he crossed the taproom, the landlord refused to meet his gaze but turned his back. Matthias went out. He placed his saddlebag and cloak on the ground, set a bolt in the groove of the crossbow, pulling back the cord, and walked into the darkened stable. He heard a sound from his right: the assassin came at a run. Matthias loosed the crossbow and the bolt took the man full in the chest, sending him crashing back against the stalls. The horses reared and neighed. Matthias turned, throwing the crossbow at Roberto’s head as he slipped silently towards him. It missed, the Portuguese moving sideways. Matthias drew his sword and dagger and stood back.
‘Leave!’ he pleaded. ‘Roberto, I don’t want your death. Go back and tell Emloe we are finished!’
‘Master Fitzosbert, you know I cannot do that. An order is an order.’
‘Please!’ Matthias begged.
Roberto rushed in, sword and dagger snaking out. Matthias countered, they drew apart. Again they closed in a clash of steel but the Portuguese was an indifferent swordsman. Matthias was able to block and, with one counterparry, thrust his dagger deep into Roberto’s belly. He pulled it out. Roberto staggered, bending over double, coughing on his own blood and fell with a groan to the ground. Matthias collected his cloak and saddlebag, then saddled his horse. As he left the stable, the landlord came running out, all a-fluster.
‘Lackaday! Lackaday!’ he cried. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘You are a liar,’ Matthias declared, swinging himself into the saddle. He gathered the reins. ‘You can send for the sheriff but then he might want to know why two assassins were waiting in your stables. Or you can send a courier to Master Emloe but he will ask why I expected to find his two men waiting for me. All in all,’ Matthias turned his horse’s head, ‘you are in for a very interesting day.’
Matthias left the city, riding up Aldersgate. After Charterhouse the houses became sparser, the crowds less dense. By noon he was out in the open countryside, taking the road west. He rode hard and fast, stopping occasionally to rest, feed and water his horse. At night he sheltered in a wayside tavern, the occasional friary and, on one occasion, slept in a small copse.
Five days after leaving London, he glimpsed the spire of Tewkesbury Abbey and, a short while later, urged his horse up trackways and passageways he remembered from boyhood days. Matthias felt the bitter sweetness of nostalgia as certain landmarks brought back memories of Parson Osbert or Christina. He avoided Sutton Courteny and Tenebral but took a more circuituous route to Baron Sanguis’ manor house. This was much decayed. The curtain wall had gaps in it. The gates hung askew. No soldiers stood on guard. Matthias glimpsed only a few servants, whilst the outlying barns and granges looked dilapidated. The manor house was no better: the paths leading to it were choked with weeds. The gardens had not been tilled, the windows were all shuttered and the paint on the front door was cracked and peeling. A servant answered his knock. Matthias asked for Taldo the seneschal.