‘Such self-pity is no sin,’ the friar replied. ‘Even Christ protested that he hadn’t got a home to call his own or a pillow to lay his head on! It only becomes a sin when you wallow in it and make it a way of life.’
‘So, what should I do?’ Matthias asked.
‘Accept each day as it comes but try and plan for the future. Your association with the Rose Demon seems to begin with Hospitallers. The hermit claimed to have been one and, you say, he met another Hospitaller in Tewkesbury who fought for the House of Lancaster.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Now, across Smithfield,’ Father Anthony continued, ‘lies the Priory of St John of Jerusalem, the Mother House of the Hospitaller Order in England. I will write you a letter of introduction to Sir Edmund Hammond, the present Grand Master, a saintly man, shrewd and trustworthy. Tell your tale to him. God knows what other secrets the Priory may hold.’
Matthias agreed.
‘I can provide you with new clothes,’ Father Anthony continued. ‘I have also checked your purse; you have little money.’
‘A goldsmith in Cheapside holds?120 sterling,’ Matthias explained, ‘but the shop is watched by Emloe’s gang.’
‘That can be resolved.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘I will bring parchment and quill. You write out a letter handing over the entire amount held by the goldsmith to our Friary.’ He smiled. ‘In return, we will raid our coffers and give you that amount before you leave.’
Two days later Matthias, dressed in new clothes, a stout leather money belt wrapped around his waist, accompanied Father Anthony across the cloisters and into a little side chapel. It was no more than a white-washed cell. A small altar stood against the far wall: a statue of the Virgin and Child on one side and, on the other, a life- size effigy of St Anthony of Padua holding the Baby Jesus.
‘This is a chantry chapel,’ the friar explained, ‘where I say Mass. Often my duties prevent me from joining the brothers in the main church.’
He genuflected to the crucifix and took Matthias across to kneel first before the statue of the Virgin, where he lit a candle, and then before the statue of St Anthony of Padua.
‘He is my patron,’ the friar declared. ‘Anthony of Padua was one of St Francis’ first disciples, a great preacher, a formidable scholar. He was gentle to all, a mystic with a profound love of God and the incarnate Lord. He’s a wonder worker. Anything you ask him is never refused.’
Matthias stared up into the carved, serene face of this most famous Franciscan. The sculptor had carved an angelic, smooth-faced young man, the tonsure carefully cut, the eyes almost liquid in their gentleness. In one hand he carried a lily, in the other the Baby Jesus. Matthias found it difficult to believe that praying in front of this statue could help him, but he humoured the friar and, for a while, knelt then crossed himself and got to his feet.
‘I must be going,’ he said briskly. ‘I thank you for your kindnesses.’
The friar caught him by the sleeve. ‘I shall remember you at Mass every day, Matthias. Each evening I shall come and talk to St Anthony about you. I know you don’t believe, Matthias, but, at the appointed time, when the battle lines are drawn, if you keep faith, if you fight the good fight, help will come.’
A few minutes later, Matthias, Father Anthony’s good wishes still ringing in his ears, left Greyfriars. He kept to the alleyways and side streets and made his way across Farringdon, past the Bishop of Ely inn towards the great gatehouse of the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. Matthias felt strange to be away from the harmonious atmosphere of the Franciscans. He did his best to avoid the people thronging round the market stalls or pouring into Smithfield because it was Execution Day and the death carts were bringing the usual batch of prisoners for execution. Every so often he would stop and look round but no one was following him. The soldier on duty at the Priory gate waved him in: a servitor sitting in the garden beyond, trying to catch the last of the autumn sun, took Father Anthony’s letter. They went across an enclosed courtyard where fountains splashed, through a maze of tiled corridors and up a broad, wooden staircase to the Commander’s quarters.
For a while Matthias just kicked his heels in a small vestibule. He refused the watered wine and sweetmeats offered and went to look out of the window at the clipped box hedges and neatly laid out herb gardens of the Priory. He saw the trees were beginning to lose their leaves and realised how little notice he took of the seasons. Despite the sun, autumn was turning into winter and Matthias idly wondered what other horrors would be waiting for him before the year ended. He doubted whether the Hospitallers could help him. He had already resolved to collect his few belongings from the Bishop’s Mitre and return to Baron Sanguis. Perhaps the old manor lord could. .
‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’
He turned. The man standing in the doorway was of middle stature, silver hair swept back over his head to lie thick around the nape of his neck. His face was burnt dark by the sun, his moustache and beard were neatly clipped in a military fashion. Matthias couldn’t reckon his age. He was struck by the sheer intensity of the man’s gaze.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated, hitching the heavy furred robe closer round his shoulders.
‘Yes, sir!’
The Hospitaller smiled and held out his hand.
‘I am Sir Edmund Hammond.’ He patted the robe. ‘I am sorry I am swaddled like a baby but I spent most of my years in Cyprus and Malta. London will be the death of me.’
‘You seem to know me, sir.’
The Hospitaller opened his mouth to reply but paused and instead beckoned Matthias into a small, wooden panelled chamber. The windows were shuttered, a fire roared under the canopied hearth and chafing dishes, full of hot coals, stood around the room. A servitor came in and, under Sir Edmund’s directions, moved high-backed chairs in front of the fire. A small table was set between, and cups, brimming with white wine, were served and placed there. Sir Edmund waited until the servant closed the door behind him.
‘I know it is very hot,’ he smiled. ‘If you want, Matthias, take off your sword belt and jerkin; come and sit down.’
Matthias obeyed. For a while the Grand Master just sipped at his wine, cradling the cup between his fingers.
‘I don’t know you, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he began. ‘But I know of you. The execution of Sir Raymond Grandison at Tewkesbury eighteen years ago, the consequent massacre at Sutton Courteny, not to mention the death by burning of Sir Raymond’s brother, Otto. Oh yes,’ he caught the surprise in Matthias’ face, ‘they were brothers, Hospitallers. As young knights they were given a most sacred task to carry out before Constantinople fell to the Turks. They failed. The Rose Demon Father Anthony alludes to in his letter was, by their mistake, once again released into the world of men. Sir Raymond spent the rest of his life scouring Europe. He discovered that the Rose Demon was in England, so he tied his fortunes to those of Margaret of Anjou and the House of Lancaster.’ The Hospitaller sipped from his wine. ‘You know what happened to him. His brother, Otto, decided to live a life of reparation as a hermit out on the rock of Masada above the Dead Sea in Palestine. Otto disappeared. He was later seen in England, but there’s no doubt that by then the Rose Demon had become incarnated in him. He was the hermit the villagers of Sutton Courteny burnt to death.’ He sighed. ‘I suspect that the royal clerk Rahere was also possessed.’
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.’
