The Rose Demon Read online

  THE ROSE DEMON

  PAUL DOHERTY

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright 1997 P.C. Doherty

  The right of P.C. Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs

  and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means without the prior written

  permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 0 7553 5046 9

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART I - SUTTON COURTENY, 1471

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II - 1486-1487

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART III - 1487-1489

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  PART IV - 1490-1492

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  P.C. Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now the Headmaster of a school in North-East London, and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

  P.C Doherty’s Hugh Corbett medieval mysteries - SATAN IN ST MARY’S, CROWN IN DARKNESS, SPY IN CHANCERY, THE ANGEL OF DEATH, THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, MURDER WEARS A COWL, THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD, THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL, SATAN’S FIRE and THE DEVIL’S HUNT - are also available from Headline, as are his other novels of mystery and murder - AN ANCIENT EVIL, being the Knight’s Tale, A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS, being the Man of Law’s Tale, A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS, being the Franklin’s Tale, and GHOSTLY MURDERS, being the Priest’s Tale, all told during the evenings on a pilgrimage from London to Canterbury.

  Acclaim for P.C. Doherty’s medieval mysteries:

  ‘Medieval London comes vividly to life . . . Doherty’s depictions of medieval characters and manners of thought, from the highest to the lowest, ringing true’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘I really like these medieval whodunnits’ Sarah Broadhurst, Bookseller

  ‘. . . this is one of those books you hate to put down’ Prima

  ‘A powerful compound of history and intrigue’ Redbridge Guardian.

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Colonel Gilland Wales Corbitt (U.S.A.F.) D.F.C.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  In 1453 the great Byzantine civilisation was extinguished when the Ottoman Turks broke into Constantinople, killing the Emperor and bringing his empire and what land he ruled firmly under the control of the Ottoman Turks. Despite the help of Venice and the military religious orders such as the Knights Hospitallers, as well as the fighting skills of Western mercenaries, Constantinople ceased to be.

  In England such a disaster made little impact as the country was divided between the Houses of York and Lancaster. A bitter civil war raged which, in 1471, culminated in the destruction of the Lancastrian cause, the death of their king, Henry VI, the exile of his queen, Margaret of Anjou, and the execution of most of the Lancastrian commanders. York remained in the ascendant until the Battle of Bosworth in 1485 when Henry Tudor defeated the Yorkist king Richard III. Henry VII’s victory, however, was not complete and, for years afterwards, his reign was plagued by a series of powerful Yorkist pretenders.

  In Spain, Aragon and Castile were to be united by the marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella. The successful union of these kingdoms led to the implementation of a much-treasured dream: the removal of the Moors, the capture of their great city of Granada, and the emergence of a Catholic Spain.

  In Italy, meanwhile, a Genoese explorer and map-maker, Christopher Columbus, dreamt of sailing across the great Western Ocean to find a safer and more direct route to the Indies . . .

  THE PROLOGUES

  1

  Constantinople 29 May 1453

  The Rosa Mundi,

  Its heart is cankered.

  Its petals drop like a fallen angel

  From the fields of heaven.

  ‘Oh day of wrath,

  Oh day of mourning!

  See fulfilled the prophet’s warning.

  Heaven and earth in ashes burning!’

  The opening lines of the Dies Irae echoed along the marble naves of the churches. The priests in their gorgeous vestments, shrouded by clouds of incense, lifted their hands and beseeched the Almighty to help against the tide of terror which had broached the massive walls, towers and fortifications of Constantinople. Mohammed II, self-styled God’s Vice-Regent on earth, had brought his fleet across the Golden Horn. Just after dawn, his yellow-coated janissaries had made their final assault. The walls had been breached, the last home of the Caesars was about to fall. Already the purple, imperial banners were retreating deep into the city as cries of desolation rang out along the streets and alleyways of the Emperor’s city. Soon, the horses of the conquerors would ride in triumph into the palaces of the Byzantine nobles.

  The calamity had been foretold. Hideous portents had filled the skies. Satan, like some great bat, his shadowy wings extended, his talons like those of a huge eagle, had been seen hovering over the city. And had not demons appeared in the hippodrome, red-clawed hands turned up towards the sky, whilst sepulchral voices at midnight, sounding like hollow bells, prophesied horror upon horror: Constantinople was about to fall.

  In his private chamber at the Blachernae Palace, only a short distance from the fighting, Constantine Palaeologus, the last Roman Emperor, was about to leave and die on the walls of his city. In the antechamber, his housecarls, their long, blond hair falling down to their waists, now rested against marble walls, loosening the straps from their chain mail byrnies. They sipped wine and knew they would not taste it again until they met in the kingdom of God. They too were to die. Each had taken the blood oath. They would fight until their master fell, and beyond. They would never bend the knee to the Ottoman Turk. They were impatient for death and whispered amongst themselves what could occupy their emperor at such a fatal hour. He was closeted behind the ivory-plated doors of his private chamber with the old priest Eutyches an
d the two Westerners, the Hospitaller knights, Raymond and Otto Grandison. The brothers had come from Rhodes to offer their swords in the Emperor’s last stand. The housecarls agreed that the Grandisons were sturdy fighters - unlike the Western mercenaries, who had fled through the night, seeking shelter and succour from the Venetian fleet waiting so helplessly beyond the harbour.

  Inside his privy chamber, Emperor Constantine slouched in his purple, gold-embossed throne. He stared down at the two knights kneeling before him. Their hair was thick with grease, dark faces unshaven, their armour was blood-spattered, their leather leggings stained with sweat. They both leant on their great, two-handed swords whilst between them stood the venerable Eutyches, dressed gorgeously in the full pontifical robes of a Byzantine priest. A gold-encrusted cape hung about Eutyches’ thin, bent shoulders, clasped by a silver chain at the front. Beneath this, in his white gloved hands, he held a pyx bearing the Sacrament.

  ‘I am going to die,’ the Emperor declared, breaking from his reverie. ‘Before noon I will be dead. I will die like a Roman general, my face to the enemy, my sword in my hands.’

  ‘Then, Excellency, let us die with you,’ said the elder of the knights. ‘That is why we entered our order, what we live for. To die for Christ, His Holy Mother and the Christian faith.’

  Constantine shook his head.

  ‘My empire is to fall,’ he murmured. ‘It will never rise again. This city is twelve hundred years old.’ He smiled thinly, wiping the dust from his face. ‘Our conquerors will find secrets - they are welcome to them - but, one they must not discover. I have sworn a great oath, on holy relics, as my father did before me, that, if this city falls, my last act must be to destroy a great evil.’ He stirred in his chair. ‘That is why you are in Constantinople. You are to help me.’

  The two Hospitaller knights stared at him. They were young men, their soft faces sunburnt, eyes gleaming with the light of battle. They looked so alike - black hair neatly cropped, well-spaced, honest eyes. The Emperor allowed himself another smile. He had chosen well: these men, sworn to celibacy and obedience, would carry out his commands.

  ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.

  The knights got to their feet.

  ‘Place your hands on the Sacrament!’

  The knights took off sweat-stained gauntlets. Each placed a hand gently over that of the old priest as he stood, face impassive, eyes closed, murmuring his prayers.

  ‘Swear!’ Constantine insisted. ‘Swear on the Sacrament that you will carry out my last order! Swear that you will do so, whatever the cost!’

  ‘We swear!’

  Constantine opened the purple filigree pouch on his war belt and took out a ring on which seven keys hung. The clasp on each was strangely carved and the handle of every key was shaped into a cross, in the centre of which was a small glass reliquary.

  ‘These are special keys,’ the Emperor explained. ‘Each holds the relic of a great saint.’ He handed them to Sir Raymond. ‘Follow Eutyches! He will take you, by secret passageways, down deep into the bowels of the palace. The way is already lighted.’ The Emperor paused, his head slightly sideways. ‘Listen!’ he whispered.

  The roar of battle was now not so faint.

  ‘I must hurry,’ the Emperor continued. ‘In the vault the five silver keys will open a chamber. The two golden ones will unlock whatever that chamber contains.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sir Otto asked hoarsely.

  ‘A casket,’ the Emperor replied. ‘You are to open it. Once you have done so, do whatever Eutyches tells you to. You have sworn an oath.’

  The Emperor got to his feet, his chain mail jingling as he walked across to a huge, golden rose painted on the blue marble wall. He pressed the centre and a door swung open. Otto flinched at the cold blast of air which swept into the chamber. Both knights, seasoned warriors, felt a deep sense of fear, blood chilling as if a dagger were being drawn along the napes of their necks. They looked at each other, then back at the Emperor.

  ‘You feel it as I do,’ Constantine declared.

  ‘Every man does.’ Eutyches opened his rheumy eyes. His voice was low, grating, and he talked the lingua franca, the language understood by everyone in Constantinople. ‘Your Excellency,’ Eutyches bowed, ‘we must go, time is short. You must die and, when I have done my task, I, too, must prepare for death.’

  Constantine came and knelt before the priest.

  ‘Then bless me, Father.’

  The priest raised the pyx before the Emperor in the sign of the cross. Constantine got to his feet. He kissed the priest on both cheeks and exchanged the kiss of peace with the two Hospitaller knights, then, without a backward glance, left the chamber, shouting for his guards to follow.

  The knights heard the door being closed and locked; the shouts of officers as furniture was piled against it.

  ‘If the Turks break in,’ Eutyches explained, ‘that will give us more time. Now, come.’ He walked towards the secret passageway, stopped and gestured for Otto to precede him. ‘Sir Raymond, you will follow behind. Close the door after us.’

  Sir Otto and the priest disappeared into the darkness. Raymond waited for a few moments then, drawing his sword, followed. He found himself at the top of steep steps which swept down into the darkness. On the walls above him, cresset torches fought hard to keep out the darkness. Raymond studied these curiously. He cursed his imagination. The fire itself seemed frightened. The flame was weak and the centre of each had turned a strange bluish tint.

  ‘Come!’ Eutyches ordered.

  Raymond fumbled in the darkness. He found a clasp and pushed the door over. It closed like the lid of a tomb. He followed the other two down the steps. The walls on either side were cold marble. Raymond had to fight against the shivers which racked his body.

  ‘Do not think!’ Eutyches’ voice sounded hollow. ‘Just pray! Make the sign of the cross to ward off any evil!’

  Raymond began praying. Peering through the gloom, he could see that his brother, just in front of the priest, was faltering now and again as if unsteady on his feet, and would only continue at Eutyches’ hushed entreaties.

  Following, Raymond felt so cold. Suddenly he started back, his sword coming up. He was sure an ice-cold hand had trailed its fingers across his throat, freezing the beads of sweat which laced his skin. He walked on, trying to ignore the sensation of hands clutching at his shoulder or his arm. On one occasion he dropped his sword. It fell with a clash and he scrabbled in the darkness to pick it up. Suddenly a face, grey like a puff of smoke, with grinning gargoyle mouth from which bare fangs protruded, came up before him. Sir Raymond wiped his face on the sleeve of his jerkin. Eutyches was now praying aloud, his words booming like the knell of a bell, urging them both to continue, to ignore what was happening.

  At last they reached the bottom of the steps. In the torchlight the old priest looked more ancient and wizened: he, too, was soaked in sweat whilst Otto stood as if he had been running for his life, chest heaving, mouth open gasping for air, sweat dripping down his unshaven cheeks as if he had doused his head in water.

  ‘How much further?’ Sir Raymond asked.

  The priest pointed along the passageway, which seemed to stretch into eternity.

  ‘Continue!’ he urged. ‘Whatever happens, don’t stop!’

  This time both knights followed him. They were too frightened to speak. Now and again they clasped hands, fighting the urge to leave this venerable priest and flee for their lives.

  ‘When your task is done--’ Eutyches spoke up, ‘and it will be done quickly - leave the chamber. Don’t come back this way but flee further along the gallery. It will bring you out beyond the city walls.’

  ‘We thought to die at Constantinople,’ Otto replied.

  ‘Why are the young so interested in dying?’ the priest said wryly. ‘In the end, die you will and die you must!’

  His grim jest seemed to lighten the tension. Just as the shadowy fears were closing in again, they reached a bend in the passageway
where it turned abruptly to the left. Eutyches, however, ignored the gloomy, dark-filled gallery. He stood before a doorway, one of the most extraordinary the brothers had ever seen - not made of wood or steel but of sheer marble with a mother-of-pearl cross in the centre.

  ‘Unlock the door!’ Eutyches called.

  For a while Raymond fumbled with the keys. There were five locks along the side of the door. It took some time to find the key for each lock but, as he turned them, Sir Raymond could hear some intricate mechanism click. At last he finished and pushed the door hard. It swung open smoothly and both brothers gasped: if the door was a work of wonder, the octagonal chamber it guarded was even more so. It was lighted by shafts which came down from the roof and filled the chamber with sharp rays of sunlight. The walls were covered in gold-fringed, velvet drapes, the marble ceiling was concave, whilst each slab of the marble floor had a small glass case embedded in the middle.