The Rose Demon

2

The hermit took Matthias back through the derelict village to the edge of the forest. He stopped and crouched down.

‘Remember what I taught you today, Creatura bona atque parva. Life feeds on life. The rabbit feeds on grass and we fed on the rabbit. The dove feeds on corn and the hawk kills it. Even in the spiritual life, only life itself can make the spirit fresh and strong.’

Matthias nodded solemnly. The hermit smiled, his eyes bright with mischief.

‘You don’t understand, do you, Creatura?’

‘I am sorry, I don’t,’ the boy stammered.

‘Go.’ The hermit kissed him on each cheek. ‘Go on now, Matthias. Run like the wind and, if you remember my second lesson, for you there can be no fear.’

Matthias trotted down the path into the wood. He was so engrossed in what the hermit had said, so puzzled, he was deep into the darkness before he fully realised where he was. Then he stopped. Why didn’t the hermit come with him? He stared up where the branches formed a canopy against the sky. Surely he could have come to the wood with him? Matthias became aware of a stirring in the undergrowth, the flutter of birds’ wings and those mysterious, indistinguishable sounds of the night. His fears came flooding back, about the witches who hung like bats in the trees from dusk till dawn. Or the ghosts of women who dropped on the necks of the unsuspecting.

‘You can only tell them,’ Joscelyn the Taverner had loudly intoned from where he sat in an inglenook in the corner of the Hungry Man, ‘oh yes, you can only tell them because their feet are back to front.’

Matthias hurried on, his mind now full of stories of Black Vaughan and his ghostly henchmen who prowled the forests of the Severn valley. Matthias closed his eyes, but he stumbled so he opened them again. The moonlit trackway lay ahead of him and he grew fearful of what his father and mother might say about where he’d been, and at this hour. The bracken cracked and the shapes sprang out of the darkness: two men, soldiers, stinking of sweat, urine and stale wine, their boiled leather jackets hard and coarse, their dirt-smeared leggings now cut and torn by the brambles. Yet, they were armed, broad leather war belts round their waists. They seized the boy as swiftly as the hawk had the dove. A dirty, smelly hand across his mouth stopped Matthias screaming. He was dragged off the track into the trees. The two men, as they carried him, lashed his hands and feet. They threw him on to a bed of bracken. All Matthias could see were dark shapes, bearded faces framed by torn chain mail coifs.

‘Now, now, let’s see what we have here?’

A tinder was struck and a piece of candle flared into light. Matthias preferred the darkness: in the candlelight the soldiers’ faces, unshaven and dirty, were twisted and evil, their eyes glittering. One of them grasped Matthias’ genitals.

‘We have a boy! We have a boy, Petain, fresh and soft!’

Coarse fingers pulled at Matthias’ legs and cheeks. The other soldier turned him over on to his face. Matthias, rigid with terror, moaned softly as the man dug a finger between his buttocks.

‘Soft and pert,’ he whispered. ‘Any port in a storm eh, comrade?’

‘Hush!’

Both soldiers stopped. Matthias could now hear it. Someone was running towards them.

‘Matthias!’ The voice was low, unmistakably that of a young girl. ‘Matthias, where are you?’

‘Oh, twice fortunate!’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘Keep him there, Petain!’

Matthias was rolled over on his back as one of the soldiers, knife drawn, disappeared in the direction of the voice. The soldier left holding the candle leant down and jabbed Matthias’ chest.

‘Your sister?’ he whispered. ‘Your sister come to join the fun, has she?’ His teeth were yellow and cracked, his breath foul. ‘We will play Pass The Fardel. We’ll get some pleasure out of this!’

A soul-chilling scream cut the silence.

‘In Satan’s name!’

The soldier slapped Matthias and hurried into the trees. The boy just lay there whimpering like a puppy. He heard the soldier crashing and stumbling. He turned on his side. Something like a shadow, moving dark and fast as if some giant hawk were flying over the trees, caught his eye. The noise of the retreating soldier stopped. Again a blood-chilling scream shattered the night air and Matthias began to shake. Closing his eyes he tried to pray. He felt something warm press his cheek. The hermit was crouching over him. He carried the piece of tallow candle the soldiers had dropped. He lit this, his eyes and face a mask of concern.

‘Did they hurt you, Creatura?’ he whispered. ‘Did they hurt you, little one?’

‘They touched me,’ Matthias stammered. ‘They said they were going to!’ He began to shake.

The hermit put the candle on a crook of a tree. The ropes round Matthias’ hands and feet were slashed. The hermit picked him up like a mother would a baby. He held him close, rocking gently to and fro. Then the hermit lifted his head. He spoke sharply to the darkness in a tongue Matthias could not understand, like a wolfhound growling against the moon. Matthias stared up in alarm.

‘Don’t worry, little one,’ the hermit whispered. ‘I’ve cursed those evil ones. They will do no more terror in their journey to wherever they are destined. But, come now.’

He lifted a water bottle to Matthias’ lips. The juice it contained tasted sweeter than water. It cleansed Matthias’ mouth and brought the warmth back into his body. He felt invigorated, like he did when he splashed in a pool on a bright summer’s morning with the rest of the boys.

‘I must go.’ Matthias struggled to his feet.

‘And this time I shall go with you.’

The hermit extinguished the candle, took him by the hand and led him back on to the path. Despite the attack, Matthias now felt calm and refreshed. The hermit was telling him about the stars as Matthias hopped and skipped beside him. When they reached the edge of Sutton Courteny, the hermit crouched down and embraced him again.

‘Go on, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘Go through the village. But, remember, tomorrow, just after dawn, I’ll be waiting.’

The boy sped away like an arrow. The door to the Hungry Man was shut but candlelight and music poured through the unshuttered windows. Here and there a dog barked but Matthias was not afraid. He reached the church, opened the lych-gate and took a short cut across the cemetery. Usually he would never take such a path at night. The villagers were always telling stories of the ghosts and spirits which lived there, especially about the bell.

Years ago, Maud Brasenose, the widow of a wealthy peasant, had a great fear of being buried alive. So the priest at the time agreed that a bell be fixed in a small holder on the top of her tomb, attached, through a hole in the coffin, to her hand. Accordingly, if she woke and found herself buried alive, she only had to ring the bell. The stone still stood, the bell and chain now rusted. However, at midsummer or Samhain Eve when the fires were lit, some fool, full of ale, would always come down to the cemetery and try to ring the bell even though it was encrusted with rust. Or again, there was the black angel which adorned the tomb of Thomas Pepperel, a wealthy spicer who had moved from Tredington and spent his last years at Sutton Courteny. Parson Osbert had declared that, when the angel had first been carved, it had been white as snow but Pepperel had been cheated: the stone was of poor quality and had turned a horrid black so it looked as if some demonic imp, rather than an angel, guarded poor Pepperel’s tomb.

Matthias’ route took him over the wall and into the small vegetable plot which lay in front of the priest’s house. The windows were shuttered but he glimpsed chinks of light. Still full of courage, he knocked on the door, there was a slap of sandals, the door opened and his father stood staring down at him.

‘Oh, Matthias, where have you been?’

‘I’ve been to Tenebral.’ The boy decided it was best not to lie.

‘Come in. Your mother and I. .’

Parson Fitzosbert seized his son’s hand and led him down the stone-paved passageway into the small parlour. Matthias’ courage began to ebb. Oh, he was pleased to be home. The straw on the passageway floor was crisp and clean, sprinkled with fennel and rosemary. Small rushlights burnt in their shiny metal holders. The parlour was warm and inviting. Oil lamps hung from the great beam which ran down the length of the chamber. A fire leapt in the great hearth and the cauldron, hanging up on a hook above it, gave off the fragrant smell of freshly cooked meat.

Christina, his mother, was sitting at her spinning wheel under the light of a lantern. She looked busy but Matthias saw her face was still white, dark rings round those lustrous eyes. She put down the spindle and held out her hands. Matthias ran to her, snuggling his face deep into her woollen dress, savouring her lovely smell, a mixture of cooking, sweat and the fragrant herb water Christina always used to wash herself. Her fingers, long and cool, stroked his hot cheeks.

‘I was worried, Matthias, so very, very worried.’

Christina let him go and he stood up to face his father. Parson Osbert stared sadly down at him. Matthias abruptly realised how his father was beginning to age. Folds of skin hung loose on his neck; his cheeks looked a little sunken, those gentle eyes now lined with care.

‘Now you are home, Matthias, perhaps we can eat!’

He caught the reproof in his mother’s words and stammered an apology. He was only too pleased to be caught up in the preparations for the evening meal. He washed his hands in the water tub which stood outside the buttery. He then set the wooden pegged table with trenchers, knives, horn spoons, pewter mugs and the large jugs of strong ale drained from the barrel, a cloth cover tied round the rim, which stood on a small stool beneath the window.

His father muttered something about going to the church, and left.

Christina opened the small cupboard built next to the fire and brought out a tray of freshly baked manchet loaves, which filled the parlour with a spicy smell. She rolled these in a linen napkin and put them on the table, then went to sit at the fireplace, stirring the stew with a ladle. Matthias, all his tasks done, sat at the table and looked mournfully at her.

‘You’ve been out to Tenebral, haven’t you, to see the hermit?’

Matthias nodded.

‘Your father was worried,’ she continued, and she pointed to the hour candle where it burnt in its niche. ‘One more ring and he’d have had to go down to the Hungry Man for help.’ She turned, ladle in her hands. ‘He was very worried,’ she insisted. ‘There are soldiers in the area, mercenaries, wolves in human clothing.’

‘I was safe,’ Matthias stammered. He was shrewd enough not to fuel his mother’s fears.

‘And the hermit?’ she asked softly, turning her back on him.

‘He was very kind.’ Matthias had long learnt that to tell his parents what they wanted to hear was the best way to calm their anxieties. ‘He showed me flowers.’

‘Did he talk about the rose?’ Christina grew rigid. She stopped stirring the cauldron.

‘What’s this about a rose?’ His father came into the kitchen. He took off his boots and tossed them into a corner. Neither Christina nor Matthias answered. ‘The church is all locked up.’ Parson Osbert smiled and clapped his hands. ‘And no lovers lie in the cemetery’s long grass. God’s acre, as I keep telling my parishioners, is for those buried in the peace of Christ, not for wanton lust.’

On any other occasion this would have been the signal for Christina to quip back but tonight she remained silent. The parson’s smile faded.

‘Let’s eat. Matthias, tell me what you did today.’

Once the benediction was said, Matthias was only too happy to fill the silence with his chatter, especially about the foxes. He mentioned nothing about the rose or the hermit’s sayings and, bearing in mind what was going to happen tomorrow, certainly nothing about the two soldiers who had accosted him in the wood.

‘Can I go back tomorrow?’

His mother dropped her spoon. She smiled apologetically and picked it up.

‘Please, can I go back tomorrow?’ Matthias persisted.

‘Why?’ His father asked.

‘The hermit is going to show me a kingfisher.’

Matthias blinked to keep back the tears. He was lying to this gentle man who was his father, and to his mother who looked so careworn. He fought the guilt, the lies slipped so smoothly from his tongue. He had to go. But how could he tell them the truth? It would only hurt them.

‘No, you can’t.’ His father wiped his bowl with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. ‘It’s dangerous.’ He grasped his son’s hand, continuing in a rush, ‘A journeyman has told us the news. Queen Margaret and her army are in full retreat along the Severn. The King and his forces are hurrying behind, breathing threats and slaughter. God knows what will happen when the armies meet!’

Matthias was about to protest, lie again that he would go nowhere near the battle, but found he could not do that.

‘Let the boy go.’ Christina raised her head and stared across the table. ‘Let the boy go,’ she repeated.

Matthias noticed how her face was even paler than before, those generous lips now one thin line. Her eyes looked dull.

‘He’ll be safe,’ she said. She got up from the table and began to collect their pewter bowls. ‘The hermit’s a soldier, isn’t he? Or was one. Now he’s a man of God. He’ll keep the boy safe.’ Her voice was devoid of any emotion.

Matthias noticed how she kept her back to him whilst she spoke. His father released his hand and leant across.

‘So, you can go,’ he whispered. ‘But you are to be back before dark.’

Matthias, pleased that he had obtained his father’s permission, fairly skipped down from the table. Determined to put things right by being as helpful as he could, he took the rest of the pots into the buttery, swept the floor round the table, arranging everything as it should be. His mother came over and, crouching down, caught him in her arms. She held him close, speaking over his shoulder to his father who sat at the table, his Book of Hours in his hands.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said softly. ‘I feel tired.’ She kissed Matthias again, then her husband on the brow, and left the room.

Once she had gone, Matthias sat on a stool, all his gaiety seeming to have drained away. The fire looked weak, the light of the candles and oils mere splutterings whilst his father, eyes closed, lost in his own devotions, was distant, rather cold.

‘What is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias asked.

Parson Osbert opened his eyes. He sighed and put the Book of Hours down.

‘I don’t know.’ He paused, half-cocking his head for sounds from their chamber above. ‘I don’t know, Matthias. When I came here I was a young priest.’ He ran his hand across the smoothness of the table. ‘The day I climbed the pulpit to give my first sermon I saw her sitting beneath me. She is beautiful, Matthias, but, on that morning, with the sunlight streaming through the window and catching her face, I thought she was an angel.’ He beckoned his son across and grasped him by the wrists. ‘As you grow older, Matthias, you will hear whispers in the village. I am a priest. I was not to become handfast and what I did is condemned by the Church. I live with a woman but, God be my witness,’ his eyes filled with tears, ‘I love her more than life itself and I would leave Heaven for Hell to find her there.’

‘But what is wrong with Mother?’ Matthias found he couldn’t stop trembling. ‘Is she sickening?’

‘I don’t know.’ His father rubbed his eyes. ‘Sometimes she wonders if we did wrong. Whether this place is accursed.’

He smiled wanly and pointed across to a small aperture built below the window. Inside it was a yellowing, aged skull. Nobody knew why it was there. The priest’s house had stood since the reign of the first Edward, almost two hundred years ago. The skull had been built into the brickwork: all Matthias could ever see were the teeth, face bones and dark holes where the eyes had been. Parson Osbert chewed his lip. Christina had strange fancies. She now believed the skull was a source of evil. He had remonstrated with her, explaining that, from the little he knew, the skull was really a sacred relic, the remains of a priest who had been killed here many centuries ago by marauding Danes.

‘Father, Father, what’s the matter?’

The priest looked at his son’s pale, attentive face. He felt a great surge of affection. Perhaps I’ve not been a good priest, he thought, but in Matthias I have been truly blessed.

‘Your mother is tired, Matthias, just tired. Come now, let’s say our prayers.’

Matthias brought his hands together and bowed his head, his lips moved soundlessly as he recited the Paternoster and Ave Maria.

Parson Osbert stared across at the black crucifix against the wall. What was really wrong with his wife? She seemed agitated, constantly dreaming as if her body were here but her mind elsewhere. The parson’s face became grim. He knew he had enemies in the parish council. Fat Walter Mapp, the local scrivener — he was not above, during Sunday Mass, circulating a piece of vellum filled with malicious questions, such as why their priest preached to them but kept a woman and his bastard son as a burden on the parish. Osbert closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. A gentle soul, he had never really hated, but Mapp, with his pig-like eyes, fleshy nose and slobbering mouth. . Parson Osbert crossed himself and quickly said a prayer for Walter Mapp.

‘Father, I’ve finished my prayers. Shall I go to bed?’

The priest smiled. ‘And what is the last thing, Matthias, you must say before you go to sleep? And the first thing you must repeat when you wake in the morning?’

Matthias took a deep breath.

‘If you get it right,’ his father added, ‘there’s a sweetmeat in the buttery. .’

Matthias closed his eyes. ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well.’ His voice grew loud and vibrant. ‘The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Matthias paused to recall the words. ‘And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy strength. And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’

The parson kissed him on the brow. ‘Oh, holiest of boys,’ he grinned. ‘Take the sweetmeat and go to your chamber.’

Matthias, the sweetmeat firmly in his mouth, scampered up the stairs. These were narrow and winding: Matthias always pretended he was a knight climbing a castle to rescue a maiden. He was most fortunate. Unlike other boys of his age, he had a small chamber, a little garret to himself under the eaves. It contained a cot, a desk, a battered leather chest and some pegs on the wall for his clothes. The small casement window, which overlooked the cemetery, was covered in horn paper. His mother had left it open. The room smelt fragrant but rather cold. Matthias climbed on to the bed. He was about to close the window when he glimpsed, in the moon-dappled cemetery below, a shadow beneath one of the yew trees, as if someone were standing there staring up at him. Yet, when he looked again, the shadow was gone.

In Margaret of Anjou’s camp, pitched within bowshot of the great Abbey of Tewkesbury, the Lancastrian Queen and her generals were holding counsel late into the night: Sir Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, with Sir Thomas Tresham, John Wainfleet and the Queen’s two principal commanders, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset and Lord Wenlock. They all sat along the trestle table hastily erected in the Queen’s gold-fringed, silken tent. On the floor around them were piled chests, coffers and panniers, lids thrown back or buckles undone, their contents spilling on to the muddy floor. Sir Raymond Grandison stared at these, then at each of his companions. They were arguing feverishly amongst themselves on what steps they should take next. Deep in his soul, however, Sir Raymond knew it was all finished. At the top of the table Margaret of Anjou, once a renowned beauty, sat slumped in her chair, her veil awry, her famous blonde hair now faded and mixed with iron-grey streaks. Her long face was haggard, eyes so bright, the Hospitaller wondered if the Queen were ill with a fever. She kept playing with the rings on her fingers or moving the pieces of parchment around on the table. On a chair beside her, her son Prince Edward, his blond hair uncombed, sat with a sulky expression on his smooth-shaven, spoilt face. Wenlock Sir Raymond dismissed with a contemptuous look. He did not trust that little fat soldier who, over the years, had fought for both York and Lancaster. In reality, the only person Wenlock served was Wenlock himself, and the Hospitaller wondered if he could be relied on tomorrow. Now and again the Queen would stretch across the table and grip Beaufort’s arm. Grandison wondered about the rumours that Beaufort was also her lover and, possibly, the true father of Prince Edward.

Beaufort coughed to catch his attention.

‘Sir Raymond, what do you advise?’

The Hospitaller took the piece of parchment Beaufort pushed across: a roughly drawn map which showed the abbey behind them and, to the west, the River Severn. He fought against the growing feeling of despair as the rest of the council waited.

‘Well, Sir Raymond, you are a professional soldier, what do you advise?’

Beaufort pushed his red hair away from his brow, fingers drumming on the table. Clearly agitated, he kept licking his lips whilst a nervous tic twitched a muscle under his right eye.

Raymond picked up the makeshift map. ‘Our situation is parlous, my lord. In the east the Lancastrians under the Earl of Warwick have been destroyed. The towns and cities between here and London are firmly in the hands of York. To the west the River Severn is swollen, the bridges destroyed or closely guarded so we cannot cross to our friends in Wales. Our men are too tired to march north. They are deserting in droves and our supplies are few. To the south Edward of York and his army pursue us like a pack of hunting dogs.’

‘You offer us no sympathy.’ Margaret’s voice was harsh, and, eyes half-closed, she glared at this Hospitaller commander who had chosen to tie his fortunes to those of her house.

‘Madam, I can only describe things as they are, not how they should be.’

‘And your advice?’ Beaufort demanded.

‘Whatever we decide,’ Sir Raymond replied, ‘Edward of York will come on.’

‘And lose?’ Wenlock squeaked.

Raymond stared down at the piece of parchment. He himself needed more time, just a little. All his searches, all his travelling had brought one result. The Rosifer, the great demon he had released so many years ago from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace, was somewhere in England. Raymond had a legion of spies throughout Europe, a flow of constant information and all this pointed to England, possibly a village in the south. He prayed the Preacher would reach him before he was swept up in the maelstrom of bloody battle.

‘Sir Raymond, we are waiting.’ Beaufort tapped the table. ‘You say we should stand yet, at the same time, that our men are tired and cannot be trusted.’

‘What I suggest,’ the Hospitaller replied slowly, ‘is that in this countryside broken by woods and small hills, where hedgerows cut the land, we make it look as if we were preparing for battle. Leave a token force whilst the rest of us retreat, go north, find a bridge over the Severn and force our way across. Once there, we are only a day’s march from Wales. Tudor and the Queen’s other friends will give us succour and refuge. We can rest, obtain fresh supplies, more men, and fight another day.’

‘Pshaw!’ Wenlock just waved his hands. ‘Run like children before Edward of York!’

‘If we fight tomorrow,’ the Hospitaller replied hotly, ‘we will lose!’

‘I am inclined to agree,’ Beaufort said. ‘Madam, if we left three or four hundred foot, some light horse. . Sir Raymond is correct: we could dilly and dally till nightfall, then slip northwards through the dark.’

Others intervened. Sir Raymond sat back, so immersed in his own thoughts, he jumped when a servant touched his shoulder.

‘Sir Raymond,’ the man whispered, ‘a messenger, he calls himself the Preacher, awaits outside.’

Sir Raymond rose and excused himself, bowed to the Queen and followed the servant out into the darkness. All around him rose the sounds of the camp: horses neighing; armourers busy pounding and hammering at their makeshift forges; the cries of the sentries. Sir Raymond’s despair deepened as he passed each campfire. The men were sprawled out on the ground, sleeping like the dead. Those who were awake crouched dourly over their cold food or cups of watered ale from the supply wagons. In the flickering firelight their faces were grey, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Few raised their heads as he passed.

He found his visitor in his own makeshift tent. The Preacher was sitting on an overturned cask, eating noisily from a bowl of dried meat and scraps of bread.

‘Christ’s greetings to you, sir.’ The Preacher pushed more food into his mouth and noisily swallowed it down with some wine.

Sir Raymond pulled across a camp stool and sat opposite.

‘I’ve travelled from London,’ the Preacher began. ‘I was heading for Gloucester. The good monks there would give me shelter and sustenance, but then I heard that Margaret of Anjou was coming north. I knew you would be with her.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the Hospitaller replied testily. ‘But what news do you have?’

‘I have found him.’ The Preacher took the cup away from his lips. He smiled at Sir Raymond’s surprise. ‘He was in these parts seven or eight years ago posing as a recluse, living in the ruins of some deserted village.’ He ticked the places off on his fingers. ‘Stroud, Berkeley, Gloucester, Tredington, Tewkesbury. Now, I believe, he hides in a deserted village near Sutton Courteny.’

‘What proof do you have of this?’

‘What do you expect?’ the Preacher replied. ‘People like him. Even the brothers at Tewkesbury remember him: a man of prayer, a former soldier, clean in his ways, personable in his manners.’

Sir Raymond looked at the filthy fingers of the Preacher and bit back his tart observation.

‘But there’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘Oh yes.’ The Preacher sipped from the wine. ‘Over the last eight years corpses have been found, their throats cut, their cadavers drained like slashed wineskins. In most cases the bodies were those of travellers, journeymen, traders and tinkers. Now and again a villager, the same bloody death.’ He sighed. ‘Other people have been blamed. At Stroud they burnt an old man, claiming he was a warlock, yet the murders have continued. A bailiff at Berkeley told me he had met our adversary on the roads: he was going to Sutton Courteny. A few weeks afterwards a young girl was killed in the usual bloody way.’ The Preacher leant forward, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘He is the one, isn’t he, Sir Raymond?’

Sir Raymond stared through a gap in the tent.

‘He is the one,’ he replied.

‘Then why not leave and come with me?’

Sir Raymond got up. He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled that of the Preacher.

‘I am here in the camp,’ he said, ‘of Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrians. God be my witness, I couldn’t give a fig for Lancaster — or York!’

‘So why not flee?’

‘I gave my word. I made a decision. Once I learnt my quarry was in England, I knew that I would need the authority of the Crown to pursue my searches to a successful end. It’s like a game of hazard. England was divided between York and Lancaster. I chose Lancaster and I am going to lose.’

‘So why not flee?’

‘It’s too late,’ the Hospitaller replied. ‘Beaufort has issued an order: any man who tries to desert is to be killed on the spot. I doubt if I would get far. Even if I were successful the Yorkists would show me no mercy, whilst if a miracle occurs, and Margaret of Anjou wins tomorrow, my name would head the list of proscriptions.’ He sat down. ‘No, no, there is a slender chance, my best, that this time tomorrow night I will be across the Severn in Wales.’

‘And me?’

Sir Raymond dug into his purse and took out two coins.

‘This is good silver, the best the French can supply. Go to Sutton Courteny, seek out our enemy and do what you have to. But act wisely.’ The Hospitaller stared at the Preacher’s wild eyes and wondered if his advice would be heeded. ‘Do not be carried away by the force of your own eloquence. He is to be watched. Only move against him when you have proof.’ He went across to a small writing desk and scribbled a few words on a piece of parchment. ‘Show this to the captain of the guard. They’ll let you through the lines.’

The Preacher took the silver and the warrant, finished his wine and slipped into the night.

Sir Raymond sat for a while, wrapping his cloak around him, for the night had grown cold. On the one hand he was pleased that what he had been searching for so many years he’d almost found. On the other hand although he was so close, he was yet unable to do anything about it. He wondered about Otto. His brother had elected to become a hermit, travelling to Outremer where eventually he took refuge on the great rock of Masada overlooking the Dead Sea. Seven years ago Sir Raymond had made careful searches, not knowing whether his brother were alive or dead. The Hospitaller Order had merchants friendly to their interests in the area, and Sir Raymond had been numbed by the news. Otto had, some years previously, mysteriously vanished from his cave. At the same time a young shepherd boy had been found dead amongst the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The finger of suspicion had been pointed at his brother but Raymond could hardly believe that. Otto would never hurt a child. Nevertheless, any attempts by Raymond to discover the whereabouts of his brother ended in mystery as if he had vanished from the face of the earth. Raymond had concluded his brother had died in some lonely place, and he returned to his hunt for this sinister being, the spirit he had released from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace.

By now the Grand Master, who had helped Raymond since the brothers’ escape from Constantinople, was dead in mysterious circumstances, a fall from a horse whilst out riding alone. To the rest of the Order Raymond had become an eccentric, enigmatic figure. They could not understand his absorption with the past, in finding some mysterious Byzantine princess. Over the years, piece by piece, Sir Raymond had built up a picture, done careful study, yet it was years before he accepted the truth about the Rosifer.

He took a key from his pouch and unlocked the coffer where he kept his papers. He plucked out a piece of yellowing parchment and studied the faded green-blue ink. It was dated some ten years previously from an Armenian slave-dealer who had been paid by the Order to search for this elusive Byzantine princess.

The merchant had made careful searches and discovered that a Byzantine princess, singular in her beauty and strange garb, had been sold to a Sipahi commander. None of the other captives could recognise her or say which family she had belonged to. The Turkish commander had taken her to his palace at Adrianople. About three months after the fall of Constantinople, the Sipahi commander and his entire family had been mysteriously killed: throats cut or pierced, blood drained from their cadavers. Of the Byzantine princess there was no sign. Search parties had been organised and, eventually, the princess’s corpse had been found in a cypress wood close to the house: she bore no mark of violence, or any indication of how she had died. Only on hearing of this some years later from the Armenian had Sir Raymond fully accepted that it was no longer flesh and blood he was hunting, but the most cruel and subtle of spirits.