The Rose Demon

3

Sir Raymond put the parchment away. He felt tired after the wine. He lay down on his camp bed, promising himself a few minutes’ rest before he returned to Margaret of Anjou’s council. He had scarcely made himself comfortable when he fell into a deep sleep, only to be roughly shaken awake by a royal messenger.

‘Sir Raymond, come! The Queen is waiting!’

The Hospitaller groaned and struggled from his bed. He took a water bottle and splashed the contents over his face, then, having dried himself on his cloak, he followed the man back through the camp to the Queen’s pavilion. As soon as he entered and glimpsed Wenlock’s triumphant smile, he knew his counsel and advice had been rejected.

‘Sir Raymond,’ Beaufort refused to meet his eyes, ‘Her Grace the Queen has decided. We will deploy before dawn, our backs to the abbey. Our army will be divided into three divisions. Devon will command the left, myself the right, Lord Wenlock here, together with Prince Edward, will hold the centre.’ He pushed across the map which had been drawn during Sir Raymond’s absence. ‘You, Sir Raymond, will stay with Lord Wenlock.’ Beaufort explained. ‘I shall take my force,’ a stubby finger traced a line, ‘and try to go behind York’s left flank. They will think they are being attacked in the rear as well as the front. Wenlock will then charge.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Panic will ensue, the Yorkists will flee.’

‘It’s foolishness!’ Sir Raymond snapped, glaring down the table at the Queen. ‘Madam, Edward of York, whatever you think of him, is a capable general. He has smashed your armies at Barnet: he will have scouted the terrain of this land and be prepared for any ambuscade or surprise.’

‘We can’t retreat!’ the Queen snapped. ‘Sir Raymond, I have never really understood your reasons for tying your fortunes to my banner. However, you have seen our star rise and fall. We have lately come from France.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I am tired of being King Louis’ pensioner. Every day York grows stronger.’ She jabbed at the piece of parchment. ‘We must bring him to battle and destroy him and his entire house once and for all!’

‘And what if it goes wrong?’ Sir Raymond asked desperately. He tried to control the panic seething in his stomach. ‘Only a few miles away lie Edward and his brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence. They, too, have been fighting the length and breadth of this kingdom and are bent on total victory.’ Sir Raymond drew himself up. ‘If we lose tomorrow, then we lose for ever!’

The Queen, however, got to her feet, one hand resting on the shoulder of her sulky, spoilt son. The commanders also rose to leave. Sir Raymond looked around. We are dead men, he thought. We should commit ourselves to God and our bodies to our enemies. I am to die, my task unfulfilled.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen folded back the voluminous sleeves of her dark murrey dress, ‘our deliberations are finished. We should be moving before dawn.’ She swept out of the tent and her commanders followed.

Sir Raymond sighed. He stayed for a while staring at Beaufort’s crudely drawn map, then he heard a commotion outside, men shouting for the captain of the watch. Sir Raymond went out. In the flickering firelight he could see two horses, each with a corpse slung over it. A throng of men stood around. Officers arrived, beating them back with the flat of their swords. Sir Raymond pushed his way through: the corpses were unroped and laid next to each other on the ground.

‘What’s the matter here?’ Raymond demanded.

The officer lowered his torch. Sir Raymond’s heart skipped a beat. The throats of both soldiers had been neatly pierced on either side of their windpipes, the fronts of their jerkins were soaked in blood. Their faces were white-blue, eyes staring: a look of terror frozen on their dead faces.

‘In God’s name!’ a soldier muttered. ‘They are two of our scouts.’ He pointed into the darkness. ‘They went hunting for food, as well as information, in the woods near Sutton Courteny.’

‘I found them,’ another voice replied. ‘They were lying in the woods, faces down, about ten yards apart. Each had drawn his knife but I couldn’t find anything.’

‘What do you mean?’ The Hospitaller looked up at him.

‘Well, six of us went out,’ the soldier replied. ‘We all agreed to meet at a certain place and return to camp. These two went into the woods. I went to a deserted village but there was nothing there. When they failed to return, I went looking for them.’ He scratched his chin. ‘They were just lying there, no sign of any enemy.’

The officer tapped one of the corpses. ‘What weapon could cause such wounds? Just look, are they dagger holes?’

‘Or teeth marks?’ another added. ‘Like those of a large wolf.’

Sir Raymond stood up. He felt unsteady, his mouth dry with fear. He had seen such marks before in his haunting journey around Europe. While the officer made arrangements for the men’s bodies to be tossed into a pit, Sir Raymond, breathing deeply to control his fear, walked slowly back to his tent. He pulled aside the flap and went inside. He was pouring himself another cup of wine when he noticed two white roses lying on top of a chest. They had not been there when he left the tent. On each were sprinkled small drops of blood. Sir Raymond drank greedily but he couldn’t stop shaking. He knocked the roses to the soil and ground them into the earth under his boot.

‘The Devil is very close,’ he muttered. ‘And so is my death.’

Throwing the cup into a corner of the tent, he went out and searched for a friar to hear his confession and give him final absolution. Sir Raymond did not sleep that night but spent the early hours before dawn deep in prayer and preparing his affairs. He wrote letters to his superior, arranged with the friar who had shriven him to sing Masses for his soul and then distributed all his possessions amongst the poorest of the camp followers. He then shaved, washed, attended Mass and received the Sacrament before breaking his fast on some dry bread and wine.

Sir Raymond was armoured and ready for battle when the trumpets blew, the banners unfurled and the sergeants-at-arms began to marshal the men into their divisions. Sir Raymond collected his destrier and, with his war helm lashed to his saddle horn, made his way through the camp looking for the gold leopards rampant of the young Prince Edward.

Despite his foreboding, Sir Raymond felt a thrill at the coming battle. His horse neighed, shaking its head restlessly, ready to charge. Sir Raymond leant down and stroked it gently on the neck, whispering quietly to it. He felt his sword, making sure it slid easily in and out of its scabbard. One of Wenlock’s retainers grasped his reins and led him to the massed men at the front where Wenlock and the other commanders were grouped round the young prince. The sky was brightening, the cool dawn breeze already beginning to fall under the growing heat of the rising sun. The men chattered and laughed to hide their unease. Raymond looked to his left where the white-coated men of the Earl of Devon, foot soldiers and archers, were mustering. In the centre before them, knights were massing behind their wall of archers and men-at-arms; to the right he glimpsed the black crosses of Somerset’s Trinity banner.

Sir Raymond stood high in the stirrups. The river mist which had curled in just before dawn was beginning to dissipate. The Hospitaller could see how broken the land was, fields and meadows dotted with ditches and hedges.

Suddenly there was the crack of bombards, and huge stones began to fall amongst the archers, sending them whirling like bloody ninepins. Wenlock, surprised, rode forward. Sir Raymond stared in horror for, through the fading mist, coming much faster than they had expected, was Edward of York’s army. Bombardiers pushed their cannons, behind them lines of archers. The Hospitaller was astonished as the guns opened up again. The Yorkist archers came quickly past them, some standing, some kneeling; the order to ‘Loose!’ rang out and the air became black with whirring shafts which fell like deadly hail. Here and there, a knight, still unhelmed, took an arrow in the face or neck. Their own men-at-arms and archers tried to reply but confusion had already been caused. Sir Raymond hastily put on his helmet and drew his sword. He pushed his horse through the struggling mass alongside that of Wenlock.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he screamed through the slits in his helm. ‘We are to advance!’

‘The Duke of Somerset,’ Wenlock murmured, ‘has taken a force. He will circle the enemy. We have only to stand our ground.’

‘We are to charge!’ another commander said.

Wenlock, however, his visor raised, looked like a man caught in a deadly fear, his face pasty-white. He fumbled at his reins and pulled his horse away. Sir Raymond again lifted himself up in his stirrups. He could already see that their left flank was beginning to disintegrate, the men either running towards the centre or back across the fields in the direction of Tewkesbury. Somerset’s right, however, still stood firm: Tresham, Somerset’s principal commander, turned his horse and galloped up towards them, helmet raised. He was screaming abuse at Wenlock, pointing his arm towards the enemy. Suddenly Tresham’s horse stumbled, its front legs caving in. Tresham was thrown from the saddle, his body bouncing on the ground like that of a child’s toy.

The Yorkist archers, now emboldened, were running forward, taking up a closer position; behind them, the massed ranks of Edward of York’s cavalry and men-at-arms, their banners flapping, blue, gold and red; the black lion of Hastings, the white lion of Howard. Wenlock still dithered. A roar came from the right, Sir Raymond stared in disbelief. Somerset’s lines were crumbling. Throwing down their arms, the men were running back up the hill behind them. A messenger came riding through, an archer covered in dust and sweat, eyes red-rimmed and staring, voice nothing more than a creak. He flung his arm towards the disintegrating ranks on their right.

‘The Duke of Somerset,’ he gasped, ‘is in retreat! He did not encircle the enemy but ran straight into Richard of Gloucester. Look, his banners can be seen!’

Wenlock’s commanders, lifting their helms, looked to their right. Somerset’s men were fleeing the field and, in the distance, they could see the huge war banners bearing Richard of Gloucester’s insignia, a white boar rampant. Sir Raymond grasped Wenlock’s arm.

‘Stand!’ he shouted. ‘Stand if not charge!’

As if in answer, Raymond heard a fanfare of trumpets from the front. He turned his head and knew the battle was lost. Edward of York had ordered a general advance and a wall of Yorkist steel, solid and impenetrable, was coming in an armed mass towards them. Wenlock turned and fled, the others, including Sir Raymond, followed suit. Behind them they heard the screams and yells, the shimmering clash of sword and armour as the Yorkists met what was left of the Lancastrian front line. At the top of the hill Wenlock reined in, took his helmet off, mopping his face with his hands. He stared around.

‘The Prince!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, the Prince!’

‘He did not retreat,’ a voice called.

Sir Raymond and others were about to ride down, when pounding along the brim of the hill, their banners held high, came Beaufort and others. The Duke’s rage was terrible. He had lost his helmet, his hair was matted with blood, which ran in rivulets through the dust which masked his face. He did not bother to rein in; his horse crashed amongst them and Beaufort, bringing his axe back, smashed Wenlock’s head, turning it into a bloody pulp. He then lifted his boot and kicked his erstwhile commander’s corpse from the saddle. Beaufort, his eyes mad with fury, glared at the other commanders.

‘So die all traitors!’ he screamed. ‘Wenlock has lost us the battle!’

A shout went up from the melee at the foot of the hill: ‘The Prince is down! The Prince is down!’

Raymond stared back. The dust of battle cleared momentarily in a puff of wind. The gold leopards rampant of Prince Edward’s banner had disappeared. The pennants of York were now clear and the remnants of the Lancastrian army were breaking.

‘We must flee!’ Beaufort shouted. ‘Seek sanctuary in the abbey!’

The Hospitaller, however, just stared open-mouthed towards the battle line. Someone was walking towards him, tall, erect, steel-grey hair cropped, face burnt swarthy by the sun. The man, unnoticed by the men dying and struggling around him, was moving slowly, arms raised in friendship. In one hand he carried a white rose, in the other a red.

‘Otto,’ Sir Raymond whispered. ‘My brother? My brother, what are you. .?’

He felt his arm shaken. One of Beaufort’s squires was staring beseechingly at him.

‘Sir Raymond, we have to flee!’

The Hospitaller looked back. His mind was playing tricks. The vision had vanished: all he could see was a line of men hurrying towards him. Grasping the reins of his horse, he dug his spurs in and followed the rest, galloping across the meadow towards Tewkesbury.

Matthias had woken just before dawn: the house was quiet, his mother and father still sleeping. He dressed hurriedly and, remembering the attack the night before, put on a belt which carried a small sheath knife. He stole down to the kitchen where he ate some bread and salted bacon, and gulped at a cup of watered ale. He stood listening: nothing, except the birds chirping under the eaves. He went across and pulled back the shutter. The day looked set to become a beautiful one. Matthias bit his lip. He felt guilty. He really should wait for his parents but permission had been given, and sometimes adults could change their minds. He stared across at the crucifix, finished the rest of the ale and, still feeling guilty, went across and knelt down, staring up at the face of the crucified Christ. He would, at least, say his prayers.

‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy strength.’

Matthias paused as he heard the floorboards creak above him and, grabbing his small leather bag in which he had placed some bread and fruit, he rushed down the passageway and out of the front door. He slipped over the cemetery wall and ran through the long grass, relishing the wet dew, which splashed his hands, and the morning breeze, which cooled his brow.

Within a short while he was in the village. The high street was empty. A dog ran out barking but, recognising Matthias, slunk away. Two fat sows, rooting amongst the midden-heap, looked up, great ears flapping, before they returned to their work. The doors and windows of the Hungry Man were shuttered and locked. A few of the peasants were already up, ready to leave for the fields. Fulcher’s younger daughter, Ethelina, went by with a yoke across her shoulder from which hung two pails of milk: the blacksmith was a wealthy man and had his own small pasture with a few fat-bellied cows. Any other time Matthias would have stopped to beg for a drink but he was frightened that someone might learn where he was going and decide it was best to check with Parson Osbert.

Matthias sped on, only slowing down when he noticed the old woman sitting on the gallows stone, a basket of herbs in her lap. Old Bogglebow: the hag, Margot, from Baron Sanguis’ manor house. No one really knew why the manor lord kept her but the gossips whispered that Baron Sanguis, interested in the black arts, had used Margot to divine the future. Indeed, or so Parson Osbert had whispered, Baron Sanguis had asked Margot to discover whether York or Lancaster would be victorious in the war. Only then did the Sanguis family make its decision, pinning its hopes to Edward of York. Six weeks earlier the baron, accompanied by his son, twelve yeomen and six men-at-arms, had marched east for the great road to London to place their swords at the disposal of the Yorkist princes.

Old Bogglebow rarely came into the village — sometimes to beg. Other times she’d wander in the forest to collect flowers and herbs for her potions and elixirs. No one dare insult this ancient, one-eyed crone with a face as lean as a hatchet, twisted mouth and a tongue steeped in bitterness. Matthias had occasionally glimpsed Margot as she moved like a spider through the village. Now he walked slowly: he did not want to show he was frightened of Old Bogglebow. He meant to pass her by and had almost done so when she called out.

‘Matthias, isn’t it? The priest’s brat. How is your father, and the fair Christina?’

Matthias stopped and turned. The old woman studied him, her one good eye gleaming like a freshly washed, black pebble, the other hidden by loose flaps of skin. Her face was snowy-white, her hair too, and the boy wondered if she had rubbed some powder into both; her bloodless lips parted in a half-sneer. She was holding one of the flowers the hermit had pointed out yesterday. Matthias recognised the venomous monkshood.

‘Aye, Matthias,’ she declared. ‘So, where does Matthias go?’

‘About my own business.’

She got up and hobbled towards him. Matthias recalled how she was supposed to have been born with a club foot.

‘Clever, clever boy,’ she declared. ‘They say,’ her head came forward, scrawny neck now tight, ‘they say you are a clever boy.’ One hand, thin and cold like a claw, reached out and touched him gently on the cheek. Matthias flinched but held his ground. ‘I know where you are going, boy. To the village of the dead, to meet your friend the hermit.’

She was trying to be sweet but Matthias caught the venom in her words. She was now watching him closely, her one good eye studying his face as if she intended to remember every feature.

‘Can’t I go with you?’ she simpered.

‘The hermit’s not your friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘If you want to see him, you should go yourself.’

‘One has to be invited into a great lord’s presence,’ she cooed back. ‘But remember me to him, won’t you, boy? Say sweet things about poor Margot. Tell him how fond I am of you.’ She drew closer and Matthias caught her stink. ‘I am your servant, Matthias. Anything you want, a potion, an elixir. .?’ She grasped him by the shoulder, her nails dug deep into his skin.

Matthias squirmed. ‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘You are hurting me! I’ll tell-’ He was going to say his father but he stopped short because the change in Margot was so dramatic.

She clasped her hands together, bowing, making small jigging movements like Matthias had seen other old women do in front of the sanctuary lamp.

‘Oh, don’t tell the hermit,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I never intended to hurt, only to serve you. Look!’ Again the clawlike hand came up.

This time Matthias didn’t wait. He ran like the wind along the trackway into the wood. He went as fast as he could. Only once did he stop, where the soldiers had attacked him last night. He looked fearfully into the undergrowth: he could see where the grass and plants had been beaten down but nothing else. He hurried on. The hermit was true to his word. Matthias found him waiting outside the old, crumbling lych-gate.

‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’

The hermit crouched down. He drew the boy to him, hugging him gently, softly stroking the back of his head.

‘It’s good to see you, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘You are well?’

‘Those soldiers,’ the boy blurted out. ‘Those wicked men last night-’

‘I followed you,’ the hermit replied. ‘I wanted to show you that you had nothing to fear.’

‘But the soliders? That voice!’

‘They have gone.’ The hermit grinned. ‘And I am the best of mimics.’

‘Did you kill them?’

‘They have gone.’ The hermit stood up. ‘And they’ll never trouble you again, Creatura.’ He stared down in mock anger. ‘You are later than I expected.’

‘I met the witch. Margot, Old Bogglebow. She wishes to be remembered to you. She was strange. She wanted to meet you. She said she was my servant but I don’t think she is.’

‘No, she isn’t.’ The hermit picked up a staff leaning against the wall. ‘Such people, Creatura, are nothing but meddlers. They crawl into the darkness and take to themselves powers they should not, and cannot have. I do not like Margot. But, come, we must be in Tewkesbury soon.’

‘Are we walking there?’

‘No, no. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

He led him along a trackway. Matthias didn’t understand how he knew his way but, just before they left the wood, the hermit took Matthias into a small clearing where a horse, saddled and harnessed, stood hobbled, eating the grass. It was a fine, smooth, deep-chested bay. The hermit stroked its muzzle and whispered gently in its ear.

‘Where did you get it from?’ Matthias asked as the hermit swung him into the saddle and climbed up behind.

‘You ask too many questions, Creatura. I found it wandering. It’s probably from one of the armies. You are comfortable?’

Matthias enjoyed the ride. The trackways were hard, the horse fresh and strong, and it moved along in a fine canter. The hermit was silent. Now and again he’d pause at the top of a hill and stare down, murmur to himself and then ride on.

As they skirted Tredington and took the road to Tewkesbury, Matthias began to realise something was wrong. His parents had taken him here on market days. He was used to the carts and barrows, the hucksters and the traders, the cheerful banter of men looking forward to a good day’s trading. Now the people on the roads were different: grim-faced, heads down, they hurried along as if they wished to be indoors, well away from what might happen. On two occasions they met parties of soldiers, horsemen galloping hither and thither, their clothes stained with mud, white flecks of foam on their tired horses. Two foot soldiers, probably deserters, drew their swords and approached the man and the boy, but when the hermit turned to face them they slunk away.

They entered Tewkesbury just as the bells of the great abbey were tolling for morning prayers. The streets and lanes were strangely empty. No stalls or shops were open. Journeymen and traders stayed in the taverns with the doors closed and windows shuttered. No children played in the streets, even the wandering hogs and dogs had been penned in. A funeral cortege passed them, the mourners walking quickly, and the old priest who preceded them gasping and stammering at his prayers.

‘What’s the matter?’ Matthias asked.

‘It’s the battle,’ the hermit replied. ‘As I told you, Matthias, blood will be spilt, armies will shatter. Princes will topple. The ravens will feast well tonight. Women will be widowed and children made fatherless. This is a dreadful day.’ His voice grew grim. ‘Remember, Creatura, all life preys on life. Now, I have someone to see.’

They rode through the small town and up into the abbey close. They dismounted and the hermit led the horse around into the monastic enclosure. A lay brother, followed by the guestmaster, came out to greet them. The latter apparently recognised the hermit and shook his hand warmly as his companion led the horse away to the stables.

‘It’s good to see you.’ The old monk’s tired face was lit by a smile. ‘And who’s this?’ He pointed down at Matthias.

‘My friend and companion, Matthias Fitzosbert. His father is priest at Sutton Courteny.’

The man’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, quite. And what do you wish here?’

‘To pray in the abbey.’

The guestmaster blinked and wetted dry lips.

‘It is not safe to be in Tewkesbury today, my friend. Father Abbot has received news from the battlefield. A terrible and bloody struggle has taken place. Edward of York carries all before him. Men from the Lancastrian army have been deserting all night, stopping at our house, begging for alms.’

‘I just want to pray,’ the hermit replied.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The monk led them forward. ‘Morning Office is finished and Mass has been said. Do you wish food, drink from our refectory?’

The hermit shook his head and, clasping Matthias’ hand, he went through a side door into the soaring nave. Matthias stared in disbelief: great columns marched the length of the church up to a gloriously painted sanctuary whilst the carved roof above him looked as if it were held up by magic. He stared in amazement at the shafts of light pouring through the multicoloured, painted windows.

‘I have loved, oh Lord,’ the hermit whispered, ‘the beauty of Thy house, the place where Your glory dwells. This, Matthias, is the gate of Heaven and, indeed, a terrible place.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Matthias whispered.

His father had never brought him here and, caught up in wonderment, Matthias did not know where to gaze first. The wall paintings drew him, striking in their glorious vigour: angels swooped, satyr-faced demons were spat out of the fire of Hell, the just were carried by Christ in judgment; St Anthony preached to the fishes; Lazarus was swept up into the bosom of Abraham.

‘Look!’ he cried, but the hermit had walked away. He was staring at a painting on the far wall. Matthias, curious, ran across, his sandals slapping on the hard paved floor. Matthias gazed at the painting: a beautiful woman, her naked body white as alabaster, hair of spun gold, stood beneath a tree: one hand covered her breasts, the other the secret place between her thighs. She was staring at the figure of a glorious young man clothed in the sun. Olive-skinned, lustrous-eyed, he was holding a rose towards the woman. Matthias noticed it had no thorns. When he looked at the hermit, his friend’s face was tragic and sad, silent tears running down his cheeks. The hermit extended his hands and touched the painted rose, then the beautiful woman. He muttered something Matthias didn’t understand then, folding his arms across his chest, went and sat at the foot of a pillar lost in his own thoughts.