The Rose Demon

13

Matthias was returned to the Bocardo. Being a condemned felon, he was loaded with chains before being thrown into the back of the cart. The sentence had been so harsh, even the hardened gaolers felt sorry for him.

‘If you can find some money,’ the chief gaoler declared, sharing a loaf of bread with him, ‘we’ll buy a bag of gunpowder and tie it round your neck. The heat then blows your throat apart and you die quicker, better that, than feeling your flesh bubble and your eyes turn to water.’

‘Or,’ his assistant added. ‘If you pay us, when the smoke gets really thick, one of us here can come through and strangle you.’

Matthias burst out laughing, throwing his head back he guffawed until the tears ran down his dirty face. The gaolers stared impassively. Such solemn looks on their villainous faces only made matters worse — Matthias found he couldn’t stop laughing. He realised how long it had been since he had laughed so heartily and so deeply.

‘I am sorry,’ he gasped, popping the rest of the bread into his mouth, ‘but here I am, gentlemen, about to die a horrible death for crimes I did not commit. The only comfort I am offered is a bag of gunpowder or a garrotte string. I do thank you,’ he added hastily seeing their annoyance. ‘I am very grateful.’ He stared at a point over their heads. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I will not die.’

‘Why?’ The turnkey became aggressive. He drew back, remembering that Matthias was supposed to have magical powers. ‘You don’t think you’ll get a pardon, do you? I doubt it.’

Matthias leant against the wall. ‘I agree, I don’t think I’ll get a pardon.’ He smiled at his gaolers. ‘But we’ll see.’

He later regretted his remarks. The chief gaoler was now deeply suspicious. Matthias was manacled and the gaoler kept the cell door open whilst sitting down at the end of the torch-lit passageway watching his prisoner intently. The chains fastened to his gyves were long and loose. Matthias was able to move round the cell and drive off the snouting, sleek-coated rats when they became too bold. Nevertheless, as one day passed into another, Matthias began to despair. He did his best to counter this by going back to his childhood and sweet memories of Christina and Osbert. However, it was the hermit who intruded into his thoughts: showing him the foxes; freeing the dove in the ruined church; riding back with him from Tewkesbury.

On the third evening after Matthias was sentenced the gaoler, perhaps to keep the prisoner subdued, was generous with the wine. Matthias slept, though his mind was plagued by nightmares. He was back in Tenebral, standing in the nave of the ruined church. The sky above was red, as if scored by the flames from a great fire. A group of men were riding up the path, their destriers black as night, heads and faces covered by chain-mail coifs. All around him came a loud chanting, as if an army were intoning the Dies Irae, the sequence from the Mass of the dead. The riders moved slowly, the banners they carried fluttering in the wind. Their leader, his face hidden behind a helmet on which a falcon stood, wings outstretched, stopped. He put his steel gauntlet on Matthias’ shoulder, squeezing it tightly; his other hand went to lift the visor. Matthias struggled to turn his face away. At the same time he wanted to cover his ears from the sombre chanting which was growing louder. He opened his eyes: the gaoler was shaking him vigorously, the torch he carried crackling, sending out acrid fumes.

‘Master Fitzosbert, oh Lord be thanked! I thought you were dead. You have a visitor. A priest has come to shrive you.’

Matthias struggled back against the wall and stared down the passageway. In the poor light he made out the man he had seen in St Mary’s church just before he had been sentenced.

‘Do you want a priest?’ the gaoler asked. He crouched down. ‘It can help. When it comes to being taken out, you’ll not be so fearful.’

The gaoler withdrew as the priest came into the cell. As he did so, he dropped a coin into the gaoler’s hand.

‘Lock the door,’ he muttered. ‘A man’s confession is between him and God.’

The door slammed shut, the key turned. The priest, despite his fine, woollen robes, sat down on the rushes next to Matthias.

‘It’s good of you to come,’ Matthias declared.

The priest stared coolly back. Matthias studied his visitor. A youngish man, his auburn hair was neatly tonsured. Close up, his face was not pleasant: the square jaw was offset by narrow, close-set eyes and a rather spiteful cast to the thin lips, as if the man disapproved of everything he saw and heard.

‘Father, are you really here to shrive me?’ Matthias asked. ‘And, if you are, how do I know you are a priest?’

‘My name is Richard Symonds. I am a priest of Oxford.’

The man undid his cloak, revealing his long, black cassock as well as a small silver cross on a copper chain round his neck. He opened the large pouch on his belt and drew out a letter. The turnkey had lit the cresset torch in the cell. Matthias, with a rattle of chains, studied the document carefully. It was a licence, signed and sealed by the Bishop of London, giving one Richard Symonds the faculty to preach, celebrate Mass and hear confessions in London and in the counties of Oxford and Berkshire.

‘You have a parish, Father?’

‘No, I am a tutor in Lord Audley’s household.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And you are right, I am not here to shrive you. I come to ask for your help.’

Matthias lifted his hands in a jangle of chains.

‘Father, I’m dirty, unshaven and, in about four days, I’m going to be burnt to death. How can I help you?’

‘I was at your trial. They said you were a Yorkist.’

‘They also said I was an assassin and a sorcerer.’

‘But you do have powers, don’t you?’

Symonds’ head came forward, his eyes gleaming, lips parted. Matthias wondered if the priest were not a little insane: something about the eyes, that slight tilt to the head. A secretive man, Matthias thought, constantly engaged in subtle schemes.

‘Father, if I had such powers, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

‘She said you’d be diffident.’

Matthias’ heart skipped a beat.

‘Who said that?’

‘Morgana. She approached me after the trial. She said you were a Yorkist, not a murderer, a man of great power.’

‘What do you propose?’ Matthias asked wearily. ‘And speak low, for the turnkey is very suspicious.’ He smiled weakly. ‘He thinks I’ll sprout wings and fly away.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s already searched me and is richer by two coins.’

Symonds edged a little closer. ‘I shall speak and speak quickly. Edward IV of blessed memory died three years ago. Two years later his brother Richard of Gloucester, having assumed the crown, was defeated at Market Bosworth, by Henry Tudor.’

‘And I understand George, Duke of Clarence, the third brother,’ Matthias added drily, ‘died rather mysteriously in the Tower. As did Edward IV’s two boys, the Princes. People said they were murdered by their Uncle Richard so that is the end of the House of York.’

‘I cannot speak for any of them,’ Symonds replied. ‘The fate of the Princes is a mystery but Henry Tudor is a usurper.’ He drew himself up, his eyes glittering: a fanatic, Matthias thought, a man obsessed with a cause.

‘The Yorkists are dead,’ Matthias declared. ‘And the power of Henry Tudor is more than manifest. You saw it at my trial.’

‘One Yorkist prince still lives,’ Symonds whispered dramatically. ‘Edward of Warwick, Clarence’s son.’

The doings of kings and princes did not interest Matthias but he tried to recall what Baron Sanguis had told him.

‘He’s in the Tower!’ Matthias exclaimed. ‘Warwick was kept prisoner by his Uncle Richard as well as Henry Tudor.’

‘He’s an imposter,’ Symonds snapped. ‘The true Warwick has escaped. He has the support of Yorkist lords and he is safe in a house outside Oxford.’ Symonds clapped his hands. ‘I intend to take him to Dublin. The Irish lords led by the Earl of Kildare will rise in revolt to support him. Other English lords, including de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, and my Lord Lovell will join us there. His aunt Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, will supply us with mercenaries and gold.’

‘So, why do you need me? A scholar about to be burnt to death?’

‘Morgana says you are a man of great power. You will aid our cause, a talisman for our success.’ The priest got to his feet. ‘You really have little choice in the matter, do you?’

Matthias shook his head. ‘Any fate is better than burning.’

‘I shall return tomorrow night.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ Matthias replied drily, ‘my face shaved, my saddlebags packed.’

The priest smirked, sketched a blessing in the air and shouted for the turnkey.

Matthias spent the night speculating on whether Symonds was insane or just foolhardy. Late the following evening, Amasia came: she, too, bribed the gaoler: he leered at Matthias and said he would keep the door to the cell open. Amasia’s face was hidden in the shadow of her hood. She sat in a corner of the cell well away from him.

‘Why have you come?’ Matthias snapped. ‘To gloat? To say you are sorry? You might as well go to the execution ground and spit in the flames!’

‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva!’

Matthias’ head jerked back. It was Amasia’s voice, low and sweet, but the words and the tone were that of the hermit.

‘Do not get excited.’ Amasia turned her face and whispered. ‘The oaf at the end of the gallery is watching us. I know what you are going to ask. How and why?’ Amasia played with a tendril of her hair. ‘When a soul dies, Matthias, it’s like light from a candle, it travels so quickly, so far, so fast. The journey lasts for eternity. I am different: I am locked in the same moment of eternity because of my will, because of my love. All I see, all I deal with, is the eternal now. Imagine,’ her voice was low and soft, ‘imagine, Matthias, you are back at Sutton Courteny. There are houses all along the street. You can go into any of them and do whatever you like — eat, drink. So it is with me.’

‘And Amasia?’ Matthias asked. ‘The girl I knew?’

‘Some people,’ she replied, ‘because of their strength and the spiritual state of their souls, can resist me, like a powerful householder can bar the windows and doors against an intruder. Others? I can slip in like a thief in the night. They have weakened their spirit. Remember the words of the gospel, Matthias: “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Have you ever wondered, Matthias, how you can lose something which is eternal?’ Amasia glanced quickly down the gallery and leant across. ‘It’s so easy, Matthias. Amasia lost her soul when she betrayed you.’ She smiled. ‘Remember the gospels, Matthias? When Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus, Satan entered.’

‘Why not possess me?’ Matthias taunted.

Amasia’s head went back.

‘Why not me?’ Matthias repeated, shuffling his chains. He sat back when he glimpsed the turnkey stand and stare down. ‘You can’t, can you?’ Matthias whispered. ‘Someone, something is blocking you.’

Amasia lifted her head. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

‘There are those around you,’ she whispered. ‘You see battles on earth, the same is true of the spirit world, an eternal war between the lords of the air, yet it’s not just that, Matthias. I do not want to enter you. Control is not love: power and love are as far apart as east and west.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I want you to know that.’

‘If I had stayed with Morgana, where would we have fled?’

‘Only heaven knows,’ Amasia laughed softly as if savouring the joke. ‘But now, rather than control events, like a swimmer in a river, I must flow with them. I knew Rokesby was going to hurt you, that’s why he had to die first. I knew the city authorities would try to arrest you, so Morgana was waiting for you. Now the silly priest, Richard Symonds, he is the key to the door.’

‘Don’t you have that power?’ Matthias mocked.

‘I have answered that, Matthias. You cannot control the will,’ she continued, ‘unless the will is handed over to you: that is another matter.’

‘You quote Scripture!’ Matthias retorted.

‘Why not?’ Again the smile. ‘Evil men can quote it and use it to justify their actions.’

‘What’s going on there?’ The gaoler was glaring down the passageway.

‘I must be going,’ Amasia said. ‘We shall meet again, Creatura.’

For the rest of the day Matthias remained tense and watchful, at the same time trying to hide his emotions from the gaoler.

‘They are getting the stake ready at Carfax,’ the fellow declared. ‘Cleaning the cobbles, the faggots and brushwood have been dried.’ He closed one eye and stared at Matthias. ‘You should thank God,’ he added, ‘and pray it doesn’t rain. It can take hours to get the fire burning.’

On these words of comfort, he spun on his heel and went back to his table.

It was well after curfew and the gaoler was settling down for another night’s drinking when Matthias heard voices at the end of the passageway, followed by the clink of coins and the sound of footsteps. The door was swung open and Symonds came in. He was dressed in a cassock, with a stole over his shoulders, a small, lighted candle in his hand.

‘Close the door!’ Symonds shouted. ‘And pray look after my good sister!’

The gaoler obeyed with alacrity.

‘He’s well paid,’ Symonds declared.

The priest blew the candle out. He undid the silver pyx he carried but, instead of a host, it contained a strange-looking key.

‘The work of a master locksmith,’ he explained, slipping the key into the gyves and manacles. In a trice they were loose. Symonds then sat back against the wall. He took a small wineskin from beneath his cloak, took a swig and offered it to Matthias. The claret was full and strong and warmed his belly. For a while he just sat and stretched, flexing his muscles, letting the blood run free. Symonds also gave him some bread, cheese and smoke dried ham. Matthias ate these ravenously. He heard a sound, a small scream, from the end of the passageway.

‘What is that?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

‘I would think it’s Mistress Morgana doing her duty,’ Symonds sneered.

The sounds at the end of the gallery ceased. There was a low groan and the cell door swung open. Morgana, her hair slightly dishevelled, her dark smock and cloak covered with pieces of straw, was smiling down at Matthias. In one hand a dagger, bloody to the hilt, in the other a set of keys.

‘I think it’s time we left.’

Symonds grasped Matthias by the arm and pushed him out into the passageway. He picked up the gaoler’s cloak and tossed it at Matthias. Its owner, his hose still down at his ankles, sprawled on the mattress, throat slashed from ear to ear.

‘There are other gaolers,’ Matthias muttered.

‘Aye, and they’ll be asleep,’ Symonds mocked. ‘Nothing like a small tun of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux with a small dose of valerian to ease people’s worries.’

They went up the steps and into the hallway. The few gaolers who did night duty were fast asleep round the table, cups and jugs knocked over as they sprawled in their drunken sleep. As they approached the side door, a soldier lurched out of a chamber. Symonds, who carried a thick ash cane as a walking stick, clubbed the man savagely on the side of the head. They quickly went through the keys. The door swung open. They crossed a small yard, passed through a wicket gate and into an alleyway.

‘No one ever escapes from the Bocardo.’ Symonds stopped and grinned wolfishly at Matthias. ‘Nothing more than a disused house really.’

‘Horses?’ Matthias asked.

‘Not here,’ Symonds scoffed.

He made to go: Morgana caught Matthias’ hand.

‘Matthias, we’ll meet again.’ She smiled through the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t have left me at the Golden Lyre.’

‘I had no choice,’ Matthias replied. ‘I had to see what would happen.’

She kissed him gently on each cheek.

‘Watch Symonds,’ she whispered. ‘Mad as a March hare.’ She put her arms round his neck and hugged him close. ‘If he threatens you, threaten back.’ And she slipped away into the darkness.

Symonds, who had gone further down the alleyway, gestured angrily.

‘Come on! Come on!’ he hissed.

Matthias followed him through a tangle of dark alleyways stinking to high heaven. Scavenging cats fled whining before them. Now and again from the back garden of a house a watch dog would howl or throw itself against the gate. The occasional beggar, huddled in the shadows, pleaded for alms.

Symonds deliberately kept well away from the student quarter. They reached the end of the High Street, entered the old Jewish cemetery, down a hill, splashing across the Cherwell, the water refreshingly cool against Matthias’ chapped legs. Still Symonds hurried on. At last they were in the countryside, the trackway they followed lit by a hunter’s moon. Matthias stopped and stared up at the stars. A clear, beautiful night, the breeze soft and sweet. Matthias closed his eyes and thanked God he had escaped.

‘Come on! Come on!’ Symonds urged again.

At last they left the trackway, crossed an open field and into a copse. Men, masked and hooded, gathered round Matthias, stripping him of his clothing. Another brought a leather bucket and a rag.

‘Wash and clean yourself.’ The voice was rough.

Matthias did so. Without a by-your-leave, another seized his hair and began to cut it. Matthias did not object as the dirt from the gaol was washed away. Saddlebags were brought, he was given a fresh change of clothing, leather riding boots, a war belt with sword and dagger, and a woollen cloak and cowl.

No one spoke. Symonds sat on a stump of a tree watching him. Food was produced and then horses brought. Symonds clasped the hands of those who had helped him. They led the horses across the fields, back on to the lane, and began a wild ride through the night. It was well after dawn before Symonds eventually agreed to stop for a while to refresh their horses.

The ride proved to be exhausting. They paused now and again to eat, drink or relieve themselves. The only thing Matthias learnt was that they were riding north-west. In the late afternoon they changed horses at a roadside tavern. Symonds kept riding even when darkness fell. Matthias protested but Symonds, reining in, shook his head.

‘No, we can’t sleep out. We are expected. Just a little further.’

‘Where are we going?’ Matthias asked.

‘To Twyford Grange. That’s all I’ll tell you.’

Night had fallen by the time they reached the grange, an old, rambling manor house surrounded by lonely fields. The pathway up to it was overgrown, its curtain wall crumbling. Most of the windows were shuttered and those on the ground floor were cracked and dusty. A taciturn manservant took their horses. Another led them into the hall where Symonds introduced Matthias to Elizabeth Stratford, a distant kinswoman of the Yorkist Lord Francis Lovell.

The lady of the manor was tall, angular, her face like yellowing parchment, yet her eyes were bright and friendly, lips parted in a welcoming smile. She extended one vein-streaked clawlike hand for Matthias to kiss and laughed quite merrily when she caught Matthias studying her old-fashioned dress and veil.

‘I have seen the years, young man,’ she said. ‘The hand you kissed has been held by them all: Henry V, his hapless son, the Yorkist lords.’ Her eyes grew sad. ‘All shadows now, gone into the dark. Come.’ She beckoned Matthias into the light provided by a candle wheel which hung on a chain from the ceiling. ‘So, you are Symonds’ friend, are you?’ She studied him closely. Her eyes became guarded, as if she had glimpsed something over Matthias’ shoulder.

‘Are you a magus?’ she asked. ‘A sorcerer?’

‘My lady, I am a scholar down on his luck and no more. And, with the exception of the good priest here, probably the loneliest man in the kingdom.’

‘Is that true, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The old lady stepped back two or three paces. She was studying him anxiously from head to toe. ‘When we met over there,’ she pointed to the darkness beyond the ring of light, ‘I really thought you were what you claim to be but, in the light, I can see that is not so.’

‘What do you mean, my lady?’ Symonds, his face excited, stepped forward. ‘Do you see his power?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

Lady Elizabeth turned on her heel, walked along the passageway and into the small hall.

‘They say Lady Stratford has second sight, that she is fey,’ Symonds whispered excitedly. He, too, stopped and looked over Matthias’ shoulder. ‘I can see nothing.’

‘She has a fanciful imagination,’ Matthias replied tersely. ‘Nothing more and nothing less.’ He heard a cough and looked up.

Lady Elizabeth had reappeared in the doorway and was staring at them. Matthias mumbled his excuses and they both followed her into the hall. This also must have seen better days: the hearth was full of cold ash, the drapes, banners and pennants hanging from the beams were dusty and slightly ragged. Cobwebs hung on the shields and weapons, fastened to the walls above the dull, cracked wainscoting. Yet the rushes underfoot were clean and the small table which had been set up in the centre was covered with a white linen cloth. Matthias caught savoury odours from the kitchen. They washed their faces and hands at the lavarium. Lady Elizabeth plucked at Matthias’ sleeve and led him away.

‘I heard what you said, Master Fitzosbert.’ She smiled with her lips but her eyes were hard. ‘When you stepped into that pool of light, just for a moment, I glimpsed a shape behind you, the face of a knight, though he was dressed in a long garb like that of a monk.’

The sweat on the nape of Matthias’ neck turned cold.

‘Just for a moment.’ Lady Elizabeth repeated. ‘And a hand on your shoulder.’ She tapped his boiled leather jacket. ‘You are a powerful man, Matthias Fitzosbert, though I suspect you don’t realise it.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Matthias teased as she led him to the table.

‘No I am not, because I mean you no ill.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I only hope the same can be said for Symonds.’

‘Edward!’ Symonds exclaimed.

Matthias turned. A youth dressed in a dark burgundy gown which fell just beneath the knee came into the hall. He moved quietly, his feet encased in soft buskins. He bore no arms in the embroidered, leather belt clasped round his waist. His fingers were covered in rings, a silver chain round his neck partly hidden by the stiff white cambric shirt which stretched up to his chin. He had russet hair, neatly cropped just above his ears, a smooth, round face, smiling eyes, but looked weak-mouthed, rather ingratiating, eager to please. Symonds went down on one knee. He almost dragged the young man’s hand to his lips.

‘Matthias, Matthias, you should kneel,’ Symonds whispered. ‘This is your prince, Edward, George of Clarence’s son who has escaped from the Tower. He intends, with God’s help, to seize the throne which is rightfully his.’

Matthias knelt, only too eager to hide his confusion. Warwick came across: his hand was small, soft and smelt fragrantly of perfume. Matthias kissed the ring, Edward gripped his hand and raised him to his feet.

‘You are most welcome, Master Matthias.’ Edward of Warwick embraced him and, standing on tiptoe, gave him the kiss of peace on each cheek. He stood away, face smiling. ‘I have read Master Symonds’ letters on you.’ He clapped his hands shyly. ‘You are most welcome. When I come into my own you, Master Fitzosbert, will sit at my council table.’

Matthias kept his face impassive though his heart sank. Edward of Warwick was personable, graceful, charming but those watery blue eyes, that ingratiating smile? Would he be any threat to the powerful Tudor? Matthias studied him. Was he really Clarence’s son? Nephew of the powerful Edward IV and Richard III? Or some imposter trained to play the part? A cat’s-paw for the disaffected? Edward of Warwick grinned across at Symonds and Lady Elizabeth. Matthias could see the old lady had reached her decision: she did not think much of this Yorkist princeling.

‘Well, shall we eat?’

Again that childish clapping of the hands. Edward of Warwick almost skipped to the table. Matthias glimpsed the contempt in the old woman’s eyes and wondered if the prince were fully in his wits.

Symonds was apparently the master. It was he who guided Edward to the throne-like chair at the top of the table. He whispered instructions on how to use his napkin and only filled his goblet with a quarter of wine, the rest water.

The meal was pleasant enough. Matthias now felt the full effects of his escape and long ride. His body ached, his eyes grew heavy. He ate the jugged hare and picked at the venison in its mushroom sauce whilst listening to Symonds describe what help and assistance they would receive in Ireland and amongst the English lords. At every such pronouncement, Edward of Warwick would shake his head vigorously, but he seemed more concerned with filling his stomach than winning the crown of England. He seemed to have totally forgotten about Matthias. After the meal was finished, servants cleared the platters and trenchers. More candles were brought in. Lady Elizabeth ordered the servants to leave the room. Before they left, one of them brought a silver casket and placed it on the table beside her.

‘We shall study the cards,’ she announced.

Matthias looked at her expectantly.

‘Do you wish to?’ she asked the prince.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Edward of Warwick clapped his hands.

Lady Elizabeth opened the casket and took out the cards. They were large, square with gold backing. She kept them face downwards and slid them across the cloth. One for Edward, one for Symonds, one for Matthias.

‘Turn them over.’ She looked at Symonds. ‘You first.’

The priest did so. He gasped and slid the card back towards the woman. Matthias saw the picture: the figure of death, a skeleton wearing a suit of black armour. He rode a white horse and carried a purple standard with a white rose upon it. Skull and crossbones adorned the reins of the horse’s bridle. The horse rode across various people, not caring about their rank or position: a king lay outstretched, crown fallen away: a bishop with his hand held up in prayer: a maiden, her face turned away.

‘Superstition!’ Symonds snapped.

Edward of Warwick turned his over. He smiled and held the card up: an angel appearing from the clouds, a halo of golden hair around its young face. He was blowing a mighty trumpet from which a white banner hung, emblazoned with a red cross.

‘Judgment!’ Lady Elizabeth declared. ‘And you, Master Fitzosbert?’

Matthias knew little about the tarot and he wondered if Lady Elizabeth was merely teasing him. He smiled.

‘And my card, my lady? What will it be? The Devil?’

‘Turn it over!’ Lady Elizabeth glanced at Symonds. ‘You shouldn’t be frightened. Master Symonds and my Lord of Warwick have drawn Death and Judgment yet we are all subject to those.’

‘Turn it over! Turn it over!’ Warwick cried.

Matthias did so slowly. He smiled as he held it up. The card depicted a charioteer in splendid armour of the ancient world.

‘Conflict!’ Lady Elizabeth cried. Her eyes held his. ‘A terrible struggle, Master Matthias, and you stand at the centre of it!’