The Rose Demon

14

The following morning Symonds, Matthias and Edward of Warwick left the grange and continued their journey west. Matthias had considered Warwick to be a fool but the young prince proved to be a hardy horseman, brave, determined and a good companion. He would slow down if Matthias’ horse fell behind and, when they stopped to eat or drink, made sure Matthias was served before him. Matthias was touched by the youth’s simple generosity. Symonds, however, was surly. The playing of the tarot cards had unsettled him and he resented his protege’s liking for Matthias. Now and again they would stop at other lonely houses or taverns for fresh horses, provisions and a change of clothing. They entered Lancashire, the countryside becoming harsher, the weather betraying the first signs of the end of summer.

As they rode, Matthias became unsettled. His stomach hurt and he complained of gripping pains in his back and head. He grew feverish and, by the time they reached the Lancashire coast, Matthias couldn’t care whether he lived or died. His body was racked with pain, covered in sweat, whilst his stomach couldn’t keep down either food or drink. He was aware of the smell of the sea, salt and fish, a cold breeze, clouds scurrying against the darkening sky. He was in a taproom where men, some heavily armed, sat and discussed the tides and winds. Matthias realised a cog was waiting offshore to take them to Dublin. He stumbled outside to be sick, falling to his knees, retching until his stomach hurt. He was aware of Edward of Warwick coming out, pulling him to his feet, but Matthias’ legs felt weak. The night sky whirled above him.

‘Bring him in! Bring him in!’ a voice called.

‘Has he got the pestilence?’ another asked.

‘Examine his armpits and groin for buboes. If he has the Death, cut his throat!’

Matthias blinked, his mouth was dry. He could feel someone stripping his clothes off, hands punching into his armpits and groin feeling for the telltale buboes, the first signs of the plague.

‘No,’ a voice declared. ‘He hasn’t the plague but he is weak and fevered.’

‘Kill him!’ another voice shouted. ‘Cut his throat! He can’t be left here!’

Matthias heard Edward of Warwick’s voice high in protest. A cup was forced to his lips: his mouth was full with a bittersweet drink and he slipped into a fever-filled sleep.

Matthias did not know whether he was alive or dead, awake or asleep. Images came and went: he was on a sheet being taken across slippery sands and tossed unceremoniously into a bumboat. The creak of oars and the nauseous pitching which seemed to go on for ever. He was being raised up, laid out on a deck, sailors cursing, men shouting orders. . a stinking darkness, which smelt like a jakes, rats scurrying by him. Edward of Warwick bending over, dabbing his face with a cool rag.

Matthias tried to croak his thanks. More of the bittersweet potion was poured into his mouth. He let slip of his reality, grateful for the darkness. Dreams, deep in his soul, rose to torment his mind.

He was in the church at Tenebral, examining the runes on the wall. The air was thick with a fragrant perfume. White doves fluttered all around him. The sunshine was strong until a dark shape blotted out the sky. Matthias looked up. A hawk, black and massive, covered the sun. It was hurtling down, talons outstretched. Matthias cried out but, as the hawk drew closer, it changed in shape: the Preacher, dressed in black from head to toe, his head still twisted from the gallows rope, eyes like burning coals and mouth frothing yellow spittle, hands like claws stretched out to kill. Matthias screamed. The hermit appeared but this time in the shape of a woman with soft brown hair, red chapped skin and light green eyes. He could now smell incense: a drink was forced between his lips. The dreams disappeared. Matthias slept on.

When he awoke Matthias could hardly believe it. No horse pounding beneath him. No lonely manor house or shabby tavern by the seashore. No pitching bumboat or dank, fetid hold. He lay in a broad four-poster bed in a white-washed chamber. The room was neat and tidy, the floor tiled and polished. A huge crucifix hung on the wall opposite. Chests and stools and other pieces of furniture lay around the room. To his left a fire burnt vigorously in the mantled hearth. Braziers full of glowing charcoal stood in each corner. Matthias moved his hands and feet. He felt weak and tired. He glimpsed the bell on the table beside him. He stretched out to grasp it but it fell to the floor with a crash. Matthias fell back against the bolsters and drifted into sleep. He heard voices, the accent musical, the words lilting.

‘He’s been awake, that’s good!’

Some more potion was pushed between his lips. He tried to open his eyes. All he could do was blink, then drift away. When he awoke again, two people sat by his bed watching him.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’

The woman was the same woman as in his dreams. She had soft, brown hair, light green eyes, her skin was red-chapped; a strong face full of life and vitality. The man beside her was dark-haired, narrow-faced, one eye covered by a patch, the other bright with life. He had a twisted, sardonic look.

‘Well, well, my boy,’ the man said. ‘Matthias Fitzosbert. We thought you were going to sleep until the last trumpet.’ Despite the man’s looks, the voice was warm and welcoming.

‘How long?’ Matthias muttered.

‘Have a guess, my boyo.’ He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘My name is Thomas Fitzgerald. I am a bastard son, or so they say, of one of the Kildares. I am a poet, a soldier, a courtier, a lover of beautiful women and a drinker of red wine.’

‘He’s also a terrible boaster,’ the woman laughed. ‘Goodness, if hot air could make gold coins we’d all be princes! My name is Mairead. He thinks I’m his woman. Now, child,’ her fingers brushed Matthias’ face, ‘guess how long you have been asleep?’

Matthias shook his head.

‘Well, today is the last day of September.’

Matthias’ jaw sagged. He realised he had been ill for at least six weeks.

‘Whatever it was,’ Mairead continued, ‘it was a terrible sickness. We’ve treated you like a babe and you’ve slept like one. But, the angels be my witness, you’ve said some strange things.’

Matthias stiffened and stared at these two strangers.

‘Now, boyo.’ Fitzgerald got to his feet, throwing his cloak over his shoulder. Beneath, he was dressed in a leather surcoat which reached down to mid-thigh, with black, woollen hose pushed into boots. His clothes were shabby but the war belt wrapped around his waist was of good shiny leather, three daggers hung from it in embroidered pouches. ‘Don’t be frightened.’ Fitzgerald smiled down at him as he picked at a piece of food through his finely set teeth. ‘You are in good hands. This is a chamber in the palace of no less a person than the Archbishop of Dublin. Elsewhere is your good friend master Richard Symonds, priest.’ The good eye winked slowly. ‘And, of course, your prince, the noble Edward of Warwick, soon to be crowned King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France, has his own princely chambers.’

‘Tush, Thomas, keep your voice down,’ Mairead whispered. She smiled at Matthias. ‘Symonds is a snake in the grass,’ she declared, ‘but young Edward is a fair boy.’

‘What’s happening?’ Matthias asked.

‘Ireland’s always been for the House of York.’ Fitzgerald walked round the bed and sat on the other side. ‘Symonds was right to bring his prince here.’

Matthias noticed how Fitzgerald stumbled on the word ‘prince’.

‘Now the great lords of Ireland have pledged their swords. Kildare, Ormond and the rest. The Church, too, has promised its aid. But it’s too late to go campaigning now. The sea is rough. There’ll be nothing in England to feed our horses or men.’

‘So?’ Matthias asked.

‘So, my boy, they’ll wait for a while,’ Fitzgerald continued. ‘Not only for the weather but a fleet.’

‘A fleet?’

Fitzgerald smiled lazily. ‘What’s the use of fighting for the English Crown if the English don’t help? The Yorkist lords are gathering but they are in the Low Countries. Francis Lovell, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, the son of the Earl of Suffolk.’ Fitzgerald tapped his chest. ‘That’s where I and the beautiful Mairead come in. I am a mercenary,’ he whispered with mock fierceness. ‘A cutter of throats and a ravisher of women-’

‘He’s also a liar,’ Mairead interrupted, leaning over to smooth the woollen coverlet. ‘I have known this boy, Master Matthias, since he was a babe. He sells his sword to the highest bidder. We are from the retinue of John de la Pole, envoy to the prince here in Dublin. There will be a fleet here soon from the Low Countries. The English lords, their retinues-’

‘And, more importantly,’ Fitzgerald interjected, ‘a thousand landsknechts.’

‘What?’ Matthias asked.

‘Mercenaries,’ Fitzgerald explained. ‘Born killers, like myself, under their leader, Martin Schwartz. They are a gift from Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister to the once great Edward IV, beloved aunt of our noble prince who now resides here in such opulent splendour.’

‘For God’s sake, keep your voice low!’ Mairead whispered.

Matthias struggled up to rest against the bolsters. Fitzgerald and Mairead hastened to help him, and Matthias caught her perfume, soft and cloying.

‘I’ve always wanted a child,’ Mairead said.

Fitzgerald grinned down at Matthias and patted his hand. ‘You are her child, you know. A good physician is Mairead. She knows the herbs and potions. She should be a physician.’ His face grew solemn. ‘Instead they call her a witch.’

‘Prince Edward told us to look after you,’ Mairead declared. ‘Gave us twenty pounds sterling, he did and offered us another thirty if you survived. A lovely boy, but you don’t believe he’s Warwick, do you?’

Mairead looked at Fitzgerald. The mercenary got up and walked to the door. He opened it, looked out, then closed and locked it.

‘There’s no one there,’ he said, ‘and the walls are thick.’ He sat on his stool next to Mairead. ‘Matthias — I can call you that, can’t I? — I am going to tell you the truth because, you know, never once in your rantings or ravings did you ever mention the House of York. So, I think the Cause means as much to you as it does to me.’ He winked at Matthias. ‘One day you’ll have to tell us why you are here. Now I am a ruffian born and bred. I lost my eye in a fray outside Arras but my ears and wits are as sound as any. Edward of Warwick is still in the Tower of London.’ He smiled at the surprise on Matthias’ face. ‘I have listened to the gossip in de la Pole’s circle. Edward of Warwick is a cat’s-paw: the son of an Oxford tradesman, his real name is Lambert Simnel. He’s a figurehead for the Yorkists. If they depose Henry Tudor, I am sure some nasty accident will occur so de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, can claim the throne.’

‘How many people know this?’ Matthias asked.

‘A few, but suspicion is spreading. The Tudors have taken the real Warwick out of the Tower and paraded him through the streets of London.’ Fitzgerald shrugged. ‘But we’ll see …’

‘Why are you here?’ Mairead asked Matthias, stretching over to straighten the bolsters behind him.

‘It’s a long story. Symonds regards me as a talisman. As for the rest, I have no choice. If I am ever caught in England, I’ll be hanged as a traitor, a murderer or a heretic.’

‘By Queen Mab’s paps!’ Fitzgerald grinned. ‘What on earth did you do?’

Matthias shrugged.

‘You told us some,’ Mairead declared, ‘when you were in a fever. You mentioned names: Christina.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Your father, Osbert, Santerre and two nameless ones, the hermit and the Preacher.’

Matthias studied both these people. Despite the warmth of the bed his stomach pitched in fear. Why were they really helping him? What proof did he have that the Dark Lord, the Rosifer, the being who refused to leave him alone, might not now possess one of these.

Mairead must have caught his suspicion.

‘One day,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘you can tell us. For the moment you’d best rest.’

Over the next few weeks Matthias regained his strength. Fitzgerald and Mairead were the perfect companions but Matthias did not relax his suspicions. Edward of Warwick came to visit him. Despite what Fitzgerald had told him, Matthias still regarded him as a prince.

Symonds, however, had changed. He no longer wore the dark fustian robes of a priest but those of an elegant courtier. He was dressed in a quilted jacket with rounded neck and cuffs, the hem edged with fur, a chapron on his head, velvet hose and piped patterned shoes studded with precious stones. He would swagger in, thumbs pushed into the brocade belt, and talk grandly about what help they would receive and which Irish chieftains were with them.

As the year drew to a close and Matthias recovered full health, he began to wander the Archbishop’s palace, a grand spacious affair with its polished high ceilings, long wooden galleries, comfortable parlours and chambers. At Edward of Warwick’s childish insistence, Matthias also attended council meetings and discovered that Symonds was not as foolish as he thought. English exiles, former Yorkists, were now flooding into Dublin. They brought their horses and armour, sometimes two or three men-at-arms. However, the real source of strength were the Irish chieftains who fascinated Matthias: tall, raw-boned men, skin cut and scored by the biting wind, their faces half-covered by luxuriant moustaches and beards. Proud warriors who dressed in a mixture of native fashion but sometimes imitated the worst excesses of court fops. Loud-mouthed and quarrelsome, generous and open-handed, their tempers could change at a drop of a coin. If they thought their honour had been besmirched, their hands would fall to their daggers and they’d scream at each other in Gaelic. Fitzgerald played a vital part in keeping all parties happy. Matthias could understand why John de la Pole had sent him to Dublin. Fitzgerald was a mercenary but he understood the Irish customs and keen Gaelic sense of honour. Time and again, at council meetings or banquets in the Archbishop’s chamber, Fitzgerald would intervene to placate some chieftain or turn a potential knife fight and blood feud into laughter and ribaldry. Outside, in the archbishop’s grounds, Matthias would glimpse the wild kerns or tribesmen who made up the retinues of these great chieftains.

‘They fight like the very devils,’ Fitzgerald said, as he and Matthias watched them out on the frost-covered lawn, feasting on the mutton and beef the aged and venerable Archbishop had provided from his kitchens. ‘But that’s the trouble,’ Fitzgerald continued with a sigh. ‘Look at them, Matthias! Naked as the day they were born. They carry shield and stabbing dirk. They cover their bodies with blue and red paint but that’s no protection against men-at-arms, mounted knights or the deadly arrows of massed bowmen.’

‘But we’ll get help in England?’ Matthias asked.

Fitzgerald turned, clicking his tongue, his good eye bright with mischief. ‘Oh, boyo, you might know your books and sing a hymn in Latin yet you know nothing about politics. You babble like a bairn. I’ll tell you what will happen.’ Fitzgerald closed the leaded window door and drew closer to Matthias on the window seat.

‘We’ll land in England and march inland. Henry Tudor and his general, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, will march north to meet us. Both sides will send out letters, emphasising their royal authority, ordering everyone to flock to their standards. The truth is, boyo, nobody will really jump until they’re sure which side is winning.’

‘And if we lose?’

Fitzgerald’s face became grave. ‘Then God help us. We are a foreign army, would be defeated rebels in enemy country. Henry Tudor will show us little mercy.’ He slapped Matthias on the leg. ‘But, if we win, it will be London Town, fine houses with deep cellars, silver cups and golden rings. We will feast like kings. And the women, Matthias, eh? I’d love to strip those plump, soft-skinned, overfed wives of the London merchants. I bet they’d squeal.’ He stopped talking as Mairead came down the gallery towards them. ‘But don’t ever tell Mairead that,’ he whispered. ‘She’d cut my balls off!’

A few days later Mairead pronounced Matthias fully recovered.

‘It must have been gaol fever,’ she declared. ‘Some rotten malignancy disturbed your humours. Now I think you are well enough to visit the city.’ She kissed Matthias on each cheek. ‘And, if you want,’ she whispered. ‘I can show you the sights.’

Matthias just grinned but never took her up on the offer. He liked Mairead but sensed her saucy flirtation was dangerous. Fitzgerald might swagger and talk about the ladies but he had a passion for the woman which might turn to a fierce, brooding jealousy.

Matthias was given fresh clothes and robes from the wardrobe: a new war belt with a shiny steel sword and a dagger with a long, ornate handle. He decided to see the city for himself and began to wander out. Winter had set in. Rain constantly fell, turning the muddy trackways and paths of the city into a quagmire. On the one hand Dublin was like any great town — the brooding castle, the fine elegant cathedral, the spacious mansions of the merchants and the lords. Cheek by jowl with these were the mean, mud-packed cottages of the poor, the tradesmen, the artisans. Dublin was also a border city. A busy port, merchants and traders from all over Europe thronged there. The air was thick with the smells and stench of the different ships which came into the harbour. Hanse merchants brushed shoulders with Flemings, Burgundians and Spanish. The English, too, were there, though they kept to themselves. The entire city knew about the presence of Edward of Warwick. Fitzgerald’s words proved prophetic: none of the visiting English wished to show his allegiance publicly.

To the west Dublin was protected by the pale, an area directly under English rule. Beyond this, in the misty glens, lived the great tribes and fighting clans. Fitzgerald had warned Matthias to be careful and he could see why. These tribesmen came swaggering in, their long hair tied back with coloured clasps and brooches, their bodies almost naked except for breech clouts, boots and multi-coloured cloaks around their shoulders. They looked fierce with their sharp pointed teeth, faces painted in various garish colours. Some of them came to the markets which filled the narrow alleyways and streets of the city. Others arrived to be hired by Edward of Warwick. A good number also came looking for trouble and easy pickings. Once the day was done, the taverns and alehouses would fill with these men, who would challenge each other to drinking contests that might end in vows of eternal friendship or the most bloody and violent of knife fights.

Matthias, in his dark, sober clothes and carrying the seal of Fitzgerald, which offered him the protection of the great Irish lords, was safe enough. He went through the city to divert himself, and to be alone, reflect on what might happen. He wondered whether, if Symonds’ projected invasion ever took place, he might slip away: perhaps back to Sutton Courteny and take counsel with Baron Sanguis. Matthias even began to speculate on whether the Rosifer, the Dark Lord, had forgotten him, until one memorable night during the second week of Advent.

Matthias had been sent to deliver a message from Edward of Warwick to a powerful lord who had a mansion overlooking the River Liffey. It was a personal, confidential matter, and Edward of Warwick had insisted that only Matthias should deliver it. As he’d made his way back through a narrow alleyway which led to the spacious grounds of the cathedral, a group of ruffians suddenly stepped out of the shadows. They were not Gaels or any of the tribesmen but sailors from some ship, and they were armed with sword, club and dagger. Their leader, a burly, bald-headed fellow, stepped forward and, jabbering in a patois Matthias couldn’t understand, pointed to the war belt he wore and his boots, indicating that Matthias hand them over. He stepped back, hand on the hilt of his sword. The rifflers followed, laughing and mocking his attempts at defending himself.

Then abruptly they stopped. Matthias could just about make out their faces in the light of a pitch torch which burnt on the side of an entrance to a house. Their ribaldry disappeared. They looked, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, at someone behind him. Matthias felt a cold breeze, a tingle at the back of his neck. He wanted to look round but dare not, fearing some trick. The assailants, however, started to move backwards. One dropped his club and made a hasty sign of the cross. They all turned on their heels and fled into the night. Matthias, slightly shaken, turned round. The alleyway was empty but, swirling amongst the fetid smells, came the sweet smell of a rose garden in full bloom under a summer’s sun.

‘Are you there?’ Matthias called softly. ‘Tell me, are you there?’

He went back down the alleyway, hardly daring to wonder what had terrified that group of ruffians so badly. He stepped into an alehouse, nothing more than a small, mean room, the floor covered with smelly rushes. It owned a few rickety stools and makeshift tables. In the corner, near the vats and barrels, stood the ale master. Matthias needed a drink, his throat and mouth were parched. He was also embarrassed at returning and showing his fear to Symonds and the others. A girl came across. She was dressed in a ragged smock, her feet bare. She reminded Matthias of Mairead with her dancing eyes and merry mouth.

‘Ale, please.’

The girl nodded and brought it back in a not-too-clean blackjack. Matthias sat in the corner and cradled the drink, sipping it carefully, savouring its tangy sweetness.

In the far corner an old crone, warming her knees near the fire, was being tormented by two sallow-faced youths who insisted on tickling her bare neck with a dirty piece of straw from the floor. The old lady screeched in annoyance, muttering curses. The youths came back, their faces flushed with drink. They tickled the woman again. The old crone got up and shook her stick at them but this only made matters worse. She appealed to the pot-bellied ale master but he just smiled weakly back, shrugged and returned to caressing the hair of the young slattern who had served Matthias. The tormenters returned to their task until Matthias, upset by the old woman’s screechings, walked across, drawing his sword and dagger. The youths stopped their baiting, shouted abuse and disappeared through the door into the night. Matthias filled the old lady’s tankard, tossing a coin at the slattern. He took the tankard back and pushed it into her hands.

‘Sit down, Mother,’ he said.

Her wizened, lined face broke into a smile. She supped at the ale, the white foam catching the hairs on her upper lip. She muttered her thanks. Matthias resheathed his sword and dagger and collected his cloak. He was about to leave when the old woman called out, pointing her finger at him.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Matthias called.

She said something but he couldn’t understand it.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I am English.’

Again the cracked smile. ‘You are well protected.’ Her voice was halting, the words clipped.

Matthias patted the hilt of his sword.

‘No, no, not that.’ The old woman pointed as if someone were standing beside Matthias. ‘He protects you.’

Matthias tried to hide his unease.

‘They say I am a witch.’ The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You really can’t see him, can you? Cowled and hooded he is, but he has a beautiful face, except for the eyes.’ She was now staring at a point beyond Matthias. ‘Like coals they are! Burning coals! He’s smiling at me.’ The old woman crouched back on her stool. ‘And the teeth,’ she added. ‘He is the Dearghul!’

‘The what?’ Matthias asked.

‘The Drinker of Blood, Englishman!’

Matthias swallowed hard, realising what, as he had suspected, had frightened the ruffians who had attacked him earlier. The old woman now had her back to him. She looked slyly over her shoulder.

‘You shouldn’t worry, Englishman. He’s gone now but the Dearghul never leave you alone!’