The Rose Demon

15

Matthias returned to the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald and Mairead were waiting for him.

‘Are you well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You look pale.’

‘The cold always has that effect on me,’ Matthias retorted.

He excused himself, went up to his chamber and prepared for bed. He left a candle, hooded and capped, burning on the table beside him. As he lay staring at the flickering flame, Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon would manifest itself. He vaguely recalled his dreams, the nightmare of his delirium, and reflected on what had happened since he had fled Oxford.

‘That’s what I’ve become,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a spectator: I watch my own life but I do not live it.’

He recalled his childhood prayer as he drifted into sleep. When he woke the candle was out. The chamber was clothed in darkness. The windows, firmly shuttered, kept out any moonlight or sound from the courtyard below. Matthias lay listening to the darkness. He felt something on the coverlet, moving over his leg. Matthias cursed the rats which plagued the Archbishop’s palace. The rat did not flee. Instead Matthias felt it running backwards and forwards across his legs, squeaking loudly in the darkness. He half-propped himself up, his fingers scrabbling for the tinder. After some difficulty he removed the candle cap and lit the wick. The rat was still there, so he sat up, holding out the candle. The rat was long and black, its head turned away, its sleek body nestling in the folds of the coverlet. Matthias kicked his feet and shouted. The rat turned its head. Matthias stared in horror. Instead of the pointed nose it had human features: face, small and shrunken; glittering eyes, sharp nose and harsh mouth. Matthias screamed and kicked; when he looked again, the rat was gone.

For a while Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, his body drenched in sweat. He didn’t know whether he had been dreaming or, half-asleep, had seen some phantasm. He took a cloth and dried his face and neck. He started to shiver. The fire had died and so had the glowing brazier in the corner — not even a wink of red, as if it had been drenched with water. The room grew freezing cold. Matthias heard a sound near the door, as if someone were moving quietly in the darkness — a footfall, the creak of leather. Matthias lunged across the bed and grasped his war belt. He pulled this across and, taking out his sword, picked up the candle. He ignored the cold, which was like a savage biting wind blowing through the chamber. Holding the candle out in front of him, Matthias edged across the room, his eyes fixed on the pool of light. He turned slightly sideways, his sword out ready for any secret assault or hidden attack. Still, the sound came of someone shuffling near the door. Matthias reached the place, his body soaked in sweat, his chest heaving. He moved the candle backwards and forwards. He could see nothing nor detect anything undisturbed.

Matthias was about to go back to his bed when he stopped, rigid as a statue. Whoever was in the room was now behind him, breathing noisily. Matthias turned. He glimpsed a dark shape. He held the candle up and stared in horror: Rahere the clerk was standing there but no longer the court fop. His hair was streaked with grey, his face was haggard, his skin covered with pustules, red-rimmed eyes and lips soaked with blood. On his neck, where the dirty shirt opened at the throat, Matthias could see suppurating lacerations, as if the man had been clawed by a bear or a wolf. Matthias took a step backwards.

‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘who or what are you?’

Rahere stepped closer. His upper lip curled like that of a dog about to attack: his teeth were long and white, the eyeteeth drooping like those of a mastiff.

‘You.’ The voice was low, throaty and full of hate. ‘Taken before my time!’ A hand came up, fingers long and dirt-stained. ‘Called before my time I was, because of you!’

Matthias lashed out with his sword. As he did so the candle fell from his hand, the flame was extinguished. Matthis could smell putrefaction. Filled with terror as well as anger at being haunted and hounded, he seized his sword in two hands, striking out and screaming abuse. Fitzgerald and Mairead, blankets wrapped round their shoulders, burst into the room. Matthias stopped. He drove the point of his sword into the wooden planks of the floor and stood there clasping the hilt, chest heaving, eyes glaring.

‘Now, now, boyo!’

Fitzgerald came forward slowly as Mairead lit candles round the room and opened the shutters.

‘Come on, boyo.’ Fitzgerald gestured at Matthias’ sword. ‘Let it drop. We are friends!’

Mairead rushed by him and, crouching down, loosened Matthias’ fingers from round the sword hilt. Matthias let it go. He slumped down to the floor. Mairead put her arms round him, rocking him gently like a baby.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ she whispered.

‘There was someone here,’ Matthias replied. ‘Frightening, the stench of the grave.’

‘Tush, that’s nonsense,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no one here. And, as for the stench, Matthias, I thought you had a woman here. Can’t you smell the perfume?’

‘The room smells like a summer’s day,’ Fitzgerald declared.

Matthias stood up and stared round the chamber. Apart from cuts to the wood caused by his sword, the candle lying on the floor, he could see nothing out of place. Then he caught the fragrance, the sweet heady smell of roses.

‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

‘Oh, boyo, that’s not good enough.’ Fitzgerald went across to the hearth and, scraping aside the ash, he took some kindling, a few of the dried logs and soon the fire was burning merrily. Matthias glanced towards the brazier. It was lit and glowing, though he was certain that when he had woken up the charcoal had been cold and bare. He sat on the stool before the fire. Mairead and Fitzgerald joined him, one on either side. Mairead served them wine.

‘You didn’t have a dream,’ she said. ‘Matthias, you were awake. You were terrified. What is it?’

Matthias, not shifting his gaze from the fire, told them slowly and haltingly about the events of Sutton Courteny; the silence of the intervening fourteen years; Santerre, the Bocardo, Symonds and his flight to Dublin. They heard him out. When he had finished Matthias turned and smiled at Mairead.

‘You think I’m mad, don’t you? Madcap, witless, leaping about like a March hare?’

Mairead shook her head and gently caressed his cheek.

‘Here in Ireland, Matthias, we believe in magic. The Devil walks the country lanes and misty glades. The hidden glens and dark woods are full of beings we cannot see but who take an active interest in the affairs of men. There is the banshee,’ she continued, ‘a grotesque, red-haired woman with a disfigured face and protruding teeth. She dresses in white and haunts dark and lonely places. If you see her or hear her terrible wail it’s a sign of approaching death.’ She glanced across at Fitzgerald. ‘They say she’s been heard recently in Dublin, howling like a moonstruck wolf.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not think Symonds’ venture will meet with success.’

‘What is the Dearghul?’ Matthias asked.

He told them about the incident the previous evening. Mairead smiled bravely but Matthias could tell she was frightened whilst Fitzgerald sat uneasily on his stool.

‘They are the blood drinkers,’ Mairead replied slowly, her eyes never leaving his. ‘The Undead. Tell him, Thomas!’

Fitzgerald hawked and spat into the flames.

‘I was born in Ireland,’ he began. ‘The Dearghul, as the bonny Mairead says, are the Undead. Now, I thought they were childish stories to frighten the weak-minded as well as keep the children in their beds. According to these legends, the Dearghul are Strigoi or vampires. If you get bitten by one they draw blood from your body and replace it with their own. To all intents and purposes you die but, when darkness falls, those who have been given this new, macabre life rise from their graves and look to spread themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘Those are the legends. Now, sixteen years ago, with no wars in Ireland and Edward IV strong in England, I travelled to France but there was peace there. I joined the Swiss, giving my sword against the Burgundians and, when that war ended, I travelled further east. I joined a party of Teutonic knights, Crusaders moving south towards Greece to fight against the Turks.’ Fitzgerald scratched at his chin and played with the black patch over his eye. ‘We crossed the Danube and entered Transylvania. Oh, boyo.’ He looked at Matthias. ‘You think Ireland is dark and full of woods. Transylvania is a land full of shadows, deep valleys, the sides of which are covered in the darkest and thickest of forests; wild, noisy rivers; a land of perpetual night. The prince of that country, or Voivode as they call themselves, was Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler. He was more popularly known by his nickname “Drakulya”, Son of the Dragon. He hired our swords.’

Fitzgerald stretched out his hands towards the flames. ‘We did not stay there long. Drakulya’s soul must have been made in Hell. Never once did he show any compassion to prisoners, and to those who opposed him, he was cruelty itself. His palace at Tirgoviste was surrounded by a forest of stakes, and on each stake were impaled alive men and women, Turk and Christian, Greek and Arab, anyone who opposed his will. Now, for me he had little time, but Drakulya became very fond of our leader, a young German knight, Otto Franzen. Otto was a brave warrior — he feared nothing — a superb horseman, a redoubtable fighter. Drakulya said we could all leave if we wanted to, but Otto, he begged to stay.’ Fitzgerald sipped from his cup. ‘The young German refused. He was sickened by the bloodshed, by the soul-crushing terror of Drakulya’s court. We made to leave. Drakulya could not stop us. Then Otto fell ill, not a fever or some sickness, just a weakness. Drakulya sent his best physicians. We were kept well away but Otto died. It was too far for us to take his body back home. Drakulya became all courteous and kind. He promised us that Otto would be buried in a princely cemetery outside his own chapel at Tirgoviste, so we agreed.’

Fitzgerald rolled the wine cup between his fingers. ‘Five days later we left Tirgoviste. I remember riding down the narrow, cobbled streets towards the city gates. There must have been thirty or forty of us: a long trail of pack animals and sumpter ponies. Drakulya had given each of us a purse of coins and provisions for our journey.’ Fitzgerald paused.

‘Go on,’ Mairead urged.

‘Now, it was late in the day when we left, the heart of winter. Darkness was already falling. Voivode Drakulya paid us the supreme compliment of being present at the gates of his city as we left.’ Fitzgerald held a hand up. ‘Heaven is my witness, I don’t lie. I was on the outside of the group. The path leading down was steep. I could see the gates were open. The thoroughfare on either side was packed with Drakulya’s troops. Torches had been lit and placed on iron stands. From where I rode I could see the Voivode himself, surrounded by his officers. As I passed him I looked. At first I couldn’t believe it. Drakulya sat on his horse smiling bleakly at us: the man next to him, pale as a ghost, with dark rings round his eyes, was our former commander, Otto Franzen.’ Fitzgerald wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘He was alive, staring at us with soulless eyes. I saw him. Others saw him. A man whom we had seen die, whom we had coffined and buried. Yet, what could we do? We were taken so much by surprise, we were through the gates and they were slammed behind us. A year later we heard that Drakulya had died, been killed in an ambush. According to the stories, his headless corpse was taken across to the Island of Snagov and laid to rest there. A short while later it was decided to move his corpse to a more fitting tomb but when they opened the grave, there was nothing there.’ Fitzgerald breathed in noisily. ‘Every so often I dream. I wonder if Otto Franzen still rides those dark, shadow-filled valleys; he and others, following their murderous, bloody-handed, undead prince. So yes, Matthias Fitzosbert, I believe your story but, as Heaven is my witness, I do not know how I can help you!’

‘You should tell him,’ Mairead said.

Fitzgerald looked as if he were going to refuse.

‘Tell me what?’ Matthias insisted.

‘Two things.’

‘Tell him!’

Fitzgerald got to his feet. He refilled his wine goblet, then placed his hand on Matthias’ shoulder.

‘There have been deaths in the city,’ he told him. ‘Strange murders. Mostly young women, night-walkers, slatterns, maids: their throats punctured, their bodies drained of blood, as you would squeeze juice out of a grape.’

‘So the Rose Demon’s here?’

‘Possibly,’ Mairead said.

‘But who?’ Matthias asked.

‘Have you ever suspected,’ Fitzgerald sat down on a stool, ‘our noble Edward of Warwick or, more possibly, his mentor, Richard Symonds?’

Matthias wrapped the blanket round his shoulders more tightly. He felt cold again. He was now certain that the presence he had met in Oxford was here in Dublin. But what could he do?

‘There’s nothing,’ Matthias declared, ‘nothing at all I can do. If I go to a priest, I’ll be arrested as a heretic or a warlock.’ He glanced at his two companions. ‘Aren’t you frightened?’ he mocked bitterly. ‘Aren’t you terrified of me?’

‘I am afraid of nothing,’ Fitzgerald retorted, ‘nothing that walks on legs.’

‘The second thing?’ Matthias asked. ‘You said there were two things?’

‘Ah yes.’ Fitzgerald got to his feet. ‘Richard Symonds has been talking about you. Dark hints about your secret powers. Time and again he reminds our young prince of your debt to him. It may be time he comes to ask that you repay it.’

Fitzgerald and Mairead then left. Matthias kept the candles alight, crossed himself and climbed into bed. He accepted he could do nothing, except pray and wait.

The next morning Matthias went to Mass in a chantry chapel of Dublin Cathedral. The priest who celebrated it reminded him of his father. Matthias abruptly realised that, in his imprisonment and flight from Oxford, he had lost the list of quotations his father had provided. On his return to his chamber he took a piece of parchment and wrote them down from memory. When he had finished, Matthias studied his scrawled words: these might provide a key to the mystery which confronted him. He also speculated on why he had experienced such harrowing hauntings the previous night. Was this a sign the Rose Demon was close? Or was it something he was to experience throughout his life?

Matthias returned to his duties. Christmas was approaching and the weather had turned cold and bleak, the clouds heavily massed, grey and lowering, bubbling with the threat of violent winds and drenching rain. All preparations for the invasion now came to a halt. The Irish lords had promised what they could. Edward of Warwick would now have to wait until spring arrived and the English exiles sailed from Flanders with whatever help they could provide. News still came from England. Tudor again paraded the boy who, he claimed, was the real Edward of Warwick, through the city of London. Symonds openly scoffed at this, dismissing it as a sign of the usurper’s growing anxieties. So confident did Symonds become that he and young Edward were often closeted for hours, detailing arrangements of what would happen once they had seized the English crown.

Symonds also worked hard to keep Matthias well away from the young prince, sending him through the city with messages, treating him no better than a lackey. Matthias did not object. He was already forming secret plans that, if and when the invasion should sail, he would leave the Yorkist rebels as swiftly as possible.

Symonds’ hold over the young prince became more apparent. By the feast of the Epiphany, six days into the New Year, Matthias no longer received invitations to join council meetings. Fitzgerald and Mairead were elsewhere, so he was left to kick his heels, though he suspected it was only a matter of time before Symonds moved against him openly. The Archbishop’s palace was now a hotbed of intrigue with masked and cowled messengers coming at all hours of the day and night. Sentries stood at every doorway, guards patrolled the grounds. Symonds began to issue letters talking of ‘Judas men’ spies, possibly assassins, with designs on the young prince’s life.

On the Feast of Saints Timothy and Titus, towards the end of January, Symonds summoned Matthias to a meeting in his opulent chamber at the other end of the palace. Symonds, swathed in furs, slouched in a throne-like chair, stretching beringed fingers towards a roaring fire. Servants and lackeys stood in the shadows ready to satisfy his every whim. Matthias was made to sit on a stool opposite. Symonds studied him for a while. Matthias gazed coolly back. In the few months since arriving in Dublin, Symonds had changed: his face was fleshy and reddened by the banquets and feasts he had attended. Veins, high in his cheeks, were an eloquent witness to his nightly carousing. Symonds sucked noisily on his teeth and snapped his fingers.

‘Clear the room!’ he ordered. ‘All of you outside!’

Symonds waited until the door closed behind them. He jabbed a finger at Matthias.

‘I am rather disappointed with you. I brought you to Dublin because I thought you were for the House of York. You should help our cause but what do I have? Nothing but a sickly man who spends most of his time closeted with Fitzgerald and his trollop!’

‘I did not ask you to bring me,’ Matthias returned. ‘And I did not wish to be sick. As for Master Fitzgerald and Mairead, they are my friends.’

‘Are they now?’ Symonds leant forward. ‘Are they now, Master Fitzosbert?’ His lips curled. ‘You have no friends! I brought you because of that woman Morgana. On reflection I wonder who you really are. A Judas man, eh? One of the Welsh usurper’s snivelling spies?’

Matthias made to rise.

‘If you leave, I’ll have you killed!’ Symonds snapped.

Matthias sat down on the stool but his fingers drummed on the hilt of the dagger pushed into his belt. Symonds smiled.

‘In a few days it will be February,’ he said. ‘The weather will change: the sea will be less choppy, the winds not so rough. We wait impatiently for de la Pole’s fleet to sail from Flanders.’ He banged the arm of his chair. ‘And the fleet must come. Now, in Ireland they claim. .’ He paused and stared at one of the rings on his finger. ‘They say with the right sacrifice the elements can be placated.’ He glanced at Matthias.

‘What are you asking?’ Matthias asked impatiently.

‘I was a priest,’ Symonds sneered, ‘but I no more believe in such nonsense than you do, Master Fitzosbert! You and your haunting nightmares! Oh, I’ve heard of them! Yours won’t be the first Black Mass I’ve attended.’

Matthias’ heart sank: from his studies in Oxford he knew about such blasphemous rituals.

‘And,’ Symonds continued, ‘it won’t be the last!’

‘You wish me to participate in secret rites? The Black Arts? Aren’t there sorcerers and wizards enough in this rain-soaked isle?’ Matthias protested.

‘Oh, I could fill the cathedral with charlatans,’ Symonds retorted. ‘But you are different, aren’t you, dear Matthias? I have had you followed. Why did those ruffians not attack you? And, in that tawdry alehouse the old witch who talked to you about the Dearghul? And those nightmares which woke the palace?’ Symonds pursed his lips and glared at Matthias. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’ he hissed. ‘People are talking, Matthias! Here we are in an old, draughty palace, the latrines are frozen, the rushes cannot be changed. Why is it that servants say your chamber smells so richly, like a rose garden on a summer’s afternoon?’

Matthias realised that Symonds not only resented him but feared him. He viewed him as a practitioner of the Black Arts and was probably terrified that Matthias might use these to exert influence over Edward of Warwick.

‘Now, I’ll tell you what will happen.’ Symonds stared up at the rafters. ‘Today is Thursday. At the beginning of February, you and I will meet again. There are some old ruins at the east end of the cathedral grounds. People say they once belonged to the Druids, the ancient priests who lived here before St Patrick arrived. Let me see these powers of yours. Let us call on the Dark One and see what assistance can be given.’

‘This is foolishness!’ Matthias protested.

‘No, Master Fitzosbert, this is politics. I intend to topple Tudor from his throne.’ Symonds’ eyes gleamed with fanaticism. ‘I, as Archbishop of Canterbury, will, one day, place the crown of Edward the Confessor on this prince of York in the Abbey of Westminster. If I have to make a compact with hell to achieve it, then so be it.’ He gestured with his fingers. ‘You are dismissed!’

Matthias was halfway through the door.

‘Oh, Matthias,’ Symonds grinned round the chair, reminding Matthias of a gargoyle, ‘accidents can happen. You should be careful you are not abducted by some English merchant and taken back to London or Oxford!’

Matthias left the chamber. In the gallery outside he met Mairead and Fitzgerald, who had recently returned to the palace. He was so angry at what had happened, he just brushed by them and spent the rest of the day in his own chamber wondering what to do. There were knocks on the door but he refused to answer. Later in the evening he asked a servant to bring him up some food. He drank deeply and, when he awoke, darkness was falling, the palace was quiet and he was bitterly cold. He built up the fire, stripped and went to bed. This time he slept peacefully, slipping into a dream.

Matthias had never experienced the like before. He knew he was dreaming but he couldn’t, he didn’t want to wake up. He was on the corner of Magpie Lane in Oxford, on a bright summer’s day. People were milling around him. He could hear their chatter and smell the odours of the city. He felt a pang of homesickness as he walked down the lane. Then the dream changed: he was in a small garden and, by the pealing of the bells, he knew it was evening in Oxford. The garden was small, protected by a high, red-brick wall. There were herb beds, small grassy patches. In an arbour Richard Symonds was sitting, a book in his lap.

‘Stay and watch,’ a voice murmured. ‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva. Just stay and watch!’

It grew darker still. The sky was beautiful, the stars like precious stones on a dark blue cushion. Symonds, however, was unaware of the beauty of the evening. He was now impatient, walking up and down the path. He opened a brown, metal-studded gate in the wall and went through an alleyway. Matthias followed. Out in the streets there was great excitement. A man, wearing the royal livery, carried a pennant which displayed a red dragon breathing fire. Matthias recognised the livery of Henry Tudor. Symonds, his discomfort obvious, went back into the garden, slamming the gate.

Time moved quickly. Night fell, a hunter’s moon above the city. Symonds was still there. He carried a goblet of wine and a trencher of food. Abruptly the gate opened, a man came in, sandy-haired, face unshaven, a cut just beneath his left eye. He was apparently injured elsewhere, for he stumbled and Symonds helped him to a turf seat. The man threw off his brown serge military cloak. Matthias, glimpsing the blood on the man’s shirt, drew closer. The man was wearing a ring bearing an insignia; a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent. He was talking to Symonds, clutching his stomach as he did, apparently begging for help.

Symonds nodded sympathetically. He went back into the house and came back out with a goblet of wine. The man on the turf seat was lolling, head down. He took the cup and drank. Matthias stared in horror: as the man lifted his head to drain the cup, Symonds came behind him, a long, thin, Italian stiletto in his hand and, with one swift cut, he slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear. Matthias turned away. When he looked again, the darkness was fading, the sky was already streaked with gold. Symonds was in the far corner of the garden. He had dug a deep trench into which he tossed his victim’s corpse. He kicked the dirt over, carefully pressing the soil so it looked as if no grave had been dug there.

Matthias’ eyes flew open. Outside in the gallery he heard footsteps: servants and retainers, hurrying hither and thither, bringing coals, preparing the household for a new day. Matthias sat up in bed. Despite his many cups of wine, he felt refreshed and clear-headed. He caught the faint smell of roses. Was that his dream? Was he still in that garden? And why had he dreamt so clearly, every detail so finely etched? It was like turning over the pages in a Book of Hours. What had happened was simple to understand: the warm August day, the excitement in the streets and the messenger bearing the pennant of Henry Tudor, showed that Matthias had been shown a scene in Oxford shortly after Henry’s victory over Richard III at Market Bosworth in August 1485. But the man who had been murdered? Matthias got up. Absent-mindedly he shaved and washed, then went down to the refectory where Mairead and Fitzgerald were breaking their fast.

‘You seem in better humour than you did yesterday,’ Mairead teased.

‘I have something to ask you.’ Matthias slipped on to a bench opposite. ‘Fitzgerald, you’ve lived amongst the Yorkist exiles?’

‘Aye, I have.’

‘Can you recall any lord or knight whose arms were — ah yes-’ Matthias narrowed his eyes, ‘a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent?’ Matthias filled his cup with beer. ‘Could you find out who bore such arms?’

‘I don’t have to,’ Fitzgerald grinned back. ‘They belong to Lionel Clifford, a knight banneret of John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Wasn’t when I met him in Tournai. He was drinking and wenching as good as the rest.’ Fitzgerald must have glimpsed the disappointment in Matthias’ face. ‘Mind you, it’s a mystery about his father, Henry.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, he fought with Richard III at Bosworth. Sir Henry Clifford was a Yorkist through and through. We know that he left the battlefield and was last seen on the outskirts of Oxford but after that,’ Fitzgerald shrugged, ‘not a trace. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ Matthias replied. ‘But look, Fitzgerald, how much longer are we to stay here?’

Fitzgerald knew better than to question Matthias further and allowed the conversation to turn to the growing expectancy about the arrival of the fleet from Flanders.

When he could, Matthias left the refectory and made his way directly to Symonds’ chamber. The former priest was sitting enthroned in his great four-poster bed, resting against the silken bolsters piled high around him, a fur-trimmed robe about his shoulders. He lifted his head when Matthias came in and grinned.

‘Ah, Fitzosbert, so you’ve come to give me your answer!’

‘I don’t like your threats.’ Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, pleased to see the alarm flare in Symonds’ eyes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call your bullyboys. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what I do. Well, apostate priest,’ he continued, ‘I do look forward to John de la Pole arriving in Dublin. I understand that Sir Lionel Clifford will be in his retinue?’

Symonds’ face paled.

‘I will tell you a story,’ Matthias continued, ‘about how his father fled from Bosworth. He made his way to what he thought was the house of a Yorkist sympathiser. The priest, Symonds, had a small tenement and garden near Magpie Lane.’

The ex-priest was now gaping at him.

‘A beautiful August evening,’ Matthias continued. ‘Henry Clifford is wounded: he looks for sympathy, solace, a place to hide but Symonds is a lick-spittle coward. He gives Sir Henry Clifford wine, then cuts his throat. I’ll say that when they return to England, they should examine the far corner of his garden. They’ll find a deep trench and in it, the corpse of Sir Henry thrown there like a bag of dog’s bones.’

Matthias got to his feet. ‘Now I’ve written that down,’ he declared. ‘If something happens to me, copies of my story are to be delivered to Sir John de la Pole and Sir Lionel Clifford.’ Matthias grinned and gave a mocking bow. ‘So, you see, sir, I have power and I have used it. I do not wish to talk to you again on these matters!’