The Rose Demon

16

The winter months quickly passed. The weather changed, cool breezes, clear skies: a strong sun burnt up the soggy mud-caked lawns of Dublin. The chieftains and their clans-men swarmed back into the city. Matthias, like Fitzgerald and Mairead, was caught up in the excitement and preparations for war. At last the fleet came from Flanders bringing the English lords John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Francis Lovell, coffers full of gold from Margaret of Burgundy and, more importantly, over a thousand mercenaries led by their commander, Martin Schwartz. The latter poured into Dublin, a fearsome sight. They wore heavy sallets with eye-slits which protected most of their faces; breastplates, and hard-boiled leather leggings. Each man carried a sword, dagger and a heavy steel-stained crossbow with bolts which could crack hardened armour plate. They were also experts in the pike and the lance, redoubtable on foot as well as horse. These and the retinues of de la Pole and Lovell now filled the grounds of the Archbishop’s palace.

De la Pole was a square, thickset man, grim-faced, hard-eyed, his chin and forelips cleanly shaved. He soon took over command of the Yorkist forces mustered there. Lovell was lean and sallow-faced, long black hair falling down to his shoulders; he reminded Matthias of Rahere the clerk. Lovell had been a confidant of Richard III, a member of his secret council. Both he and de la Pole had little time for Symonds and his protege.

‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald commented as he, Mairead and Matthias sat under an oak tree. They were sharing a jug of ale, watching the soldiers set up camp, treating the Archbishop’s orchards as if they were their own personal property. ‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald repeated, for he loved to pontificate on military matters, ‘that our young prince is only a figurehead. Once these matters are brought to a successful conclusion, Symonds and Edward of Warwick will soon disappear.’ He lowered his voice as he refilled their cups. ‘I have taken close counsel with my Lord of Lincoln: Tudor still parades Edward of Warwick in London.’

‘It’s a wild scheme,’ Mairead declared. ‘Thomas, my boy, and you, Matthias, we should leave, slip away. Let the witless lead the madcaps. All this will end in blood and tears.’

Fitzgerald just laughed and returned to his drinking, but Mairead’s words set Matthias thinking. There was now tension in the Yorkist camp. The retainers of Lovell, wearing the livery of a white greyhound on a square padlock, and those displaying the golden lions of Lincoln, now swaggered through the galleries and corridors of the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald breathlessly reported how de la Pole had now made himself master of the young Edward, and Symonds was nothing more than a confidant. The ex-priest could not object. De la Pole, because he was of Yorkist descent, soon won over the allegiance of the Irish chieftains. The Earl also controlled the gold given to him by Margaret of Burgundy, not to mention Schwartz, his principal military adviser. A more rigorous discipline was imposed. Weapons were collected and piled in warehouses down near the harbour. Ships, cogs and herring-boats were impounded. The invasion fleet began to muster.

Matthias kept to himself or talked to Fitzgerald and Mairead. Since his dream he had experienced no other phenomena, though he had heard from whispers in the sculleries and kitchens, as well as a few guarded comments from Mairead, that the strange murders were still occurring in Dublin. Corpses had been found, their throats punctured, drained of blood. Matthias, however, felt helpless: the Rose Demon could inhabit any one of the people he knew and, apart from Mairead and Fitzgerald, there was no one he could confide in.

At the beginning of May 1487, Warwick was crowned King Edward VI in Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin. It was a splendid ceremony, the nave and sanctuary filled with banners, the Mass celebrated by two archbishops and twelve bishops. The crown was placed on the young man’s head. He received the holy chrism and was loudly proclaimed as Edward VI, King of Ireland, England, Scotland and France. The crowded nave, packed with mercenaries, the followers of Lincoln, Lovell and the Irish chieftains, roared its approval. Afterwards banquets were held, toasts given, alliances and friendships proclaimed to be eternal. A few days later the ships, cogs, herring-boats and fishing smacks were loaded up with provisions and arms.

At the beginning of June the Yorkist army embarked on the ships which had collected in the city harbour. Matthias secured a place in the flagship, the Sainte Marie, a massive cog which bore most of the commanders. He felt as if he were in a dream: the small fleet standing out in the harbour, emblazoned with flags and pennants; the golden lions of de la Pole; the leopards and lilies of England; the colourful, makeshift banners of the Irish lords. Thanks to Schwartz, everything moved in an orderly fashion. Ships turned and made their way out of the harbour, sails dipping three times in honour of the Trinity.

By the time dusk fell, they were out into the open sea, picking up brisk winds heading for Peil Castle on the Isle of Foudray in Lancashire. The crossing was smooth and uneventful. The Yorkist commanders were beside themselves with joy. There was no sign of the Tudor ships and, on their second day out, they made a landfall, the cogs slipping into a natural harbour. At first confusion reigned as horses, supplies and men were unloaded. There were mishaps and accidents but, by 7 June 1487, the Yorkist army was disembarked, formed its line of march and headed deep into Lancashire. Matthias rode with Fitzgerald; Mairead kept close.

‘She’s got a soft spot for you.’ Fitzgerald drew his horse back and grinned at Matthias. ‘But she’s also worried, as am I. You’ve been very quiet, Matthias Fitzosbert. In Dublin you almost became a recluse. What happened between you and Symonds, eh?’

Matthias shrugged. ‘I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me.’

‘And that’s what I want to speak to you about.’ Fitzgerald leant closer and gestured at the clouds of dust which now rose on either side of the army. ‘It’s a beautiful day. You are back in England, the grass is green. The honeysuckle, cowslip, daisy and the rose are in full bloom. So, why do you choke dust in the middle of a rebel army?’ Fitzgerald grasped Matthias’ wrist. ‘You’re going to slip away, boyo, aren’t you?’

Matthias stared back.

‘One dark night you’ll fasten on your war belt and, without a word to me or Mairead, you’ll be over the hills and miles away.’

‘Something like that,’ Matthias grudgingly conceded. ‘Thomas, you’ve been a good friend yet you are a mercenary, a fighting man, and I, in truth, am still a prisoner. I am only here because Symonds thought I could help him. If we win, I’ll be turned out to fend for myself. If we lose, I’ll hang quicker than the rest.’ He gathered the reins in his hands. ‘I, too, have a life to lead, things to do.’

‘Don’t go,’ Fitzgerald warned.

He pulled Matthias’ horse out of the column of march. For a while they sat and watched the horsemen, the carts, sumpter ponies, Schwartz’s men striding along, their long pikes over their shoulders, their sallets hanging on their backs. Behind these trotted thousands of wild Irish tribesmen, nothing more than a disorderly mass kept in check by Schwartz’s officers and their own chieftains.

‘I’m going to tell you, boyo.’ Fitzgerald was now sitting very close, his leg brushing that of Matthias. ‘So far we’ve had the devil’s own luck. We’ve crossed the sea and we’ve disembarked. The sun is strong.’ He gestured to the fields on either side. ‘Long, cool grass, clear brooks and streams.’ He pointed to the small copses and woods which dotted the landscape. ‘Don’t be fooled by all this, Matthias. Where are the English lords who were supposed to join us? Where are the peasants? The yeomen flocking to our banners?’ He gestured at the Irish. ‘And how long do you think they’ll obey orders?’

‘What are you saying, Fitzgerald?’

The mercenary pointed to the far distance.

‘Somewhere over there, Tudor’s armies are waiting. They have castles, men-at-arms, bowmen, supplies and, above all, they are led by one of the best generals in Europe, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. He was fighting Yorkists when you were piddling your breeches. Soon the pillaging, the raping and the robbing will begin. I tell you this, Matthias, any stranger found wandering by himself will be regarded as a rebel. The peasants will hate you and, if you are captured, you’ll die slowly, not in a matter of hours but days, even weeks. I know, I have fought in these wars. Have you ever seen a living man trussed and bound and fed to hogs? Or turned like a piece of meat over a slow-burning fire? And then there’s Symonds! Heaven knows what you said to him, Matthias, but he hates and distrusts you. He considers you a Judas man, a Tudor agent. You are watched more closely than you think. So, stay close to me and Mairead.’ He spurred his horse. ‘And let tomorrow take care of itself!’

Later that day the army camped in open fields. Within a matter of hours, fires were lit, pavilions set up, whilst men-at-arms foraged to make bothies, small, tent-like structures made of branches woven together. Stolen cattle and sheep were slaughtered. The air grew thick with burning meat and the smell of horse dung and the fetid smells from the latrines, which had been hastily dug by the side of a stream. So far the rebel host was in good mood. Guards were set but, for the rest, it was like a fair or carnival.

Matthias decided to ride round the camp. He made his way through the horse lines, past the outlying sentries. He was going downhill when he heard a sound behind him. He reined in and looked round: through the trees at the top of the hill he saw horsemen shadowing him. Matthias shrugged and rode back to camp, remembering Fitzgerald’s warning.

The march continued. The army struggled out, sending up clouds of dust as it wound its way through the country lanes. Fitzgerald’s words proved prophetic: as they moved away from the coast and began to reach outlying farms and villages, burning and looting took place. Plumes of black smoke rose to the sky. De la Pole did his best to keep order, and when the army came upon a farmstead pillaged by some of the Irish kerns, the entire group of perpetrators was rounded up. The next morning the army had to march past the makeshift scaffolds set up on either side of the road where two dozen corpses, naked except for their loin cloths, twitched and twirled in the early morning breeze.

Eventually they climbed the hilly ridge of the Pennines, open moorland, gorse and heather turning purple under the warm summer sun. They saw nothing except hunting kestrels, petrels, crows and ravens, which circled noisily over their line of march. Supplies began to run out, the scouts had to forage even further, and sometimes they would march and not see a stream or well to slake their thirst. The heat grew oppressive, the rebels’ pace slowed, and the household marshals had to impose even more ruthless discipline. Arms were taken out of the carts and, because no one knew where the Tudor army was, they had to be ready at a moment’s notice to form in columns and fight a pitched battle. The scouts and spies informed their leaders of two armies moving slowly north to meet them: the first under John de Vere, Earl of Oxford; the second under Henry Tudor himself.

Matthias rode with Fitzgerald and Mairead just behind the banners of the principal commanders. They grew too tired to talk or even speculate on what might happen. At last, to their relief, they crossed the Pennines.

A few more men joined them under Lord Scrope of Masham. The leaders took counsel with him and decided to advance on York, only to be driven off by a hail of arrows from the citizens.

De la Pole decided to continue south. His army now numbered some eight thousand men, and scouts were bringing in news by the hour. The Tudor army was close, marching towards Nottingham. King Henry had been joined by Lord Strange, but morale in the royal camp was low. De la Pole decided to press on and, on the morning of 15 June, the news arrived that the armies were so close, it would only be a matter of hours before they met in pitched battle.

That evening, the rebel army breasted a hill and saw beneath them, snaking through the fields, the broad glittering River Trent as it wound its way past the small village of East Stoke towards Newark. De la Pole, Schwartz and Lovell went out to inspect the lie of the land. When they arrived back, cursitors were sent out along the army of march. The place had been chosen. De la Pole had decided to fight, putting his army on a ridge with the Trent protecting his rear and right flank. Camp was pitched late at night.

Matthias, exhausted and wondering what the next day would bring, hobbled his horse and, taking his blankets, chose a spot and fell immediately asleep.

He was awoken before dawn by Fitzgerald kicking his boot. Mairead stood smiling down at him.

‘This is the day, Matthias.’ She pulled a face. ‘Break your fast, then it’s-’

‘Each man to his post,’ Fitzgerald finished.

Matthias got to his feet. He felt cold and aching. He rubbed his arms and stared round: a thick river mist now covered the camp. The sound of the horses neighing, the clatter of arms, the shouts of the marshals shattered the silence. Campfires were lit, the smell of oatmeal drifted through the air.

‘Do you want a priest?’ Mairead asked.

Matthias walked away. He stared down the hill where the mist swirled. He reflected on what Mairead had asked. He fought hard to curb the rage boiling within him. On this day he might die, and what had been his life? His childhood had been shattered, his youth and upbringing overshadowed by a secret which hung over him like a black cloud. Now it had returned and brought him here in the middle of a cold, damp field. What did it matter if de la Pole and Symonds won today?

‘Do you know, Mairead,’ Matthias said, coming back, ‘I believe in the Good Lord but I do wonder whether He believes in me.’

He saw the tears in her eyes. She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on each cheek.

‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘What is life anyway, Matthias, but the throw of dice? And, if we are to die, let’s do it on full bellies!’

Fitzgerald came over. Mairead stood back and the Irishman clasped Matthias’ hand.

‘We’ll be in the centre. Stay close to me, Matthias, whatever happens.’

They went to one of the fires where Mairead begged bowls of oatmeal. Fitzgerald wandered off and brought back some wine. After he had eaten Matthias felt better. Mairead kissed him goodbye.

‘I’ll be in the rear with the baggage train.’ She grinned, her fingers ran softly down his cheek, her lower lip quivered. ‘Perhaps, Matthias,’ she whispered, ‘the next time the wheel of life turns, we will meet again.’ And, with no more words, she ran off.

‘She’s a great lass.’ Fitzgerald linked his arm through Matthias’. ‘Today’s a dying day.’

He took Matthias over to one of the armourer’s carts. One of the marshals handed over a boiled leather breast-plate and a heavy steel sallet, which covered the top half of Matthias’ face.

‘Don’t wear any colours,’ Fitzgerald whispered. ‘If things go wrong. .’

The mist was lifting, the air was rent by the sound of trumpets and war horns. The army was on the move. Fitzgerald led Matthias over to where the standards were grouped on the brow of the hill: Lincoln’s, Lovell’s, the Kildares of Ireland, the royal arms of England. Edward of Warwick sat on a white palfrey. He was already accoutred for battle; wearing the silver armour the Archbishop of Dublin had bought him, now covered with a gorgeous blue, red and gold surcoat. Beside him sat Symonds, in the armour of a knight. The former priest had grown even fatter so he looked like a bloated toad. His resentment at being excluded from the military preparations was more than obvious. Lincoln, Schwartz and Lovell stood to one side, surrounded by officers and messengers. Behind them the Swiss and German mercenaries were taking up position: line after line, their tall pikes readied, their faces protected by sallets, many of which sported brilliant plumes of feathers.

As the sun strengthened, Matthias could see the rest of the army taking up position under the direction of marshals: these waved their white wands and moved up and down the ranks, accompanied by trumpeters and young boys beating on tambours. Fires were extinguished, carts rolled away. Matthias caught the excitement of thousands of men preparing for bloodshed — the neigh of horses, the clatter of arms, the shouts of the marshals and the persistent screaming of trumpets. Scouts and cursitors came riding up the hill, their horses covered in a white foam. They slipped from the saddle and hastened to tell their commanders what they had seen. The enemy was on the move and Matthias heard the distant sound of enemy trumpets.

He followed Fitzgerald to the brow of the hill. The mist had nearly lifted: behind the line of trees, which screened the road leading to Nottingham, Matthias glimpsed the first colours of the enemy.

Lincoln mounted his destrier, a great black war horse, and rode along the ranks.

‘Good news!’ he shouted. ‘The enemy is advancing in two battles. De Vere, Earl of Oxford, is leading the first but a gap has appeared between him and his master. Our army is divided into three battles.’ He flung his hand out. ‘On our right, my own. In the centre Schwartz and his Germans.’ He turned his horse and came back. ‘To the left our Irish allies.’

The Irish were massed, sitting at a half-crouch. Most of them were naked except for breech clouts and robes. Some wore sandals. All were armed with shield and broad cutting sword. Many of them had daggers pushed into a piece of cloth round their waists. Lincoln’s orders came faintly on the breeze.

‘Keep to your positions. Do not move until ordered! God will be with us!’

A roar of approval greeted his words like a low roll of thunder. Again the trumpets brayed and the battle line moved to the brow of the hill. Matthias stared down, his stomach pitched with excitement. Oxford was moving fast.

‘He did the same at Bosworth,’ Fitzgerald whispered. ‘I hope to God de la Pole knows what he’s doing!’

‘Is Tudor far behind?’ Matthias asked.

‘A good distance,’ Fitzgerald replied. ‘One of my men brought the news.’

Matthias could see Oxford’s banners in the centre, a golden burst of sun on a blue background. Three lines of men: archers, men-at-arms and mounted knights. Matthias knew nothing about strategy. All he could remember was that dreadful fight in Tewkesbury Abbey but even he sensed something was wrong. Oxford was moving too fast, too confidently. There was no pausing, no issuing of challenges, just these three lines marching steadily towards them. Their trumpets blew. Large standards were unfurled, great banners which flapped in the morning breeze, displaying the personal arms of Tudor and those of England. Another trumpet blast from the enemy. Two great pennants, one black, the other red, were also displayed. Oxford’s message was simple: the royal banners had been unfurled, the black and red ones proclaimed that no quarter would be shown, no prisoners taken, any man found bearing arms would be killed.

A group of Irish, unable to control their excitement, ignored the shouts of their officers and burst down the hill, a tight knot of men, screaming and cursing, charging straight for the enemy banners. Matthias watched the Irish leaping over the tussocks of grass, waving their swords. Twelve enemy archers stepped forward. They knelt. Matthias heard the order to loose faintly on the breeze, followed by a sound like a rushing wind. The arrows found their mark and the Irish fell as the shafts took them in face, throat or chest. In a twinkling of an eye, a group of men, full of life and fury, were turned into twitching, moaning bundles on the dew-fresh grass.

More trumpet calls, sharp and challenging. Oxford’s men came on at a faster pace. The trumpeters of the rebel army shrilled their defiance back. Oxford’s archers stopped and began to mass. Bows lifted, the sky suddenly became dark with falling shafts. Most of their fire was directed at Schwartz’s mercenaries, who lifted their shields. Some of the arrows found their marks: men came out of the ranks screaming, clutching at arrows in their necks or legs, blood spouting like water from a fountain. Matthias heard the drum of hooves. Lincoln was moving, his whole battle swinging down to take Oxford’s left flank and roll the entire column up. The orderly formation crashed into the enemy and the slope of the hill was turned into a heaving sea of fighting men. Oxford’s men fought bravely. As Lincoln’s force closed, the archers found their bows of little avail. Swords were drawn, the men hastily forming themselves into circles or squares. Oxford’s knights were also caught by the suddenness and fury of Lincoln’s charge. Banners waved and fell. In the rising clouds of dust Matthias glimpsed Lincoln’s banner as the Earl and his household knights aimed like a sword, searching for de Vere and the other royalist commanders. The grassy slope turned to a russet brown. Horses went down screaming and kicking. Men staggered, clutching the most dreadful wounds. Yet the dust made it impossible for Matthias to see clearly what was happening. He glanced around but Fitzgerald had disappeared. One of Schwartz’s officers ran up, gesticulating, pointing down the hill.

‘They are breaking!’ Schwartz cried. ‘De Vere’s men are beginning to flee!’

His words were cut off by a huge roar from his left. Matthias hurried over. The Irish, unable to control their excitement, had disobeyed their commanders and were now running downhill en masse to join in the battle. Schwartz cursed, shaking his fist, screaming at his own men to hold firm. Slowly Oxford’s columns were now being rolled up and pushed further down the hill, leaving behind them a carpet of dead and wounded men and horses.

Matthias stared down at where the fiercest fighting had taken place. If he half-closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was a sea of coloured flowers rather than men twisting and turning in mortal agony. Here and there a horse tried to raise itself up, a man staggered to his knees. A group of Oxford’s archers threw down their swords and tried to surrender but they were surrounded by a group of Irish, who slaughtered them to a man. The screams and yells were terrible.

Schwartz and his mercenaries remained impassive though Matthias sensed their concern. Both flanks of the rebel army had now disappeared and, despite messages from Lincoln or the pleas of his own officers, Schwartz refused to advance. Messengers on foot and horse kept galloping up the hill.

Then Matthias heard it in one of those rare moments of silence: the sound of trumpets, clear and vibrant. Schwartz beckoned him and his other officers over. The German’s thickset face was covered in a sheen of sweat. A nervous tic had appeared high in his cheek.

‘Those trumpets,’ he declared. ‘It’s Tudor’s army!’

Matthias looked round: the foot of the hill was now covered by a heavy cloud of dust, which completely cut off sight of the entire approach Oxford had made.

‘We can’t see anything,’ one of Schwartz’s officers declared.

‘I don’t have to,’ Schwartz retorted. ‘Every man to his position!’

Matthias slipped away to the back. He could glimpse the baggage train where the servants, women and camp followers now sheltered. Should he go down there? Find Mairead and flee? He heard a roar and hurried back to the brow of the hill.

The battle had now shifted dramatically. Lincoln’s men were pouring back up the hill. The Irish, too, had broken. Wide-eyed, many of them cut and bruised, they dropped their arms. The dust cloud shifted. Matthias’ heart went to his throat. Oxford’s men had reformed and, behind them, rank after serried rank, were men-at-arms wearing the insignia of England. To his left and right, horsemen and men-at-arms were moving fast to cut off and surround the rebel army. Schwartz, however, a hardened professional, rapped out an order. The mercenaries moved forward as one man, their pikes lowered, the ranks on the side and the back turning to form a huge square defended by long pikes and shields. Schwartz also tried to impose some order on those in retreat, beating them with the flat of his sword but they pushed and shoved by him. A mercenary officer yelled at Matthias, offering him protection within their ranks. Matthias shook his head. He could not see Fitzgerald. He was determined to reach the baggage train and snatch Mairead before the rout turned into a massacre. He ran as fast as he could, not caring about those around him. One of Lincoln’s men, bruised and cut about the face, had stopped to throw away his armour.

‘Symonds and the Prince are taken!’ he yelled. ‘De la Pole’s dead! Lovell’s fleeing for his life!’

Matthias ran on. So far the enemy had been held, the baggage train looked safe. He heard horsemen galloping behind him and stared round in horror. These were not Lincoln’s men but royal sergeants-at-arms, clubbing and hacking the fleeing rebels. Matthias turned but he felt a terrible blow on the back of his head and sank into black unconsciousness.

When he awoke, his head threatening to split with the pain, he was being dragged across the ground. A royal archer held each of his arms.

‘Water,’ he gasped.

He was flung to the ground. Someone kicked him in the ribs. He stared up. At first he could only see shapes above him. It was cold and dark.

‘Water,’ he gasped again. His throat and mouth were parched. ‘For Jesus’ sake, pity!’

One of the figures crouched down. ‘You poor bastard. You might as well drink before you hang. You are a rebel, aren’t you?’

‘I’m no rebel,’ Matthias gasped. ‘I had no choice.’

The archer pushed his face closer. ‘That’s what they are all saying.’

‘What’s happened?’ Matthias asked.

‘The rebels have been defeated. Now is the hour of judgment.’

The water was taken away. Matthias was hustled to his feet. He stared around unbelievingly. The battlefield was now bathed in moonlight. Dead carpeted the ground as far as he could see. The night was still shattered by screams and groans of dying men or the pathetic whinnies of wounded horses. Cowled figures moved amongst piles of bodies. Those rebels too wounded to be moved had their throats cut, a loud rasp followed by a terrible gurgling cough. The victorious soldiers were also looking for arms, stripping the dead of any clothing or valuables they could find.

Matthias was pushed to the brow of the hill. From every side he glimpsed the camp fires burning merrily. His blood ran cold. Makeshift gallows had been set up. These were now laden with hanged men, some still twitching. Worse still, stakes had been driven into the ground and bodies had been impaled on them. Whether this had been done when they had been alive, Matthias didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. The cadavers were twisted, contorted, dark shapes held up against the night sky. As he was dragged further down the hill and into the enemy camp, Matthias could see why the makeshift gallows had been built: the branches of every available tree seemed to hold hanged men.

Camp was still being set up, tents and pavilions erected, spluttering pitch torches lashed to poles driven into the ground. Men in half-armour, their faces and hands still stained with blood, slipped across Matthias’ path. Somewhere a woman was screaming, a child crying and Matthias’ heart sank as he thought of the baggage train and Mairead. He was dragged down the main thoroughfare of the camp. At the centre, a scene reminiscent of Tewkesbury greeted him. A large trestle table had been set up: behind this sat the royal commander and from the banner flying directly behind his chair, Matthias realised the man in the centre, thin-faced and silver-haired, was de Vere, Earl of Oxford. On either side of him sat one of his principal commanders. Prisoners were being pushed forward. A clerk would whisper in de Vere’s ear and the Earl would rattle out a few words. The prisoner was then either pushed towards the large execution cart or taken to the stockades which, one of Matthias’ guards whispered, lay on the other side of the Newark to Nottingham road. Matthias’ turn soon came and he was pushed forward into the pool of light around the table. De Vere glanced up.

‘Who are you?’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Symonds made me.’

‘Why?’

‘He thought I had Yorkist sympathies.’

‘What are you by profession?’

‘A scholar.’

‘Are you now?’

A scribe came and whispered into de Vere’s ear. The Earl’s face became hostile.

‘You were in Dublin? You were one of the imposter’s close councillors?’

‘As was I. The boyo’s innocent.’

Thomas Fitzgerald sauntered into the torchlight. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour, just a simple jerkin open at the neck, his hose pushed into soft leather boots. He grinned at the surprise on Matthias’ face and made a mocking bow.

‘Thomas Fitzgerald at your service, known to his Grace the King and the Earl of Oxford as The Knave.’ His smile widened. ‘The joker in the pack: their principal spy in the imposter’s court.’ Fitzgerald turned to de Vere. ‘This man was my principal help and assistant. He’s no traitor.’

‘Where’s Mairead?’

Fitzgerald glanced at him. ‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva, she’s dead, gone before I could get to her.’

Matthias stared in dismay. ‘You could have saved her!’ he hissed.

‘What is this?’ de Vere snapped.

‘You bastard!’ Matthias shrieked. ‘I was never party to what you did.’

Fitzgerald leant across and, bringing his gauntleted hand back, smashed Matthias on the side of the head. Matthias fell. He heard de Vere’s voice, Fitzgerald shouting, but the pain was too much and he lapsed into unconsciousness.