The Rose Demon

22

Five days later Douglas and his party reached Edinburgh. They had travelled across the wild heathland, past small villages and hamlets. The children and dogs came running out to watch them whilst their parents stood in the doorways and glanced dourly at these fighting men. Eventually they struck east towards the coast, before moving inland to where Edinburgh crouched on its great crag. It looked a princely town but, once within its gates, Matthias found it not very different from London, which he had visited on a number of occasions. The great high street stretched in a herringbone with dark alleys and lanes running off it. Some of the houses had three or four storeys with glazed or painted windows. Others were poor cottages made of wattle and daub, and covered in thatch. They passed the kirk, the Tolbooth and courthouse, across the main market place where the dismembered limbs of traitors were displayed. The crowds swirled about. Rich merchants and their wives in velvets and damask rubbed shoulders with the poor, garbed in coarse linen, wooden clogs on their feet. It was a busy, tumultuous place with different markets in various parts of the city: the fishers, the clothiers, the blood-covered stalls of the fleshers and butchers. Douglas and his party had to force their way through, using whips and the flats of their swords. As in London, the commoners were not so easily cowed, and Douglas and his men, even though they’d loudly proclaimed a successful foray into England, were cursed and spat at.

At last they broke free of the city and entered the palatial grounds of the Abbey of Holyrood. They crossed gardens and fields where lay brothers worked busily on the land, past fisheries and orchards, laundries, outhouses, barns and granges, then into the great cobbled yard which divided the abbey from the small palace which adjoined it. Here, retainers, wearing the black and scarlet of the royal household, came out to meet them, grooms and ostlers, supervised by men-at-arms in quilted jackets.

Douglas snapped his fingers and ordered Matthias to follow him into a flat-stoned passageway. The galleries and entrances to every room were guarded by knight bannerets all wearing the livery of the red lion rampant of Scotland. Holyrood was a close, secretive place. Despite the wooden wainscoting, the coloured cloths on the walls, the beautifully polished oak furniture, the broad sweeping stairs and clean, well-lit galleries, the palace was a military camp with armed men thronging about. Time and again Douglas was stopped and, before he entered the royal chambers, he reluctantly had to surrender his sword and dirk to a royal archer, who also searched him for any hidden weapons. Douglas scarcely greeted anyone, whilst those he and Matthias passed stared askance or looked away. They were ushered into a small waiting chamber opulently furnished with cushioned seats round the wall. More guards thronged here. Douglas told Matthias to wait: an archer opened a door and led the Scottish lord into the royal presence.

Matthias must have kicked his heels for an hour. No one approached; now and again the archers would stare but mainly they chose to ignore him. Nevertheless, Matthias realised that they had him in custody: both the entrance to the royal chamber and the door which they had just come through were locked and guarded.

At last the door to the royal chamber was thrown open. Douglas came out and beckoned Matthias forward. The chamber they entered was hot and stuffy, the windows shuttered. A fire burnt fiercely under a mantled hearth. Pitch torches flickered on the walls whilst a table in the centre of the room was covered with lighted candles. The man standing in the far corner talking softly to a handsome peregrine, perched hooded on the great wooden stand, came out of the shadows. Douglas poked Matthias in the ribs.

‘He might not be your king,’ he whispered, ‘but he is Christ’s anointed.’

Matthias went on one knee. The hand he kissed was covered in precious stones; it was also cold and clammy.

‘You are welcome, Englishman.’ The voice was low, devoid of any accent.

Matthias got to his feet. James III of Scotland was of medium height. His red hair was hidden under a black velvet cap that was decorated by a huge gleaming amethyst. The King’s face was covered in freckles, his moustache and beard were straggly. He had watery blue eyes, a loose-lipped mouth, from which his tongue kept flickering out to one side as if to lick an open sore. A weak man, Matthias thought, frightened of Douglas.

‘You are most welcome.’

The King tried to sound courteous and calm but Matthias sensed his tension. James studied Matthias as if he hoped to glimpse something else.

‘So, you are Fitzosbert, an English clerk?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘And do you have secret powers?’ The King was staring open-eyed as if Matthias might sprout wings and fly round the chamber.

‘I think he has, Your Grace,’ Douglas gruffly interrupted. ‘And, knowing Your Grace’s interest in such matters, I thought it best to bring him to you.’

‘Yes, yes, quite.’ James waved his hand. ‘You, my Lord of Douglas, will retire.’

‘Your Grace, I’d best stay with you.’

‘Ach, tush man!’ James’s voice became plaintive. ‘The man’s not armed and I’ve always been told,’ James’s eyes became mean, his mouth twisted into a vicious smile, ‘that it will be a Scot who kills me.’ He pushed his head forward. ‘You are not Scots, are you, Fitzosbert?’

‘I am of English stock, sire.’

Matthias was glad to see Douglas, the author of his present troubles, so summarily dismissed.

‘Come now, come on.’ James clapped his hands like a child, his voice growing high and plaintive. ‘My Lord of Douglas, I am not your prisoner.’

‘I shall stay outside, sire.’ Douglas deliberately turned his back on the King as a gesture of contempt.

The King looked over Matthias’ shoulder, waiting until the door was closed. He then grasped him by the arm and pushed him to sit in front of the fire.

‘Sit there, man.’ The King went to a small table where he poured two goblets of wine. He gave one to Matthias and sat down beside him. ‘I know what you are thinking, Englishman, but, God be my witness, I trust nobody. I pour my own wine. I even cook my own food. I trust none of them, not even my own son.’ The King sipped at his wine. ‘My queen’s dead. My boy hates me. As for those nobles,’ the King started to cry, to Matthias’ astonishment, the tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘I had a great friend, young Cochrane, but they hanged him. Throttled him with a silken cord! Now they want to hang me.’ He wiped the tears from his cheeks. ‘Douglas is a leading wolf of the pack, busy on his raid into England, wasn’t he? Och aye.’ The King nodded. ‘I’ve heard all about that. Went to collect gunpowder, did he? Now he comes trotting into my presence with an Englishman. Do you, Fitzosbert, have magical powers?’

‘No, Your Grace, I do not!’

‘Not a bit?’ The King held up a little finger.

‘No, sire, I am a clerk, a scholar of Oxford. I was at Barnwick-’

‘Tush, man, I don’t want to know your life.’ The King waved a hand. ‘I ask you again.’ He put his cup down on the floor and drew a long Italian stiletto from the sleeve of his gown.

Matthias froze as this madcap king pricked his neck, just beneath his left ear.

‘You are telling me you have no powers? None whatsoever?’ He leant closer. ‘I have a mirror, you know,’ James whispered. ‘And if a Black Mass is offered in the room, and you say the Lord’s Prayer backwards, you can see the future. Can’t you tell me the future, Matthias Fitzosbert?’

‘I know two things, sire,’ Matthias replied, not daring to move his head.

‘About the future?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘So, you do have powers?’

‘I can tell you two things from the future,’ Matthias repeated. ‘You are going to die and so am I.’

The King stared unbelievingly at him, then he giggled like some old maid, fingers over his mouth. He dropped his hand, the dagger disappeared back up the sleeve of his gown. James struck Matthias gently on the shoulder.

‘You answered well, Englishman.’ His smile faded. ‘If you had replied any different, I’d have hanged you.’

Matthias let out a deep sigh.

‘So, you say you are a clerk?’

Matthias answered his questions and realised that, beneath the madness, James was weak and suspicious, with a deep interest in the sciences, particularly the work of bookbinders and parchment-makers.

They sat and chatted for a while. Matthias didn’t really understand if the King was genuinely interested or just wanted to make Douglas kick his heels for as long as possible. An hour passed. James turned the conversation to Barnwick. When Matthias mentioned the haunting of the north tower and Douglas’ destruction of it, the King beat a fist against his spindly thighs.

‘He shouldn’t have done that! He shouldn’t have done that! I would have liked to have visited such a place.’ James leant closer. ‘They say this abbey is haunted,’ he whispered, ‘by a monk who didn’t say his Mass properly. I have spent many a night sitting on my arse in that cold place but I’ve glimpsed nothing but moonbeams and rats. What hour is it?’

‘Sire, I don’t know. It must be late in the afternoon.’

‘Is it now, is it now?’ the King murmured, his fingers to his lips. ‘I must go to the abbey and say my prayers.’ He glanced slyly at Matthias. ‘I’ve still got Cochrane’s body here, you know,’ James declared, referring to his dead favourite. ‘I had him embalmed and laid out in a splendid coffer. I hear Mass, then I talk to Cochrane about all of my troubles. I’ll ask him about you. I know he’ll agree I shouldn’t hang you. You don’t like the Douglas, do you?’ James grasped Matthias’ wrist. ‘So you can stay with me.’

The King got to his feet, tossing the rest of his wine on to the fire. He walked to the door and threw it open.

‘Ah, Douglas, I didn’t think you’d wait, man.’

Lord George came into the room, biting his lip in anger. He was followed by the captain of the guard.

‘Take this Englishman.’ The King pointed to Matthias. ‘No, I don’t want him hanged. Give him a chamber here in the household. He’ll have three marks a month and fresh robes at Easter. He can eat at the royal board. I’ve got to go to church now.’

The King went to leave but paused in the doorway.

‘Oh, Douglas, the plunder from Barnwick: I’m your king so, by law and ancient custom, I’ll have half of it.’

Douglas bowed stiffly from the waist but the King had already left, shouting at his guards to follow.

The royal officer led Matthias and Douglas out of the King’s chambers and up some stairways. Matthias was shown into a small, white-washed room. The captain of the guard gestured round.

‘This is yours, Englishman.’ He grasped Matthias by the shoulder. ‘I’ll get servants to bring sheets and blankets for the bed. I’ll also give you some advice, lad. Never anger the King. Never contradict him. If you do,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘as sure as my name’s Archibald Kennedy, he’ll have you hanged!’

The captain left. Douglas closed the door and leant on it.

‘So, what do you think of our king?’

Matthias sat down on a stool and stretched his legs. He felt weak after such a fraught meeting.

‘A most gracious prince, my lord.’

‘Spare me your sarcasm, Englishman. The man’s as mad as a moonstruck hare. You know he’ll kill you?’

‘My life is in God’s hands, my lord.’

‘He’ll kill you.’ Douglas played with the hilt of his dagger. ‘One day he’ll remember how you were brought into the royal presence by one of the hated Douglases and you’ll die.’

‘So, why did you bring me here?’

‘Well, Englishman, if the King doesn’t kill you, I will.’

Matthias stared at this wolf amongst men.

‘Or else what, my lord?’

‘Well. .’ Douglas opened the door and glanced down the gallery.

‘Well, my lord? I am sure there must be something else.’

‘You can kill the King!’

The words were softly spoken but Douglas’ face was hard.

‘He might not be my king,’ Matthias replied, ‘but remember, my lord, he is the Lord’s anointed.’

Douglas ignored Matthias’ mimicry of his own words.

‘But the Lord has taken His hand away from him, as He did from Saul and bestowed His favour on David.’

‘And, of course, you have this new David?’ Matthias taunted. ‘The King’s young son?’

‘The boy is a bonny lad. He has great favour, is well liked and respected by the lords spiritual and temporal, not to mention our many bonnet lairds. James III is mad. The Exchequer’s empty, the kingdom’s weak. He pours good gold and silver into one madcap scheme after another. We have tried to teach him the true paths. We hanged six of his favourites but still he hasn’t learnt.’

‘So, you organised a foray into England?’ Matthias replied. ‘To collect arms and munitions as well as an Englishman whom the King might be interested in?’

‘You’ll be given many an opportunity.’

Matthias rubbed his face. Was there no end to this? To be the tool and instrument of power-hungry men?

‘Do it as you wish,’ Douglas continued. ‘The knife, a cup of poison.’

‘And if I do?’ Matthias spat the words out. ‘If I do this for you, Lord George Douglas, who destroyed my life and brought me here, an exile amongst strangers?’

‘You’ll be loaded with honours and returned to the border,’ Douglas replied.

Aye, Matthias thought, pigs will fly and fish will walk on dry land.

‘Think about it.’ Douglas forced a smile. He stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Matthias sat staring at the wall. He didn’t really care about what Douglas had said. He searched his mind. What did he feel? A deep anger at Rosamund’s death? Yes, and a growing hatred for the men who had caused it. He stayed in the chamber until Archibald Kennedy came back.

‘The King’s waiting for ye. He wishes you to sup with him.’

Matthias followed the soldier back to the chamber where he had first met the King. James was more relaxed: one of the shutters had been opened. The King waved him to a stool on the other side of a small table which was covered with trenchers and bowls full of meat, bread and fruit. The King blessed himself and, chattering about how he would like to develop the Abbey of Holyrood, invited Matthias to eat. The King watched Matthias put food on his trencher and begin to eat. He had hardly done so when the King stretched across, knocked his hand away and took the trencher for himself whilst Matthias was given his plate. The same occurred when the wine was poured. Matthias realised that, whether he liked it or not, he was the King’s food-taster. James watched him, narrow-eyed.

‘Why did Douglas bring you here, Englishman?’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, Your Grace. He wishes me to kill you.’

James threw his head back in a loud neighing laugh, spitting food from his mouth.

‘Englishman, you jest!’

‘Your Grace, I do not.’

‘Och aye!’ The King sighed, wiping his fingers on his gown. ‘I could have you hanged for that.’ He sighed again. ‘But you are telling the truth, aren’t you?’

Matthias stared into those hard, cunning eyes full of madness. He stretched across to take a small manchet loaf but the King knocked his hand away.

‘Don’t eat that!’ he whispered. ‘It’s poisoned!’

Matthias swallowed hard. His appetite abruptly died.

‘I poisoned that myself,’ the King continued. ‘I heard your conversation with the Douglas. The chamber you were given has a false wall. In one of the beams there are two holes. You can look through or put your ear to them.’

‘Archibald Kennedy was there all the time, wasn’t he?’ Matthias asked.

‘Och aye.’ James smiled. ‘Douglas wants me dead.’

‘Why don’t you kill him? It is treason to plot against you, the King.’

The King rubbed his hand together. ‘I’d love to,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I’d love to see that arrogant red head on the end of a pike but not here, not now. If I kill the Douglas his clan would be swarming through Edinburgh. They’d burn the abbey and the palace to the ground and I would disappear into some dark pit.’ He smiled again. ‘If ye hadn’t told me the truth, I would have let you eat that poison. But come on, have some more wine. Tell me about Oxford!’

So began Matthias’ bizarre life at the Scottish court. Sometimes the King would forget him and Matthias would wander the dusty galleries or go into the great abbey. He’d sit at the base of a pillar and listen to the rhythmic chant of the monks in their stalls or stare up at the stained-glass windows, where angels blew golden trumpets to raise the dead and demons danced on an ocean of fire. The abbey walls, too, were decorated with gorgeous multi-coloured scenes from the Bible. Matthias got to know each and every one of them, and the memories of those paintings at Tewkesbury flooded back: the golden summer day, the hermit staring at a painting, tears streaming down his face.

Matthias did try to escape. One morning he slipped out of a small postern gate and crossed the great meadow which ran down to one of the curtain walls round the abbey. He thought no one would notice. He was halfway across when he heard the whirr of arrows and two long shafts smacked into the soft earth on either side of him. Matthias turned round. Kennedy stood at the top of the hill: the master bowman beside him was notching another arrow to his string. Matthias shrugged and walked slowly back.

On other occasions he was closeted with the King; James was a madcap, seething with rage at the humiliation foisted upon him by his great barons. He was superstitious and, at other times, deeply religious. Matthias would sometimes sleep in the same chamber or sit at his right at banquets in the great refectory. He would taste every morsel of food and cup of wine placed before the King.

Matthias was also invited into the royal chapel where Cochrane, the King’s long-dead favourite, lay embalmed in an open casket. James had a special chair placed at the head of this. He would sit for hours stroking his dead favourite’s face, playing with the tendrils of the hair, cooing softly or talking about affairs of state. James would then quietly listen, as he put it, ‘for Cochrane’s good counsel’.

Douglas had left the court. When he returned, he never approached Matthias but just stared angry-eyed, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger. Matthias would shrug and glance away. He felt safe enough and, after his walk through the long meadow, never again attempted to escape. He didn’t pray or put his trust in God. He simply reached a decision that, if an opportunity to escape presented itself, he would seize it.

The months passed, a wet winter turned into a glorious spring. James spent more hours closeted in the royal chapel crooning and murmuring over Cochrane’s corpse. When he returned to his private chambers, he became immersed in letters, all written in a secret hand, to his ‘friends and trusted counsellors throughout Scotland’.

One day, at the beginning of May, Matthias found the King beside himself with excitement.

‘It’s war!’ he whispered across the table. ‘It’s now or never, Englishman! Cochrane has given me his advice! I am to take the field. Do you agree?’

‘Your Grace knows best,’ Matthias replied.

‘I have got to look for a cause,’ the King replied.

A few days later he was given this. A group of Douglas’ allies, the Humes, wild, border bonnet lairds, arrived in a clatter of hooves and clash of armour at the palace demanding an immediate audience with the King. James, dressed in his finest regal robes, met them in the throne room, his royal guards all about him, Matthias being relegated to a shadowy corner. At first Matthias couldn’t understand what was happening. The Humes, dressed in half-armour, their long, red hair falling down to their waists, stood arrogantly before the King and shouted for their rights.

‘The revenues of Coldingham Priory,’ their leader insisted, ‘belong to the Humes. They are ours by right and ancient privilege!’

‘Nothing is yours by right or privilege,’ James tartly retorted.

The Humes repeated their demands. James, bored, rose to his feet, clapped his hands as a sign that the audience was over and swept out of the throne room.

Within a week the Humes and their confederates the Douglases were up in arms. James became frenetic with excitement. His allies, the Huntleys and Crawfords, brought their retinues to Edinburgh. More royal troops arrived and the King began to move: his napery, his salt cellars, tapestries and curtained beds, spinning wheels, towels, combs, mirrors, chests and coffers were piled on to carts. The King, now the warrior, constantly marched about in half-armour, brought specially from Milanese craftsmen. James saw himself as a new Robert Bruce, full of military oaths and what he would do after his great victory. Matthias was given a coat of chain mail, a conical helmet, a war belt and a rounded shield.

‘You’ll be my squire, Englishman,’ James smiled at him. ‘You’ll stand by me in the fray. If you don’t, my good man Kennedy has orders to slash your throat from ear to ear.’ He grasped Matthias’ arm. ‘That’s the advice Cochrane gave me.’

Matthias glanced at the captain of the royal guard. Kennedy winked back.

‘God knows how this will end,’ he whispered later to Matthias, ‘but Cochrane has also told him how to fight this war.’

At the end of May James, astride a snow-white palfrey, the saddle and harness of burnished leather edged with silver, led his royal army out of the grounds of Holyrood, down through the stinking wynds of Edinburgh. They paused at the great open space before St Giles’ Cathedral where the priests blessed them. The royal army then continued. James had a body of archers and men-at-arms who wore coats of mail. These soldiers were well armed with bows and arrows, broadswords and daggers, but the rest were bare-footed clans-men, dressed in loose plaids and saffron-dyed shirts, and they carried little except a stout dagger in their belts, a spear and shield. Nevertheless, what they lacked in armour they made up in courage and determination. They did not care a whit about the King but were eager for war, to burn, pillage and, above all, wreak vengeance on their deadly enemies the Humes and the Douglases.

The King moved to Blackness on the Firth of Forth. His army caught sight of the enemy mustering in the distance. They, too, carried the royal banner of Scotland, having amongst their ranks the King’s eldest son. James’s courage now cooled. He refused to give battle but marched his troops further west. Kennedy told Matthias that he thought they were going for Stirling to seek protection behind its fortified walls. The King’s enemies moved faster and, when the royal army tried to cross Sauchieburn, a river which snaked its way across Stirling Plain, they found their way blocked by the Humes and Douglases and a greatly swollen rebel army.

James, Matthias in tow, rode up and down the lines of his troops, exhorting them to stand and fight, interfering in the commands and orders of his captains. The royal forces were not fully deployed when the rebel army moved with incredible speed. Matthias stared unbelievingly at the great line of horse and foot which raced towards them. This was no Tewkesbury or East Stoke but a wild rush of men. Most of James’s soldiers simply turned and fled: the levies from Edinburgh and other towns were the first to leave the field. The King, watching the flight of his troops from a nearby hill, panicked, took his helmet off and, turning his horse, left the field. Most of his bodyguard had been deployed in the line of battle and, as the King began his wild ride, Matthias realised only he and Kennedy were left to guard him. Behind them the roars of battle, the cries and shrieks of dying men faded as the King rode away.

They crossed a small stream, driving their horses up the wet slippery bank, and were about to pass a mill when James’s palfrey, unused to such mad gallops, slipped and rolled, tossing the king. He managed to extricate himself but, in doing so, hurt his legs. He lay gasping, screaming for Cochrane and beating his gauntleted hand on the ground like a spoilt child who has been deprived of a toy. Then he groaned and, clutching his side, fell back on the ground.

‘Englishman,’ Kennedy dismounted, ‘see if there is any pursuit.’

Whilst he crouched beside his king, Matthias turned his horse’s head and rode back to the top of the bank. He took his helmet off, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat on his face. He pulled back the mailed coif and drank from the waterskin slung over his saddle. He didn’t give a fig about James or the pursuers and, for some time, his attention was caught by a small white cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. He stared at it, lost in a reverie: the sky, the cloud, the warm sun reminded him of that day at the wall when he had told Rosamund about his past.

‘Englishman, are you asleep?’

Matthias shook his head, splashed some water over his face and stared across the heathland. At first he could see nothing but, straining his eyes, he glimpsed colour behind a copse of trees and saw some riders emerge. Half a dozen, these fanned out as they rode towards them. Behind them came another party. Matthias tried to make out the colours. He glimpsed a banner, green and white. The breeze blew more strongly, the riders turned direction and he saw the black and gold banner of Lord George Douglas.

‘There are pursuers!’ Matthias shouted. ‘And they are coming fast.’ He trotted his horse down. ‘What now?’

Kennedy had grasped the King by the shoulder and was lifting him up from the ground. A faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of the King’s mouth. His face was white. He was grasping his side.

‘He has broken a rib, bruised something inside.’ Puzzlingly, Kennedy smiled up at Matthias. ‘Who’s leading the pursuit?’

‘Lord George Douglas.’

‘Aye,’ the King muttered, opening his eyes. ‘He has pursued me in life, he will pursue me to the death.’ He grasped Kennedy’s arm. ‘Archibald man, kill him.’ He pointed at Matthias. ‘We’ll take his horse.’

‘Sire,’ the Scottish captain dabbed at the King’s face with a rag, ‘you cannot be moved.’

The King stared at him wildly. ‘But, for God’s sake man, if we stay the Douglas will take my head!’

‘Get him some water!’ Kennedy ordered.

Matthias offered the small leather bottle.

‘Ach no,’ the King groaned. ‘Bring me fresh from the burn!’

Matthias ran up the bank, grasped his helmet and went down to the burn. He filled his helmet with water and looked up. Douglas and his party were drawing closer. He heard a faint shout as they glimpsed him running back up the bank. He went to kneel by the King. Kennedy snatched the helmet from his hand and poured the water over the King’s face.

‘Are they drawing closer?’ Kennedy asked.

‘For God’s sake, yes, man!’ Matthias retorted.

‘Kill him,’ the King murmured. ‘Kill the Englishman and fetch me a priest!’

Kennedy drew his dagger. Matthias didn’t know whether to spring at him or jump away. He caught a look in the Scotsman’s eyes, gentle, kindly: then the dagger was brought down. One swift thrust into the exposed throat of King James III of Scotland, who wriggled and choked as Kennedy held the dagger firm, all the time his eyes staring at Matthias.

‘Go on, Creatura! Go on now!’

‘Why?’ Matthias asked, getting to his feet.

‘Win or lose, the King had given orders for your death but his soul was ours. Go on, Creatura, ride like the wind.’ He pointed to his own horse and the longbow looped over the saddle horn. ‘I have unfinished business with the Lord Douglas!’