The Rose Demon

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