The Rose Demon

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