The Rose Demon

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