The Rose Demon

looked as if no grave had been dug there.

    Matthias’ eyes flew open. Outside in the gallery he heard footsteps: servants and retainers, hurrying hither and thither, bringing coals, preparing the household for a new day. Matthias sat up in bed. Despite his many cups of wine, he felt refreshed and clear-headed. He caught the faint smell of roses. Was that his dream? Was he still in that garden? And why had he dreamt so clearly, every detail so finely etched? It was like turning over the pages in a Book of Hours. What had happened was simple to understand: the warm August day, the excitement in the streets and the messenger bearing the pennant of Henry Tudor, showed that Matthias had been shown a scene in Oxford shortly after Henry’s victory over Richard III at Market Bosworth in August 1485. But the man who had been murdered? Matthias got up. Absent-mindedly he shaved and washed, then went down to the refectory where Mairead and Fitzgerald were breaking their fast.

    ‘You seem in better humour than you did yesterday,’ Mairead teased.

    ‘I have something to ask you.’ Matthias slipped on to a bench opposite. ‘Fitzgerald, you’ve lived amongst the Yorkist exiles?’

    ‘Aye, I have.’

    ‘Can you recall any lord or knight whose arms were - ah yes--’ Matthias narrowed his eyes, ‘a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent?’ Matthias filled his cup with beer. ‘Could you find out who bore such arms?’

    ‘I don’t have to,’ Fitzgerald grinned back. ‘They belong to Lionel Clifford, a knight banneret of John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln.’

    ‘Is he dead?’

    ‘Wasn’t when I met him in Tournai. He was drinking and wenching as good as the rest.’ Fitzgerald must have glimpsed the disappointment in Matthias’ face. ‘Mind you, it’s a mystery about his father, Henry.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘Well, he fought with Richard III at Bosworth. Sir Henry Clifford was a Yorkist through and through. We know that he left the battlefield and was last seen on the outskirts of Oxford but after that,’ Fitzgerald shrugged, ‘not a trace. Why do you ask?’

    ‘No reason,’ Matthias replied. ‘But look, Fitzgerald, how much longer are we to stay here?’

    Fitzgerald knew better than to question Matthias further and allowed the conversation to turn to the growing expectancy about the arrival of the fleet from Flanders.

    When he could, Matthias left the refectory and made his way directly to Symonds’ chamber. The former priest was sitting enthroned in his great four-poster bed, resting against the silken bolsters piled high around him, a fur-trimmed robe about his shoulders. He lifted his head when Matthias came in and grinned.

    ‘Ah, Fitzosbert, so you’ve come to give me your answer!’

    ‘I don’t like your threats.’ Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, pleased to see the alarm flare in Symonds’ eyes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call your bullyboys. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what I do. Well, apostate priest,’ he continued, ‘I do look forward to John de la Pole arriving in Dublin. I understand that Sir Lionel Clifford will be in his retinue?’

    Symonds’ face paled.

    ‘I will tell you a story,’ Matthias continued, ‘about how his father fled from Bosworth. He made his way to what he thought was the house of a Yorkist sympathiser. The priest, Symonds, had a small tenement and garden near Magpie Lane.’

    The ex-priest was now gaping at him.

    ‘A beautiful August evening,’ Matthias continued. ‘Henry Clifford is wounded: he looks for sympathy, solace, a place to hide but Symonds is a lick-spittle coward. He gives Sir Henry Clifford wine, then cuts his throat. I’ll say that when they return to England, they should examine the far corner of his garden. They’ll find a deep trench and in it, the corpse of Sir Henry thrown there like a bag of dog’s bones.’

    Matthias got to his feet. ‘Now I’ve written that down,’ he declared. ‘If something happens to me, copies of my story are to be delivered to Sir John de la Pole and Sir Lionel Clifford.’ Matthias grinned and gave a mocking bow. ‘So, you see, sir, I have power and I have used it. I do not wish to talk to you again on these matters!’

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