The Rose Demon

a dream: the small fleet standing out in the harbour, emblazoned with flags and pennants; the golden lions of de la Pole; the leopards and lilies of England; the colourful, makeshift banners of the Irish lords. Thanks to Schwartz, everything moved in an orderly fashion. Ships turned and made their way out of the harbour, sails dipping three times in honour of the Trinity.

    By the time dusk fell, they were out into the open sea, picking up brisk winds heading for Peil Castle on the Isle of Foudray in Lancashire. The crossing was smooth and uneventful. The Yorkist commanders were beside themselves with joy. There was no sign of the Tudor ships and, on their second day out, they made a landfall, the cogs slipping into a natural harbour. At first confusion reigned as horses, supplies and men were unloaded. There were mishaps and accidents but, by 7 June 1487, the Yorkist army was disembarked, formed its line of march and headed deep into Lancashire. Matthias rode with Fitzgerald; Mairead kept close.

    ‘She’s got a soft spot for you.’ Fitzgerald drew his horse back and grinned at Matthias. ‘But she’s also worried, as am I. You’ve been very quiet, Matthias Fitzosbert. In Dublin you almost became a recluse. What happened between you and Symonds, eh?’

    Matthias shrugged. ‘I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me.’

    ‘And that’s what I want to speak to you about.’ Fitzgerald leant closer and gestured at the clouds of dust which now rose on either side of the army. ‘It’s a beautiful day. You are back in England, the grass is green. The honeysuckle, cowslip, daisy and the rose are in full bloom. So, why do you choke dust in the middle of a rebel army?’ Fitzgerald grasped Matthias’ wrist. ‘You’re going to slip away, boyo, aren’t you?’

    Matthias stared back.

    ‘One dark night you’ll fasten on your war belt and, without a word to me or Mairead, you’ll be over the hills and miles away.’

    ‘Something like that,’ Matthias grudgingly conceded. ‘Thomas, you’ve been a good friend yet you are a mercenary, a fighting man, and I, in truth, am still a prisoner. I am only here because Symonds thought I could help him. If we win, I’ll be turned out to fend for myself. If we lose, I’ll hang quicker than the rest.’ He gathered the reins in his hands. ‘I, too, have a life to lead, things to do.’

    ‘Don’t go,’ Fitzgerald warned.

    He pulled Matthias’ horse out of the column of march. For a while they sat and watched the horsemen, the carts, sumpter ponies, Schwartz’s men striding along, their long pikes over their shoulders, their sallets hanging on their backs. Behind these trotted thousands of wild Irish tribesmen, nothing more than a disorderly mass kept in check by Schwartz’s officers and their own chieftains.

    ‘I’m going to tell you, boyo.’ Fitzgerald was now sitting very close, his leg brushing that of Matthias. ‘So far we’ve had the devil’s own luck. We’ve crossed the sea and we’ve disembarked. The sun is strong.’ He gestured to the fields on either side. ‘Long, cool grass, clear brooks and streams.’ He pointed to the small copses and woods which dotted the landscape. ‘Don’t be fooled by all this, Matthias. Where are the English lords who were supposed to join us? Where are the peasants? The yeomen flocking to our banners?’ He gestured at the Irish. ‘And how long do you think they’ll obey orders?’

    ‘What are you saying, Fitzgerald?’

    The mercenary pointed to the far distance.

    ‘Somewhere over there, Tudor’s armies are waiting. They have castles, men-at-arms, bowmen, supplies and, above all, they are led by one of the best generals in Europe, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. He was fighting Yorkists when you were piddling your breeches. Soon the pillaging, the raping and the robbing will begin. I tell you this, Matthias, any stranger found wandering by himself will be regarded as a rebel. The peasants will hate you and, if you are captured, you’ll die slowly, not in a matter of hours but days, even weeks. I know, I have fought in these wars. Have you ever seen a living man trussed and bound and fed to hogs? Or turned like a piece of meat over a slow-burning fire? And then there’s Symonds! Heaven knows what you said to him, Matthias, but he hates and distrusts you. He considers you a Judas man, a Tudor agent. You are watched more closely than you think. So, stay close to me and Mairead.’ He spurred his horse.