The Rose Demon
the smell of oatmeal drifted through the air.
‘Do you want a priest?’ Mairead asked.
Matthias walked away. He stared down the hill where the mist swirled. He reflected on what Mairead had asked. He fought hard to curb the rage boiling within him. On this day he might die, and what had been his life? His childhood had been shattered, his youth and upbringing overshadowed by a secret which hung over him like a black cloud. Now it had returned and brought him here in the middle of a cold, damp field. What did it matter if de la Pole and Symonds won today?
‘Do you know, Mairead,’ Matthias said, coming back, ‘I believe in the Good Lord but I do wonder whether He believes in me.’
He saw the tears in her eyes. She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on each cheek.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘What is life anyway, Matthias, but the throw of dice? And, if we are to die, let’s do it on full bellies!’
Fitzgerald came over. Mairead stood back and the Irishman clasped Matthias’ hand.
‘We’ll be in the centre. Stay close to me, Matthias, whatever happens.’
They went to one of the fires where Mairead begged bowls of oatmeal. Fitzgerald wandered off and brought back some wine. After he had eaten Matthias felt better. Mairead kissed him goodbye.
‘I’ll be in the rear with the baggage train.’ She grinned, her fingers ran softly down his cheek, her lower lip quivered. ‘Perhaps, Matthias,’ she whispered, ‘the next time the wheel of life turns, we will meet again.’ And, with no more words, she ran off.
‘She’s a great lass.’ Fitzgerald linked his arm through Matthias’. ‘Today’s a dying day.’
He took Matthias over to one of the armourer’s carts. One of the marshals handed over a boiled leather breast-plate and a heavy steel sallet, which covered the top half of Matthias’ face.
‘Don’t wear any colours,’ Fitzgerald whispered. ‘If things go wrong . . .’
The mist was lifting, the air was rent by the sound of trumpets and war horns. The army was on the move. Fitzgerald led Matthias over to where the standards were grouped on the brow of the hill: Lincoln’s, Lovell’s, the Kildares of Ireland, the royal arms of England. Edward of Warwick sat on a white palfrey. He was already accoutred for battle; wearing the silver armour the Archbishop of Dublin had bought him, now covered with a gorgeous blue, red and gold surcoat. Beside him sat Symonds, in the armour of a knight. The former priest had grown even fatter so he looked like a bloated toad. His resentment at being excluded from the military preparations was more than obvious. Lincoln, Schwartz and Lovell stood to one side, surrounded by officers and messengers. Behind them the Swiss and German mercenaries were taking up position: line after line, their tall pikes readied, their faces protected by sallets, many of which sported brilliant plumes of feathers.
As the sun strengthened, Matthias could see the rest of the army taking up position under the direction of marshals: these waved their white wands and moved up and down the ranks, accompanied by trumpeters and young boys beating on tambours. Fires were extinguished, carts rolled away. Matthias caught the excitement of thousands of men preparing for bloodshed - the neigh of horses, the clatter of arms, the shouts of the marshals and the persistent screaming of trumpets. Scouts and cursitors came riding up the hill, their horses covered in a white foam. They slipped from the saddle and hastened to tell their commanders what they had seen. The enemy was on the move and Matthias heard the distant sound of enemy trumpets.
He followed Fitzgerald to the brow of the hill. The mist had nearly lifted: behind the line of trees, which screened the road leading to Nottingham, Matthias glimpsed the first colours of the enemy.
Lincoln mounted his destrier, a great black war horse, and rode along the ranks.
‘Good news!’ he shouted. ‘The enemy is advancing in two battles. De Vere, Earl of Oxford, is leading the first but a gap has appeared between him and his master. Our army is divided into three battles.’ He flung his hand out. ‘On our right, my own. In the centre Schwartz and his Germans.’ He turned his horse and came back. ‘To the left our Irish allies.’
The Irish were massed, sitting at a half-crouch. Most of them were naked except for breech clouts and robes. Some wore sandals. All were armed with shield and broad cutting
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