The Rose Demon

it was a sea of coloured flowers rather than men twisting and turning in mortal agony. Here and there a horse tried to raise itself up, a man staggered to his knees. A group of Oxford’s archers threw down their swords and tried to surrender but they were surrounded by a group of Irish, who slaughtered them to a man. The screams and yells were terrible.

    Schwartz and his mercenaries remained impassive though Matthias sensed their concern. Both flanks of the rebel army had now disappeared and, despite messages from Lincoln or the pleas of his own officers, Schwartz refused to advance. Messengers on foot and horse kept galloping up the hill.

    Then Matthias heard it in one of those rare moments of silence: the sound of trumpets, clear and vibrant. Schwartz beckoned him and his other officers over. The German’s thickset face was covered in a sheen of sweat. A nervous tic had appeared high in his cheek.

    ‘Those trumpets,’ he declared. ‘It’s Tudor’s army!’

    Matthias looked round: the foot of the hill was now covered by a heavy cloud of dust, which completely cut off sight of the entire approach Oxford had made.

    ‘We can’t see anything,’ one of Schwartz’s officers declared.

    ‘I don’t have to,’ Schwartz retorted. ‘Every man to his position!’

    Matthias slipped away to the back. He could glimpse the baggage train where the servants, women and camp followers now sheltered. Should he go down there? Find Mairead and flee? He heard a roar and hurried back to the brow of the hill.

    The battle had now shifted dramatically. Lincoln’s men were pouring back up the hill. The Irish, too, had broken. Wide-eyed, many of them cut and bruised, they dropped their arms. The dust cloud shifted. Matthias’ heart went to his throat. Oxford’s men had reformed and, behind them, rank after serried rank, were men-at-arms wearing the insignia of England. To his left and right, horsemen and men-at-arms were moving fast to cut off and surround the rebel army. Schwartz, however, a hardened professional, rapped out an order. The mercenaries moved forward as one man, their pikes lowered, the ranks on the side and the back turning to form a huge square defended by long pikes and shields. Schwartz also tried to impose some order on those in retreat, beating them with the flat of his sword but they pushed and shoved by him. A mercenary officer yelled at Matthias, offering him protection within their ranks. Matthias shook his head. He could not see Fitzgerald. He was determined to reach the baggage train and snatch Mairead before the rout turned into a massacre. He ran as fast as he could, not caring about those around him. One of Lincoln’s men, bruised and cut about the face, had stopped to throw away his armour.

    ‘Symonds and the Prince are taken!’ he yelled. ‘De la Pole’s dead! Lovell’s fleeing for his life!’

    Matthias ran on. So far the enemy had been held, the baggage train looked safe. He heard horsemen galloping behind him and stared round in horror. These were not Lincoln’s men but royal sergeants-at-arms, clubbing and hacking the fleeing rebels. Matthias turned but he felt a terrible blow on the back of his head and sank into black unconsciousness.

    When he awoke, his head threatening to split with the pain, he was being dragged across the ground. A royal archer held each of his arms.

    ‘Water,’ he gasped.

    He was flung to the ground. Someone kicked him in the ribs. He stared up. At first he could only see shapes above him. It was cold and dark.

    ‘Water,’ he gasped again. His throat and mouth were parched. ‘For Jesus’ sake, pity!’

    One of the figures crouched down. ‘You poor bastard. You might as well drink before you hang. You are a rebel, aren’t you?’

    ‘I’m no rebel,’ Matthias gasped. ‘I had no choice.’

    The archer pushed his face closer. ‘That’s what they are all saying.’

    ‘What’s happened?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘The rebels have been defeated. Now is the hour of judgment.’

    The water was taken away. Matthias was hustled to his feet. He stared around unbelievingly. The battlefield was now bathed in moonlight. Dead carpeted the ground as far as he could see. The night was still shattered by screams and groans of dying men or the pathetic whinnies of wounded horses. Cowled figures moved amongst piles of bodies. Those rebels too wounded to be moved had their throats cut, a loud rasp followed by a terrible gurgling cough. The victorious