The Rose Demon

soldiers were also looking for arms, stripping the dead of any clothing or valuables they could find.

    Matthias was pushed to the brow of the hill. From every side he glimpsed the camp fires burning merrily. His blood ran cold. Makeshift gallows had been set up. These were now laden with hanged men, some still twitching. Worse still, stakes had been driven into the ground and bodies had been impaled on them. Whether this had been done when they had been alive, Matthias didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. The cadavers were twisted, contorted, dark shapes held up against the night sky. As he was dragged further down the hill and into the enemy camp, Matthias could see why the makeshift gallows had been built: the branches of every available tree seemed to hold hanged men.

    Camp was still being set up, tents and pavilions erected, spluttering pitch torches lashed to poles driven into the ground. Men in half-armour, their faces and hands still stained with blood, slipped across Matthias’ path. Somewhere a woman was screaming, a child crying and Matthias’ heart sank as he thought of the baggage train and Mairead. He was dragged down the main thoroughfare of the camp. At the centre, a scene reminiscent of Tewkesbury greeted him. A large trestle table had been set up: behind this sat the royal commander and from the banner flying directly behind his chair, Matthias realised the man in the centre, thin-faced and silver-haired, was de Vere, Earl of Oxford. On either side of him sat one of his principal commanders. Prisoners were being pushed forward. A clerk would whisper in de Vere’s ear and the Earl would rattle out a few words. The prisoner was then either pushed towards the large execution cart or taken to the stockades which, one of Matthias’ guards whispered, lay on the other side of the Newark to Nottingham road. Matthias’ turn soon came and he was pushed forward into the pool of light around the table. De Vere glanced up.

    ‘Who are you?’

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’

    ‘Why are you here?’

    ‘Symonds made me.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘He thought I had Yorkist sympathies.’

    ‘What are you by profession?’

    ‘A scholar.’

    ‘Are you now?’

    A scribe came and whispered into de Vere’s ear. The Earl’s face became hostile.

    ‘You were in Dublin? You were one of the imposter’s close councillors?’

    ‘As was I. The boyo’s innocent.’

    Thomas Fitzgerald sauntered into the torchlight. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour, just a simple jerkin open at the neck, his hose pushed into soft leather boots. He grinned at the surprise on Matthias’ face and made a mocking bow.

    ‘Thomas Fitzgerald at your service, known to his Grace the King and the Earl of Oxford as The Knave.’ His smile widened. ‘The joker in the pack: their principal spy in the imposter’s court.’ Fitzgerald turned to de Vere. ‘This man was my principal help and assistant. He’s no traitor.’

    ‘Where’s Mairead?’

    Fitzgerald glanced at him. ‘ Oh, Creatura bona atque parva , she’s dead, gone before I could get to her.’

    Matthias stared in dismay. ‘You could have saved her!’ he hissed.

    ‘What is this?’ de Vere snapped.

    ‘You bastard!’ Matthias shrieked. ‘I was never party to what you did.’

    Fitzgerald leant across and, bringing his gauntleted hand back, smashed Matthias on the side of the head. Matthias fell. He heard de Vere’s voice, Fitzgerald shouting, but the pain was too much and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

PART III

    1487-1489

    A Rose in Winter
Bears the highest price.

    Martial’s Epigrams

17

    Matthias regained consciousness in a small, lime-washed cell. He threw back the blankets and staggered to his feet. The chamber was so narrow, if he stretched out his hands he could touch both walls. He peered through the arrow slit window. He was in a castle. The bailey below was busy with grooms leading horses in and out of the stables. A line of geese waddled past guided by a girl with a stick. Somewhere a dog was baying mournfully. Matthias stared down at himself. He was still in the clothes he had worn before the battle, but his belt and boots were gone. A cracked pitcher of water stood in the corner. Dried bread and cheese on a tin plate were being gnawed by rats. Matthias lifted the water, sipped greedily then threw the rest over his plate.

    The door opened. Two men came in. The first was stooped and balding, with a thin pinched face and the screwed up