The Rose Demon

were ushered into a small waiting chamber opulently furnished with cushioned seats round the wall. More guards thronged here. Douglas told Matthias to wait: an archer opened a door and led the Scottish lord into the royal presence.

    Matthias must have kicked his heels for an hour. No one approached; now and again the archers would stare but mainly they chose to ignore him. Nevertheless, Matthias realised that they had him in custody: both the entrance to the royal chamber and the door which they had just come through were locked and guarded.

    At last the door to the royal chamber was thrown open. Douglas came out and beckoned Matthias forward. The chamber they entered was hot and stuffy, the windows shuttered. A fire burnt fiercely under a mantled hearth. Pitch torches flickered on the walls whilst a table in the centre of the room was covered with lighted candles. The man standing in the far corner talking softly to a handsome peregrine, perched hooded on the great wooden stand, came out of the shadows. Douglas poked Matthias in the ribs.

    ‘He might not be your king,’ he whispered, ‘but he is Christ’s anointed.’

    Matthias went on one knee. The hand he kissed was covered in precious stones; it was also cold and clammy.

    ‘You are welcome, Englishman.’ The voice was low, devoid of any accent.

    Matthias got to his feet. James III of Scotland was of medium height. His red hair was hidden under a black velvet cap that was decorated by a huge gleaming amethyst. The King’s face was covered in freckles, his moustache and beard were straggly. He had watery blue eyes, a loose-lipped mouth, from which his tongue kept flickering out to one side as if to lick an open sore. A weak man, Matthias thought, frightened of Douglas.

    ‘You are most welcome.’

    The King tried to sound courteous and calm but Matthias sensed his tension. James studied Matthias as if he hoped to glimpse something else.

    ‘So, you are Fitzosbert, an English clerk?’

    ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

    ‘And do you have secret powers?’ The King was staring open-eyed as if Matthias might sprout wings and fly round the chamber.

    ‘I think he has, Your Grace,’ Douglas gruffly interrupted. ‘And, knowing Your Grace’s interest in such matters, I thought it best to bring him to you.’

    ‘Yes, yes, quite.’ James waved his hand. ‘You, my Lord of Douglas, will retire.’

    ‘Your Grace, I’d best stay with you.’

    ‘Ach, tush man!’ James’s voice became plaintive. ‘The man’s not armed and I’ve always been told,’ James’s eyes became mean, his mouth twisted into a vicious smile, ‘that it will be a Scot who kills me.’ He pushed his head forward. ‘You are not Scots, are you, Fitzosbert?’

    ‘I am of English stock, sire.’

    Matthias was glad to see Douglas, the author of his present troubles, so summarily dismissed.

    ‘Come now, come on.’ James clapped his hands like a child, his voice growing high and plaintive. ‘My Lord of Douglas, I am not your prisoner.’

    ‘I shall stay outside, sire.’ Douglas deliberately turned his back on the King as a gesture of contempt.

    The King looked over Matthias’ shoulder, waiting until the door was closed. He then grasped him by the arm and pushed him to sit in front of the fire.

    ‘Sit there, man.’ The King went to a small table where he poured two goblets of wine. He gave one to Matthias and sat down beside him. ‘I know what you are thinking, Englishman, but, God be my witness, I trust nobody. I pour my own wine. I even cook my own food. I trust none of them, not even my own son.’ The King sipped at his wine. ‘My queen’s dead. My boy hates me. As for those nobles,’ the King started to cry, to Matthias’ astonishment, the tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘I had a great friend, young Cochrane, but they hanged him. Throttled him with a silken cord! Now they want to hang me.’ He wiped the tears from his cheeks. ‘Douglas is a leading wolf of the pack, busy on his raid into England, wasn’t he? Och aye.’ The King nodded. ‘I’ve heard all about that. Went to collect gunpowder, did he? Now he comes trotting into my presence with an Englishman. Do you, Fitzosbert, have magical powers?’

    ‘No, Your Grace, I do not!’

    ‘Not a bit?’ The King held up a little finger.

    ‘No, sire, I am a clerk, a scholar of Oxford. I was at Barnwick--’

    ‘Tush, man, I don’t want to know your life.’ The King waved a hand. ‘I ask you again.’ He