The Rose Demon

happen?’ Matthias asked, his stomach clenching with excitement.

    ‘Margaret Anjou and her army are tired. They have tried to cross the Severn but the bridges are either held or destroyed. They can go no further. Ah, these men of war and their armour, their proud banners of azure, gold bars, martlets, ruby-red chevrons; tomorrow they will all be drenched in blood.’

    ‘There will be a battle?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘Yes, there will be a battle. Queen Margaret will have to stop at Tewkesbury.’

    Matthias recalled the great abbey which nestled on a small hill overlooking the market town.

    ‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

    The hermit winked. ‘I could say,’ he whispered, eyes staring, ‘that I am a sorcerer but I was a soldier, too, Matthias. The Queen’s army is exhausted. They will stop to take provisions from the abbey whilst Beaufort, her leading general, will think it’s good to fight with the Severn at his back.’

    ‘I have never seen a battle.’

    ‘Would you like to see this one?’

    Matthias’ eyes rounded. ‘Could I, really?’

    ‘Tomorrow, at dawn, come back to me.’ The hermit held Matthias’ arms and squeezed gently. ‘Before first light, steal out of your house and meet me.’ He smiled and, drawing Matthias closer, kissed him on the brow. ‘This time I won’t play games. I won’t hide or play tricks upon you. I’ll be waiting for you.’

    ‘Why do you want to see the battle?’ Matthias asked.

    The hermit’s face suddenly became grave, even angry. He looked over his shoulder, staring down through the darkness at the retreating army.

    ‘Edward of York will come on fast,’ he murmured, ‘like the horsemen of Asia. The ground will shake with the hooves of his cavalry. A man born for killing is Edward of York. The Lancastrians are dead.’ He looked back at Matthias. ‘I have a friend I wish to see. Someone who has been looking for me for many a day. I want to see him and I want him to see you, Matthias. So, promise me--’

    ‘They say it’s dangerous.’

    ‘Now, why is that, Creatura?’

    ‘Oh, not the battle, the people who have been killed outside Tredington and Tewkesbury.’

    The hermit rose abruptly to his feet.

    Matthias pulled a face. Adults always dismissed you when they didn’t want to talk any more.

2

    The hermit took Matthias back through the derelict village to the edge of the forest. He stopped and crouched down.

    ‘Remember what I taught you today, Creatura bona atque parva . Life feeds on life. The rabbit feeds on grass and we fed on the rabbit. The dove feeds on corn and the hawk kills it. Even in the spiritual life, only life itself can make the spirit fresh and strong.’

    Matthias nodded solemnly. The hermit smiled, his eyes bright with mischief.

    ‘You don’t understand, do you, Creatura?’

    ‘I am sorry, I don’t,’ the boy stammered.

    ‘Go.’ The hermit kissed him on each cheek. ‘Go on now, Matthias. Run like the wind and, if you remember my second lesson, for you there can be no fear.’

    Matthias trotted down the path into the wood. He was so engrossed in what the hermit had said, so puzzled, he was deep into the darkness before he fully realised where he was. Then he stopped. Why didn’t the hermit come with him? He stared up where the branches formed a canopy against the sky. Surely he could have come to the wood with him? Matthias became aware of a stirring in the undergrowth, the flutter of birds’ wings and those mysterious, indistinguishable sounds of the night. His fears came flooding back, about the witches who hung like bats in the trees from dusk till dawn. Or the ghosts of women who dropped on the necks of the unsuspecting.

    ‘You can only tell them,’ Joscelyn the Taverner had loudly intoned from where he sat in an inglenook in the corner of the Hungry Man, ‘oh yes, you can only tell them because their feet are back to front.’

    Matthias hurried on, his mind now full of stories of Black Vaughan and his ghostly henchmen who prowled the forests of the Severn valley. Matthias closed his eyes, but he stumbled so he opened them again. The moonlit trackway lay ahead of him and he grew fearful of what his father and mother might say about where he’d been, and at this hour. The bracken cracked and the shapes sprang out of the darkness: two men, soldiers, stinking of sweat, urine and stale wine, their boiled leather jackets hard and coarse, their dirt-smeared leggings now cut and torn by the