The Rose Demon

chests, coffers and panniers, lids thrown back or buckles undone, their contents spilling on to the muddy floor. Sir Raymond Grandison stared at these, then at each of his companions. They were arguing feverishly amongst themselves on what steps they should take next. Deep in his soul, however, Sir Raymond knew it was all finished. At the top of the table Margaret of Anjou, once a renowned beauty, sat slumped in her chair, her veil awry, her famous blonde hair now faded and mixed with iron-grey streaks. Her long face was haggard, eyes so bright, the Hospitaller wondered if the Queen were ill with a fever. She kept playing with the rings on her fingers or moving the pieces of parchment around on the table. On a chair beside her, her son Prince Edward, his blond hair uncombed, sat with a sulky expression on his smooth-shaven, spoilt face. Wenlock Sir Raymond dismissed with a contemptuous look. He did not trust that little fat soldier who, over the years, had fought for both York and Lancaster. In reality, the only person Wenlock served was Wenlock himself, and the Hospitaller wondered if he could be relied on tomorrow. Now and again the Queen would stretch across the table and grip Beaufort’s arm. Grandison wondered about the rumours that Beaufort was also her lover and, possibly, the true father of Prince Edward.

    Beaufort coughed to catch his attention.

    ‘Sir Raymond, what do you advise?’

    The Hospitaller took the piece of parchment Beaufort pushed across: a roughly drawn map which showed the abbey behind them and, to the west, the River Severn. He fought against the growing feeling of despair as the rest of the council waited.

    ‘Well, Sir Raymond, you are a professional soldier, what do you advise?’

    Beaufort pushed his red hair away from his brow, fingers drumming on the table. Clearly agitated, he kept licking his lips whilst a nervous tic twitched a muscle under his right eye.

    Raymond picked up the makeshift map. ‘Our situation is parlous, my lord. In the east the Lancastrians under the Earl of Warwick have been destroyed. The towns and cities between here and London are firmly in the hands of York. To the west the River Severn is swollen, the bridges destroyed or closely guarded so we cannot cross to our friends in Wales. Our men are too tired to march north. They are deserting in droves and our supplies are few. To the south Edward of York and his army pursue us like a pack of hunting dogs.’

    ‘You offer us no sympathy.’ Margaret’s voice was harsh, and, eyes half-closed, she glared at this Hospitaller commander who had chosen to tie his fortunes to those of her house.

    ‘Madam, I can only describe things as they are, not how they should be.’

    ‘And your advice?’ Beaufort demanded.

    ‘Whatever we decide,’ Sir Raymond replied, ‘Edward of York will come on.’

    ‘And lose?’ Wenlock squeaked.

    Raymond stared down at the piece of parchment. He himself needed more time, just a little. All his searches, all his travelling had brought one result. The Rosifer, the great demon he had released so many years ago from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace, was somewhere in England. Raymond had a legion of spies throughout Europe, a flow of constant information and all this pointed to England, possibly a village in the south. He prayed the Preacher would reach him before he was swept up in the maelstrom of bloody battle.

    ‘Sir Raymond, we are waiting.’ Beaufort tapped the table. ‘You say we should stand yet, at the same time, that our men are tired and cannot be trusted.’

    ‘What I suggest,’ the Hospitaller replied slowly, ‘is that in this countryside broken by woods and small hills, where hedgerows cut the land, we make it look as if we were preparing for battle. Leave a token force whilst the rest of us retreat, go north, find a bridge over the Severn and force our way across. Once there, we are only a day’s march from Wales. Tudor and the Queen’s other friends will give us succour and refuge. We can rest, obtain fresh supplies, more men, and fight another day.’

    ‘Pshaw!’ Wenlock just waved his hands. ‘Run like children before Edward of York!’

    ‘If we fight tomorrow,’ the Hospitaller replied hotly, ‘we will lose!’

    ‘I am inclined to agree,’ Beaufort said. ‘Madam, if we left three or four hundred foot, some light horse . . . Sir Raymond is correct: we could dilly and dally till nightfall, then slip northwards through the