The Rose Demon

dark.’

    Others intervened. Sir Raymond sat back, so immersed in his own thoughts, he jumped when a servant touched his shoulder.

    ‘Sir Raymond,’ the man whispered, ‘a messenger, he calls himself the Preacher, awaits outside.’

    Sir Raymond rose and excused himself, bowed to the Queen and followed the servant out into the darkness. All around him rose the sounds of the camp: horses neighing; armourers busy pounding and hammering at their makeshift forges; the cries of the sentries. Sir Raymond’s despair deepened as he passed each campfire. The men were sprawled out on the ground, sleeping like the dead. Those who were awake crouched dourly over their cold food or cups of watered ale from the supply wagons. In the flickering firelight their faces were grey, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Few raised their heads as he passed.

    He found his visitor in his own makeshift tent. The Preacher was sitting on an overturned cask, eating noisily from a bowl of dried meat and scraps of bread.

    ‘Christ’s greetings to you, sir.’ The Preacher pushed more food into his mouth and noisily swallowed it down with some wine.

    Sir Raymond pulled across a camp stool and sat opposite.

    ‘I’ve travelled from London,’ the Preacher began. ‘I was heading for Gloucester. The good monks there would give me shelter and sustenance, but then I heard that Margaret of Anjou was coming north. I knew you would be with her.’

    ‘Yes, yes,’ the Hospitaller replied testily. ‘But what news do you have?’

    ‘I have found him.’ The Preacher took the cup away from his lips. He smiled at Sir Raymond’s surprise. ‘He was in these parts seven or eight years ago posing as a recluse, living in the ruins of some deserted village.’ He ticked the places off on his fingers. ‘Stroud, Berkeley, Gloucester, Tredington, Tewkesbury. Now, I believe, he hides in a deserted village near Sutton Courteny.’

    ‘What proof do you have of this?’

    ‘What do you expect?’ the Preacher replied. ‘People like him. Even the brothers at Tewkesbury remember him: a man of prayer, a former soldier, clean in his ways, personable in his manners.’

    Sir Raymond looked at the filthy fingers of the Preacher and bit back his tart observation.

    ‘But there’s something else, isn’t there?’

    ‘Oh yes.’ The Preacher sipped from the wine. ‘Over the last eight years corpses have been found, their throats cut, their cadavers drained like slashed wineskins. In most cases the bodies were those of travellers, journeymen, traders and tinkers. Now and again a villager, the same bloody death.’ He sighed. ‘Other people have been blamed. At Stroud they burnt an old man, claiming he was a warlock, yet the murders have continued. A bailiff at Berkeley told me he had met our adversary on the roads: he was going to Sutton Courteny. A few weeks afterwards a young girl was killed in the usual bloody way.’ The Preacher leant forward, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘He is the one, isn’t he, Sir Raymond?’

    Sir Raymond stared through a gap in the tent.

    ‘He is the one,’ he replied.

    ‘Then why not leave and come with me?’

    Sir Raymond got up. He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled that of the Preacher.

    ‘I am here in the camp,’ he said, ‘of Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrians. God be my witness, I couldn’t give a fig for Lancaster - or York!’

    ‘So why not flee?’

    ‘I gave my word. I made a decision. Once I learnt my quarry was in England, I knew that I would need the authority of the Crown to pursue my searches to a successful end. It’s like a game of hazard. England was divided between York and Lancaster. I chose Lancaster and I am going to lose.’

    ‘So why not flee?’

    ‘It’s too late,’ the Hospitaller replied. ‘Beaufort has issued an order: any man who tries to desert is to be killed on the spot. I doubt if I would get far. Even if I were successful the Yorkists would show me no mercy, whilst if a miracle occurs, and Margaret of Anjou wins tomorrow, my name would head the list of proscriptions.’ He sat down. ‘No, no, there is a slender chance, my best, that this time tomorrow night I will be across the Severn in Wales.’

    ‘And me?’

    Sir Raymond dug into his purse and took out two coins.

    ‘This is good silver, the best the French can supply. Go to Sutton Courteny, seek out our enemy and do what you have to. But act wisely.’ The Hospitaller stared at the Preacher’s wild