The Rose Demon

Sir Raymond stared in disbelief. Somerset’s lines were crumbling. Throwing down their arms, the men were running back up the hill behind them. A messenger came riding through, an archer covered in dust and sweat, eyes red-rimmed and staring, voice nothing more than a creak. He flung his arm towards the disintegrating ranks on their right.

    ‘The Duke of Somerset,’ he gasped, ‘is in retreat! He did not encircle the enemy but ran straight into Richard of Gloucester. Look, his banners can be seen!’

    Wenlock’s commanders, lifting their helms, looked to their right. Somerset’s men were fleeing the field and, in the distance, they could see the huge war banners bearing Richard of Gloucester’s insignia, a white boar rampant. Sir Raymond grasped Wenlock’s arm.

    ‘Stand!’ he shouted. ‘Stand if not charge!’

    As if in answer, Raymond heard a fanfare of trumpets from the front. He turned his head and knew the battle was lost. Edward of York had ordered a general advance and a wall of Yorkist steel, solid and impenetrable, was coming in an armed mass towards them. Wenlock turned and fled, the others, including Sir Raymond, followed suit. Behind them they heard the screams and yells, the shimmering clash of sword and armour as the Yorkists met what was left of the Lancastrian front line. At the top of the hill Wenlock reined in, took his helmet off, mopping his face with his hands. He stared around.

    ‘The Prince!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, the Prince!’

    ‘He did not retreat,’ a voice called.

    Sir Raymond and others were about to ride down, when pounding along the brim of the hill, their banners held high, came Beaufort and others. The Duke’s rage was terrible. He had lost his helmet, his hair was matted with blood, which ran in rivulets through the dust which masked his face. He did not bother to rein in; his horse crashed amongst them and Beaufort, bringing his axe back, smashed Wenlock’s head, turning it into a bloody pulp. He then lifted his boot and kicked his erstwhile commander’s corpse from the saddle. Beaufort, his eyes mad with fury, glared at the other commanders.

    ‘So die all traitors!’ he screamed. ‘Wenlock has lost us the battle!’

    A shout went up from the mêlée at the foot of the hill: ‘The Prince is down! The Prince is down!’

    Raymond stared back. The dust of battle cleared momentarily in a puff of wind. The gold leopards rampant of Prince Edward’s banner had disappeared. The pennants of York were now clear and the remnants of the Lancastrian army were breaking.

    ‘We must flee!’ Beaufort shouted. ‘Seek sanctuary in the abbey!’

    The Hospitaller, however, just stared open-mouthed towards the battle line. Someone was walking towards him, tall, erect, steel-grey hair cropped, face burnt swarthy by the sun. The man, unnoticed by the men dying and struggling around him, was moving slowly, arms raised in friendship. In one hand he carried a white rose, in the other a red.

    ‘Otto,’ Sir Raymond whispered. ‘My brother? My brother, what are you . . . ?’

    He felt his arm shaken. One of Beaufort’s squires was staring beseechingly at him.

    ‘Sir Raymond, we have to flee!’

    The Hospitaller looked back. His mind was playing tricks. The vision had vanished: all he could see was a line of men hurrying towards him. Grasping the reins of his horse, he dug his spurs in and followed the rest, galloping across the meadow towards Tewkesbury.

    Matthias had woken just before dawn: the house was quiet, his mother and father still sleeping. He dressed hurriedly and, remembering the attack the night before, put on a belt which carried a small sheath knife. He stole down to the kitchen where he ate some bread and salted bacon, and gulped at a cup of watered ale. He stood listening: nothing, except the birds chirping under the eaves. He went across and pulled back the shutter. The day looked set to become a beautiful one. Matthias bit his lip. He felt guilty. He really should wait for his parents but permission had been given, and sometimes adults could change their minds. He stared across at the crucifix, finished the rest of the ale and, still feeling guilty, went across and knelt down, staring up at the face of the crucified Christ. He would, at least, say his prayers.

    ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy