The Rose Demon

arm and pushed him out into the passageway. He picked up the gaoler’s cloak and tossed it at Matthias. Its owner, his hose still down at his ankles, sprawled on the mattress, throat slashed from ear to ear.

    ‘There are other gaolers,’ Matthias muttered.

    ‘Aye, and they’ll be asleep,’ Symonds mocked. ‘Nothing like a small tun of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux with a small dose of valerian to ease people’s worries.’

    They went up the steps and into the hallway. The few gaolers who did night duty were fast asleep round the table, cups and jugs knocked over as they sprawled in their drunken sleep. As they approached the side door, a soldier lurched out of a chamber. Symonds, who carried a thick ash cane as a walking stick, clubbed the man savagely on the side of the head. They quickly went through the keys. The door swung open. They crossed a small yard, passed through a wicket gate and into an alleyway.

    ‘No one ever escapes from the Bocardo.’ Symonds stopped and grinned wolfishly at Matthias. ‘Nothing more than a disused house really.’

    ‘Horses?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘Not here,’ Symonds scoffed.

    He made to go: Morgana caught Matthias’ hand.

    ‘Matthias, we’ll meet again.’ She smiled through the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t have left me at the Golden Lyre.’

    ‘I had no choice,’ Matthias replied. ‘I had to see what would happen.’

    She kissed him gently on each cheek.

    ‘Watch Symonds,’ she whispered. ‘Mad as a March hare.’ She put her arms round his neck and hugged him close. ‘If he threatens you, threaten back.’ And she slipped away into the darkness.

    Symonds, who had gone further down the alleyway, gestured angrily.

    ‘Come on! Come on!’ he hissed.

    Matthias followed him through a tangle of dark alleyways stinking to high heaven. Scavenging cats fled whining before them. Now and again from the back garden of a house a watch dog would howl or throw itself against the gate. The occasional beggar, huddled in the shadows, pleaded for alms.

    Symonds deliberately kept well away from the student quarter. They reached the end of the High Street, entered the old Jewish cemetery, down a hill, splashing across the Cherwell, the water refreshingly cool against Matthias’ chapped legs. Still Symonds hurried on. At last they were in the countryside, the trackway they followed lit by a hunter’s moon. Matthias stopped and stared up at the stars. A clear, beautiful night, the breeze soft and sweet. Matthias closed his eyes and thanked God he had escaped.

    ‘Come on! Come on!’ Symonds urged again.

    At last they left the trackway, crossed an open field and into a copse. Men, masked and hooded, gathered round Matthias, stripping him of his clothing. Another brought a leather bucket and a rag.

    ‘Wash and clean yourself.’ The voice was rough.

    Matthias did so. Without a by-your-leave, another seized his hair and began to cut it. Matthias did not object as the dirt from the gaol was washed away. Saddlebags were brought, he was given a fresh change of clothing, leather riding boots, a war belt with sword and dagger, and a woollen cloak and cowl.

    No one spoke. Symonds sat on a stump of a tree watching him. Food was produced and then horses brought. Symonds clasped the hands of those who had helped him. They led the horses across the fields, back on to the lane, and began a wild ride through the night. It was well after dawn before Symonds eventually agreed to stop for a while to refresh their horses.

    The ride proved to be exhausting. They paused now and again to eat, drink or relieve themselves. The only thing Matthias learnt was that they were riding north-west. In the late afternoon they changed horses at a roadside tavern. Symonds kept riding even when darkness fell. Matthias protested but Symonds, reining in, shook his head.

    ‘No, we can’t sleep out. We are expected. Just a little further.’

    ‘Where are we going?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘To Twyford Grange. That’s all I’ll tell you.’

    Night had fallen by the time they reached the grange, an old, rambling manor house surrounded by lonely fields. The pathway up to it was overgrown, its curtain wall crumbling. Most of the windows were shuttered and those on the ground floor were cracked and dusty. A taciturn manservant took their horses. Another led them into the hall where Symonds introduced Matthias to Elizabeth Stratford, a distant kinswoman of the Yorkist Lord Francis