The Rose Demon

Lovell.

    The lady of the manor was tall, angular, her face like yellowing parchment, yet her eyes were bright and friendly, lips parted in a welcoming smile. She extended one vein-streaked clawlike hand for Matthias to kiss and laughed quite merrily when she caught Matthias studying her old-fashioned dress and veil.

    ‘I have seen the years, young man,’ she said. ‘The hand you kissed has been held by them all: Henry V, his hapless son, the Yorkist lords.’ Her eyes grew sad. ‘All shadows now, gone into the dark. Come.’ She beckoned Matthias into the light provided by a candle wheel which hung on a chain from the ceiling. ‘So, you are Symonds’ friend, are you?’ She studied him closely. Her eyes became guarded, as if she had glimpsed something over Matthias’ shoulder.

    ‘Are you a magus?’ she asked. ‘A sorcerer?’

    ‘My lady, I am a scholar down on his luck and no more. And, with the exception of the good priest here, probably the loneliest man in the kingdom.’

    ‘Is that true, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The old lady stepped back two or three paces. She was studying him anxiously from head to toe. ‘When we met over there,’ she pointed to the darkness beyond the ring of light, ‘I really thought you were what you claim to be but, in the light, I can see that is not so.’

    ‘What do you mean, my lady?’ Symonds, his face excited, stepped forward. ‘Do you see his power?’

    ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

    Lady Elizabeth turned on her heel, walked along the passageway and into the small hall.

    ‘They say Lady Stratford has second sight, that she is fey,’ Symonds whispered excitedly. He, too, stopped and looked over Matthias’ shoulder. ‘I can see nothing.’

    ‘She has a fanciful imagination,’ Matthias replied tersely. ‘Nothing more and nothing less.’ He heard a cough and looked up.

    Lady Elizabeth had reappeared in the doorway and was staring at them. Matthias mumbled his excuses and they both followed her into the hall. This also must have seen better days: the hearth was full of cold ash, the drapes, banners and pennants hanging from the beams were dusty and slightly ragged. Cobwebs hung on the shields and weapons, fastened to the walls above the dull, cracked wainscoting. Yet the rushes underfoot were clean and the small table which had been set up in the centre was covered with a white linen cloth. Matthias caught savoury odours from the kitchen. They washed their faces and hands at the lavarium. Lady Elizabeth plucked at Matthias’ sleeve and led him away.

    ‘I heard what you said, Master Fitzosbert.’ She smiled with her lips but her eyes were hard. ‘When you stepped into that pool of light, just for a moment, I glimpsed a shape behind you, the face of a knight, though he was dressed in a long garb like that of a monk.’

    The sweat on the nape of Matthias’ neck turned cold.

    ‘Just for a moment.’ Lady Elizabeth repeated. ‘And a hand on your shoulder.’ She tapped his boiled leather jacket. ‘You are a powerful man, Matthias Fitzosbert, though I suspect you don’t realise it.’

    ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Matthias teased as she led him to the table.

    ‘No I am not, because I mean you no ill.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I only hope the same can be said for Symonds.’

    ‘Edward!’ Symonds exclaimed.

    Matthias turned. A youth dressed in a dark burgundy gown which fell just beneath the knee came into the hall. He moved quietly, his feet encased in soft buskins. He bore no arms in the embroidered, leather belt clasped round his waist. His fingers were covered in rings, a silver chain round his neck partly hidden by the stiff white cambric shirt which stretched up to his chin. He had russet hair, neatly cropped just above his ears, a smooth, round face, smiling eyes, but looked weak-mouthed, rather ingratiating, eager to please. Symonds went down on one knee. He almost dragged the young man’s hand to his lips.

    ‘Matthias, Matthias, you should kneel,’ Symonds whispered. ‘This is your prince, Edward, George of Clarence’s son who has escaped from the Tower. He intends, with God’s help, to seize the throne which is rightfully his.’

    Matthias knelt, only too eager to hide his confusion. Warwick came across: his hand was small, soft and smelt fragrantly of perfume. Matthias kissed the ring, Edward gripped his hand and raised him to his feet.

    ‘You are most welcome, Master Matthias.’ Edward of Warwick embraced him and,