The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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 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 eyes and wondered if his advice would be heeded. ‘Do not be carried away by the force of your own eloquence. He is to be watched. Only move against him when you have proof.’ He went across to a small writing desk and scribbled a few words on a piece of parchment. ‘Show this to the captain of the guard. They’ll let you through the lines.’

  The Preacher took the silver and the warrant, finished his wine and slipped into the night.

  Sir Raymond sat for a while, wrapping his cloak around him, for the night had grown cold. On the one hand he was pleased that what he had been searching for so many years he’d almost found. On the
other hand although he was so close, he was yet unable to do anything about it. He wondered about Otto. His brother had elected to become a hermit, travelling to Outremer where eventually he took refuge on the great rock of Masada overlooking the Dead Sea. Seven years ago Sir Raymond had made careful searches, not knowing whether his brother were alive or dead. The Hospitaller Order had merchants friendly to their interests in the area, and Sir Raymond had been numbed by the news. Otto had, some years previously, mysteriously vanished from his cave. At the same time a young shepherd boy had been found dead amongst the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The finger of suspicion had been pointed at his brother but Raymond could hardly believe that. Otto would never hurt a child. Nevertheless, any attempts by Raymond to discover the whereabouts of his brother ended in mystery as if he had vanished from the face of the earth. Raymond had concluded his brother had died in some lonely place, and he returned to his hunt for this sinister being, the spirit he had released from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace.

  By now the Grand Master, who had helped Raymond since the brothers’ escape from Constantinople, was dead in mysterious circumstances, a fall from a horse whilst out riding alone. To the rest of the Order Raymond had become an eccentric, enigmatic figure. They could not understand his absorption with the past, in finding some mysterious Byzantine princess. Over the years, piece by piece, Sir Raymond had built up a picture, done careful study, yet it was years before he accepted the truth about the Rosifer.

  He took a key from his pouch and unlocked the coffer where he kept his papers. He plucked out a piece of yellowing parchment and studied the faded green-blue ink. It was dated some ten years previously from an Armenian slave-dealer who had been paid by the Order to search for this elusive Byzantine princess.

  The merchant had made careful searches and discovered that a Byzantine princess, singular in her beauty and strange garb, had been sold to a Sipahi commander. None of the other captives could recognise her or say which family she had belonged to. The Turkish commander had taken her to his palace at Adrianople. About three months after the fall of Constantinople, the Sipahi commander and his entire family had been mysteriously killed: throats cut or pierced, blood drained from their cadavers. Of the Byzantine princess there was no sign. Search parties had been organised and, eventually, the princess’s corpse had been found in a cypress wood close to the house: she bore no mark of violence, or any indication of how she had died. Only on hearing of this some years later from the Armenian had Sir Raymond fully accepted that it was no longer flesh and blood he was hunting, but the most cruel and subtle of spirits.

  3

  Sir Raymond put the parchment away. He felt tired after the wine. He lay down on his camp bed, promising himself a few minutes’ rest before he returned to Margaret of Anjou’s council. He had scarcely made himself comfortable when he fell into a deep sleep, only to be roughly shaken awake by a royal messenger.

  ‘Sir Raymond, come! The Queen is waiting!’

  The Hospitaller groaned and struggled from his bed. He took a water bottle and splashed the contents over his face, then, having dried himself on his cloak, he followed the man back through the camp to the Queen’s pavilion. As soon as he entered and glimpsed Wenlock’s triumphant smile, he knew his counsel and advice had been rejected.

  ‘Sir Raymond,’ Beaufort refused to meet his eyes, ‘Her Grace the Queen has decided. We will deploy before dawn, our backs to the abbey. Our army will be divided into three divisions. Devon will command the left, myself the right, Lord Wenlock here, together with Prince Edward, will hold the centre.’ He pushed across the map which had been drawn during Sir Raymond’s absence. ‘You, Sir Raymond, will stay with Lord Wenlock.’ Beaufort explained. ‘I shall take my force,’ a stubby finger traced a line, ‘and try to go behind York’s left flank. They will think they are being attacked in the rear as well as the front. Wenlock will then charge.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Panic will ensue, the Yorkists will flee.’

  ‘It’s foolishness!’ Sir Raymond snapped, glaring down the table at the Queen. ‘Madam, Edward of York, whatever you think of him, is a capable general. He has smashed your armies at Barnet: he will have scouted the terrain of this land and be prepared for any ambuscade or surprise.’

  ‘We can’t retreat!’ the Queen snapped. ‘Sir Raymond, I have never really understood your reasons for tying your fortunes to my banner. However, you have seen our star rise and fall. We have lately come from France.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I am tired of being King Louis’ pensioner. Every day York grows stronger.’ She jabbed at the piece of parchment. ‘We must bring him to battle and destroy him and his entire house once and for all!’

  ‘And what if it goes wrong?’ Sir Raymond asked desperately. He tried to control the panic seething in his stomach. ‘Only a few miles away lie Edward and his brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence. They, too, have been fighting the length and breadth of this kingdom and are bent on total victory.’ Sir Raymond drew himself up. ‘If we lose tomorrow, then we lose for ever!’

  The Queen, however, got to her feet, one hand resting on the shoulder of her sulky, spoilt son. The commanders also rose to leave. Sir Raymond looked around. We are dead men, he thought. We should commit ourselves to God and our bodies to our enemies. I am to die, my task unfulfilled.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen folded back the voluminous sleeves of her dark murrey dress, ‘our deliberations are finished. We should be moving before dawn.’ She swept out of the tent and her commanders followed.

  Sir Raymond sighed. He stayed for a while staring at Beaufort’s crudely drawn map, then he heard a commotion outside, men shouting for the captain of the watch. Sir Raymond went out. In the flickering firelight he could see two horses, each with a corpse slung over it. A throng of men stood around. Officers arrived, beating them back with the flat of their swords. Sir Raymond pushed his way through: the corpses were unroped and laid next to each other on the ground.

  ‘What’s the matter here?’ Raymond demanded.

  The officer lowered his torch. Sir Raymond’s heart skipped a beat. The throats of both soldiers had been neatly pierced on either side of their windpipes, the fronts of their jerkins were soaked in blood. Their faces were white-blue, eyes staring: a look of terror frozen on their dead faces.

  ‘In God’s name!’ a soldier muttered. ‘They are two of our scouts.’ He pointed into the darkness. ‘They went hunting for food, as well as information, in the woods near Sutton Courteny.’

  ‘I found them,’ another voice replied. ‘They were lying in the woods, faces down, about ten yards apart. Each had drawn his knife but I couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The Hospitaller looked up at him.

  ‘Well, six of us went out,’ the soldier replied. ‘We all agreed to meet at a certain place and return to camp. These two went into the woods. I went to a deserted village but there was nothing there. When they failed to return, I went looking for them.’ He scratched his chin. ‘They were just lying there, no sign of any enemy.’

  The officer tapped one of the corpses. ‘What weapon could cause such wounds? Just look, are they dagger holes?’

  ‘Or teeth marks?’ another added. ‘Like those of a large wolf.’

  Sir Raymond stood up. He felt unsteady, his mouth dry with fear. He had seen such marks before in his haunting journey around Europe. While the officer made arrangements for the men’s bodies to be tossed into a pit, Sir Raymond, breathing deeply to control his fear, walked slowly back to his tent. He pulled aside the flap and went inside. He was pouring himself another cup of wine when he noticed two white roses lying on top of a chest. They had not been there when he left the tent. On each were sprinkled small drops of blood. Sir Raymond drank greedily but he couldn’t stop shaking. He knocked the roses to the soil and ground them into the earth under his boot.

  ‘The Devil is very close,’ he muttered. ‘And so is my death.’

  Throwing the cup into a corner of the tent, he
went out and searched for a friar to hear his confession and give him final absolution. Sir Raymond did not sleep that night but spent the early hours before dawn deep in prayer and preparing his affairs. He wrote letters to his superior, arranged with the friar who had shriven him to sing Masses for his soul and then distributed all his possessions amongst the poorest of the camp followers. He then shaved, washed, attended Mass and received the Sacrament before breaking his fast on some dry bread and wine.

  Sir Raymond was armoured and ready for battle when the trumpets blew, the banners unfurled and the sergeants-at-arms began to marshal the men into their divisions. Sir Raymond collected his destrier and, with his war helm lashed to his saddle horn, made his way through the camp looking for the gold leopards rampant of the young Prince Edward.

  Despite his foreboding, Sir Raymond felt a thrill at the coming battle. His horse neighed, shaking its head restlessly, ready to charge. Sir Raymond leant down and stroked it gently on the neck, whispering quietly to it. He felt his sword, making sure it slid easily in and out of its scabbard. One of Wenlock’s retainers grasped his reins and led him to the massed men at the front where Wenlock and the other commanders were grouped round the young prince. The sky was brightening, the cool dawn breeze already beginning to fall under the growing heat of the rising sun. The men chattered and laughed to hide their unease. Raymond looked to his left where the white-coated men of the Earl of Devon, foot soldiers and archers, were mustering. In the centre before them, knights were massing behind their wall of archers and men-at-arms; to the right he glimpsed the black crosses of Somerset’s Trinity banner.

  Sir Raymond stood high in the stirrups. The river mist which had curled in just before dawn was beginning to dissipate. The Hospitaller could see how broken the land was, fields and meadows dotted with ditches and hedges.

  Suddenly there was the crack of bombards, and huge stones began to fall amongst the archers, sending them whirling like bloody ninepins. Wenlock, surprised, rode forward. Sir Raymond stared in horror for, through the fading mist, coming much faster than they had expected, was Edward of York’s army. Bombardiers pushed their cannons, behind them lines of archers. The Hospitaller was astonished as the guns opened up again. The Yorkist archers came quickly past them, some standing, some kneeling; the order to ‘Loose!’ rang out and the air became black with whirring shafts which fell like deadly hail. Here and there, a knight, still unhelmed, took an arrow in the face or neck. Their own men-at-arms and archers tried to reply but confusion had already been caused. Sir Raymond hastily put on his helmet and drew his sword. He pushed his horse through the struggling mass alongside that of Wenlock.