by Paul Doherty
‘You should tell him,’ Mairead said.
Fitzgerald looked as if he were going to refuse.
‘Tell me what?’ Matthias insisted.
‘Two things.’
‘Tell him!’
Fitzgerald got to his feet. He refilled his wine goblet, then placed his hand on Matthias’ shoulder.
‘There have been deaths in the city,’ he told him. ‘Strange murders. Mostly young women, night-walkers, slatterns, maids: their throats punctured, their bodies drained of blood, as you would squeeze juice out of a grape.’
‘So the Rose Demon’s here?’
‘Possibly,’ Mairead said.
‘But who?’ Matthias asked.
‘Have you ever suspected,’ Fitzgerald sat down on a stool, ‘our noble Edward of Warwick or, more possibly, his mentor, Richard Symonds?’
Matthias wrapped the blanket round his shoulders more tightly. He felt cold again. He was now certain that the presence he had met in Oxford was here in Dublin. But what could he do?
‘There’s nothing,’ Matthias declared, ‘nothing at all I can do. If I go to a priest, I’ll be arrested as a heretic or a warlock.’ He glanced at his two companions. ‘Aren’t you frightened?’ he mocked bitterly. ‘Aren’t you terrified of me?’
‘I am afraid of nothing,’ Fitzgerald retorted, ‘nothing that walks on legs.’
‘The second thing?’ Matthias asked. ‘You said there were two things?’
‘Ah yes.’ Fitzgerald got to his feet. ‘Richard Symonds has been talking about you. Dark hints about your secret powers. Time and again he reminds our young prince of your debt to him. It may be time he comes to ask that you repay it.’
Fitzgerald and Mairead then left. Matthias kept the candles alight, crossed himself and climbed into bed. He accepted he could do nothing, except pray and wait.
The next morning Matthias went to Mass in a chantry chapel of Dublin Cathedral. The priest who celebrated it reminded him of his father. Matthias abruptly realised that, in his imprisonment and flight from Oxford, he had lost the list of quotations his father had provided. On his return to his chamber he took a piece of parchment and wrote them down from memory. When he had finished, Matthias studied his scrawled words: these might provide a key to the mystery which confronted him. He also speculated on why he had experienced such harrowing hauntings the previous night. Was this a sign the Rose Demon was close? Or was it something he was to experience throughout his life?
Matthias returned to his duties. Christmas was approaching and the weather had turned cold and bleak, the clouds heavily massed, grey and lowering, bubbling with the threat of violent winds and drenching rain. All preparations for the invasion now came to a halt. The Irish lords had promised what they could. Edward of Warwick would now have to wait until spring arrived and the English exiles sailed from Flanders with whatever help they could provide. News still came from England. Tudor again paraded the boy who, he claimed, was the real Edward of Warwick, through the city of London. Symonds openly scoffed at this, dismissing it as a sign of the usurper’s growing anxieties. So confident did Symonds become that he and young Edward were often closeted for hours, detailing arrangements of what would happen once they had seized the English crown.
Symonds also worked hard to keep Matthias well away from the young prince, sending him through the city with messages, treating him no better than a lackey. Matthias did not object. He was already forming secret plans that, if and when the invasion should sail, he would leave the Yorkist rebels as swiftly as possible.
Symonds’ hold over the young prince became more apparent. By the feast of the Epiphany, six days into the New Year, Matthias no longer received invitations to join council meetings. Fitzgerald and Mairead were elsewhere, so he was left to kick his heels, though he suspected it was only a matter of time before Symonds moved against him openly. The Archbishop’s palace was now a hotbed of intrigue with masked and cowled messengers coming at all hours of the day and night. Sentries stood at every doorway, guards patrolled the grounds. Symonds began to issue letters talking of ‘Judas men’ spies, possibly assassins, with designs on the young prince’s life.
On the Feast of Saints Timothy and Titus, towards the end of January, Symonds summoned Matthias to a meeting in his opulent chamber at the other end of the palace. Symonds, swathed in furs, slouched in a throne-like chair, stretching beringed fingers towards a roaring fire. Servants and lackeys stood in the shadows ready to satisfy his every whim. Matthias was made to sit on a stool opposite. Symonds studied him for a while. Matthias gazed coolly back. In the few months since arriving in Dublin, Symonds had changed: his face was fleshy and reddened by the banquets and feasts he had attended. Veins, high in his cheeks, were an eloquent witness to his nightly carousing. Symonds sucked noisily on his teeth and snapped his fingers.
‘Clear the room!’ he ordered. ‘All of you outside!’
Symonds waited until the door closed behind them. He jabbed a finger at Matthias.
‘I am rather disappointed with you. I brought you to Dublin because I thought you were for the House of York. You should help our cause but what do I have? Nothing but a sickly man who spends most of his time closeted with Fitzgerald and his trollop!’
‘I did not ask you to bring me,’ Matthias returned. ‘And I did not wish to be sick. As for Master Fitzgerald and Mairead, they are my friends.’
‘Are they now?’ Symonds leant forward. ‘Are they now, Master Fitzosbert?’ His lips curled. ‘You have no friends! I brought you because of that woman Morgana. On reflection I wonder who you really are. A Judas man, eh? One of the Welsh usurper’s snivelling spies?’
Matthias made to rise.
‘If you leave, I’ll have you killed!’ Symonds snapped.
Matthias sat down on the stool but his fingers drummed on the hilt of the dagger pushed into his belt. Symonds smiled.
‘In a few days it will be February,’ he said. ‘The weather will change: the sea will be less choppy, the winds not so rough. We wait impatiently for de la Pole’s fleet to sail from Flanders.’ He banged the arm of his chair. ‘And the fleet must come. Now, in Ireland they claim. .’ He paused and stared at one of the rings on his finger. ‘They say with the right sacrifice the elements can be placated.’ He glanced at Matthias.
‘What are you asking?’ Matthias asked impatiently.
‘I was a priest,’ Symonds sneered, ‘but I no more believe in such nonsense than you do, Master Fitzosbert! You and your haunting nightmares! Oh, I’ve heard of them! Yours won’t be the first Black Mass I’ve attended.’
Matthias’ heart sank: from his studies in Oxford he knew about such blasphemous rituals.
‘And,’ Symonds continued, ‘it won’t be the last!’
‘You wish me to participate in secret rites? The Black Arts? Aren’t there sorcerers and wizards enough in this rain-soaked isle?’ Matthias protested.
‘Oh, I could fill the cathedral with charlatans,’ Symonds retorted. ‘But you are different, aren’t you, dear Matthias? I have had you followed. Why did those ruffians not attack you? And, in that tawdry alehouse the old witch who talked to you about the Dearghul? And those nightmares which woke the palace?’ Symonds pursed his lips and glared at Matthias. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’ he hissed. ‘People are talking, Matthias! Here we are in an old, draughty palace, the latrines are frozen, the rushes cannot be changed. Why is it that servants say your chamber smells so richly, like a rose garden on a summer’s afternoon?’
Matthias realised that Symonds not only resented him but feared him. He viewed him as a practitioner of the Black Arts and was probably terrified that Matthias might use these to exert influence over Edward of Warwick.
‘Now, I’ll tell you what will happen.’ Symonds stared up at the rafters. ‘Today is Thursday. At the beginning of February, you and I will meet again. There are some old ruins at the east end of the cathedral grounds. People say they once belonged to the Druids, the ancient priests who lived here befor
e St Patrick arrived. Let me see these powers of yours. Let us call on the Dark One and see what assistance can be given.’
‘This is foolishness!’ Matthias protested.
‘No, Master Fitzosbert, this is politics. I intend to topple Tudor from his throne.’ Symonds’ eyes gleamed with fanaticism. ‘I, as Archbishop of Canterbury, will, one day, place the crown of Edward the Confessor on this prince of York in the Abbey of Westminster. If I have to make a compact with hell to achieve it, then so be it.’ He gestured with his fingers. ‘You are dismissed!’
Matthias was halfway through the door.
‘Oh, Matthias,’ Symonds grinned round the chair, reminding Matthias of a gargoyle, ‘accidents can happen. You should be careful you are not abducted by some English merchant and taken back to London or Oxford!’
Matthias left the chamber. In the gallery outside he met Mairead and Fitzgerald, who had recently returned to the palace. He was so angry at what had happened, he just brushed by them and spent the rest of the day in his own chamber wondering what to do. There were knocks on the door but he refused to answer. Later in the evening he asked a servant to bring him up some food. He drank deeply and, when he awoke, darkness was falling, the palace was quiet and he was bitterly cold. He built up the fire, stripped and went to bed. This time he slept peacefully, slipping into a dream.
Matthias had never experienced the like before. He knew he was dreaming but he couldn’t, he didn’t want to wake up. He was on the corner of Magpie Lane in Oxford, on a bright summer’s day. People were milling around him. He could hear their chatter and smell the odours of the city. He felt a pang of homesickness as he walked down the lane. Then the dream changed: he was in a small garden and, by the pealing of the bells, he knew it was evening in Oxford. The garden was small, protected by a high, red-brick wall. There were herb beds, small grassy patches. In an arbour Richard Symonds was sitting, a book in his lap.
‘Stay and watch,’ a voice murmured. ‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva. Just stay and watch!’
It grew darker still. The sky was beautiful, the stars like precious stones on a dark blue cushion. Symonds, however, was unaware of the beauty of the evening. He was now impatient, walking up and down the path. He opened a brown, metal-studded gate in the wall and went through an alleyway. Matthias followed. Out in the streets there was great excitement. A man, wearing the royal livery, carried a pennant which displayed a red dragon breathing fire. Matthias recognised the livery of Henry Tudor. Symonds, his discomfort obvious, went back into the garden, slamming the gate.
Time moved quickly. Night fell, a hunter’s moon above the city. Symonds was still there. He carried a goblet of wine and a trencher of food. Abruptly the gate opened, a man came in, sandy-haired, face unshaven, a cut just beneath his left eye. He was apparently injured elsewhere, for he stumbled and Symonds helped him to a turf seat. The man threw off his brown serge military cloak. Matthias, glimpsing the blood on the man’s shirt, drew closer. The man was wearing a ring bearing an insignia; a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent. He was talking to Symonds, clutching his stomach as he did, apparently begging for help.
Symonds nodded sympathetically. He went back into the house and came back out with a goblet of wine. The man on the turf seat was lolling, head down. He took the cup and drank. Matthias stared in horror: as the man lifted his head to drain the cup, Symonds came behind him, a long, thin, Italian stiletto in his hand and, with one swift cut, he slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear. Matthias turned away. When he looked again, the darkness was fading, the sky was already streaked with gold. Symonds was in the far corner of the garden. He had dug a deep trench into which he tossed his victim’s corpse. He kicked the dirt over, carefully pressing the soil so it looked as if no grave had been dug there.
Matthias’ eyes flew open. Outside in the gallery he heard footsteps: servants and retainers, hurrying hither and thither, bringing coals, preparing the household for a new day. Matthias sat up in bed. Despite his many cups of wine, he felt refreshed and clear-headed. He caught the faint smell of roses. Was that his dream? Was he still in that garden? And why had he dreamt so clearly, every detail so finely etched? It was like turning over the pages in a Book of Hours. What had happened was simple to understand: the warm August day, the excitement in the streets and the messenger bearing the pennant of Henry Tudor, showed that Matthias had been shown a scene in Oxford shortly after Henry’s victory over Richard III at Market Bosworth in August 1485. But the man who had been murdered? Matthias got up. Absent-mindedly he shaved and washed, then went down to the refectory where Mairead and Fitzgerald were breaking their fast.
‘You seem in better humour than you did yesterday,’ Mairead teased.
‘I have something to ask you.’ Matthias slipped on to a bench opposite. ‘Fitzgerald, you’ve lived amongst the Yorkist exiles?’
‘Aye, I have.’
‘Can you recall any lord or knight whose arms were — ah yes-’ Matthias narrowed his eyes, ‘a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent?’ Matthias filled his cup with beer. ‘Could you find out who bore such arms?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Fitzgerald grinned back. ‘They belong to Lionel Clifford, a knight banneret of John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Wasn’t when I met him in Tournai. He was drinking and wenching as good as the rest.’ Fitzgerald must have glimpsed the disappointment in Matthias’ face. ‘Mind you, it’s a mystery about his father, Henry.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he fought with Richard III at Bosworth. Sir Henry Clifford was a Yorkist through and through. We know that he left the battlefield and was last seen on the outskirts of Oxford but after that,’ Fitzgerald shrugged, ‘not a trace. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Matthias replied. ‘But look, Fitzgerald, how much longer are we to stay here?’
Fitzgerald knew better than to question Matthias further and allowed the conversation to turn to the growing expectancy about the arrival of the fleet from Flanders.
When he could, Matthias left the refectory and made his way directly to Symonds’ chamber. The former priest was sitting enthroned in his great four-poster bed, resting against the silken bolsters piled high around him, a fur-trimmed robe about his shoulders. He lifted his head when Matthias came in and grinned.
‘Ah, Fitzosbert, so you’ve come to give me your answer!’
‘I don’t like your threats.’ Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, pleased to see the alarm flare in Symonds’ eyes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call your bullyboys. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what I do. Well, apostate priest,’ he continued, ‘I do look forward to John de la Pole arriving in Dublin. I understand that Sir Lionel Clifford will be in his retinue?’
Symonds’ face paled.
‘I will tell you a story,’ Matthias continued, ‘about how his father fled from Bosworth. He made his way to what he thought was the house of a Yorkist sympathiser. The priest, Symonds, had a small tenement and garden near Magpie Lane.’
The ex-priest was now gaping at him.
‘A beautiful August evening,’ Matthias continued. ‘Henry Clifford is wounded: he looks for sympathy, solace, a place to hide but Symonds is a lick-spittle coward. He gives Sir Henry Clifford wine, then cuts his throat. I’ll say that when they return to England, they should examine the far corner of his garden. They’ll find a deep trench and in it, the corpse of Sir Henry thrown there like a bag of dog’s bones.’
Matthias got to his feet. ‘Now I’ve written that down,’ he declared. ‘If something happens to me, copies of my story are to be delivered to Sir John de la Pole and Sir Lionel Clifford.’ Matthias grinned and gave a mocking bow. ‘So, you see, sir, I have power and I have used it. I do not wish to talk to you again on these matters!’
16
The winter months quickly passed. The weather changed, cool breezes, clear skies: a strong sun burnt up the soggy mud-caked lawns of Dublin. The chieftains and their clans-men swar
med back into the city. Matthias, like Fitzgerald and Mairead, was caught up in the excitement and preparations for war. At last the fleet came from Flanders bringing the English lords John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Francis Lovell, coffers full of gold from Margaret of Burgundy and, more importantly, over a thousand mercenaries led by their commander, Martin Schwartz. The latter poured into Dublin, a fearsome sight. They wore heavy sallets with eye-slits which protected most of their faces; breastplates, and hard-boiled leather leggings. Each man carried a sword, dagger and a heavy steel-stained crossbow with bolts which could crack hardened armour plate. They were also experts in the pike and the lance, redoubtable on foot as well as horse. These and the retinues of de la Pole and Lovell now filled the grounds of the Archbishop’s palace.
De la Pole was a square, thickset man, grim-faced, hard-eyed, his chin and forelips cleanly shaved. He soon took over command of the Yorkist forces mustered there. Lovell was lean and sallow-faced, long black hair falling down to his shoulders; he reminded Matthias of Rahere the clerk. Lovell had been a confidant of Richard III, a member of his secret council. Both he and de la Pole had little time for Symonds and his protege.
