The Rose Demon

by Paul Doherty

  ‘They are breaking!’ Schwartz cried. ‘De Vere’s men are beginning to flee!’

  His words were cut off by a huge roar from his left. Matthias hurried over. The Irish, unable to control their excitement, had disobeyed their commanders and were now running downhill en masse to join in the battle. Schwartz cursed, shaking his fist, screaming at his own men to hold firm. Slowly Oxford’s columns were now being rolled up and pushed further down the hill, leaving behind them a carpet of dead and wounded men and horses.

  Matthias stared down at where the fiercest fighting had taken place. If he half-closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was a sea of coloured flowers rather than men twisting and turning in mortal agony. Here and there a horse tried to raise itself up, a man staggered to his knees. A group of Oxford’s archers threw down their swords and tried to surrender but they were surrounded by a group of Irish, who slaughtered them to a man. The screams and yells were terrible.

  Schwartz and his mercenaries remained impassive though Matthias sensed their concern. Both flanks of the rebel army had now disappeared and, despite messages from Lincoln or the pleas of his own officers, Schwartz refused to advance. Messengers on foot and horse kept galloping up the hill.

  Then Matthias heard it in one of those rare moments of silence: the sound of trumpets, clear and vibrant. Schwartz beckoned him and his other officers over. The German’s thickset face was covered in a sheen of sweat. A nervous tic had appeared high in his cheek.

  ‘Those trumpets,’ he declared. ‘It’s Tudor’s army!’

  Matthias looked round: the foot of the hill was now covered by a heavy cloud of dust, which completely cut off sight of the entire approach Oxford had made.

  ‘We can’t see anything,’ one of Schwartz’s officers declared.

  ‘I don’t have to,’ Schwartz retorted. ‘Every man to his position!’

  Matthias slipped away to the back. He could glimpse the baggage train where the servants, women and camp followers now sheltered. Should he go down there? Find Mairead and flee? He heard a roar and hurried back to the brow of the hill.

  The battle had now shifted dramatically. Lincoln’s men were pouring back up the hill. The Irish, too, had broken. Wide-eyed, many of them cut and bruised, they dropped their arms. The dust cloud shifted. Matthias’ heart went to his throat. Oxford’s men had reformed and, behind them, rank after serried rank, were men-at-arms wearing the insignia of England. To his left and right, horsemen and men-at-arms were moving fast to cut off and surround the rebel army. Schwartz, however, a hardened professional, rapped out an order. The mercenaries moved forward as one man, their pikes lowered, the ranks on the side and the back turning to form a huge square defended by long pikes and shields. Schwartz also tried to impose some order on those in retreat, beating them with the flat of his sword but they pushed and shoved by him. A mercenary officer yelled at Matthias, offering him protection within their ranks. Matthias shook his head. He could not see Fitzgerald. He was determined to reach the baggage train and snatch Mairead before the rout turned into a massacre. He ran as fast as he could, not caring about those around him. One of Lincoln’s men, bruised and cut about the face, had stopped to throw away his armour.

  ‘Symonds and the Prince are taken!’ he yelled. ‘De la Pole’s dead! Lovell’s fleeing for his life!’

  Matthias ran on. So far the enemy had been held, the baggage train looked safe. He heard horsemen galloping behind him and stared round in horror. These were not Lincoln’s men but royal sergeants-at-arms, clubbing and hacking the fleeing rebels. Matthias turned but he felt a terrible blow on the back of his head and sank into black unconsciousness.

  When he awoke, his head threatening to split with the pain, he was being dragged across the ground. A royal archer held each of his arms.

  ‘Water,’ he gasped.

  He was flung to the ground. Someone kicked him in the ribs. He stared up. At first he could only see shapes above him. It was cold and dark.

  ‘Water,’ he gasped again. His throat and mouth were parched. ‘For Jesus’ sake, pity!’

  One of the figures crouched down. ‘You poor bastard. You might as well drink before you hang. You are a rebel, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m no rebel,’ Matthias gasped. ‘I had no choice.’

  The archer pushed his face closer. ‘That’s what they are all saying.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘The rebels have been defeated. Now is the hour of judgment.’

  The water was taken away. Matthias was hustled to his feet. He stared around unbelievingly. The battlefield was now bathed in moonlight. Dead carpeted the ground as far as he could see. The night was still shattered by screams and groans of dying men or the pathetic whinnies of wounded horses. Cowled figures moved amongst piles of bodies. Those rebels too wounded to be moved had their throats cut, a loud rasp followed by a terrible gurgling cough. The victorious soldiers were also looking for arms, stripping the dead of any clothing or valuables they could find.

  Matthias was pushed to the brow of the hill. From every side he glimpsed the camp fires burning merrily. His blood ran cold. Makeshift gallows had been set up. These were now laden with hanged men, some still twitching. Worse still, stakes had been driven into the ground and bodies had been impaled on them. Whether this had been done when they had been alive, Matthias didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. The cadavers were twisted, contorted, dark shapes held up against the night sky. As he was dragged further down the hill and into the enemy camp, Matthias could see why the makeshift gallows had been built: the branches of every available tree seemed to hold hanged men.

  Camp was still being set up, tents and pavilions erected, spluttering pitch torches lashed to poles driven into the ground. Men in half-armour, their faces and hands still stained with blood, slipped across Matthias’ path. Somewhere a woman was screaming, a child crying and Matthias’ heart sank as he thought of the baggage train and Mairead. He was dragged down the main thoroughfare of the camp. At the centre, a scene reminiscent of Tewkesbury greeted him. A large trestle table had been set up: behind this sat the royal commander and from the banner flying directly behind his chair, Matthias realised the man in the centre, thin-faced and silver-haired, was de Vere, Earl of Oxford. On either side of him sat one of his principal commanders. Prisoners were being pushed forward. A clerk would whisper in de Vere’s ear and the Earl would rattle out a few words. The prisoner was then either pushed towards the large execution cart or taken to the stockades which, one of Matthias’ guards whispered, lay on the other side of the Newark to Nottingham road. Matthias’ turn soon came and he was pushed forward into the pool of light around the table. De Vere glanced up.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Symonds made me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He thought I had Yorkist sympathies.’

  ‘What are you by profession?’

  ‘A scholar.’

  ‘Are you now?’

  A scribe came and whispered into de Vere’s ear. The Earl’s face became hostile.

  ‘You were in Dublin? You were one of the imposter’s close councillors?’

  ‘As was I. The boyo’s innocent.’

  Thomas Fitzgerald sauntered into the torchlight. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour, just a simple jerkin open at the neck, his hose pushed into soft leather boots. He grinned at the surprise on Matthias’ face and made a mocking bow.

  ‘Thomas Fitzgerald at your service, known to his Grace the King and the Earl of Oxford as The Knave.’ His smile widened. ‘The joker in the pack: their principal spy in the imposter’s court.’ Fitzgerald turned to de Vere. ‘This man was my principal help and assistant. He’s no traitor.’

  ‘Where’s Mairead?’

  Fitzgerald glanced at him. ‘Oh, Creatura bona atque parva, she’s dead, gone before I could get to her.’

  Matthias stared in dismay. ‘Y
ou could have saved her!’ he hissed.

  ‘What is this?’ de Vere snapped.

  ‘You bastard!’ Matthias shrieked. ‘I was never party to what you did.’

  Fitzgerald leant across and, bringing his gauntleted hand back, smashed Matthias on the side of the head. Matthias fell. He heard de Vere’s voice, Fitzgerald shouting, but the pain was too much and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  PART III

  1487–1489

  A Rose in Winter

  Bears the highest price.

  Martial’s Epigrams

  17

  Matthias regained consciousness in a small, lime-washed cell. He threw back the blankets and staggered to his feet. The chamber was so narrow, if he stretched out his hands he could touch both walls. He peered through the arrow slit window. He was in a castle. The bailey below was busy with grooms leading horses in and out of the stables. A line of geese waddled past guided by a girl with a stick. Somewhere a dog was baying mournfully. Matthias stared down at himself. He was still in the clothes he had worn before the battle, but his belt and boots were gone. A cracked pitcher of water stood in the corner. Dried bread and cheese on a tin plate were being gnawed by rats. Matthias lifted the water, sipped greedily then threw the rest over his plate.

  The door opened. Two men came in. The first was stooped and balding, with a thin pinched face and the screwed up eyes of one who had difficulty seeing. He was dressed in a grey, dusty gown, the sleeves folded back; his long fingers were covered in ink. His companion was a typical soldier, burly, thickset, his fair hair cropped so close Matthias at first thought he was bald. He was dressed in a boiled leather jacket, stained and blackened with sweat; dark blue, woollen hose and tight leather boots on which spurs jangled and clattered as he walked. He looked at Matthias and winked. His leathery, weather-beaten face broke into a grin.

  ‘John Vane,’ he introduced himself. ‘Master-at-arms. This is Master Winstanley, royal clerk.’

  ‘Where am I?’ Matthias felt unsteady on his feet. He went back and sat on the bed.

  ‘You are in Newark Castle, brought here late last night.’

  Matthias recalled Fitzgerald’s blow to his face. He felt the side of his head.

  ‘You are a mystery, Master Fitzosbert.’ Winstanley came over and peered down at him. ‘Some say you are a rebel. Others that you are loyal and true. Anyway, his Grace the Earl of Oxford has decided that you won’t hang. Clerks are too valuable to be strung up like rats!’

  ‘Where’s Fitzgerald?’ Matthias asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Fitzgerald! Fitzgerald!’ Winstanley shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Fitzgerald is or who he is! The royal army is moving south. People like me and Master Vane are left to clean up the mess.’

  ‘You have received a pardon.’ Vane thrust a small parchment scroll into Matthias’ hands. ‘But on one condition.’

  Matthias undid the parchment. He read the copperplate lettering. The small blob of wax at the end bore the personal insignia of the Earl of Oxford. Matthias sighed and closed his eyes. The letter proclaimed that he, Matthias Fitzosbert, be pardoned for all crimes on one condition, that he serve no less than three years as castle clerk at Barnwick on the Scottish march.

  ‘It’s better than hanging, lad,’ Vane said quietly. The master-of-arms chewed the corner of his mouth. ‘God knows I’ve seen enough hangings to last me ten lifetimes. I have to take you to Barnwick. I’m also taking provisions and money for the garrison.’ He crouched before Matthias. ‘Now look, lad, I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done. Really, I don’t give a damn.’ He tapped the piece of parchment. ‘This is a second chance. I advise you to take it. Now, we are leaving in two hours, just after noon. I can truss you like a pig and if you try to escape,’ he touched the side of Matthias’ neck, ‘I’ll cut your throat. That will be the end of the matter. But you look a bonny lad, you’ve got honest eyes — give me your word you won’t cause me trouble and I’ll give you a sword belt, your own horse and treat you as one of the lads.’

  Matthias gave his word.

  ‘Good!’ Vane got to his feet. He extended his hand.

  Matthias clasped it: he held on, squeezing the fingers tightly.

  ‘Who are you?’ Matthias whispered. ‘Are you really John Vane?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ The soldier pulled his hand away. ‘I think you’ve had one too many knocks on the head, lad. I was born John Vane and I will die John Vane but, if you want, you can think of me as the great Cham.’ The man-at-arms wrinkled his nose. ‘But if you are going to travel with me I want you to bathe. You stink like a pig pen!’

  He and Winstanley left. A short while later a servant brought in a leather bucket full of warm water. Matthias stripped and washed, cleaning himself with a rag and rubbing some oil the servants also brought into his skin.

  Vane came into the room and tossed a pile of clothes and a good set of riding boots upon the bed. A bleary-eyed, bald-pated man accompanied him: he cut Matthias’ hair and expertly shaved the stubble from his face. Matthias found the clothes fitted him. They were musty but clean. Vane gave him a war belt with a sheath for the small broadsword and dagger also provided.

  ‘You don’t look like a rebel now,’ Vane smiled. ‘Come on.’

  They went down to the castle refectory. Vane introduced Matthias to the rest of the soldiers, nine men in all: grizzled veterans, men-at-arms looking forward to the journey north as a break from the boring routine of garrison duty. They left Newark a little later than planned, Vane’s nine companions, with Matthias in the centre, riding ahead of the three great lumbering carts which accompanied them. On the outskirts of Newark, six archers, dressed in stained Lincoln green, joined them, their specific responsibility to guard the carts. The rest of the day’s travelling was taken up in good-natured banter between these and Vane’s men.

  They journeyed through narrow, country lanes. Matthias still felt unreal. He could hardly accept that the same bright sun, these green fields, the blue sky filled with wispy clouds were the same as he had marched under with the rebel army. They camped out in the open that night, on a small hill overlooking a field of waving corn. One of the archers trapped and skinned some rabbits. Another foraged for herbs. The savoury smell abruptly reminded Matthias of the hermit in that lonely, deserted church at Tenebral. The soldiers accepted him as part of their company but, when Vane remarked that Matthias had marched with the rebels, they took a closer interest.

  ‘Did you really think he was Edward of Warwick?’ one of the men-at-arms asked, his mouth full of meat.

  ‘No.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I thought.’

  ‘Just like us,’ another shouted. ‘You march where your bloody officers tell you to and, if you’re lucky and you don’t get killed, then you march somewhere else.’

  ‘Were you there?’ Matthias asked Vane.

  ‘The battle at East Stoke? No. We were left at Newark to guard the bloody castle.’

  He persuaded Matthias to tell them what had happened. Matthias sat under the stars, the night breeze cooling the sweat on his brow as he relived, once again, that bloody fight. He tried not to think of Fitzgerald or Mairead. He gave no hint of why he had really been there.

  ‘Thousands died you know,’ Vane declared. ‘They say the burial pit was as long and as broad as a castle bailey, the bodies stacked like faggots of wood.’

  ‘And the Irish?’ another asked.

  ‘Aye, the poor bastards!’ Vane shook his head. ‘You heard what happened, Matthias?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Oxford’s bullyboys pinned them against the Trent. It was just like Michaelmas except instead of sheep and cows it was men. They say the blood was ankle-deep in places. The rebel leaders were killed except Lovell, who escaped. No one knows where he is. Symonds, being a priest, has been locked up, immured for life in some lonely monastery. The imposter, Lambert Simnel, has confessed to being the son of an Oxford carpenter. The King — he’s a sly one — wou
ldn’t make him a martyr. Lambert’s now cleaning out the royal stables.’

  The rest of the men began to joke about the imposter. Matthias got up and walked into the clump of trees. What did they mean to me anyway? he thought. He recalled the cards Lady Stratford had dealt that night they were fleeing from Oxford. Symonds had come to judgment whilst the so-called ‘young prince’ had been forced to face the truth. Matthias smiled. He was glad the young man had suffered no greater indignity and, remembering his skill with horses, he was probably happier in the royal stables than he was with Symonds.

  Matthias thought of Dublin and the hundreds of widows amongst the clans, waiting for their men who would never return. He mourned Mairead and cried quietly for her: if only he had reached the baggage train! He closed his eyes: Fitzgerald was there, grinning at him, as he had before de Vere’s tribunal in that blood-stained camp. Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon had taken full possession. He had no doubt that Fitzgerald had always been a spy but Matthias, for the life of him, couldn’t recall any abrupt change or suspicious circumstances. The mercenary had struck him, not out of anger but to keep Matthias quiet. If he’d gone on talking, shouting curses, de Vere would have probably hanged him out of hand.