Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

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, standing on tiptoe, gave him the kiss of peace on each cheek. He stood away, face smiling. ‘I have read Master Symonds’ letters on you.’ He clapped his hands shyly. ‘You are most welcome. When I come into my own you, Master Fitzosbert, will sit at my council table.’

Matthias kept his face impassive though his heart sank. Edward of Warwick was personable, graceful, charming but those watery blue eyes, that ingratiating smile? Would he be any threat to the powerful Tudor? Matthias studied him. Was he really Clarence’s son? Nephew of the powerful Edward IV and Richard III? Or some imposter trained to play the part? A cat’s-paw for the disaffected? Edward of Warwick grinned across at Symonds and Lady Elizabeth. Matthias could see the old lady had reached her decision: she did not think much of this Yorkist princeling.

‘Well, shall we eat?’

Again that childish clapping of the hands. Edward of Warwick almost skipped to the table. Matthias glimpsed the contempt in the old woman’s eyes and wondered if the prince were fully in his wits.

Symonds was apparently the master. It was he who guided Edward to the throne-like chair at the top of the table. He whispered instructions on how to use his napkin and only filled his goblet with a quarter of wine, the rest water.

The meal was pleasant enough. Matthias now felt the full effects of his escape and long ride. His body ached, his eyes grew heavy. He ate the jugged hare and picked at the venison in its mushroom sauce whilst listening to Symonds describe what help and assistance they would receive in Ireland and amongst the English lords. At every such pronouncement, Edward of Warwick would shake his head vigorously, but he seemed more concerned with filling his stomach than winning the crown of England. He seemed to have totally forgotten about Matthias. After the meal was finished, servants cleared the platters and trenchers. More candles were brought in. Lady Elizabeth ordered the servants to leave the room. Before they left, one of them brought a silver casket and placed it on the table beside her.

‘We shall study the cards,’ she announced.

Matthias looked at her expectantly.

‘Do you wish to?’ she asked the prince.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Edward of Warwick clapped his hands.

Lady Elizabeth opened the casket and took out the cards. They were large, square with gold backing. She kept them face downwards and slid them across the cloth. One for Edward, one for Symonds, one for Matthias.

‘Turn them over.’ She looked at Symonds. ‘You first.’

The priest did so. He gasped and slid the card back towards the woman. Matthias saw the picture: the figure of death, a skeleton wearing a suit of black armour. He rode a white horse and carried a purple standard with a white rose upon it. Skull and crossbones adorned the reins of the horse’s bridle. The horse rode across various people, not caring about their rank or position: a king lay outstretched, crown fallen away: a bishop with his hand held up in prayer: a maiden, her face turned away.

‘Superstition!’ Symonds snapped.

Edward of Warwick turned his over. He smiled and held the card up: an angel appearing from the clouds, a halo of golden hair around its young face. He was blowing a mighty trumpet from which a white banner hung, emblazoned with a red cross.

‘Judgment!’ Lady Elizabeth declared. ‘And you, Master Fitzosbert?’