Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘But we’ll get help in England?’ Matthias asked.

Fitzgerald turned, clicking his tongue, his good eye bright with mischief. ‘Oh, boyo, you might know your books and sing a hymn in Latin yet you know nothing about politics. You babble like a bairn. I’ll tell you what will happen.’ Fitzgerald closed the leaded window door and drew closer to Matthias on the window seat.

‘We’ll land in England and march inland. Henry Tudor and his general, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, will march north to meet us. Both sides will send out letters, emphasising their royal authority, ordering everyone to flock to their standards. The truth is, boyo, nobody will really jump until they’re sure which side is winning.’

‘And if we lose?’

Fitzgerald’s face became grave. ‘Then God help us. We are a foreign army, would be defeated rebels in enemy country. Henry Tudor will show us little mercy.’ He slapped Matthias on the leg. ‘But, if we win, it will be London Town, fine houses with deep cellars, silver cups and golden rings. We will feast like kings. And the women, Matthias, eh? I’d love to strip those plump, soft-skinned, overfed wives of the London merchants. I bet they’d squeal.’ He stopped talking as Mairead came down the gallery towards them. ‘But don’t ever tell Mairead that,’ he whispered. ‘She’d cut my balls off!’

A few days later Mairead pronounced Matthias fully recovered.

‘It must have been gaol fever,’ she declared. ‘Some rotten malignancy disturbed your humours. Now I think you are well enough to visit the city.’ She kissed Matthias on each cheek. ‘And, if you want,’ she whispered. ‘I can show you the sights.’

Matthias just grinned but never took her up on the offer. He liked Mairead but sensed her saucy flirtation was dangerous. Fitzgerald might swagger and talk about the ladies but he had a passion for the woman which might turn to a fierce, brooding jealousy.

Matthias was given fresh clothes and robes from the wardrobe: a new war belt with a shiny steel sword and a dagger with a long, ornate handle. He decided to see the city for himself and began to wander out. Winter had set in. Rain constantly fell, turning the muddy trackways and paths of the city into a quagmire. On the one hand Dublin was like any great town — the brooding castle, the fine elegant cathedral, the spacious mansions of the merchants and the lords. Cheek by jowl with these were the mean, mud-packed cottages of the poor, the tradesmen, the artisans. Dublin was also a border city. A busy port, merchants and traders from all over Europe thronged there. The air was thick with the smells and stench of the different ships which came into the harbour. Hanse merchants brushed shoulders with Flemings, Burgundians and Spanish. The English, too, were there, though they kept to themselves. The entire city knew about the presence of Edward of Warwick. Fitzgerald’s words proved prophetic: none of the visiting English wished to show his allegiance publicly.

To the west Dublin was protected by the pale, an area directly under English rule. Beyond this, in the misty glens, lived the great tribes and fighting clans. Fitzgerald had warned Matthias to be careful and he could see why. These tribesmen came swaggering in, their long hair tied back with coloured clasps and brooches, their bodies almost naked except for breech clouts, boots and multi-coloured cloaks around their shoulders. They looked fierce with their sharp pointed teeth, faces painted in various garish colours. Some of them came to the markets which filled the narrow alleyways and streets of the city. Others arrived to be hired by Edward of Warwick. A good number also came looking for trouble and easy pickings. Once the day was done, the taverns and alehouses would fill with these men, who would challenge each other to drinking contests that might end in vows of eternal friendship or the most bloody and violent of knife fights.

Matthias, in his dark, sober clothes and carrying the seal of Fitzgerald, which offered him the protection of the great Irish lords, was safe enough. He went through the city to divert himself, and to be alone, reflect on what might happen. He wondered whether, if Symonds’ projected invasion ever took place, he might slip away: perhaps back to Sutton Courteny and take counsel with Baron Sanguis. Matthias even began to speculate on whether the Rosifer, the Dark Lord, had forgotten him, until one memorable night during the second week of Advent.

Matthias had been sent to deliver a message from Edward of Warwick to a powerful lord who had a mansion overlooking the River Liffey. It was a personal, confidential matter, and Edward of Warwick had insisted that only Matthias should deliver it. As he’d made his way back through a narrow alleyway which led to the spacious grounds of the cathedral, a group of ruffians suddenly stepped out of the shadows. They were not Gaels or any of the tribesmen but sailors from some ship, and they were armed with sword, club and dagger. Their leader, a burly, bald-headed fellow, stepped forward and, jabbering in a patois Matthias couldn’t understand, pointed to the war belt he wore and his boots, indicating that Matthias hand them over. He stepped back, hand on the hilt of his sword. The rifflers followed, laughing and mocking his attempts at defending himself.

Then abruptly they stopped. Matthias could just about make out their faces in the light of a pitch torch which burnt on the side of an entrance to a house. Their ribaldry disappeared. They looked, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, at someone behind him. Matthias felt a cold breeze, a tingle at the back of his neck. He wanted to look round but dare not, fearing some trick. The assailants, however, started to move backwards. One dropped his club and made a hasty sign of the cross. They all turned on their heels and fled into the night. Matthias, slightly shaken, turned round. The alleyway was empty but, swirling amongst the fetid smells, came the sweet smell of a rose garden in full bloom under a summer’s sun.

‘Are you there?’ Matthias called softly. ‘Tell me, are you there?’

He went back down the alleyway, hardly daring to wonder what had terrified that group of ruffians so badly. He stepped into an alehouse, nothing more than a small, mean room, the floor covered with smelly rushes. It owned a few rickety stools and makeshift tables. In the corner, near the vats and barrels, stood the ale master. Matthias needed a drink, his throat and mouth were parched. He was also embarrassed at returning and showing his fear to Symonds and the others. A girl came across. She was dressed in a ragged smock, her feet bare. She reminded Matthias of Mairead with her dancing eyes and merry mouth.

‘Ale, please.’

The girl nodded and brought it back in a not-too-clean blackjack. Matthias sat in the corner and cradled the drink, sipping it carefully, savouring its tangy sweetness.

In the far corner an old crone, warming her knees near the fire, was being tormented by two sallow-faced youths who insisted on tickling her bare neck with a dirty piece of straw from the floor. The old lady screeched in annoyance, muttering curses. The youths came back, their faces flushed with drink. They tickled the woman again. The old crone got up and shook her stick at them but this only made matters worse. She appealed to the pot-bellied ale master but he just smiled weakly back, shrugged and returned to caressing the hair of the young slattern who had served Matthias. The tormenters returned to their task until Matthias, upset by the old woman’s screechings, walked across, drawing his sword and dagger. The youths stopped their baiting, shouted abuse and disappeared through the door into the night. Matthias filled the old lady’s tankard, tossing a coin at the slattern. He took the tankard back and pushed it into her hands.