Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

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.

‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald commented as he, Mairead and Matthias sat under an oak tree. They were sharing a jug of ale, watching the soldiers set up camp, treating the Archbishop’s orchards as if they were their own personal property. ‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald repeated, for he loved to pontificate on military matters, ‘that our young prince is only a figurehead. Once these matters are brought to a successful conclusion, Symonds and Edward of Warwick will soon disappear.’ He lowered his voice as he refilled their cups. ‘I have taken close counsel with my Lord of Lincoln: Tudor still parades Edward of Warwick in London.’

‘It’s a wild scheme,’ Mairead declared. ‘Thomas, my boy, and you, Matthias, we should leave, slip away. Let the witless lead the madcaps. All this will end in blood and tears.’

Fitzgerald just laughed and returned to his drinking, but Mairead’s words set Matthias thinking. There was now tension in the Yorkist camp. The retainers of Lovell, wearing the livery of a white greyhound on a square padlock, and those displaying the golden lions of Lincoln, now swaggered through the galleries and corridors of the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald breathlessly reported how de la Pole had now made himself master of the young Edward, and Symonds was nothing more than a confidant. The ex-priest could not object. De la Pole, because he was of Yorkist descent, soon won over the allegiance of the Irish chieftains. The Earl also controlled the gold given to him by Margaret of Burgundy, not to mention Schwartz, his principal military adviser. A more rigorous discipline was imposed. Weapons were collected and piled in warehouses down near the harbour. Ships, cogs and herring-boats were impounded. The invasion fleet began to muster.

Matthias kept to himself or talked to Fitzgerald and Mairead. Since his dream he had experienced no other phenomena, though he had heard from whispers in the sculleries and kitchens, as well as a few guarded comments from Mairead, that the strange murders were still occurring in Dublin. Corpses had been found, their throats punctured, drained of blood. Matthias, however, felt helpless: the Rose Demon could inhabit any one of the people he knew and, apart from Mairead and Fitzgerald, there was no one he could confide in.

At the beginning of May 1487, Warwick was crowned King Edward VI in Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin. It was a splendid ceremony, the nave and sanctuary filled with banners, the Mass celebrated by two archbishops and twelve bishops. The crown was placed on the young man’s head. He received the holy chrism and was loudly proclaimed as Edward VI, King of Ireland, England, Scotland and France. The crowded nave, packed with mercenaries, the followers of Lincoln, Lovell and the Irish chieftains, roared its approval. Afterwards banquets were held, toasts given, alliances and friendships proclaimed to be eternal. A few days later the ships, cogs, herring-boats and fishing smacks were loaded up with provisions and arms.

At the beginning of June the Yorkist army embarked on the ships which had collected in the city harbour. Matthias secured a place in the flagship, the Sainte Marie , a massive cog which bore most of the commanders. He felt as if he were in a dream: the small fleet standing out in the harbour, emblazoned with flags and pennants; the golden lions of de la Pole; the leopards and lilies of England; the colourful, makeshift banners of the Irish lords. Thanks to Schwartz, everything moved in an orderly fashion. Ships turned and made their way out of the harbour, sails dipping three times in honour of the Trinity.

By the time dusk fell, they were out into the open sea, picking up brisk winds heading for Peil Castle on the Isle of Foudray in Lancashire. The crossing was smooth and uneventful. The Yorkist commanders were beside themselves with joy. There was no sign of the Tudor ships and, on their second day out, they made a landfall, the cogs slipping into a natural harbour. At first confusion reigned as horses, supplies and men were unloaded. There were mishaps and accidents but, by 7 June 1487, the Yorkist army was disembarked, formed its line of march and headed deep into Lancashire. Matthias rode with Fitzgerald; Mairead kept close.

‘She’s got a soft spot for you.’ Fitzgerald drew his horse back and grinned at Matthias. ‘But she’s also worried, as am I. You’ve been very quiet, Matthias Fitzosbert. In Dublin you almost became a recluse. What happened between you and Symonds, eh?’

Matthias shrugged. ‘I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me.’

‘And that’s what I want to speak to you about.’ Fitzgerald leant closer and gestured at the clouds of dust which now rose on either side of the army. ‘It’s a beautiful day. You are back in England, the grass is green. The honeysuckle, cowslip, daisy and the rose are in full bloom. So, why do you choke dust in the middle of a rebel army?’ Fitzgerald grasped Matthias’ wrist. ‘You’re going to slip away, boyo, aren’t you?’

Matthias stared back.

‘One dark night you’ll fasten on your war belt and, without a word to me or Mairead, you’ll be over the hills and miles away.’

‘Something like that,’ Matthias grudgingly conceded. ‘Thomas, you’ve been a good friend yet you are a mercenary, a fighting man, and I, in truth, am still a prisoner. I am only here because Symonds thought I could help him. If we win, I’ll be turned out to fend for myself. If we lose, I’ll hang quicker than the rest.’ He gathered the reins in his hands. ‘I, too, have a life to lead, things to do.’

‘Don’t go,’ Fitzgerald warned.

He pulled Matthias’ horse out of the column of march. For a while they sat and watched the horsemen, the carts, sumpter ponies, Schwartz’s men striding along, their long pikes over their shoulders, their sallets hanging on their backs. Behind these trotted thousands of wild Irish tribesmen, nothing more than a disorderly mass kept in check by Schwartz’s officers and their own chieftains.

‘I’m going to tell you, boyo.’ Fitzgerald was now sitting very close, his leg brushing that of Matthias. ‘So far we’ve had the devil’s own luck. We’ve crossed the sea and we’ve disembarked. The sun is strong.’ He gestured to the fields on either side. ‘Long, cool grass, clear brooks and streams.’ He pointed to the small copses and woods which dotted the landscape. ‘Don’t be fooled by all this, Matthias. Where are the English lords who were supposed to join us? Where are the peasants? The yeomen flocking to our banners?’ He gestured at the Irish. ‘And how long do you think they’ll obey orders?’

‘What are you saying, Fitzgerald?’

The mercenary pointed to the far distance.

‘Somewhere over there, Tudor’s armies are waiting. They have castles, men-at-arms, bowmen, supplies and, above all, they are led by one of the best generals in Europe, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. He was fighting Yorkists when you were piddling your breeches. Soon the pillaging, the raping and the robbing will begin. I tell you this, Matthias, any stranger found wandering by himself will be regarded as a rebel. The peasants will hate you and, if you are captured, you’ll die slowly, not in a matter of hours but days, even weeks. I know, I have fought in these wars. Have you ever seen a living man trussed and bound and fed to hogs? Or turned like a piece of meat over a slow-burning fire? And then there’s Symonds! Heaven knows what you said to him, Matthias, but he hates and distrusts you. He considers you a Judas man, a Tudor agent. You are watched more closely than you think. So, stay close to me and Mairead.’ He spurred his horse. ‘And let tomorrow take care of itself!’