Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

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 — wouldn’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.

Matthias opened his eyes and stared up through the branches. An owl hooted, low and mournful. A night bird fluttered in the branches above him. Where was Fitzgerald now? Where was the Rose Demon? He glanced back over his shoulder. Vane and the others stretched out before the camp fire. Might one of them house this terrible being now pursuing him? Matthias was beginning to understand it. The Demon could not control him but he could, when he wanted, intervene to protect him. But why not protect Mairead? Or did the Demon want no one in Matthias’ life to distract him? He sighed and went back to the campfire. Whatever, he ruefully concluded, three years in a lonely castle on the Scottish march would give him time to think and reflect.

The next morning they reached the Great North Road, a busy thoroughfare with pedlars, packmen, tinkers, wandering friars, scholars, beggars and peasants. The road also carried grim testimony to the royal victory at East Stoke. At every half-mile, for at least a hundred miles, scaffolds and gibbets had been set up: from each hung rotting cadavers. Corruption fouled the air; so great was the stink under the summer sun, Vane ordered the soldiers to leave the highway and use country lanes and trackways.