‘Father, Father, what’s the matter?’
The priest looked at his son’s pale, attentive face. He felt a great surge of affection. Perhaps I’ve not been a good priest, he thought, but in Matthias I have been truly blessed.
‘Your mother is tired, Matthias, just tired. Come now, let’s say our prayers.’
Matthias brought his hands together and bowed his head, his lips moved soundlessly as he recited the Paternoster and Ave Maria.
Parson Osbert stared across at the black crucifix against the wall. What was really wrong with his wife? She seemed agitated, constantly dreaming as if her body were here but her mind elsewhere. The parson’s face became grim. He knew he had enemies in the parish council. Fat Walter Mapp, the local scrivener — he was not above, during Sunday Mass, circulating a piece of vellum filled with malicious questions, such as why their priest preached to them but kept a woman and his bastard son as a burden on the parish. Osbert closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. A gentle soul, he had never really hated, but Mapp, with his pig-like eyes, fleshy nose and slobbering mouth. . Parson Osbert crossed himself and quickly said a prayer for Walter Mapp.
‘Father, I’ve finished my prayers. Shall I go to bed?’
The priest smiled. ‘And what is the last thing, Matthias, you must say before you go to sleep? And the first thing you must repeat when you wake in the morning?’
Matthias took a deep breath.
‘If you get it right,’ his father added, ‘there’s a sweetmeat in the buttery. .’
Matthias closed his eyes. ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well.’ His voice grew loud and vibrant. ‘The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’ Matthias paused to recall the words. ‘And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy strength. And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’
The parson kissed him on the brow. ‘Oh, holiest of boys,’ he grinned. ‘Take the sweetmeat and go to your chamber.’
Matthias, the sweetmeat firmly in his mouth, scampered up the stairs. These were narrow and winding: Matthias always pretended he was a knight climbing a castle to rescue a maiden. He was most fortunate. Unlike other boys of his age, he had a small chamber, a little garret to himself under the eaves. It contained a cot, a desk, a battered leather chest and some pegs on the wall for his clothes. The small casement window, which overlooked the cemetery, was covered in horn paper. His mother had left it open. The room smelt fragrant but rather cold. Matthias climbed on to the bed. He was about to close the window when he glimpsed, in the moon- dappled cemetery below, a shadow beneath one of the yew trees, as if someone were standing there staring up at him. Yet, when he looked again, the shadow was gone.
In Margaret of Anjou’s camp, pitched within bowshot of the great Abbey of Tewkesbury, the Lancastrian Queen and her generals were holding counsel late into the night: Sir Raymond Grandison, Prior in the Order of the Hospitallers, with Sir Thomas Tresham, John Wainfleet and the Queen’s two principal commanders, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset and Lord Wenlock. They all sat along the trestle table hastily erected in the Queen’s gold-fringed, silken tent. On the floor around them were piled chests, coffers and panniers, lids thrown back or buckles undone, their contents spilling on to the muddy floor. Sir Raymond Grandison stared at these, then at each of his companions. They were arguing feverishly amongst themselves on what steps they should take next. Deep in his soul, however, Sir Raymond knew it was all finished. At the top of the table Margaret of Anjou, once a renowned beauty, sat slumped in her chair, her veil awry, her famous blonde hair now faded and mixed with iron-grey streaks. Her long face was haggard, eyes so bright, the Hospitaller wondered if the Queen were ill with a fever. She kept playing with the rings on her fingers or moving the pieces of parchment around on the table. On a chair beside her, her son Prince Edward, his blond hair uncombed, sat with a sulky expression on his smooth- shaven, spoilt face. Wenlock Sir Raymond dismissed with a contemptuous look. He did not trust that little fat soldier who, over the years, had fought for both York and Lancaster. In reality, the only person Wenlock served was Wenlock himself, and the Hospitaller wondered if he could be relied on tomorrow. Now and again the Queen would stretch across the table and grip Beaufort’s arm. Grandison wondered about the rumours that Beaufort was also her lover and, possibly, the true father of Prince Edward.
Beaufort coughed to catch his attention.
‘Sir Raymond, what do you advise?’
The Hospitaller took the piece of parchment Beaufort pushed across: a roughly drawn map which showed the abbey behind them and, to the west, the River Severn. He fought against the growing feeling of despair as the rest of the council waited.
‘Well, Sir Raymond, you are a professional soldier, what do you advise?’
Beaufort pushed his red hair away from his brow, fingers drumming on the table. Clearly agitated, he kept licking his lips whilst a nervous tic twitched a muscle under his right eye.
Raymond picked up the makeshift map. ‘Our situation is parlous, my lord. In the east the Lancastrians under the Earl of Warwick have been destroyed. The towns and cities between here and London are firmly in the hands of York. To the west the River Severn is swollen, the bridges destroyed or closely guarded so we cannot cross to our friends in Wales. Our men are too tired to march north. They are deserting in droves and our supplies are few. To the south Edward of York and his army pursue us like a pack of hunting dogs.’
‘You offer us no sympathy.’ Margaret’s voice was harsh, and, eyes half-closed, she glared at this Hospitaller commander who had chosen to tie his fortunes to those of her house.
‘Madam, I can only describe things as they are, not how they should be.’
‘And your advice?’ Beaufort demanded.
‘Whatever we decide,’ Sir Raymond replied, ‘Edward of York will come on.’
‘And lose?’ Wenlock squeaked.
Raymond stared down at the piece of parchment. He himself needed more time, just a little. All his searches, all his travelling had brought one result. The Rosifer, the great demon he had released so many years ago from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace, was somewhere in England. Raymond had a legion of spies throughout Europe, a flow of constant information and all this pointed to England, possibly a village in the south. He prayed the Preacher would reach him before he was swept up in the maelstrom of bloody battle.
‘Sir Raymond, we are waiting.’ Beaufort tapped the table. ‘You say we should stand yet, at the same time, that our men are tired and cannot be trusted.’
‘What I suggest,’ the Hospitaller replied slowly, ‘is that in this countryside broken by woods and small hills, where hedgerows cut the land, we make it look as if we were preparing for battle. Leave a token force whilst the rest of us retreat, go north, find a bridge over the Severn and force our way across. Once there, we are only a day’s march from Wales. Tudor and the Queen’s other friends will give us succour and refuge. We can rest, obtain fresh supplies, more men, and fight another day.’
‘Pshaw!’ Wenlock just waved his hands. ‘Run like children before Edward of York!’
‘If we fight tomorrow,’ the Hospitaller replied hotly, ‘we will lose!’
‘I am inclined to agree,’ Beaufort said. ‘Madam, if we left three or four hundred foot, some light horse. . Sir Raymond is correct: we could dilly and dally till nightfall, then slip northwards through the dark.’
Others intervened. Sir Raymond sat back, so immersed in his own thoughts, he jumped when a servant touched his shoulder.
‘Sir Raymond,’ the man whispered, ‘a messenger, he calls himself the Preacher, awaits outside.’
Sir Raymond rose and excused himself, bowed to the Queen and followed the servant out into the darkness. All around him rose the sounds of the camp: horses neighing; armourers busy pounding and hammering at their makeshift forges; the cries of the sentries. Sir Raymond’s despair deepened as he passed each campfire. The men were sprawled out on the ground, sleeping like the dead. Those who were awake crouched dourly over their cold food or cups of watered ale from the supply wagons. In the flickering firelight their faces were grey, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Few raised their heads as he passed.
He found his visitor in his own makeshift tent. The Preacher was sitting on an overturned cask, eating noisily from a bowl of dried meat and scraps of bread.
‘Christ’s greetings to you, sir.’ The Preacher pushed more food into his mouth and noisily swallowed it down with some wine.
Sir Raymond pulled across a camp stool and sat opposite.
‘I’ve travelled from London,’ the Preacher began. ‘I was heading for Gloucester. The good monks there would give me shelter and sustenance, but then I heard that Margaret of Anjou was coming north. I knew you
