would be with her.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Hospitaller replied testily. ‘But what news do you have?’
‘I have found him.’ The Preacher took the cup away from his lips. He smiled at Sir Raymond’s surprise. ‘He was in these parts seven or eight years ago posing as a recluse, living in the ruins of some deserted village.’ He ticked the places off on his fingers. ‘Stroud, Berkeley, Gloucester, Tredington, Tewkesbury. Now, I believe, he hides in a deserted village near Sutton Courteny.’
‘What proof do you have of this?’
‘What do you expect?’ the Preacher replied. ‘People like him. Even the brothers at Tewkesbury remember him: a man of prayer, a former soldier, clean in his ways, personable in his manners.’
Sir Raymond looked at the filthy fingers of the Preacher and bit back his tart observation.
‘But there’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Oh yes.’ The Preacher sipped from the wine. ‘Over the last eight years corpses have been found, their throats cut, their cadavers drained like slashed wineskins. In most cases the bodies were those of travellers, journeymen, traders and tinkers. Now and again a villager, the same bloody death.’ He sighed. ‘Other people have been blamed. At Stroud they burnt an old man, claiming he was a warlock, yet the murders have continued. A bailiff at Berkeley told me he had met our adversary on the roads: he was going to Sutton Courteny. A few weeks afterwards a young girl was killed in the usual bloody way.’ The Preacher leant forward, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘He is the one, isn’t he, Sir Raymond?’
Sir Raymond stared through a gap in the tent.
‘He is the one,’ he replied.
‘Then why not leave and come with me?’
Sir Raymond got up. He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled that of the Preacher.
‘I am here in the camp,’ he said, ‘of Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrians. God be my witness, I couldn’t give a fig for Lancaster — or York!’
‘So why not flee?’
‘I gave my word. I made a decision. Once I learnt my quarry was in England, I knew that I would need the authority of the Crown to pursue my searches to a successful end. It’s like a game of hazard. England was divided between York and Lancaster. I chose Lancaster and I am going to lose.’
‘So why not flee?’
‘It’s too late,’ the Hospitaller replied. ‘Beaufort has issued an order: any man who tries to desert is to be killed on the spot. I doubt if I would get far. Even if I were successful the Yorkists would show me no mercy, whilst if a miracle occurs, and Margaret of Anjou wins tomorrow, my name would head the list of proscriptions.’ He sat down. ‘No, no, there is a slender chance, my best, that this time tomorrow night I will be across the Severn in Wales.’
‘And me?’
Sir Raymond dug into his purse and took out two coins.
‘This is good silver, the best the French can supply. Go to Sutton Courteny, seek out our enemy and do what you have to. But act wisely.’ The Hospitaller stared at the Preacher’s wild eyes and wondered if his advice would be heeded. ‘Do not be carried away by the force of your own eloquence. He is to be watched. Only move against him when you have proof.’ He went across to a small writing desk and scribbled a few words on a piece of parchment. ‘Show this to the captain of the guard. They’ll let you through the lines.’
The Preacher took the silver and the warrant, finished his wine and slipped into the night.
Sir Raymond sat for a while, wrapping his cloak around him, for the night had grown cold. On the one hand he was pleased that what he had been searching for so many years he’d almost found. On the other hand although he was so close, he was yet unable to do anything about it. He wondered about Otto. His brother had elected to become a hermit, travelling to Outremer where eventually he took refuge on the great rock of Masada overlooking the Dead Sea. Seven years ago Sir Raymond had made careful searches, not knowing whether his brother were alive or dead. The Hospitaller Order had merchants friendly to their interests in the area, and Sir Raymond had been numbed by the news. Otto had, some years previously, mysteriously vanished from his cave. At the same time a young shepherd boy had been found dead amongst the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The finger of suspicion had been pointed at his brother but Raymond could hardly believe that. Otto would never hurt a child. Nevertheless, any attempts by Raymond to discover the whereabouts of his brother ended in mystery as if he had vanished from the face of the earth. Raymond had concluded his brother had died in some lonely place, and he returned to his hunt for this sinister being, the spirit he had released from the vaults of the Blachernae Palace.
By now the Grand Master, who had helped Raymond since the brothers’ escape from Constantinople, was dead in mysterious circumstances, a fall from a horse whilst out riding alone. To the rest of the Order Raymond had become an eccentric, enigmatic figure. They could not understand his absorption with the past, in finding some mysterious Byzantine princess. Over the years, piece by piece, Sir Raymond had built up a picture, done careful study, yet it was years before he accepted the truth about the Rosifer.
He took a key from his pouch and unlocked the coffer where he kept his papers. He plucked out a piece of yellowing parchment and studied the faded green-blue ink. It was dated some ten years previously from an Armenian slave-dealer who had been paid by the Order to search for this elusive Byzantine princess.
The merchant had made careful searches and discovered that a Byzantine princess, singular in her beauty and strange garb, had been sold to a Sipahi commander. None of the other captives could recognise her or say which family she had belonged to. The Turkish commander had taken her to his palace at Adrianople. About three months after the fall of Constantinople, the Sipahi commander and his entire family had been mysteriously killed: throats cut or pierced, blood drained from their cadavers. Of the Byzantine princess there was no sign. Search parties had been organised and, eventually, the princess’s corpse had been found in a cypress wood close to the house: she bore no mark of violence, or any indication of how she had died. Only on hearing of this some years later from the Armenian had Sir Raymond fully accepted that it was no longer flesh and blood he was hunting, but the most cruel and subtle of spirits.
3
Sir Raymond put the parchment away. He felt tired after the wine. He lay down on his camp bed, promising himself a few minutes’ rest before he returned to Margaret of Anjou’s council. He had scarcely made himself comfortable when he fell into a deep sleep, only to be roughly shaken awake by a royal messenger.
‘Sir Raymond, come! The Queen is waiting!’
The Hospitaller groaned and struggled from his bed. He took a water bottle and splashed the contents over his face, then, having dried himself on his cloak, he followed the man back through the camp to the Queen’s pavilion. As soon as he entered and glimpsed Wenlock’s triumphant smile, he knew his counsel and advice had been rejected.
‘Sir Raymond,’ Beaufort refused to meet his eyes, ‘Her Grace the Queen has decided. We will deploy before dawn, our backs to the abbey. Our army will be divided into three divisions. Devon will command the left, myself the right, Lord Wenlock here, together with Prince Edward, will hold the centre.’ He pushed across the map which had been drawn during Sir Raymond’s absence. ‘You, Sir Raymond, will stay with Lord Wenlock.’ Beaufort explained. ‘I shall take my force,’ a stubby finger traced a line, ‘and try to go behind York’s left flank. They will think they are being attacked in the rear as well as the front. Wenlock will then charge.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Panic will ensue, the Yorkists will flee.’
‘It’s foolishness!’ Sir Raymond snapped, glaring down the table at the Queen. ‘Madam, Edward of York, whatever you think of him, is a capable general. He has smashed your armies at Barnet: he will have scouted the terrain of this land and be prepared for any ambuscade or surprise.’
‘We can’t retreat!’ the Queen snapped. ‘Sir Raymond, I have never really understood your reasons for tying your fortunes to my banner. However, you have seen our star rise and fall. We have lately come from France.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I am tired of being King Louis’ pensioner. Every day York grows stronger.’ She jabbed at the piece of parchment. ‘We must bring him to battle and destroy him and his entire house once and for all!’
