‘Has he got the pestilence?’ another asked.
‘Examine his armpits and groin for buboes. If he has the Death, cut his throat!’
Matthias blinked, his mouth was dry. He could feel someone stripping his clothes off, hands punching into his armpits and groin feeling for the telltale buboes, the first signs of the plague.
‘No,’ a voice declared. ‘He hasn’t the plague but he is weak and fevered.’
‘Kill him!’ another voice shouted. ‘Cut his throat! He can’t be left here!’
Matthias heard Edward of Warwick’s voice high in protest. A cup was forced to his lips: his mouth was full with a bittersweet drink and he slipped into a fever-filled sleep.
Matthias did not know whether he was alive or dead, awake or asleep. Images came and went: he was on a sheet being taken across slippery sands and tossed unceremoniously into a bumboat. The creak of oars and the nauseous pitching which seemed to go on for ever. He was being raised up, laid out on a deck, sailors cursing, men shouting orders. . a stinking darkness, which smelt like a jakes, rats scurrying by him. Edward of Warwick bending over, dabbing his face with a cool rag.
Matthias tried to croak his thanks. More of the bittersweet potion was poured into his mouth. He let slip of his reality, grateful for the darkness. Dreams, deep in his soul, rose to torment his mind.
He was in the church at Tenebral, examining the runes on the wall. The air was thick with a fragrant perfume. White doves fluttered all around him. The sunshine was strong until a dark shape blotted out the sky. Matthias looked up. A hawk, black and massive, covered the sun. It was hurtling down, talons outstretched. Matthias cried out but, as the hawk drew closer, it changed in shape: the Preacher, dressed in black from head to toe, his head still twisted from the gallows rope, eyes like burning coals and mouth frothing yellow spittle, hands like claws stretched out to kill. Matthias screamed. The hermit appeared but this time in the shape of a woman with soft brown hair, red chapped skin and light green eyes. He could now smell incense: a drink was forced between his lips. The dreams disappeared. Matthias slept on.
When he awoke Matthias could hardly believe it. No horse pounding beneath him. No lonely manor house or shabby tavern by the seashore. No pitching bumboat or dank, fetid hold. He lay in a broad four-poster bed in a white-washed chamber. The room was neat and tidy, the floor tiled and polished. A huge crucifix hung on the wall opposite. Chests and stools and other pieces of furniture lay around the room. To his left a fire burnt vigorously in the mantled hearth. Braziers full of glowing charcoal stood in each corner. Matthias moved his hands and feet. He felt weak and tired. He glimpsed the bell on the table beside him. He stretched out to grasp it but it fell to the floor with a crash. Matthias fell back against the bolsters and drifted into sleep. He heard voices, the accent musical, the words lilting.
‘He’s been awake, that’s good!’
Some more potion was pushed between his lips. He tried to open his eyes. All he could do was blink, then drift away. When he awoke again, two people sat by his bed watching him.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’
The woman was the same woman as in his dreams. She had soft, brown hair, light green eyes, her skin was red-chapped; a strong face full of life and vitality. The man beside her was dark-haired, narrow-faced, one eye covered by a patch, the other bright with life. He had a twisted, sardonic look.
‘Well, well, my boy,’ the man said. ‘Matthias Fitzosbert. We thought you were going to sleep until the last trumpet.’ Despite the man’s looks, the voice was warm and welcoming.
‘How long?’ Matthias muttered.
‘Have a guess, my boyo.’ He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘My name is Thomas Fitzgerald. I am a bastard son, or so they say, of one of the Kildares. I am a poet, a soldier, a courtier, a lover of beautiful women and a drinker of red wine.’
‘He’s also a terrible boaster,’ the woman laughed. ‘Goodness, if hot air could make gold coins we’d all be princes! My name is Mairead. He thinks I’m his woman. Now, child,’ her fingers brushed Matthias’ face, ‘guess how long you have been asleep?’
Matthias shook his head.
‘Well, today is the last day of September.’
Matthias’ jaw sagged. He realised he had been ill for at least six weeks.
‘Whatever it was,’ Mairead continued, ‘it was a terrible sickness. We’ve treated you like a babe and you’ve slept like one. But, the angels be my witness, you’ve said some strange things.’
Matthias stiffened and stared at these two strangers.
‘Now, boyo.’ Fitzgerald got to his feet, throwing his cloak over his shoulder. Beneath, he was dressed in a leather surcoat which reached down to mid-thigh, with black, woollen hose pushed into boots. His clothes were shabby but the war belt wrapped around his waist was of good shiny leather, three daggers hung from it in embroidered pouches. ‘Don’t be frightened.’ Fitzgerald smiled down at him as he picked at a piece of food through his finely set teeth. ‘You are in good hands. This is a chamber in the palace of no less a person than the Archbishop of Dublin. Elsewhere is your good friend master Richard Symonds, priest.’ The good eye winked slowly. ‘And, of course, your prince, the noble Edward of Warwick, soon to be crowned King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France, has his own princely chambers.’
‘Tush, Thomas, keep your voice down,’ Mairead whispered. She smiled at Matthias. ‘Symonds is a snake in the grass,’ she declared, ‘but young Edward is a fair boy.’
‘What’s happening?’ Matthias asked.
‘Ireland’s always been for the House of York.’ Fitzgerald walked round the bed and sat on the other side. ‘Symonds was right to bring his prince here.’
Matthias noticed how Fitzgerald stumbled on the word ‘prince’.
‘Now the great lords of Ireland have pledged their swords. Kildare, Ormond and the rest. The Church, too, has promised its aid. But it’s too late to go campaigning now. The sea is rough. There’ll be nothing in England to feed our horses or men.’
‘So?’ Matthias asked.
‘So, my boy, they’ll wait for a while,’ Fitzgerald continued. ‘Not only for the weather but a fleet.’
‘A fleet?’
Fitzgerald smiled lazily. ‘What’s the use of fighting for the English Crown if the English don’t help? The Yorkist lords are gathering but they are in the Low Countries. Francis Lovell, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, the son of the Earl of Suffolk.’ Fitzgerald tapped his chest. ‘That’s where I and the beautiful Mairead come in. I am a mercenary,’ he whispered with mock fierceness. ‘A cutter of throats and a ravisher of women-’
‘He’s also a liar,’ Mairead interrupted, leaning over to smooth the woollen coverlet. ‘I have known this boy, Master Matthias, since he was a babe. He sells his sword to the highest bidder. We are from the retinue of John de la Pole, envoy to the prince here in Dublin. There will be a fleet here soon from the Low Countries. The English lords, their retinues-’
‘And, more importantly,’ Fitzgerald interjected, ‘a thousand landsknechts.’
‘What?’ Matthias asked.
‘Mercenaries,’ Fitzgerald explained. ‘Born killers, like myself, under their leader, Martin Schwartz. They are a gift from Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister to the once great Edward IV, beloved aunt of our noble prince who now resides here in such opulent splendour.’
‘For God’s sake, keep your voice low!’ Mairead whispered.
Matthias struggled up to rest against the bolsters. Fitzgerald and Mairead hastened to help him, and Matthias caught her perfume, soft and cloying.
‘I’ve always wanted a child,’ Mairead said.
Fitzgerald grinned down at Matthias and patted his hand. ‘You are her child, you know. A good physician is Mairead. She knows the herbs and potions. She should be a physician.’ His face grew solemn. ‘Instead they call her a witch.’
‘Prince Edward told us to look after you,’ Mairead declared. ‘Gave us twenty pounds sterling, he did and offered us another thirty if you survived. A lovely boy, but you don’t believe he’s Warwick, do you?’
Mairead looked at Fitzgerald. The mercenary got up and walked to the door. He opened it, looked out, then closed and locked it.
‘There’s no one there,’ he said, ‘and the walls are thick.’ He sat on his stool next to Mairead. ‘Matthias — I can call you that, can’t I? — I am going to tell you the truth because, you know, never once in your rantings or
