ravings did you ever mention the House of York. So, I think the Cause means as much to you as it does to me.’ He winked at Matthias. ‘One day you’ll have to tell us why you are here. Now I am a ruffian born and bred. I lost my eye in a fray outside Arras but my ears and wits are as sound as any. Edward of Warwick is still in the Tower of London.’ He smiled at the surprise on Matthias’ face. ‘I have listened to the gossip in de la Pole’s circle. Edward of Warwick is a cat’s-paw: the son of an Oxford tradesman, his real name is Lambert Simnel. He’s a figurehead for the Yorkists. If they depose Henry Tudor, I am sure some nasty accident will occur so de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, can claim the throne.’
‘How many people know this?’ Matthias asked.
‘A few, but suspicion is spreading. The Tudors have taken the real Warwick out of the Tower and paraded him through the streets of London.’ Fitzgerald shrugged. ‘But we’ll see …’
‘Why are you here?’ Mairead asked Matthias, stretching over to straighten the bolsters behind him.
‘It’s a long story. Symonds regards me as a talisman. As for the rest, I have no choice. If I am ever caught in England, I’ll be hanged as a traitor, a murderer or a heretic.’
‘By Queen Mab’s paps!’ Fitzgerald grinned. ‘What on earth did you do?’
Matthias shrugged.
‘You told us some,’ Mairead declared, ‘when you were in a fever. You mentioned names: Christina.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Your father, Osbert, Santerre and two nameless ones, the hermit and the Preacher.’
Matthias studied both these people. Despite the warmth of the bed his stomach pitched in fear. Why were they really helping him? What proof did he have that the Dark Lord, the Rosifer, the being who refused to leave him alone, might not now possess one of these.
Mairead must have caught his suspicion.
‘One day,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘you can tell us. For the moment you’d best rest.’
Over the next few weeks Matthias regained his strength. Fitzgerald and Mairead were the perfect companions but Matthias did not relax his suspicions. Edward of Warwick came to visit him. Despite what Fitzgerald had told him, Matthias still regarded him as a prince.
Symonds, however, had changed. He no longer wore the dark fustian robes of a priest but those of an elegant courtier. He was dressed in a quilted jacket with rounded neck and cuffs, the hem edged with fur, a chapron on his head, velvet hose and piped patterned shoes studded with precious stones. He would swagger in, thumbs pushed into the brocade belt, and talk grandly about what help they would receive and which Irish chieftains were with them.
As the year drew to a close and Matthias recovered full health, he began to wander the Archbishop’s palace, a grand spacious affair with its polished high ceilings, long wooden galleries, comfortable parlours and chambers. At Edward of Warwick’s childish insistence, Matthias also attended council meetings and discovered that Symonds was not as foolish as he thought. English exiles, former Yorkists, were now flooding into Dublin. They brought their horses and armour, sometimes two or three men-at-arms. However, the real source of strength were the Irish chieftains who fascinated Matthias: tall, raw-boned men, skin cut and scored by the biting wind, their faces half- covered by luxuriant moustaches and beards. Proud warriors who dressed in a mixture of native fashion but sometimes imitated the worst excesses of court fops. Loud-mouthed and quarrelsome, generous and open- handed, their tempers could change at a drop of a coin. If they thought their honour had been besmirched, their hands would fall to their daggers and they’d scream at each other in Gaelic. Fitzgerald played a vital part in keeping all parties happy. Matthias could understand why John de la Pole had sent him to Dublin. Fitzgerald was a mercenary but he understood the Irish customs and keen Gaelic sense of honour. Time and again, at council meetings or banquets in the Archbishop’s chamber, Fitzgerald would intervene to placate some chieftain or turn a potential knife fight and blood feud into laughter and ribaldry. Outside, in the archbishop’s grounds, Matthias would glimpse the wild kerns or tribesmen who made up the retinues of these great chieftains.
‘They fight like the very devils,’ Fitzgerald said, as he and Matthias watched them out on the frost-covered lawn, feasting on the mutton and beef the aged and venerable Archbishop had provided from his kitchens. ‘But that’s the trouble,’ Fitzgerald continued with a sigh. ‘Look at them, Matthias! Naked as the day they were born. They carry shield and stabbing dirk. They cover their bodies with blue and red paint but that’s no protection against men-at-arms, mounted knights or the deadly arrows of massed bowmen.’
‘But we’ll get help in England?’ Matthias asked.
Fitzgerald turned, clicking his tongue, his good eye bright with mischief. ‘Oh, boyo, you might know your books and sing a hymn in Latin yet you know nothing about politics. You babble like a bairn. I’ll tell you what will happen.’ Fitzgerald closed the leaded window door and drew closer to Matthias on the window seat.
‘We’ll land in England and march inland. Henry Tudor and his general, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, will march north to meet us. Both sides will send out letters, emphasising their royal authority, ordering everyone to flock to their standards. The truth is, boyo, nobody will really jump until they’re sure which side is winning.’
‘And if we lose?’
Fitzgerald’s face became grave. ‘Then God help us. We are a foreign army, would be defeated rebels in enemy country. Henry Tudor will show us little mercy.’ He slapped Matthias on the leg. ‘But, if we win, it will be London Town, fine houses with deep cellars, silver cups and golden rings. We will feast like kings. And the women, Matthias, eh? I’d love to strip those plump, soft-skinned, overfed wives of the London merchants. I bet they’d squeal.’ He stopped talking as Mairead came down the gallery towards them. ‘But don’t ever tell Mairead that,’ he whispered. ‘She’d cut my balls off!’
A few days later Mairead pronounced Matthias fully recovered.
‘It must have been gaol fever,’ she declared. ‘Some rotten malignancy disturbed your humours. Now I think you are well enough to visit the city.’ She kissed Matthias on each cheek. ‘And, if you want,’ she whispered. ‘I can show you the sights.’
Matthias just grinned but never took her up on the offer. He liked Mairead but sensed her saucy flirtation was dangerous. Fitzgerald might swagger and talk about the ladies but he had a passion for the woman which might turn to a fierce, brooding jealousy.
Matthias was given fresh clothes and robes from the wardrobe: a new war belt with a shiny steel sword and a dagger with a long, ornate handle. He decided to see the city for himself and began to wander out. Winter had set in. Rain constantly fell, turning the muddy trackways and paths of the city into a quagmire. On the one hand Dublin was like any great town — the brooding castle, the fine elegant cathedral, the spacious mansions of the merchants and the lords. Cheek by jowl with these were the mean, mud-packed cottages of the poor, the tradesmen, the artisans. Dublin was also a border city. A busy port, merchants and traders from all over Europe thronged there. The air was thick with the smells and stench of the different ships which came into the harbour. Hanse merchants brushed shoulders with Flemings, Burgundians and Spanish. The English, too, were there, though they kept to themselves. The entire city knew about the presence of Edward of Warwick. Fitzgerald’s words proved prophetic: none of the visiting English wished to show his allegiance publicly.
To the west Dublin was protected by the pale, an area directly under English rule. Beyond this, in the misty glens, lived the great tribes and fighting clans. Fitzgerald had warned Matthias to be careful and he could see why. These tribesmen came swaggering in, their long hair tied back with coloured clasps and brooches, their bodies almost naked except for breech clouts, boots and multi-coloured cloaks around their shoulders. They looked fierce with their sharp pointed teeth, faces painted in various garish colours. Some of them came to the markets which filled the narrow alleyways and streets of the city. Others arrived to be hired by Edward of Warwick. A good number also came looking for trouble and easy pickings. Once the day was done, the taverns and alehouses would fill with these men, who would challenge each other to drinking contests that might end in vows of eternal friendship or the most bloody and violent of knife fights.
Matthias, in his dark, sober clothes and carrying the seal of Fitzgerald, which offered him the protection of the great Irish lords, was safe enough. He went through the city to divert himself, and to be alone, reflect on what might happen. He wondered whether, if Symonds’ projected invasion ever took place, he might slip away: perhaps back to Sutton Courteny and take counsel with Baron Sanguis. Matthias even began to speculate on whether the Rosifer, the Dark Lord, had forgotten him, until one memorable night during the second week of Advent.
Matthias had been sent to deliver a message from Edward of Warwick to a powerful lord who had a mansion overlooking the River Liffey. It was a personal, confidential matter, and Edward of Warwick had insisted that only Matthias should deliver it. As he’d made his way back through a narrow alleyway which led to the spacious grounds of the cathedral, a group of ruffians suddenly stepped out of the shadows. They were not Gaels
