sword in two hands, striking out and screaming abuse. Fitzgerald and Mairead, blankets wrapped round their shoulders, burst into the room. Matthias stopped. He drove the point of his sword into the wooden planks of the floor and stood there clasping the hilt, chest heaving, eyes glaring.
‘Now, now, boyo!’
Fitzgerald came forward slowly as Mairead lit candles round the room and opened the shutters.
‘Come on, boyo.’ Fitzgerald gestured at Matthias’ sword. ‘Let it drop. We are friends!’
Mairead rushed by him and, crouching down, loosened Matthias’ fingers from round the sword hilt. Matthias let it go. He slumped down to the floor. Mairead put her arms round him, rocking him gently like a baby.
‘What’s the matter, love?’ she whispered.
‘There was someone here,’ Matthias replied. ‘Frightening, the stench of the grave.’
‘Tush, that’s nonsense,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no one here. And, as for the stench, Matthias, I thought you had a woman here. Can’t you smell the perfume?’
‘The room smells like a summer’s day,’ Fitzgerald declared.
Matthias stood up and stared round the chamber. Apart from cuts to the wood caused by his sword, the candle lying on the floor, he could see nothing out of place. Then he caught the fragrance, the sweet heady smell of roses.
‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I must have been dreaming.’
‘Oh, boyo, that’s not good enough.’ Fitzgerald went across to the hearth and, scraping aside the ash, he took some kindling, a few of the dried logs and soon the fire was burning merrily. Matthias glanced towards the brazier. It was lit and glowing, though he was certain that when he had woken up the charcoal had been cold and bare. He sat on the stool before the fire. Mairead and Fitzgerald joined him, one on either side. Mairead served them wine.
‘You didn’t have a dream,’ she said. ‘Matthias, you were awake. You were terrified. What is it?’
Matthias, not shifting his gaze from the fire, told them slowly and haltingly about the events of Sutton Courteny; the silence of the intervening fourteen years; Santerre, the Bocardo, Symonds and his flight to Dublin. They heard him out. When he had finished Matthias turned and smiled at Mairead.
‘You think I’m mad, don’t you? Madcap, witless, leaping about like a March hare?’
Mairead shook her head and gently caressed his cheek.
‘Here in Ireland, Matthias, we believe in magic. The Devil walks the country lanes and misty glades. The hidden glens and dark woods are full of beings we cannot see but who take an active interest in the affairs of men. There is the banshee,’ she continued, ‘a grotesque, red-haired woman with a disfigured face and protruding teeth. She dresses in white and haunts dark and lonely places. If you see her or hear her terrible wail it’s a sign of approaching death.’ She glanced across at Fitzgerald. ‘They say she’s been heard recently in Dublin, howling like a moonstruck wolf.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not think Symonds’ venture will meet with success.’
‘What is the Dearghul?’ Matthias asked.
He told them about the incident the previous evening. Mairead smiled bravely but Matthias could tell she was frightened whilst Fitzgerald sat uneasily on his stool.
‘They are the blood drinkers,’ Mairead replied slowly, her eyes never leaving his. ‘The Undead. Tell him, Thomas!’
Fitzgerald hawked and spat into the flames.
‘I was born in Ireland,’ he began. ‘The Dearghul, as the bonny Mairead says, are the Undead. Now, I thought they were childish stories to frighten the weak-minded as well as keep the children in their beds. According to these legends, the Dearghul are Strigoi or vampires. If you get bitten by one they draw blood from your body and replace it with their own. To all intents and purposes you die but, when darkness falls, those who have been given this new, macabre life rise from their graves and look to spread themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘Those are the legends. Now, sixteen years ago, with no wars in Ireland and Edward IV strong in England, I travelled to France but there was peace there. I joined the Swiss, giving my sword against the Burgundians and, when that war ended, I travelled further east. I joined a party of Teutonic knights, Crusaders moving south towards Greece to fight against the Turks.’ Fitzgerald scratched at his chin and played with the black patch over his eye. ‘We crossed the Danube and entered Transylvania. Oh, boyo.’ He looked at Matthias. ‘You think Ireland is dark and full of woods. Transylvania is a land full of shadows, deep valleys, the sides of which are covered in the darkest and thickest of forests; wild, noisy rivers; a land of perpetual night. The prince of that country, or Voivode as they call themselves, was Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler. He was more popularly known by his nickname “Drakulya”, Son of the Dragon. He hired our swords.’
Fitzgerald stretched out his hands towards the flames. ‘We did not stay there long. Drakulya’s soul must have been made in Hell. Never once did he show any compassion to prisoners, and to those who opposed him, he was cruelty itself. His palace at Tirgoviste was surrounded by a forest of stakes, and on each stake were impaled alive men and women, Turk and Christian, Greek and Arab, anyone who opposed his will. Now, for me he had little time, but Drakulya became very fond of our leader, a young German knight, Otto Franzen. Otto was a brave warrior — he feared nothing — a superb horseman, a redoubtable fighter. Drakulya said we could all leave if we wanted to, but Otto, he begged to stay.’ Fitzgerald sipped from his cup. ‘The young German refused. He was sickened by the bloodshed, by the soul-crushing terror of Drakulya’s court. We made to leave. Drakulya could not stop us. Then Otto fell ill, not a fever or some sickness, just a weakness. Drakulya sent his best physicians. We were kept well away but Otto died. It was too far for us to take his body back home. Drakulya became all courteous and kind. He promised us that Otto would be buried in a princely cemetery outside his own chapel at Tirgoviste, so we agreed.’
Fitzgerald rolled the wine cup between his fingers. ‘Five days later we left Tirgoviste. I remember riding down the narrow, cobbled streets towards the city gates. There must have been thirty or forty of us: a long trail of pack animals and sumpter ponies. Drakulya had given each of us a purse of coins and provisions for our journey.’ Fitzgerald paused.
‘Go on,’ Mairead urged.
‘Now, it was late in the day when we left, the heart of winter. Darkness was already falling. Voivode Drakulya paid us the supreme compliment of being present at the gates of his city as we left.’ Fitzgerald held a hand up. ‘Heaven is my witness, I don’t lie. I was on the outside of the group. The path leading down was steep. I could see the gates were open. The thoroughfare on either side was packed with Drakulya’s troops. Torches had been lit and placed on iron stands. From where I rode I could see the Voivode himself, surrounded by his officers. As I passed him I looked. At first I couldn’t believe it. Drakulya sat on his horse smiling bleakly at us: the man next to him, pale as a ghost, with dark rings round his eyes, was our former commander, Otto Franzen.’ Fitzgerald wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘He was alive, staring at us with soulless eyes. I saw him. Others saw him. A man whom we had seen die, whom we had coffined and buried. Yet, what could we do? We were taken so much by surprise, we were through the gates and they were slammed behind us. A year later we heard that Drakulya had died, been killed in an ambush. According to the stories, his headless corpse was taken across to the Island of Snagov and laid to rest there. A short while later it was decided to move his corpse to a more fitting tomb but when they opened the grave, there was nothing there.’ Fitzgerald breathed in noisily. ‘Every so often I dream. I wonder if Otto Franzen still rides those dark, shadow-filled valleys; he and others, following their murderous, bloody-handed, undead prince. So yes, Matthias Fitzosbert, I believe your story but, as Heaven is my witness, I do not know how I can help you!’
‘You should tell him,’ Mairead said.
Fitzgerald looked as if he were going to refuse.
‘Tell me what?’ Matthias insisted.
‘Two things.’
‘Tell him!’
Fitzgerald got to his feet. He refilled his wine goblet, then placed his hand on Matthias’ shoulder.
‘There have been deaths in the city,’ he told him. ‘Strange murders. Mostly young women, night-walkers, slatterns, maids: their throats punctured, their bodies drained of blood, as you would squeeze juice out of a grape.’
‘So the Rose Demon’s here?’
‘Possibly,’ Mairead said.
‘But who?’ Matthias asked.
