wake up. He was on the corner of Magpie Lane in Oxford, on a bright summer’s day. People were milling around him. He could hear their chatter and smell the odours of the city. He felt a pang of homesickness as he walked down the lane. Then the dream changed: he was in a small garden and, by the pealing of the bells, he knew it was evening in Oxford. The garden was small, protected by a high, red-brick wall. There were herb beds, small grassy patches. In an arbour Richard Symonds was sitting, a book in his lap.
‘Stay and watch,’ a voice murmured. ‘
It grew darker still. The sky was beautiful, the stars like precious stones on a dark blue cushion. Symonds, however, was unaware of the beauty of the evening. He was now impatient, walking up and down the path. He opened a brown, metal-studded gate in the wall and went through an alleyway. Matthias followed. Out in the streets there was great excitement. A man, wearing the royal livery, carried a pennant which displayed a red dragon breathing fire. Matthias recognised the livery of Henry Tudor. Symonds, his discomfort obvious, went back into the garden, slamming the gate.
Time moved quickly. Night fell, a hunter’s moon above the city. Symonds was still there. He carried a goblet of wine and a trencher of food. Abruptly the gate opened, a man came in, sandy-haired, face unshaven, a cut just beneath his left eye. He was apparently injured elsewhere, for he stumbled and Symonds helped him to a turf seat. The man threw off his brown serge military cloak. Matthias, glimpsing the blood on the man’s shirt, drew closer. The man was wearing a ring bearing an insignia; a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent. He was talking to Symonds, clutching his stomach as he did, apparently begging for help.
Symonds nodded sympathetically. He went back into the house and came back out with a goblet of wine. The man on the turf seat was lolling, head down. He took the cup and drank. Matthias stared in horror: as the man lifted his head to drain the cup, Symonds came behind him, a long, thin, Italian stiletto in his hand and, with one swift cut, he slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear. Matthias turned away. When he looked again, the darkness was fading, the sky was already streaked with gold. Symonds was in the far corner of the garden. He had dug a deep trench into which he tossed his victim’s corpse. He kicked the dirt over, carefully pressing the soil so it looked as if no grave had been dug there.
Matthias’ eyes flew open. Outside in the gallery he heard footsteps: servants and retainers, hurrying hither and thither, bringing coals, preparing the household for a new day. Matthias sat up in bed. Despite his many cups of wine, he felt refreshed and clear-headed. He caught the faint smell of roses. Was that his dream? Was he still in that garden? And why had he dreamt so clearly, every detail so finely etched? It was like turning over the pages in a Book of Hours. What had happened was simple to understand: the warm August day, the excitement in the streets and the messenger bearing the pennant of Henry Tudor, showed that Matthias had been shown a scene in Oxford shortly after Henry’s victory over Richard III at Market Bosworth in August 1485. But the man who had been murdered? Matthias got up. Absent-mindedly he shaved and washed, then went down to the refectory where Mairead and Fitzgerald were breaking their fast.
‘You seem in better humour than you did yesterday,’ Mairead teased.
‘I have something to ask you.’ Matthias slipped on to a bench opposite. ‘Fitzgerald, you’ve lived amongst the Yorkist exiles?’
‘Aye, I have.’
‘Can you recall any lord or knight whose arms were — ah yes-’ Matthias narrowed his eyes, ‘a red wyvern rampant on a field of argent?’ Matthias filled his cup with beer. ‘Could you find out who bore such arms?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Fitzgerald grinned back. ‘They belong to Lionel Clifford, a knight banneret of John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Wasn’t when I met him in Tournai. He was drinking and wenching as good as the rest.’ Fitzgerald must have glimpsed the disappointment in Matthias’ face. ‘Mind you, it’s a mystery about his father, Henry.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he fought with Richard III at Bosworth. Sir Henry Clifford was a Yorkist through and through. We know that he left the battlefield and was last seen on the outskirts of Oxford but after that,’ Fitzgerald shrugged, ‘not a trace. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Matthias replied. ‘But look, Fitzgerald, how much longer are we to stay here?’
Fitzgerald knew better than to question Matthias further and allowed the conversation to turn to the growing expectancy about the arrival of the fleet from Flanders.
When he could, Matthias left the refectory and made his way directly to Symonds’ chamber. The former priest was sitting enthroned in his great four-poster bed, resting against the silken bolsters piled high around him, a fur-trimmed robe about his shoulders. He lifted his head when Matthias came in and grinned.
‘Ah, Fitzosbert, so you’ve come to give me your answer!’
‘I don’t like your threats.’ Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, pleased to see the alarm flare in Symonds’ eyes. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call your bullyboys. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what I do. Well, apostate priest,’ he continued, ‘I do look forward to John de la Pole arriving in Dublin. I understand that Sir Lionel Clifford will be in his retinue?’
Symonds’ face paled.
‘I will tell you a story,’ Matthias continued, ‘about how his father fled from Bosworth. He made his way to what he thought was the house of a Yorkist sympathiser. The priest, Symonds, had a small tenement and garden near Magpie Lane.’
The ex-priest was now gaping at him.
‘A beautiful August evening,’ Matthias continued. ‘Henry Clifford is wounded: he looks for sympathy, solace, a place to hide but Symonds is a lick-spittle coward. He gives Sir Henry Clifford wine, then cuts his throat. I’ll say that when they return to England, they should examine the far corner of his garden. They’ll find a deep trench and in it, the corpse of Sir Henry thrown there like a bag of dog’s bones.’
Matthias got to his feet. ‘Now I’ve written that down,’ he declared. ‘If something happens to me, copies of my story are to be delivered to Sir John de la Pole and Sir Lionel Clifford.’ Matthias grinned and gave a mocking bow. ‘So, you see, sir, I have power and I have used it. I do not wish to talk to you again on these matters!’
16
The winter months quickly passed. The weather changed, cool breezes, clear skies: a strong sun burnt up the soggy mud-caked lawns of Dublin. The chieftains and their clans-men swarmed back into the city. Matthias, like Fitzgerald and Mairead, was caught up in the excitement and preparations for war. At last the fleet came from Flanders bringing the English lords John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Francis Lovell, coffers full of gold from Margaret of Burgundy and, more importantly, over a thousand mercenaries led by their commander, Martin Schwartz. The latter poured into Dublin, a fearsome sight. They wore heavy sallets with eye-slits which protected most of their faces; breastplates, and hard-boiled leather leggings. Each man carried a sword, dagger and a heavy steel-stained crossbow with bolts which could crack hardened armour plate. They were also experts in the pike and the lance, redoubtable on foot as well as horse. These and the retinues of de la Pole and Lovell now filled the grounds of the Archbishop’s palace.
De la Pole was a square, thickset man, grim-faced, hard-eyed, his chin and forelips cleanly shaved. He soon took over command of the Yorkist forces mustered there. Lovell was lean and sallow-faced, long black hair falling down to his shoulders; he reminded Matthias of Rahere the clerk. Lovell had been a confidant of Richard III, a member of his secret council. Both he and de la Pole had little time for Symonds and his protege.
‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald commented as he, Mairead and Matthias sat under an oak tree. They were sharing a jug of ale, watching the soldiers set up camp, treating the Archbishop’s orchards as if they were their own personal property. ‘It’s obvious,’ Fitzgerald repeated, for he loved to pontificate on military matters, ‘that our young prince is only a figurehead. Once these matters are brought to a successful conclusion, Symonds and Edward of Warwick will soon disappear.’ He lowered his voice as he refilled their cups. ‘I have taken close counsel with my Lord of Lincoln: Tudor still parades Edward of Warwick in London.’
‘It’s a wild scheme,’ Mairead declared. ‘Thomas, my boy, and you, Matthias, we should leave, slip away. Let
