by Paul Doherty
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 or any of the tribesmen but sailors from some ship, and they were armed with sword, club and dagger. Their leader, a burly, bald-headed fellow, stepped forward and, jabbering in a patois Matthias couldn’t understand, pointed to the war belt he wore and his boots, indicating that Matthias hand them over. He stepped back, hand on the hilt of his sword. The rifflers followed, laughing and mocking his attempts at defending himself.
Then abruptly they stopped. Matthias could just about make out their faces in the light of a pitch torch which burnt on the side of an entrance to a house. Their ribaldry disappeared. They looked, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, at someone behind him. Matthias felt a cold breeze, a tingle at the back of his neck. He wanted to look round but dare not, fearing some trick. The assailants, however, started to move backwards. One dropped his club and made a hasty sign of the cross. They all turned on their heels and fled into the night. Matthias, slightly shaken, turned round. The alleyway was empty but, swirling amongst the fetid smells, came the sweet smell of a rose garden in full bloom under a summer’s sun.
‘Are you there?’ Matthias called softly. ‘Tell me, are you there?’
He went back down the alleyway, hardly daring to wonder what had terrified that group of ruffians so badly. He stepped into an alehouse, nothing more than a small, mean room, the floor covered with smelly rushes. It owned a few rickety stools and makeshift tables. In the corner, near the vats and barrels, stood the ale master. Matthias needed a drink, his throat and mouth were parched. He was also embarrassed at returning and showing his fear to Symonds and the others. A girl came across. She was dressed in a ragged smock, her feet bare. She reminded Matthias of Mairead with her dancing eyes and merry mouth.
‘Ale, please.’
The girl nodded and brought it back in a not-too-clean blackjack. Matthias sat in the corner and cradled the drink, sipping it carefully, savouring its tangy sweetness.
In the far corner an old crone, warming her knees near the fire, was being tormented by two sallow-faced youths who insisted on tickling her bare neck with a dirty piece of straw from the floor. The old lady screeched in annoyance, muttering curses. The youths came back, their faces flushed with drink. They tickled the woman again. The old crone got up and shook her stick at them but this only made matters worse. She appealed to the pot-bellied ale master but he just smiled weakly back, shrugged and returned to caressing the hair of the young slattern who had served Matthias. The tormenters returned to their task until Matthias, upset by the old woman’s screechings, walked across, drawing his sword and dagger. The youths stopped their baiting, shouted abuse and disappeared through the door into the night. Matthias filled the old lady’s tankard, tossing a coin at the slattern. He took the tankard back and pushed it into her hands.
‘Sit down, Mother,’ he said.
Her wizened, lined face broke into a smile. She supped at the ale, the white foam catching the hairs on her upper lip. She muttered her thanks. Matthias resheathed his sword and dagger and collected his cloak. He was about to leave when the old woman called out, pointing her finger at him.
‘What is it, Mother?’ Matthias called.
She said something but he couldn’t understand it.
‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I am English.’
Again the cracked smile. ‘You are well protected.’ Her voice was halting, the words clipped.
Matthias patted the hilt of his sword.
‘No, no, not that.’ The old woman pointed as if someone were standing beside Matthias. ‘He protects you.’
Matthias tried to hide his unease.
‘They say I am a witch.’ The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You really can’t see him, can you? Cowled and hooded he is, but he has a beautiful face, except for the eyes.’ She was now staring at a point beyond Matthias. ‘Like coals they are! Burning coals! He’s smiling at me.’ The old woman crouched back on her stool. ‘And the teeth,’ she added. ‘He is the Dearghul!’
‘The what?’ Matthias asked.
‘The Drinker of Blood, Englishman!’
Matthias swallowed hard, realising what, as he had suspected, had frightened the ruffians who had attacked him earlier. The old woman now had her back to him. She looked slyly over her shoulder.
‘You shouldn’t worry, Englishman. He’s gone now but the Dearghul never leave you alone!’
15
Matthias returned to the Archbishop’s palace. Fitzgerald and Mairead were waiting for him.
‘Are you well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You look pale.’
‘The cold always has that effect on me,’ Matthias retorted.
He excused himself, went up to his chamber and prepared for bed. He left a candle, hooded and capped, burning on the table beside him. As he lay staring at the flickering flame, Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon would manifest itself. He vaguely recalled his dreams, the nightmare of his delirium, and reflected on what had happened since he had fled Oxford.
‘That’s what I’ve become,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a spectator: I watch my own life but I do not live it.’
He recalled his childhood prayer as he drifted into sleep. When he woke the candle was out. The chamber was clothed in darkness. The windows, firmly shuttered, kept out any moonlight or sound from the courtyard below. Matthias lay listening to the darkness. He felt something on the coverlet, moving over his leg. Matthias cursed the rats which plagued the Archbishop’s palace. The rat did not flee. Instead Matthias felt it running backwards and forwards across his legs, squeaking loudly in the darkness. He half-propped himself up, his fingers scrabbling for the tinder. After some difficulty he removed the candle cap and lit the wick. The rat was still there, so he sat up, holding out the candle. The rat was long and black, its head turned away, its sleek body nestling in the folds of the coverlet. Matthias kicked his feet and shouted. The rat turned its head. Matthias stared in horror. Instead of the pointed nose it had human features: face, small and shrunken; glittering eyes, sharp nose and harsh mouth. Matthias screamed and kicked; when he looked again, the rat was gone.
For a while Matthias sat on the edge of the bed, his body drenched in sweat. He didn’t know whether he had been dreaming or, half-asleep, had seen some phantasm. He took a cloth and dried his fa
ce and neck. He started to shiver. The fire had died and so had the glowing brazier in the corner — not even a wink of red, as if it had been drenched with water. The room grew freezing cold. Matthias heard a sound near the door, as if someone were moving quietly in the darkness — a footfall, the creak of leather. Matthias lunged across the bed and grasped his war belt. He pulled this across and, taking out his sword, picked up the candle. He ignored the cold, which was like a savage biting wind blowing through the chamber. Holding the candle out in front of him, Matthias edged across the room, his eyes fixed on the pool of light. He turned slightly sideways, his sword out ready for any secret assault or hidden attack. Still, the sound came of someone shuffling near the door. Matthias reached the place, his body soaked in sweat, his chest heaving. He moved the candle backwards and forwards. He could see nothing nor detect anything undisturbed.
Matthias was about to go back to his bed when he stopped, rigid as a statue. Whoever was in the room was now behind him, breathing noisily. Matthias turned. He glimpsed a dark shape. He held the candle up and stared in horror: Rahere the clerk was standing there but no longer the court fop. His hair was streaked with grey, his face was haggard, his skin covered with pustules, red-rimmed eyes and lips soaked with blood. On his neck, where the dirty shirt opened at the throat, Matthias could see suppurating lacerations, as if the man had been clawed by a bear or a wolf. Matthias took a step backwards.
‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘who or what are you?’
Rahere stepped closer. His upper lip curled like that of a dog about to attack: his teeth were long and white, the eyeteeth drooping like those of a mastiff.
‘You.’ The voice was low, throaty and full of hate. ‘Taken before my time!’ A hand came up, fingers long and dirt-stained. ‘Called before my time I was, because of you!’
Matthias lashed out with his sword. As he did so the candle fell from his hand, the flame was extinguished. Matthis could smell putrefaction. Filled with terror as well as anger at being haunted and hounded, he seized his 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 la
ter 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!’