by Paul Doherty
Matthias, covered in sweat, went back into the keep, up to his own chamber. The door was slightly ajar. His heart leapt in his throat. He pushed the door aside carefully.
‘No, it’s not her.’ Father Hubert was sitting on his bed. ‘Come on, Matthias.’ He gestured at the stool opposite. ‘Close the door and sit down.’
Matthias did so. ‘What do you want, Father?’
‘You’ve already told me. I said, “It’s not her” and you didn’t even bother to ask me who. I’m talking about our Rosamund.’
‘What about her?’
‘She loves you deeply, Matthias. I could tell that the first day we met. Didn’t you see her? She went pale.’ The priest leant closer, his face full of concern. ‘I’ve known her since she was. . well, since I baptised her. She can be a wilful minx, a tease, but she’s as honest as the day is long. She is a woman of absolute determination. If she sets her mind on something then it will happen. She has told me she loves you. She loves you deeply, Matthias Fitzosbert.’ He shook his head. ‘And she doesn’t know I am here. I always knew this would happen. Rosamund is not some summer butterfly. When she hates, she hates. When she fights, she fights. I have always said that if she loves, God help the man she chooses. Now, Matthias, you must not play with her affections. This is no “kiss me in the stable”, or some tumble in the straw. Do you understand me?’
Matthias, fighting hard to control the elation within him, nodded. Father Hubert looked down at the floor, stubbing it with the toe of his sandal.
‘You are a good man, Matthias, honourable and truthful.’ He glanced nervously towards the door. ‘But there are two other matters I have to tell you.’ He paused to choose his words. ‘You have heard about the legends of the north tower?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, they are not legends. That tower is haunted! Sir Humphrey keeps the door locked. On one occasion I did bless it but, I think, it will need more than a blessing to make reparation for the terrible evil committed there.’
‘Father, what has that got to do with me?’
‘Well, the tower has been quiet for a number of years, but recently there have been stirrings, faint noises; lights glimpsed through the windows.’
‘And?’
‘They occurred the first night you arrived here and have done so ever since.’
‘Why do you blame me, Father?’
‘Ah well, that brings me to the second matter!’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember, Matthias, a few days ago you were sitting in the small garden on the far side of the hall? A beautiful, sunny day. You had a piece of parchment over your lap, smoothing it down with a pumice stone. Well, I went into the hall. I was thirsty. I took a cup of buttermilk and went and stood by the window to ask if you wanted to share it.’
‘Of course, I remember!’
‘You were not alone,’ the priest said. ‘Matthias, believe me, I am not a fool. Since I was a child I have had second sight.’ He scratched his balding pate. ‘Sometimes I see things which … well, I’d prefer if I didn’t. A hooded person was sitting next to you. His cloak was black as night, the cowl pulled up. At first I thought it was someone from the garrison but, strange, I hadn’t seen him when I first came in, and why sit like that on a hot summer’s day? I stared at that figure. I couldn’t see any hands or face. I went cold with fear yet, at the same time, through the window, came this rich thick smell of roses. I have never smelt the like before. I put the buttermilk on the table. I was going to call out but, when I glanced up, the figure was gone.’
Matthias got to his feet. ‘I can’t answer that, Father. All I can say is that I try to be a good man.’ He went across to the door and turned. ‘But, if you want your answer regarding Rosamund, I love her as much as she does me.’
Matthias went down the steps, both elated and concerned at what the priest had told him. He went across to the small scriptorium where Sir Humphrey kept his keys, each neatly tagged on its hook. The key to the north tower was large and brassy. Matthias took this and hurried down. Thankfully, no one was about. Sir Humphrey had gone hawking; the soldiers were preparing for another day’s routine. Matthias entered the keep and unlocked the iron-studded door leading to the north tower. He pushed this open, went through, then locked it behind him. He stood for a moment staring up the spiral stone steps. He sniffed. Nothing but must and mildew. It was colder than the rest of the keep, perhaps because of its position, and that the windows were shuttered and barred. He climbed the steps, stopping at each level. The doors to the small chambers stood open. They were bare, gaunt and swept clean, not a stick of furniture. Matthias walked into one. He went across, pulled up the bar on a shutter and opened it. He stared out across the wild heathland beyond the castle walls. A party of horsemen rode there, Sir Humphrey’s favourite hawk soaring in the breezes above them. He closed the shutter.
‘Help me! Oh, please help me!’ A woman’s voice, low and pleading.
Matthias’ spine tingled. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘Aidez-moi!’ The woman lapsed into Norman French. ‘Aidez-moi maintenant! Priez pour mon ame! Help me now! Pray for my soul!’
Matthias walked to the door.
‘Piss off, clerk!’ This time the voice was male, guttural. ‘Go away! Leave us alone! Why do you bring the seigneur here?’
Matthias stood in the entrance to the chamber. The door, half-open, swung as if to smash into him. He stepped sideways. The door abruptly stopped moving as if some invisible hand had gripped it. Matthias continued on down the stairs. It was now biting cold as on a harsh winter’s day. He refused to be cowed.
‘Plead for us!’ The woman’s voice was low, soothing. ‘Please, plead for us!’
Matthias glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and stared open-mouthed: a young woman’s face was forming in the wall as if some invisible sculptor were carving quickly. He glimpsed high cheekbones, parted lips, wide staring eyes and, beside it, another face, as if the plaster on the wall were bubbling under some tremendous heat. This second face was like that of a gargoyle, harsh and cruel, with pointed nose and slobbering lips. Matthias retreated down the steps. Despite a feeling of wild panic, he moved carefully. He sniffed. The stench was terrible, like that from an open coffin or a sewer full of putrid dirt. There was a sound behind him, he whirled round. A man stood there. His pasty white face, popping eyes and parted lips reminded Matthias of the face being formed on the wall. He was dressed like a priest in a black mantle from neck to toe. Matthias’ hand fell to his dagger. The man was coming towards him, not climbing the steps but gliding slowly.
‘Get ye gone!’
Matthias nipped his thigh. Was he asleep? In the space behind this awful figure which moved so slowly, so smoothly towards him, were others: Rahere the clerk, the Preacher, Santerre, Amasia, Fitzgerald but not Mairead. There were others, he couldn’t make out their faces: a host from Hell, their staring eyes full of blood. Matthias opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry, his tongue clove to the top of his mouth. Then suddenly he felt warm. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the stairway. The phantasms retreated and vanished like puffs of smoke swirling up into the air.
19
Matthias and Rosamund were betrothed within the week and, on 18 October, the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist, they were married in the castle chapel by Father Hubert. Matthias’ courtship had been impulsive and passionate. The deep love between the new clerk and the Constable’s daughter was the worst kept secret in the castle. Once Rosamund knew Matthias felt the same, she was too headstrong, too impulsive, too honest to assume the role of the coy, simpering maid. She just sat through every meal smiling at Matthias. He, in turn, stared rapturously back, much to the exasperation of Sir Humphrey and everyone else. Where Matthias went Rosamund followed. If she didn’t, he would go looking for her.
Matthias was frightened by his experiences in the north tower but, there again, or so he reasoned, he was growing accustomed to such manifestations. He was also ruthles
sly determined not to let such phenomena interfere in his new-found happiness. And Matthias was happy; for the first time in his life, so he told a mystified Father Hubert, he knew what happiness really was. He confessed as much, quietly pointing out that happiness was thinking of the other and not about one’s self. Rosamund was, truly, all he could think about. She was like no one he had ever met, so honest, so direct, so lovely. When he was away from her, Matthias felt he was incomplete. For the first time since his traumatic childhood days, he felt reconciled, deeply at peace. If Rosamund was by his side then whom should he fear? He would go down to the gates of Hell and back. He was happy at Barnwick. He had proved himself to be a very good clerk. There were worse careers than promotion in the royal service. He said as much to Sir Humphrey when the Constable decided to confront him just before Michaelmas.
The Constable was anxious but secretly pleased with the match. He had taken close counsel with Father Hubert and they had both reached the same sensible conclusion. Rosamund, for the first and only time in her life, had fallen deeply in love. She was as smitten by Matthias as he by her. The Constable confessed that he knew little about this intelligent young clerk but what he did he liked.
‘If he leaves,’ Sir Humphrey confided, ‘Rosamund’s heart will break. I know her.’
The priest nodded solemnly. ‘More importantly, Sir Humphrey,’ Father Hubert replied, ‘we live in a castle, and two young people, their passions running hot. .?’
‘Better to marry than to burn,’ Sir Humphrey joked, quoting St Paul.
‘I can only report what I see,’ the old priest declared. ‘Sir Humphrey, I am well past three score years. I know the human soul. I have seen sin and virtue. Matthias Fitzosbert is a good man. He is mysterious but he is good. More importantly, he loves your daughter.’
Sir Humphrey had been convinced. So, when Matthias blurted out his passion, the Constable sat in his high-backed chair, listening carefully. He agreed, and glancing at his daughter’s face so radiant with happiness, he forced back the tears, for in that moment he remembered her mother and his own hot passion so many years ago.
After that meeting Matthias felt as if he were in Heaven. Every day seemed golden. He could only control his excitement and elation by hacking with his sword at poor Vattier or riding like a demon from hell across the heathland. His joy was shared by the entire garrison. Everyone wished him and his bride every happiness. Golden days, as Sir Humphrey had proclaimed: the weather was good, the harvest would be rich and the truce with the Scots seemed to be holding.
The wedding day itself was a glorious climax to this happiness. Matthias, in a jerkin and hose of dark murrey bought him by Vattier, and a white cambric shirt which was the gift of Father Hubert, met Rosamund at the chapel door. He swore his vows, gazing into her eyes, before leading her by the hand up to the two prie-dieus placed before the altar. After the nuptial Mass his bride was snatched away, Matthias was seized by the men of the garrison, led by Sir Humphrey, and taken to the hall where everyone drank deeply and, much to Father Hubert’s embarrassment, exchanged ribald stories and sly comments accompanied by nudges and winks.
In the evening a great banquet was held. Matthias and Rosamund sat at the high table, served by Sir Humphrey and Vattier. The rest of the garrison, men, women and children, thronged the tables below the dais and drowned out the poor musicians Sir Humphrey had hired specially from Carlisle. The evening wore on. Matthias made sure his wine was generously watered. He felt so happy he dare not turn and glance at Rosamund. Sometimes, as he watched the people laugh, joke and dance, or smelt the sweet odours from the kitchen and buttery, he thought he was having one of his dreams. Surely he would be punched, nipped or kicked awake and find himself lying in some squalid room or filthy cell.
Outside the sun began to set. Matthias wondered if it was time he and his bride left their guests to their pleasures, when the door to the hall was thrust open. Two soldiers came running in, faces white, eyes staring. They searched out Sir Humphrey, drawing him aside, whispering to him, gesturing towards the door. The laughter and talk died, the music subsided. Sir Humphrey, his face grave, came over to the high table.
‘Matthias, Vattier, Father Hubert, you’d best come with me! No, Rosamund, you stay. Look after the guests, tell them all is well.’
The Constable led his party out into the keep. Even as he followed, Matthias’ head cleared of the wine fumes. His happiness was tinged by dread. As soon as he entered the keep, he heard the cries and groans echoing along the gallery of the north tower. One of the soldiers took a pitch torch out of its iron holder, but he was trembling so much that Matthias grabbed it from him and led the rest of them on. Sir Humphrey swore under his breath. Father Hubert began chanting a prayer. The stone passageway was icy cold, filled with the rottenness of decay yet it was the shrieks and cries behind the locked door to the north tower which chilled their blood.
‘It began about an hour ago,’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘At first I thought it was some joke. Listen now!’
They all did. The groans and screams stopped.
‘Oh Lord save us!’
Father Hubert grasped Matthias’ arm and pointed to the bottom of the door. A ghostly blue light glowed there.
Matthias went to grasp the latch but Sir Humphrey knocked him away. As he did so a woman’s voice could be heard.
‘Oh please, oh in God’s name, no! Oh please stop!’
This was followed by the sound of scraping and hammering, as if someone were building something behind the door. Again the woman’s voice, her heart-wrenching pleas for mercy, echoed out. This turned into deep-bellied laughter of someone who had grown witless, or like a mad dog howling at the moon. This devilish chorus — the woman’s pleas, the mocking laughter — grew, interspersed with periods of silence. By straining his ears Matthias could hear the man talking, muttering to himself, filthy curses, vows of vengeance. The gallery was now so cold, Father Hubert was rubbing his arms trying to keep warm. One of the soldiers, unable to bear the tension, simply fled the keep.
‘Let me go in,’ Matthias said.
Sir Humphrey held him back.
‘You are my son-in-law,’ he smiled bleakly. ‘Not now, Matthias, not on this, your wedding night-’
‘This has happened before,’ Father Hubert broke in. He glanced at Matthias. ‘It will happen again. It can wait!’
Matthias agreed. The light under the door vanished. There was silence from the stairwell beyond so they turned and left the keep.
When they returned to the hall, Matthias refused to tell Rosamund what had happened. Instead he went round his guests, filling their wine cups, trying to forget what he had witnessed. He drank a little himself, and the wine settled his stomach and soothed his mind.
A trumpeter amongst the musicians blew long melodious blasts on his horn, then Matthias and Rosamund were led from the hall up to their nuptial bed in Rosamund’s chamber beside the solar. The sheets on the new four-poster bed had been turned back, the bolsters piled high. The guests drank one last toast to the bride and groom and left.
Matthias and Rosamund sat on the edge of the bed. Matthias put his hand gently round her waist and pulled her closer. He whispered softly in her ear, tickling her face with the tip of his tongue. She laughed and turned away, pulling at the laces on her white satin dress. Matthias grasped her fiercely and they fell back on the bed.
For the next few days the wedding revelry continued. Matthias and Rosamund lived in their own dreamlike world. They had married on a Monday and Sir Humphrey declared the rest of the week a holiday. The newly wedded couple were left alone, allowed to wander the castle by themselves or, better still, take horses from the stable and ride recklessly over the heathland. Sometimes they filled the saddlebag with bread, cheese and other food wrapped in linen cloths, took a wineskin and rode out to some lonely copse where they could sit and talk or lie quietly in the grass, arms around each other.
On the Sunday, Matthias took Rosamund down to the wall,
the ruins where he and Vane had sheltered the night before they had arrived at Barnwick. There was no sign of the old hermit Pender. Matthias, remembering what he had been told, searched the ruins carefully. At last, he found what he was looking for, a carving above a hearth: a man dressed in a cloak standing on a rose in full bloom. Beneath the rose were the strange marks or runes such as he had seen in the deserted church at Tenebral.
‘What is it, love?’ Rosamund came shyly beside him, slipping her hand through his. She saw how pale her husband’s face had become. ‘Matthias, what is it?’
Matthias ran his fingers over the carving. Rosamund tugged at his arm.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert!’
‘Yes, Rosamund Fitzosbert!’
‘What is it?’ Her sweet eyes held his. ‘Matthias, I am no fool, I know you have a secret. Father Hubert knows. I am confident it’s nothing evil, nothing wicked.’ She grasped his face between her hands. ‘The haunting in the north tower? Father Hubert told me about it. I know that it has increased since you arrived. When you came, you were Matthias the Miserable.’ She grinned. ‘Fitzosbert the Grim. Now you leap for happiness like a child into its mother’s arms. What is it, Matthias? Why did you bring me down to the wall? Yes, it’s beautiful. The autumn sun is still strong, the ground is firm but, for the last hour, you have searched like a miser who has hidden a bag of gold but can’t remember where he has put it. Yet, now you’ve found it, your face is pallid.’ She moved her hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘What is it, Matthias Fitzosbert? What passion drives you?’ Her hand fell away. ‘You sleep deeply but you talk and you mutter about men called Rahere, Santerre.’ She blinked furiously. ‘And a woman called Mairead. Was I wrong, Matthias Fitzosbert?’
‘Wrong in what?’ he asked.
‘I’ll never stop loving you,’ she continued. ‘The fires of Hell can freeze and the world will crack before Rosamund stops loving Matthias.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘But do you love me, Matthias? Love me enough to tell me your great secret?’