by Paul Doherty
Matthias kissed her on the brow. ‘We have some bread and some wine,’ he murmured. He took his cloak and placed it on the ground. ‘Sit and listen, Rosamund.’
He ensured the horses were hobbled, took off the saddlebag and returned. She was kneeling, sitting back on her heels. Matthias laid out the cloth, filled the two pewter cups, then sat beside her, his back to the wall. He stared up at a white cloud the size of a man’s hand.
‘I have told you something about my life,’ he began, ‘but there is something else. So, listen carefully.’ He paused. ‘And then you’ll realise why I am Fitzosbert the Grim.’
Matthias talked for over an hour. As he did so, the cloud, no bigger than his fists, filled out across the sky. Rosamund never interrupted. Sometimes Matthias would pause, drink some wine or just close his eyes to reflect. He tried to tell her everything. Sometimes the account raised fears in his own soul. Once he did glance at Rosamund’s face. He was alarmed to see how the colour had drained, her eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted. When he finished, the silence grew oppressive. Rosamund hardly moved.
‘Now you know why Fitzosbert is the Grim,’ Matthias joked.
‘Did you ever think I housed this being?’ Rosamund arranged the folds of her dress. ‘Whatever he, whatever it is, Matthias, he loves you: that’s why Santerre died. He was trying, in his own way, to show how much you meant to him. It’s true isn’t it?’ she continued in a rush. ‘And what better way than to possess my mind, my soul?’
‘As God is my witness,’ Matthias whispered, ‘your name disturbed me but never once. .’
‘Why not?’ Rosamund snapped.
‘I’m not really sure,’ Matthias replied. ‘But the Demon can only enter where there’s a pathway in. Some moral, some spiritual weakness like an enemy forcing its way through a gap in a castle wall. You have no weakness, Rosamund. You are pure as candlelight and burn as strongly. Secondly, the little I do know, the little I have discovered, is that it would not be acceptable. The Rose Demon wants me to accept him, a free act of will, a final decision. He will not force me.’
‘But isn’t that what he’s doing?’ Rosamund faced him squarely. ‘He pursues you, he is forcing you to accept him.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Matthias replied. ‘I freely accepted the friendship with the hermit and that of Rahere.’
‘You were only a child!’
‘Children make choices, Rosamund. Imperfect, mistaken but they are still choices. The same is true later on. I chose Baron Sanguis’ patronage. I chose to go to Oxford. I chose Santerre as my friend. I chose to alienate Rokesby. I accepted Symonds’ help. I stayed with the rebels.’ Matthias spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Yes, at times I feel my life is not my own. But is anybody’s? Would you have been different, Rosamund, if your mother had lived?’ he asked. ‘And, you forget, if what has happened had not happened to me, how would we have ever met? Once you begin to unravel the past nothing remains.’ He got to his feet. ‘How do I know?’ he continued. ‘What might have happened to me without the Demon? Would I have spent my days as the bastard son of a village parson, digging the soil, worrying about the price of corn, or a leak in my thatched roof? True, I blame the Rose Demon for the evil in my life. A theologian might argue that he is also the author of my good fortune.’
‘Does that include me?’ Rosamund moved a tendril of hair from her face.
‘No, it doesn’t, that’s my point. I have made choices, Rosamund. I married you because I love you, not because of any invisible force or lord of the air. I just love you. You are the beginning and the end of my life.’ He crouched down beside her. ‘And you?’
‘If I did not love you, Matthias, if I did not trust you completely,’ her eyes held his, ‘I would say you were a madcap, witless, yet I have seen the pain. I can see the shadows in your eyes.’ She grasped his hand. ‘And I tell you this, Fitzosbert the Grim. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor height nor breadth, no power on earth or beyond will ever stop me loving you.’ She touched his lips. ‘I believe what Father Hubert says, what you say. Every person born on this earth has their own demon to fight. And you are right: it is a matter of the will — some give in, some don’t. Whatever comes, Matthias,’ her nails dug into his hands, ‘I will be with you!’
‘You must keep it a secret,’ Matthias whispered, folding her into his arms. ‘No one must know. To you I can speak the truth, others will not understand.’
Matthias gazed up at the sky. The clouds were massing to block out the sun. Shadows crossed the ruin. The breeze had turned chill. Somewhere a bird called low and haunting as nature mourned the passing of the year. Matthias pressed Rosamund fiercely to him. One thought had occurred, one he dare not share with her. He was being watched by that Dark Lord, that Duke of Hell, the Rose Demon, so what would happen now? Would the demon resent Rosamund? And, before he could stop it, Matthias began to pray, not to God — only halfway through did he stop in shock — he was praying to the Rose Demon! He was begging that invisible being not to lay his hand, or turn his power, against this, the love of his life. He recalled Parson Osbert and intoned the prayer, whispering, ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’
Rosamund pushed him away.
‘Do you pray often, Matthias? I mean, we all sketch the sign of the cross, babble our Paternosters or Ave Marias. We stick our tongues out and take the Eucharist but do you really ever pray?’
Matthias glanced down. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘God forgive me, Rosamund, I don’t. I pray as you say. I also become full of self-pity, and yet is my lot any worse than anyone else’s? The thousands of Oxford’s troops slaughtered on the banks of the Trent? Or Mairead, probably ravished before her throat was cut? Or Amasia, who probably died in some hapless accident? Or Agatha, who danced so well?’ He lifted Rosamund to her feet. ‘Or the poor ones, the little people of the soil, slaughtered and exploited in their thousands by the great barons?’ He gripped her hands. ‘Aristotle said nature is where the strong survive, the weak are helpless. I often wonder why God doesn’t intervene. We might believe in him but does He really believe in us?’
‘I pray.’ Rosamund’s answer was direct. ‘I pray and I mean it. God does intervene.’ She fought back her tears. ‘If there wasn’t a God, I wouldn’t have met you.’
Matthias found he could not answer that. He crouched down and neatly folded the pieces of linen which had held their food.
‘We must go,’ he muttered. ‘The weather is changing.’
Rosamund went behind him, putting her hands over his eyes.
‘I’ll never change,’ she whispered. ‘Remember that, Fitzosbert the Grim. I shall pray for both of us.’
They returned to the castle. Matthias felt himself purged, shriven, absolved. He had told Rosamund the truth and recognised she loved him all the more for that. Never once in the succeeding days did she refer to his story again but became more determined to build her life around him. Sir Humphrey, the ever-doting father, talked of extending the hall, of constructing special quarters for Rosamund and her husband.
Matthias, once the week of celebration was over, returned to his duties. There was parchment to prepare, skins to be treated, quills to be fashioned, ink to make. Accounts and letters had to be drawn up, stores checked. The change in the weather made itself felt: heavy, lowering clouds; biting winds. Sir Humphrey declared the castle well provisioned, the truce against the Scots was holding and life went on as before.
‘Indeed,’ the Constable announced, ‘we will celebrate All-Hallows and, in a few weeks when Advent comes, we must collect the holly and ivy. This Christmas,’ he declared, ‘will be one to remember.’
Matthias, sitting at his desk, tensed. He had always been wary of the feast of All-Hallows. In his youth he had, on that date, kept well away from others, greatly relieved when All-Hallows Eve, that dreadful anniversary of what had happened at Sutton Courteny, had come and gone.
On the day in question he woke tense a
nd stiff, finding it difficult to concentrate. He was so abrupt and evasive that Sir Humphrey looked askance whilst Father Hubert wondered if he was coming down with a fever. Only Rosamund, sitting next to him at table, remained quiet and, when she could, gently stroked the back of his hand.
‘It’s just the change in the weather,’ he murmured.
‘Unless, dear Matthias,’ she replied, ‘you’re already sickening of the marriage state!’
He tried to joke back yet, for the rest of that day, he could not shake off a sense of foreboding, of quiet menace. He did not join the rest for supper in the hall but retired to his own chamber. He lit a candle beneath the crucifix which hung on the wall and, kneeling on the small prie-dieu beneath it, prayed for God’s protection, and that He’d bring those who had died at Sutton Courteny so many years ago to a place of peace and light. He lay down on the bed, pretending to leaf through a Book of Hours, studying the fine cursive script and jewel-like pictures. He was not surprised when, after a while, he heard a distant clamour, shouts of alarm, followed by pounding footsteps on the stairs outside. Vattier, still wearing his conical helmet and dressed in leather brigandine as captain of the night watch, burst into the room.
‘Master Matthias, you’d best come! Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert are outside the north tower!’
Matthias put his boots on and followed the sergeant-at-arms. The bailey was pitch-dark, lit only by cresset torches, which flickered and danced where they had been placed away from the biting night breeze. Soldiers had gathered at the foot of the steps. Vattier pushed through these, ignoring their murmuring, and led Matthias up into the gallery. At first the silence was so intense Matthias thought there had been some misunderstanding. Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert were sitting in a window embrasure. The lighted candle Sir Humphrey held in his hand made their faces look drawn and grey. Matthias looked towards the door leading to the north tower. He felt the cold but could see no light or detect any vile odour, nor any of the usual manifestations associated with this haunting. He was about to ask why they had brought him, when the most heart-rending screams came from the tower. These were followed by a man singing. At first Matthias thought it was the chanting of a monk until it turned into a loud, foulsome ranting, a macabre mimicking of the Divine Office: curses, foul epithets, obscene remarks.
‘It started within the hour,’ Father Hubert whispered. ‘I really do think I should go in.’
Matthias shook his head. ‘No, Father, I will.’ He smiled down at both of them. ‘Vattier can guard the door. Now is not my wedding night.’
‘In which case. .’ Father Hubert got to his feet. He brought from beneath his cloak a small, silver pyx which contained the consecrated host. It shimmered and glittered in the candlelight. Without asking, he thrust this into a small pocket inside the lining of Matthias’ jerkin. He also took the small, wooden cross he wore round his neck and looped the rough cord over Matthias’ head. ‘These will protect you,’ he whispered.
Matthias blessed himself and walked down the gallery. Vattier came with him. The sergeant-at-arms carried a torch. When they reached the door he thrust this into Matthias’ hand. Vattier’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, like a man sick with the fever.
‘Against sword and buckler,’ he whispered, ‘I have no fear. But, in God’s name, Master Matthias, what is this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Matthias’ reply was clipped. ‘But lock the door behind me. Only open it at my command.’
Vattier turned the key in the lock, the door swung open. Matthias stepped into the small alcove. He lifted the torch and saw the stairs twisting away up into the darkness. It was bitterly cold but he could detect nothing else. He walked up the stairs, carefully reciting a prayer. He reached the first gallery and stepped into the deserted room as he had done before. This time the door slammed quickly behind him. Matthias spun round.
‘In God’s name, who are you?’ he called.
‘In God’s name, who are you?’ The reply was low and mocking. ‘How dare you interfere in my pleasures?’
‘No pleasure!’
This time it was a woman’s voice, low and tired. Matthias lifted the torch. He could see nothing though he felt a presence, a feeling of sadness, of quiet despair.
‘I speak to the woman,’ he called out. ‘Who are you?’
‘Maude. My name is Maude.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘Tied here. Tied by sin. Unforgiven. No atonement. No reparation.’
‘Maude who?’ Matthias decided it was best if he talked as he would to strangers, not dwell upon the evil, sinister atmosphere.
‘Maude Beauchamp.’
‘Why are you held here?’
‘I committed a terrible sin. Unfaithful, led to murder. Imprisoned in darkness.’
‘And can you leave?’
‘In time, yes, when reparation is done. I’d love to continue my journey.’
‘Where to?’ Matthias asked.
‘Out of the darkness. Sometimes I can see the light, just a pinprick, like a star in the sky-’
‘She’s frightened of you, you whoreson bastard!’ the man’s voice interrupted, harsh, malicious. Matthias caught a hint of fear.
‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Matthias retorted quickly.
He felt something rush at him out of the darkness. He was pushed, staggering back against the wall, almost dropping the torch. Matthias gasped for breath even as the man’s voice screamed.
‘I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! I am sorry.’ The voice was now wheedling, importunate.
‘Then why are you frightened?’ Matthias gasped.
‘Oh, Matthias. Creatura.’ The man’s voice was still wheedling.
‘Why do you call me that?’
Matthias stood staring into the darkness. He heard a gasp, like a dog which had run far and fast and was now lolling, mouth open, jaws slavering. The sound made his flesh creep.
‘You know why.’ The man’s voice was soft. ‘You carry something sacred but I cannot name that-’
‘Oh, please help me!’ the woman’s voice cut across.
‘She’s frightened of you.’ The man’s voice rose as if to drown the woman’s. ‘She knows about the Dark Lord. She’s frightened that she will be hurt even more.’
‘What must I do?’ Matthias asked.
‘Piss off, just piss off!’
‘Masses, prayers.’ The woman’s voice came as a whisper.
Matthias stood for a while but no other voices came. The room grew warm as if braziers had been wheeled in, full of burning charcoal.
‘Matthias! Matthias!’ Vattier’s voice echoed up the steps. ‘Matthias, are you all right?’
Matthias went out of the chamber and down the steps. Vattier stood in the doorway, sword drawn. Matthias pushed him outside and slammed the door shut. He walked back to the priest and handed over the crucifix and pyx. Even as he did so, the murmuring and the clattering from the north tower began again.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Matthias declared, ‘at least for the moment. But in two days’ time it will be the Feast of All Souls. Yes?’
Father Hubert nodded.
‘The day the Church specially sets aside to pray for the dead. We’ll come back then, Father. You and I in the evening, after sunset. We’ll offer a Mass for the repose of the soul of Maude Beauchamp.’
20
Two days later, on the Feast of All Souls, Vattier helped Matthias set up an altar in one of the chambers in the north tower: a wooden table, two oil lamps at each end, a crucifix, cruets, a missal, chalice and paten. Matthias also arranged for sconce torches to be lit and placed in the wall. The sergeant-at-arms moved nervously. Matthias could understand why. Now and again they’d hear the quick intake of breath as if some being stood in the shadows watching them intently.
Rosamund had wished to be present but Matthias refused.
‘It’s best not,’ he explained. ‘The little I know, and from what I have read, such occasions can go w
rong.’
Father Hubert readily agreed to help.
‘It’s only just and right,’ he declared. ‘I am a priest: these manifestations and phenomena come from a soul in distress. How can I refuse?’
Sir Humphrey arranged for guards to be placed in the gallery outside the north tower, hand-picked men under the command of Vattier. Matthias gave them strict instructions not to open the door unless they heard his voice or that of Father Hubert. He and the chaplain arrived just before sunset. They watched the sky and, once the weak sun had dipped behind a thick ridge of clouds, Father Hubert began to vest. The oil lamps were lit. Father Hubert, and Matthias acting as his altar boy, approached the altar, bowed to the crucifix:
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Brothers and sisters in Christ. I, Father Hubert Deverell, priest of the chapel at Barnwick, do, by the powers given to me through ordination, offer this Mass for the repose of the soul of Maude Beauchamp and ask Christ, in His infinite goodness, to lead her to a place of repose and light!’
‘Oh, piss off, you vile, scurrilous priest!’
Father Hubert stepped back.
‘Just ignore it,’ Matthias whispered.
‘I therefore call upon St Michael, St Gabriel, St Raphael,’ the chaplain continued, ‘leaders of the heavenly host, to come out and meet this soul and take it to such a place. Let her not fall into the hands of the enemy, the evil one, the son of perdition!’
‘Shut up! Piss off! Leave her alone. Why are you here, Hubert? Who are you to be praying for anybody?’ The voice dropped to a wheedle. ‘Don’t you remember Ursula? Don’t you remember how much you used to lust after her?’
Father Hubert bowed his head, shoulders shaking, tears running down his face.
‘She was a girl,’ he whispered, ‘so many years ago.’
‘So what, Father?’ Matthias retorted. Matthias raised his head and sniffed: the vile stench was back, as if someone had suddenly opened a great sewer. The flames of the torches began to dip. ‘Continue!’ Matthias hissed. ‘For the love of God, Father, you must continue!’