by Paul Doherty
‘Now, that’s a surprise,’ Vattier grinned.
‘Yes, it is.’
Sir Humphrey stamped his foot, squeezing his nose, a common gesture whenever he was perplexed or worried.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he muttered. ‘First those Scots can no more break in here than I can fly. They can stay out there and rot till the Second Coming. Secondly, the Scots are not the best archers but they have master bowmen with them. Perhaps twenty, maybe even thirty?’
‘Longbows and arrows can’t take a castle,’ Matthias remarked.
‘No,’ Sir Humphrey sighed, ‘but they can divert us and make sure we keep our heads down. Vattier, let the men know.’
Despite Vattier’s warnings, the Scottish longbow men had some luck with their targets, the occasional sentry who forgot or was too rash. On the second day of the siege, one was killed, an arrow straight through his cheek: another was knocked off the parapet and later died of his injuries.
The mood in the castle grew sombre. The hard-packed earth in the cemetery was again dug up and sheeted corpses interred, a cross above them. Women and children wailed for the dead men. Sir Humphrey called constant meetings to discuss the situation: the Scots sat outside, waiting and watching.
‘Father is at a loss,’ Rosamund declared, as she and Matthias lay in bed one night. ‘He cannot understand what the Scots want: he wonders whether he should sally out and drive them off.’
Matthias could not agree. He spent hours in the gatehouse staring down at the Scottish camp. He reckoned their force outnumbered the garrison’s by at least three to one and, as Vattier said, what happened if there were others in the vicinity?
After the first week, days of frayed temper and sleepless nights, Sir Humphrey relaxed, poking fun at what the Scots intended.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he declared. ‘Just wait and see. Perhaps they’ll become tired and wander off elsewhere.’
Matthias wasn’t so sure. He felt a presentiment of danger, a silent threat or menace. He was uneasy whenever the two messengers, Deveraux and Bogodis, were in the vicinity. Work in the Chancery came to a standstill. Instead Matthias became more involved in the defence of the castle, going out at night to the sentries, taking great care when he peered over the battlements to ensure the Scots were not attempting some new strategy. On Candlemas Eve he had done such a duty. Then he returned to his own chamber, lit a candle and stared down where Rosamund was sleeping peacefully like a babe, her hands cupped under one cheek. He heard a knock on the door. Sir Humphrey came in. He glanced towards the bed and beckoned at Matthias, who grabbed his boots and followed him out into the gallery.
‘What is it?’ Matthias asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Sir Humphrey was clearly agitated.
Matthias put his boots on, wrapped his cloak round him and followed Sir Humphrey down the steps and across the inner bailey towards the keep.
‘Sir Humphrey, what is it?’ Matthias insisted, grabbing him by the arm.
The Constable turned. His lower lip quivered: in the light from the torch he had taken from an iron bracket, his face looked aged and lined.
‘It’s Anna,’ he murmured, naming a kitchen slattern with a reputation for teasing the soldiers.
‘For God’s sake, man, what about her?’
‘She went missing early this afternoon.’
‘And?’
Sir Humphrey just pulled his arm away. He walked on so fast Matthias had to run to catch up with him. The Constable entered the keep. He went down some narrow steps leading into a maze of dungeons and storerooms. Two guards, each carrying a torch, stood within the doorway at the bottom of the steps. One of them had been sick: he was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Sir Humphrey led Matthias along the icy-cold, musty passageway and into a room where barrels and casks were stored. Even before he pulled a barrel aside, Matthias glimpsed the pair of bare feet sticking out from behind it. Sir Humphrey gestured with his hand and turned away.
Matthias knelt down. He recognised Anna. The young woman lay, her smock pulled above her knees, her legs twisted strangely. Her head was turned sideways, long, lustrous hair covered her face and neck. Matthias moved the hair and turned the head towards him. Anna stared sightlessly up. Matthias looked at her throat. He closed his eyes and groaned. The girl’s bare shoulders were bruised, and on either side of her windpipe were two great jagged holes.
21
Matthias was too frightened, too tongue-tied to offer any explanation. He just advised Sir Humphrey that the corpse be removed and stumbled back to his own chamber. He did not sleep that night but slouched in a chair. The Rose Demon was back, incarnated in some person in the garrison: the macabre killings had begun again. The night seemed to stretch like an eternity. He just sat and waited for Rosamund to wake and, when she did just after daybreak, he told her in clipped sentences what he had seen the previous evening. Rosamund sat up, her back against the bolsters, her long hair flowing down over her shoulders. She was so calm, so unperturbed, Matthias was surprised.
‘Of course I expected it,’ she snapped crossly. ‘Matthias, do you think I am a numbskull? When you told me, that day we went to the wall, I knew then this being would not leave us alone. The question is who? And why now?’
‘Deveraux or Bogodis?’ Matthias asked. ‘They are strangers here. Until now everything has been quiet.’
‘They are sinister,’ Rosamund replied. ‘I know you don’t like them. They are shifty, secretive and certainly deserve watching, but we’ll have to see.’
The news of Anna’s death soon spread amongst the garrison. Matthias felt a slight shift in feelings towards him, dark looks whilst muttered conversations abruptly stopped whenever he appeared. Even Sir Humphrey seemed a little cold. Rosamund was blunt.
‘Matthias, Matthias,’ she put her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek, ‘people have memories. The hauntings in the north tower, the death of Father Hubert, the appearance of the Scots and now this. They put it down to you, but it will pass as all black moods do. You wait and see!’
In the end she was wrong, terribly so. Matthias was accustomed to take guard duty in the late afternoon. He went up into the gatehouse. By now he was bored with the Scots so he and the two guards sat down, their backs to the wall. The soldiers, wrapped in their cloaks, dozed, protected against the cold biting wind. Matthias simply crossed his arms and thought about Anna’s death. He tried to piece together what had happened, wondering if he should advise Sir Humphrey to send Deveraux and Bogodis out of Barnwick.
He heard someone climbing the steps and thought a servant, or perhaps one of the soldier’s women, was bringing food and drink. He heard his name called and looked up. Rosamund was coming towards him. She had a small bowl wrapped in a towel, he could see the steam curling up from it. She was wearing a bright red shawl across her shoulders, pulled up to protect her neck and the back of her head. It was like a dream. She was smiling at him: so happy to see her husband, she had forgotten about the Scots. She was walking directly in line to a gap between the crenellations. Matthias moved, he knew the bright red cloth would present a target but, even as he scrambled to his feet, he heard the death-bearing whirr in the air. A yard-long shaft with its plume of black feathers struck Rosamund full in the chest. She stopped, eyes closing, head down. The bowl dropped from her hands. The other two soldiers sprang to their feet, crossbows at the ready. They loosed back but the damage was done. Matthias could only squat and stare down at Rosamund, horror-struck, as the blood snaked out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Rosamund! Rosamund!’
Her face was white as alabaster. She coughed and opened her eyes. One of the soldiers was already running downstairs, shouting for Sir Humphrey. Matthias lay down beside her; putting his arm beneath her shoulder, he lifted her up as if they were in their bed. He couldn’t believe, he couldn’t accept what was happening.
‘Rosamund, my sweet.’ He pulled her towards him. Her mouth opened. He kissed her on the lips. Alread
y they were cold. ‘Rosamund!’ he screamed.
She opened her eyes, the lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.
‘I love you, Matthias Fitzosbert. I have always loved you. I always will. Don’t you believe that?’ She paused, coughing on her own blood. ‘I’ll always. .’ she gasped. He hugged her close. ‘. . I’ll always be with you.’
Her body shuddered. When he looked down, her eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted. He felt for the blood pulse in her neck but it was gone. There was clattering on the steps. Sir Humphrey was beside him on all fours like a dog. He crouched like a child, hands to his mouth and began to sob.
Matthias couldn’t accept it. He tugged at the arrow, felt his wife’s wrists, then a blackness came over him. He was up, screaming at the sky and ran to the battlements shouting obscenities, filling the air with his curses. He tried to take a crossbow from one of the soldiers. Men were struggling with him. He was pushed down to the ground. A soldier he knew to be called Dickon was pressing him down. The fellow only had one eye, the other was just a white piece of flesh. Matthias called him a devil. He struggled, trying to get to his feet until a blow to his head knocked him unconsciousness.
Matthias spent the rest of the day a captive in his own chamber. The guard outside kept filling his wine cup, refusing to let him leave. Sir Humphrey came up, Matthias saw his mouth move but couldn’t understand what he was saying.
The next morning he bathed and shaved to attend the paltry ceremony in the small graveyard. He watched his wife’s body being committed to the earth. He knelt by the grave but found he couldn’t pray and, when he looked up, Sir Humphrey was kneeling on the other side, glaring balefully at him.
‘You are cursed, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he muttered. ‘I curse the day you came to Barnwick. You are devil’s spawn! If it were not for Rosamund, I’d execute you now and send you back to Hell!’
The Constable staggered to his feet, his face sodden with drink. ‘You have one more day in Barnwick,’ he rasped. ‘Tomorrow I’ll drive you out of the castle. What the Scots do to you,’ he threw his head back and spat at Matthias, ‘I couldn’t give a fig!’
Matthias stayed by the grave. He couldn’t believe this small stretch of ground contained his heart, his soul, his life. Dickon came over and offered him a cup of hot posset. Matthias drank it greedily and stumbled back to his chamber. Everyone he met avoided him. People drew apart. He heard a woman curse. An urchin picked up a piece of ice and flung it at his head.
He reached his chamber and, for a while, he paced up and down talking to himself. Sometimes he’d punch the side of his head. He was asleep, he was sure of it. This was a nightmare and soon he’d wake up, Rosamund would come in and begin her inevitable teasing. The more he paced, the greater the pain. Rosamund’s hair brush, a wimple she had tossed on a chair, two rings from her fingers and, on the window seat, a small jerkin she had been making for their child. Matthias could stand it no more. He fell to his knees and howled like a dog. He took the cross from the wall and ground it beneath the heel of his boot. As he did so he mocked his childhood prayer.
‘Remember this, my soul, and remember this well. There is no God, neither in the heavens above nor in the earth beneath!’ He raged, shouting obscenities, and then lay curled on the floor, staring blindly around him.
‘Are you here?’ he whispered. ‘Are you, the Rose Demon, here? If you are, I call upon you. I do call upon you!’
He heard a knock on the door. A soldier pushed it open, Matthias told him to piss off. The soldier left hurriedly. Matthias scrambled to his feet. He felt clear-headed, strong and certain. He took his war belt and wrapped it around his waist. He went out of the chamber, telling the guard that he wished to take the air. For a while he walked up and down the bailey. A bell rang for the evening meal but Matthias ignored it. He looked for Deveraux and Bogodis, but those who would meet his eye simply shook their heads. He went into the kitchens. The cooks and slatterns avoided his gaze. They worked lacklustrely, chopping pieces of meat, cutting bread and cheese and laying them out on trenchers. Matthias, feeling the effects of the wine, sat down on a stool.
‘Has anyone seen Bogodis and Deveraux?’ he yelled.
All he could see were blank glances. Matthias drew his knife. He went up to the chief cook and pressed the tip of his dagger into the man’s soft, quivering jowls.
‘I asked a question. The two messengers who came here, Deveraux and Bogodis, where are they?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the man bleated. ‘Sir Humphrey. .’
Matthias let the dagger fall away. He closed his eyes and tried to think. No one would help him. He opened his eyes and smiled, the dagger came back under the cook’s chin.
‘Vattier will help. Where is he?’
‘He’s gone a-courting,’ one of the maids behind him murmured. ‘You know he’s sweet on Caterina, the maid who cleans the chambers.’
‘Oh yes.’ Matthias grinned. ‘And where does he do his courting?’
‘I saw them in the keep.’
Matthias pushed by the cook. He ran out of the kitchens, across the ice-covered bailey and down the steps to the dungeons beneath the keep. Someone was there: the door was open and sconce torches had been lit along the draughty passageways.
Matthias tiptoed along. He heard a sound from a storeroom and paused. He drew both sword and dagger. The door was open. A candle burnt on the ledge. Peering through the gloom, he glimpsed a pair of legs, Caterina’s long, red hair. The rest was hidden by the man leaning over her as if he were kissing her neck. Matthias moved softly towards him. The man’s head came up like a guard dog sensing danger.
‘Ah, Creatura bona atque parva!’
Vattier got slowly to his feet and turned to face him.
The sergeant-at-arms looked no different though the light was poor. Matthias stepped back. Vattier followed him into the pool of light shed by the thick tallow candle.
‘Always the same,’ Matthias murmured. ‘Except for the eyes!’
‘The poet said the eyes are windows of the soul.’
‘You pursued me here,’ Matthias retorted. ‘Why?’
‘I haven’t pursued you.’
Matthias held himself steady. It was Vattier talking, his lips moving, his hands spread in a gesture of peace, but Matthias watched the eyes, bright and searching: that same soft look he had glimpsed in the hermit or when Rahere had bent over him to explain some point.
‘I am here, Matthias, to protect you. I can’t leave you alone. Can a mother forget her babe? Can a lover the beloved?’
‘You brought me misery,’ Matthias accused.
‘Did I now, Matthias? Or did you call on me? I have been here before, long before you were ever born. That old, babbling hermit Pender told you, did he not?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I love you, Matthias.’
‘If you love me, why did Rosamund die?’
‘Matthias. I am not the Lord God. I did not want her death. I have no power over the will, over the individual actions of every man and woman. You were warned, all of you.’ Vattier closed his eyes. ‘I did what I could, Matthias. Believe me, I did what I could.’
Matthias moved sideways and glanced round him. The body of the maid was slumped on the floor.
‘And Caterina is dead. She died giving life: to drink blood is the price I must pay.’ Vattier breathed in deeply.
‘Sir Humphrey is a fool,’ he went on. ‘He should never have allowed Deveraux and Bogodis in, but his mind is fuddled, always fuddled.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s too late, Creatura. Every man makes choices. Every man has an intellect and a will. Sir Humphrey has made his.’
‘You were jealous of Rosamund?’
Vattier stepped closer. ‘Creatura-’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘You must leave here. You must keep yourself safe.’
‘Leave me alone!’ Matthias hissed, stepping back. ‘Tell me now you’ll
leave me alone!’
‘Creatura, I cannot. I cannot stop, nor can you. The will is immutable, determined. Its choices are made.’
‘I have made my choice.’
Vattier shook his head. ‘Not now, Creatura, now is not the time.’
Matthias heard an uproar outside, the sound of shouting and screaming. Vattier stretched out a hand.
‘Come, Creatura, come with me. They are all dead.’
‘Why, what’s happening?’
Matthias moved to the doorway, the sound of shouting had grown. He could hear the clatter of swords.
‘The Scots are in the castle,’ Vattier said softly. ‘I told you, Sir Humphrey was a fool. Time and again I’d prick your suspicions. I can make you think, Creatura, but I can’t make you decide. Bogodis and Deveraux are spies,’ he continued. ‘They are not messengers from the Percys. They are traitors. Sir Humphrey should have sent them away immediately.’
Mathias stared at him aghast.
‘They are spies,’ Vattier repeated. ‘And, while the garrison supped, they took care of the guards in the gatehouse. The drawbridge has been lowered, the portcullis raised. The Scots are in.’
Matthias, despite his own fears, closed his eyes and groaned. Of course, Bogodis and Deveraux had been their outriders. The Scots had come, sat down and waited until their men were accepted. Vattier was right. Sir Humphrey had been foolish and so he would pay the price.
‘Now you have called on me, I can help. I shall, in the future, send you warnings.’
‘There is no future!’ Matthias whispered.
‘Come with me,’ Vattier urged.
Matthias felt a sudden spurt of blind rage. He brought his sword back and gave a cutting bow. Vattier swerved aside.
‘I’ll kill you!’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘You could have helped us.’
‘I could not, until you called!’ There were tears in Vattier’s eyes.
‘Then draw your sword,’ Matthias hissed. ‘If you love me, draw your sword.’