by Paul Doherty
‘I will go unto the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth,’ the priest intoned. He pressed on and as his voice became stronger, the stench disappeared and the torches revived. Throughout the Mass, even though Father Hubert was now shaking, the sweat pouring down his face, the interruptions continued. Shouted obscenities and clattering on the stairs outside, giggling and, at one time, the walls broke out in a dark, oozing mud. None of these phenomena lasted long. The consecration was reached, host and chalice elevated and the manifestations subsided. Matthias, now and again, heard a woman sobbing but not in distress, rather like someone crying tears of joy or thanksgiving. At that part of the canon of the Mass where the priest had to name the dead soul, the clatter on the stairs outside grew intolerable: running up and down, clashing chains, hammering on the walls. Father Hubert had to pause and sit down.
‘I feel sick,’ he whispered.
Matthias told him to rest, and went outside. He stared up into the darkness and, abruptly, as if the thought had been whispered to him, he felt an urge to call on the Rose Demon: to bid for his power, his help. He closed his eyes and leant against the wall. So intense was this desire that he had to bite his lip.
‘Go away!’ he whispered.
‘Why?’ the man’s voice shouted, as if from the top of the tower. ‘Where has she gone? I am all alone!’
‘Can’t you go with her?’
Matthias opened his eyes. Father Hubert was now standing beside him.
‘I can’t go,’ the voice rasped. ‘Lost in darkness. I will not go! I will not forgive! I will not ask for mercy!’
‘Then,’ Father Hubert asked, ‘are we never to be rid of you?’
‘Not until they come for me, until this place is reduced by fire.’
Father Hubert walked slowly back into the room and, without any coaxing from Matthias, continued with the Mass. He took the Eucharist and gave Matthias the host and the chalice. When he had finished, he sat back on the small stool, staring through the doorway. Matthias was deeply concerned by the look on the priest’s face. He had aged and sat like a broken man, chest heaving, eyes flitting round the room as if he could barely sense where he was.
‘What is it, Father?’ Matthias came up beside him.
The priest smiled gently. He tugged at a lock of Matthias’ hair.
‘I think we were successful, Matthias. The tortured soul who dwelt here has moved on. But the other?’ He shook his head. ‘There is nothing you or I can do any more.’
The priest’s words proved prophetic. In the days following the Feast of All Souls, the strange manifestation in the north tower subsided. The cost to the old priest, however, was great. He collapsed one morning in the chapel, just after saying Mass, and was carried to his bed. Matthias found there was nothing he could do.
‘Don’t send for a physician.’ Father Hubert grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, I was born to be a priest. I have tried to live my life as a priest. I am going to die as a priest.’ His head went back on the bolster. ‘I’m at peace with God, with my fellow man. I have nothing to take with me.’ He coughed. ‘I am only sorry I am leaving my friends.’
Matthias studied the old priest’s drooping eyes, the sheen of sweat on his head, his rapid breathing. He immediately sent for Sir Humphrey, Rosamund and Vattier. They came at once. Sir Humphrey brought his Book of Hours and, apart from Vattier who couldn’t read, they passed round, reciting prayers and psalms. The old priest lay silent, eyes closed. Only by touching the faint pulse in his neck did Matthias learn he was still with them. The hours passed. It was night before Matthias advised all three of them to leave, that he would stay by the bed and watch. Sir Humphrey and Vattier went. Rosamund remained but, when her eyes began to close and her head drooped, Matthias whispered she should leave. She had hardly left, her footsteps faint down the gallery, when Father Hubert turned, his eyes open, staring fixedly at Matthias.
‘I’m going now,’ he whispered.
Matthias made to rise but the priest’s hands caught his arm.
‘Stay with me, Matthias. We’ll all meet again merrily in Heaven. I shall pray for you, Matthias. I have dreamt about you. You face such a hideous struggle but when it comes, the time of testing. .’ The breath in the priest’s throat rattled. He paused. ‘When it comes,’ he continued weakly, ‘the time of testing, I shall be with you.’
His fingers slipped away. Father Hubert gave one sigh, his head slumping to the side. Matthias leant over. There was no longer any blood beat in the neck. The flesh was already growing cold. Matthias closed his eyes, whispered the requiem for this good little priest and sent for the others.
Three days later, a priest came from one of the outlying villages. He sang the requiem in the castle chapel and Father Hubert’s corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was buried in the small cemetery in a far corner of the outer bailey. His death created gloom and despondency in the castle. The priest had been respected and popular. For weeks afterwards, little mementoes were placed on his grave. A collection was made amongst the garrison for a special cross to be carved and Father Hubert’s name be inscribed upon it. The general mood was not helped as the weather grew worse: dark, lowering clouds, bitter winds.
At the beginning of December, just as the garrison prepared for Christmas, the snow began to fall. At first, it was only small flurries, but by Christmas Eve it started to lie and there was no break in the clouds. Matthias, together with Sir Humphrey and Rosamund, celebrated a quiet Christmas. Father Hubert’s death still affected them and it didn’t seem right for no Christmas Mass to be sung or prayers to be said.
‘It’s the same in every castle,’ Sir Humphrey declared as they sat before the fire in the solar, sipping mulled wine. ‘It will take months before we get a suitable replacement.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘It will mean plenty of letters to the abbots and priors of local monasteries.’
‘I wish he was here.’ Rosamund, wrapped in a fur robe, cradled the wine cup in her hands.
‘Don’t we all.’ Sir Humphrey gently brushed her hand.
‘Especially today,’ she continued. ‘Christ’s birth. I would have liked to ask him.’
‘Ask him what?’ Matthias stared curiously at Rosamund. Over the last two or three weeks she had become secretive, rather withdrawn, though happy enough. Now she sat dreamy-eyed.
‘I’d ask him,’ she replied slowly, ‘to baptise our child.’
Matthias nearly fell out of his chair. Sir Humphrey sat as if he had been pole-axed.
‘You?’ Matthias couldn’t comprehend it. Here, in the solar with the flames merrily crackling round the logs, the windows and doors sealed, the air fragrant with the herbs thrown on the fire and the braziers. He felt as he had on his wedding day, an excitement which made him want to either sit and revel in it or jump to his feet and dance.
‘Don’t you ever ask?’ Rosamund teased. ‘Don’t you know a woman’s courses should come every month and I’ve missed mine for a second time!’
‘But we’ve only just got married!’
Rosamund threw her head back and cried with laughter. She grasped Matthias’ hand and kissed her bemused husband on the cheek.
‘What did you expect?’ she whispered. ‘Some people go to bed to sleep, Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘I think you’d best take care of your father,’ Matthias, embarrassed, whispered back.
Sir Humphrey was still staring, mouth gaping: his face lit with pleasure. He put his cup down and hugged Rosamund: he shook Matthias’ hand so vigorously, the young man thought it would fall off. Sir Humphrey did a little dance then, pacing up and down the chamber, still shaking his head.
‘I’ve got to tell someone,’ he declared and, spinning on his heel, walked out of the room.
‘He’ll tell everyone,’ Rosamund whispered.
He did. Within the hour, Vattier and others of the garrison found some excuse to come up to the solar, their faces bright with smiles. Rosamund was kissed, Matthias’ hand ached with being clasped so much.
&nb
sp; Matthias himself couldn’t believe it. For the remaining few days of the year he kept pestering his wife: ‘Are you sure? Are you well?’
Eventually she threatened to box his ears if he didn’t shut up.
The New Year was greeted with joy and acclamation. The news of Rosamund’s condition was soon known to everyone in the castle. Sir Humphrey, ever genial and generous, could not be restrained in organising celebrations. Even the weather became more clement, the snow stopped falling, the clouds began to break. A weak sun turned the inner and outer baileys into pools of muddy slush. Sir Humphrey and Matthias insisted on following Rosamund around, terrified that she’d slip on a stair or fall on the ice, badgering her to stay indoors and sit by the fire.
On the day after the Epiphany, matters changed again. A sentry on the great gateway chilled the castle by blowing three warning blasts on the war horn: the agreed signal that some danger was approaching. Sir Humphrey and Matthias were chatting in the Chancery. They seized their war belts and hurried out to see what was the matter. Vattier met them at the door of the gatehouse.
‘Riders,’ he said. ‘Some distance away. Two of them but they are coming as fast as they can. I’ve ordered the drawbridge to be raised and the portcullis dropped.’
‘Only two?’ Matthias interrupted.
‘They may be scouts!’ Vattier snapped. ‘We can take no chances!’
In the end the riders proved to be messengers. Sir Humphrey and Matthias took them to the solar.
‘We are from Lord Henry Percy. My name is David Deveraux.’ The principal messengertook out a scroll of parchment from his wallet. He handed this to Sir Humphrey who, in turn, gave it to Matthias. ‘This is Bogodis, my squire.’
Matthias studied the two men. Deveraux was tall, fair-haired, chubby-faced, clean-shaven and clear-eyed. He was fidgety, nervous.
‘My feet are like blocks of ice,’ he protested.
Sir Humphrey waved them to stools in front of the fire. Deveraux took off his cloak, pulled off his boots and sighed. Bogodis was small and dark: crooked-faced, one eye much lower than the other, thin-nosed, a perpetual sneer on his lips. He kept fingering the dagger stuck in his belt and was as restless as his master. Sir Humphrey served them some wine and shouted for a servant to bring platters of food from the kitchen.
Matthias undid the scroll; it was a letter from Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, giving safe conduct to his faithful squire Deveraux. Matthias studied the red seal bearing the imprint of the Percy lion. He tossed the letter on to a table and walked across to stand behind Sir Humphrey.
‘We’ve travelled far and fast,’ Bogodis declared, rubbing his feet. ‘The truce with Scotland is over.’
Sir Humphrey groaned.
‘As you know,’ Bogodis continued, ‘King James III is having trouble with his barons. They have hanged his favourites in Edinburgh and brought the King to book. King James hopes to unite the country in a war against the “auld enemy”. He’s sent out writs ordering levies. The great nobles are bringing their men in. They could be over the border within days.’
‘At the dead of winter?’ Sir Humphrey exclaimed.
‘They are on the move already,’ Deveraux spoke up. ‘We have seen the banners of James’s principal commander, the Black Douglas.’
‘And what advice does the Lord Percy give?’ Sir Humphrey asked.
Deveraux shrugged. ‘Be on your guard. Keep the drawbridge up, the battlements manned. Don’t send parties out into the countryside, they could be ambushed.’
‘And you?’ Matthias asked.
He had taken an immediate dislike to both men but couldn’t understand why, which made him feel guilty. Perhaps he just resented them as outsiders. They were intruders, bringing harsh news into the castle, reminding Matthias that there was a world beyond the walls: cold, bloody and threatening. Bogodis looked up at him.
‘We have ridden hard and long,’ he retorted. ‘We are tired, our horses spent. Sir Humphrey, if you will, a few days to rest and then we’ll continue.’
‘There are other riders out,’ Deveraux added. ‘We are to do what we can, then return.’
Sir Humphrey thanked them and beckoned Matthias into the Chancery. The Constable sat on a stool and rubbed his face.
‘I don’t like this,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the dead of winter. The roads are clogged with mud. Snow covers the moors.’
‘Could a Scottish raiding party move south so quickly?’ Matthias asked anxiously.
‘Oh yes,’ Sir Humphrey replied. ‘The snow melts and there are trackways and byways. They have done it before. Have you ever seen Scottish horses, Matthias? Stout little garrons, they are half-wild and roam the glens. Our snow-covered moors will be little problem for them. All we can do is pray that the snow returns. What we need is it laying thick and fast. For the rest?’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll tell Vattier no patrols are to be sent out. We’ll keep a watch.’
In the end the sky fully cleared. The sun, weak though it was, melted the snow even further round the castle. Matthias’ anxiety deepened as the tenor of the castle changed. Stores had to be carefully counted, armaments readied, a constant watch by day and night. On the Feast of St Hilary, as Matthias was breaking his fast with Rosamund and Vattier, he heard the distant braying of the war horn and the alarm being raised. He told Rosamund to go back to their chamber, and followed Vattier out up into the high tower of the gatehouse. He didn’t need the guards’ explanation, a dark plume of smoke stained the horizon.
‘God help us!’ Vattier breathed. ‘There’s a farm burning out there. The bastards are coming!’
Vattier again sounded the war horn. The children stopped playing in the outer and inner baileys and were led away by their white-faced mothers. Soldiers tumbled out of their lodgings, fully armed. Vattier and Matthias went down to check the drawbridge was up and the portcullis down and locked. They continued their long vigil.
On the following day, just before noon, Matthias glimpsed small, dark figures on the horizon. At first they reminded him of ants creeping down a white-washed wall, just a few at first. Leaning over the battlements he strained his eyes against the whiteness of the landscape and made out horse and riders. He tried to calm the churning in his stomach. Within the hour there were more. Soon, a dark mass of horse and foot were moving slowly but inexorably towards the castle. They fanned out, reminding Matthias of the horns of a bull: on each wing, horsemen; men-at-arms in the centre; carts behind a dark, seething mass.
Every man stood to arms and, by late in the afternoon, the enemy had gathered across the frozen moat. They included mounted men-at-arms and a whole mass of lightly armed foot soldiers dressed in a motley collection of rags, braids and cloaks. Matthias recalled the Irish that had fought at East Stoke, with their rounded shields and long stabbing dirks. Slowly, the Scots force, under the brilliant banners of its commanders, fanned out along the moat and pitched camp. Tents and pavilions were set up: bothies made out of branches and pieces of wood, for the common soldiers. Fires were lit and Matthias caught the stench of burning meat. He also heard the faint cries and taunts of the enemy. Now and again, the lightly armed men would come down to the edge of the water to shriek insults in a tongue Matthias couldn’t understand.
‘They are well provisioned,’ Sir Humphrey remarked. ‘See the carts, Matthias. They would have left Scotland empty, but between here and the border lie solitary farms. These have been plundered for food, fodder for their horses, wood for their kindling. When they need more, they’ll simply send out foraging parties.’
‘But why here?’ Matthias asked. ‘Sir Humphrey, Barnwick is guarded by a gatehouse and walls, not to mention a stout garrison. The Scots have no siege weapons. All we have to do is sit here and wait.’
Sir Humphrey took his helmet off and scratched the back of his neck.
‘I know, Matthias. That’s bothering me.’ He crouched down and drew a line in the dirty snow. ‘These are the English defences along the Scottish march,’ he explained. ‘A lin
e of strong castles, fortified garrisons. The Scots very rarely attack us because, as you say, that takes siege equipment. However, there’s always the chance the Scots may take one castle, punch a hole in the line of defence and continue south. They could do so quickly, ravage the lands in the south where they are least expected and then retreat back into Scotland before the Warden of the northern march can muster his levies.’
‘Why don’t they just go round us?’ Matthias asked.
‘That’s dangerous,’ Vattier broke in, helping Sir Humphrey back to his feet. ‘Once they pass us, we know where they are going. We can send warnings and, when the Scots return, the rest of the castles would amass a force and be waiting for them.’
Matthias looked down at the sprawling camp, listening to their faint cries, watching the flames of the fires grow stronger. The Scots had already set up picket lines, riders being despatched back from where they had come.
‘The other castles don’t know they are here,’ Sir Humphrey explained. ‘And, even if they did, they daren’t send for help.’ He gestured at the enemy. ‘This may only be a raiding party, more waiting further north, looking for one of the castles to weaken itself.’ Sir Humphrey leaned over the battlements. ‘I wonder what he wants?’
Matthias followed his gaze. A knight, his face hidden by a conical helmet, his great cloak flapping behind him, rode slowly down to the edge of the moat and stared up at the castle. He turned, raising one hand, and shouted. Six archers ran forward.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Vattier shouted. ‘Down!’
Sir Humphrey pushed Matthias beneath the crenellations. He heard a whirring noise which awoke nightmares from the battle of East Stoke: the arrows came flying over the battlements, smashing against stone or falling aimlessly into the bailey below.
Matthias peered over the battlements. The six archers, followed by the horseman, were now going back to the Scottish camp. Sir Humphrey clicked his fingers, told Matthias and Vattier to join him and went down to the gatehouse.
