by Paul Doherty
Vattier did so. Matthias closed: a hacking blow with the sword, a thrust of the dagger, but Vattier blocked this and stepped back. Outside the screams and clamour were growing. Matthias didn’t care. Rosamund was dead. His world was shattered and Vattier, whoever he was, would pay the price. Again he closed, hacking blows, thrusting with his dagger. Vattier used all his skills to dance aside. Matthias heard footfalls outside but still he pressed on. Vattier was looking over his shoulder. Matthias refused to turn. A voice shouted: ‘Not that one!’ There was a click, Vattier was running towards him. The crossbow bolt took the sergeant-at-arms full in the throat. He collapsed to his knees, gave a loud sigh and fell gently sideways.
Matthias whirled round. Armed men stood at the doorway, crossbows at the ready. Deveraux stood in front. They thronged in. One of them knocked the sword from Matthias’ hand. Deveraux kicked Vattier’s corpse.
‘So, you are fighting amongst yourselves now?’
‘Sir Humphrey, where is he?’ demanded Matthias.
‘He’s dead.’ A knight in chain mail came into the room, the sword he held bloody to the hilt. He took off the heavy sallet which covered most of his face. ‘Lord George Douglas,’ he introduced himself.
Matthias stared at the man’s ruddy, stubbly features under the glistening mop of red hair. His face was as pale as the underbelly of a landed fish, a cruel, warlike face; crooked nose above thin lips, eyes which hardly blinked. Douglas scratched an unshaven cheek and gestured with his head.
‘The garrison have surrendered.’
‘Bogodis?’ Deveraux asked.
‘He’s dead. Sir Humphrey killed him.’ He glanced at Matthias. ‘You must be his son-in-law?’ Douglas sat down on a cask. ‘I tried to save Sir Humphrey, God knows I did, but he refused my terms and fought like a madman!’ Douglas looked round. ‘So, what’s been happening here?’
‘We’ve been entertaining traitors,’ Matthias snapped.
A soldier went to seize Matthias’ arm but Douglas shook his head.
‘Get out, all of you. Deveraux, you stay. Tell the garrison they can take what they carry and piss off! If they are not gone by dawn, I’ll hang every one of them.’
Douglas waited until the soldiers had left the cellar, then got to his feet.
‘I’m not a freebooter,’ he continued. ‘I am here in the service of his Most Esteemed Grace James III of Scotland.’ Douglas’ voice was scornful.
Matthias recalled Sir Humphrey’s remarks about the ineptitude of the present Scottish king. But Sir Humphrey was dead! The heat of the battle drained from him, Matthias felt cold, tired and sick at heart. He sat down, back to the wall, staring through the doorway.
‘We came south.’ Douglas too sat down. He picked up a piece of rag to clean his sword. ‘The weather suited us and Barnwick was chosen. I might as well tell you, because you are going nowhere; well, at least not for the moment. We couldn’t take Barnwick by storm, but by stealth was another matter. Are you interested in what I’m saying, Englishman?’
Matthias kept staring at the doorway. ‘I couldn’t care,’ he replied, ‘whether I live or die. You, my Lord Douglas, and your strategies do not concern me.’
‘Oh, but they do, my bonny lad. You see I’m going to continue south, go on a pilgrimage to Castleden Priory.’
‘And add blasphemy and sacrilege to your crimes?’
Douglas grinned wolfishly. ‘We will not harm a hair on the brothers’ heads. We are simply going to collect what they have.’
Again Matthias recalled Sir Humphrey’s words: how the Warden of the northern march kept armaments, particularly gunpowder, stored in certain houses across the border.
‘We are going to borrow it,’ Douglas continued, ‘use it for our own purposes.’ He glanced at Deveraux. ‘You did good work.’
The traitor smirked. Douglas got to his feet.
‘I told a lie, mind you, Sir Humphrey didn’t kill Bogodis.’
‘Then who?’
‘I did.’
Douglas thrust his sword straight into Deveraux’s stomach, turned and pulled it out. The man stumbled towards him at a half-crouch, the blood spouting out between his fingers. Douglas struck again, a killing blow to the neck. Deveraux crashed to the ground.
‘Two things I never trust,’ Douglas leant down and cleaned his sword on the man’s corpse, ‘are mercenaries and traitors.’ He grinned at Matthias. ‘And they both know a little too much about you. Ah well, let’s see what is happening.’
He called his soldiers back. Matthias’ hands were tied, though loosely. He was bundled out into the inner bailey, now a scene of carnage with bodies lying everywhere. Already the Scots were preparing a funeral pyre. Matthias asked to search out Sir Humphrey. He begged Douglas for the pitiful, scarred corpse to be buried next to that of his daughter. The Scottish lord shrugged but agreed. Matthias was given the help of two archers to hack the hard-packed earth. Sir Humphrey’s corpse, wrapped in his military cloak, was interred, the earth kicked back over it. Matthias stared at the two pathetic mounds of soil, the sole reminder of what had been halcyon days. He found he couldn’t cry. He was glad that Bogodis and Deveraux were dead. If the Douglas hadn’t killed them, he would have done so himself.
The soldiers then imprisoned Matthias in an outhouse. The rest of the garrison, those who had survived, were now being herded out through the gateway across the drawbridge, driven off by their conquerors with the flats of their swords.
The next morning a group of Scots, led by Douglas himself, took the best horses and galloped south. A large party was left behind under the command of one of the master bowmen. He immediately ordered the portcullis to be lowered, the drawbridge raised. The castle was scoured for any supplies. Matthias felt as if he were dreaming. All traces of Sir Humphrey, Rosamund, the people he had worked and played with, were ruthlessly swept away. The Scots weren’t harsh but hostile. Matthias’ cords were cut and he was allowed to wander wherever he wished.
‘You can try to escape,’ the master bowman declared. ‘You’ll either break your neck or freeze in the moat. Or, if you wish, we can use you for target practice.’
Matthias didn’t bother to answer. He spent most of his day wrapped in his cloak in the cemetery, staring at the mounds of earth, quietly mourning Rosamund and the child they never had. He was also puzzled by Vattier and what he had told him. Apparently the Rose Demon could not influence or direct events as he wished. On reflection, Matthias realised that Sir Humphrey had acted most foolishly. He should never have allowed Deveraux and Bogodis to stay. He could have sent a letter along the border to another castle or at least kept those two spies under close watch.
Matthias returned to his chamber: this had been looted. All the chests, Rosamund’s jewellery and clothes had long disappeared, and the Scots were beginning to dismantle the great four-poster bed. Anything and everything of value was being taken into the outer bailey whilst the Scots scoured the castle for carts.
‘What will you do?’ Matthias asked the master bowman.
The lean-visaged villain smirked in a display of yellow, cracked teeth.
‘Och we’ll take it all with us. You don’t think we are going to leave Barnwick as we found it? You wait and see.’
Matthias went to the north tower of the keep. So far, no manifestations or phenomena had been reported by the Scots. Matthias climbed the steps and went into the chamber where he and Father Hubert had celebrated the Mass. The floor was still spattered with candle grease. Matthias found he was no longer frightened. After Rosamund’s death nothing concerned him. He pulled the shabby shutters away and stared out over the frozen moorland. A bird flew by. Matthias recalled the Scottish archer’s threats.
‘So what?’ Matthias murmured. ‘Perhaps it’s best.’
He could throw himself over the battlements and finish it all: life, the fear of death, the pain and hurt. Surely God wouldn’t mind? After all, what did it matter? Matthias stood, running his hand along the dust-covered ledge. The more he reflect
ed, the more his conviction grew. He’d decided to leave when the door to the chamber slammed shut. Matthias caught at the latch but the door was locked as if someone was holding fast to the other side. In frustration Matthias threw his weight against it and hammered so hard, pain shot through his arms. Exhausted, he slipped down the wall and sat staring at the pale ray of sunlight coming through the arrow slit window. He dozed.
When he awoke, a sweet, soft fragrance, the same perfume Rosamund had worn, filled the room. The fragrance was so heavy, it was as if she were sitting close to him. Matthias recalled their wedding night, her passionate embraces, the air sweet with the rich cream she had rubbed on her arms, neck and body. Matthias put his hands out as if, in some way, he could touch, grasp, hold her. The sunlight grew stronger and the air filled with the smell of incense, as if Mass were being celebrated and the thurible were throwing out sweet smoke.
Matthias got to his feet and went to the door. This time it opened easily. He went out on to the stairwell and caught a flurry of colour, bottle-green, as if Rosamund were running ahead of him. He charged down the steps and out into the bailey but there was nothing, only a group of Scottish soldiers lounging against the wall. These stared curiously. Matthias walked into the outer bailey and up the steps to the battlements. He had no real desire or firm conviction to throw himself over but he was curious. He wanted to see what would happen.
He reached the top, the biting wind caught at his face and hair. Matthias leant over the battlements and stared down. Far below him, the moat was still frozen hard. Matthias raised his foot; there was a ledge there. It would be so easy to climb on, to stand for a few seconds before falling like a stone.
‘Matthias! Matthias!’
He whirled round, mouth gaping. Rosamund was calling him as she often did but, in the yard below, only Scots moved about.
‘Matthias, come down! You are to come down now!’
Matthias rubbed his eyes. He could see no one even looking at him. The figures below were intent on carting out any valuables, curtains, drapes, chests and coffers. Matthias looked over the battlements. The drop was dizzying. He felt sick. He gingerly went down the steps and back across into the cemetery. Despite the weak sunlight he was freezing cold. He knelt beside Rosamund’s grave, digging his fingers in the dirt as hot, scalding tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Are you with me, Rosamund? Are you truly with me?’
He heard a sound behind him and looked round. Nothing. Only a piece of parchment, blown away from some plundered coffer, skittered across the earth. Matthias caught it: the writing was cramped, small and faded. He recognised Rosamund’s hand. It must have been written months ago, before she declared her love for him.
‘Matthias,’ he read, ‘amo te, amo te, Matthias. Matthias, I love you. Matthias, I love you.’ The same words were written time and again.
On the bottom of the page Rosamund had drawn a face with a miserable expression. Matthias smiled. He kissed the scrap of parchment, folded it carefully and put it inside his jerkin. He then got to his feet and left the graveyard.
Early next day Lord George Douglas and his party were seen approaching. His commander in the castle breathed a sigh of relief and danced a jig.
‘Thank God! Thank the Guid Lord!’ he shouted. ‘If the English had known what happened,’ he clapped Matthias on the shoulder, ‘the hunter would have become the hunted and I couldn’t face being besieged in Barnwick until Easter. It was all a gamble before the refugees from here could raise a warning. My Lord of Douglas is a bonny lad!’
The portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered. Douglas and his party entered. They had now brought with them a string of carts. Some were empty, others full of armaments, crossbows, arbalests, lances, buckets full of arrows, swords, halberds, even a pile of chain-mail jerkins and leather sallets. One cart was full of gunpowder: barrels and tuns stacked on top of each other and covered with a canvas cloth.
Lord George Douglas came to a stop. He threw Matthias his reins. Matthias let them drop. The Scotsman made a face and dismounted.
‘I am your prisoner, not your servant,’ Matthias declared.
‘That’s obvious,’ Douglas replied.
‘Then why am I here? Why wasn’t I released with the rest?’
Douglas narrowed his eyes and, grasping Matthias by the shoulders, walked him away from the others.
‘I have a task for you, Fitzosbert,’ he murmured. ‘Deveraux told me what had happened here: the young girl who was mysteriously killed and, above all, the hauntings in the north tower. Are you fey? Do you have the second sight?’
‘I am a clerk, I am cold, I am hungry and I want to leave!’
Douglas’ hand fell to his dagger hilt. ‘I asked you a question, Englishman. I did give your father-in-law honourable burial.’
‘I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what I have,’ Matthias replied. ‘But the north tower is haunted.’ He pointed to a cart full of gunpowder. ‘You are going to use some of that here, aren’t you?’
‘Of course! We are leaving this afternoon. We dare not stay here any longer. I would like to destroy Barnwick completely, leave not one stone upon another. However, that would take too long and I haven’t got the powder, so I am choosing what I should destroy. The gatehouse will go. Some of the outer and inner walls and, as a favour to you, Englishman, I’ll store powder in the base of the north tower.’
Orders were rapped out, the plunder was hoisted into the carts, the Scots sweeping the castle again to make sure they had missed nothing. Five of Douglas’ soldiers were engineers, one a master of ordnance. The gunpowder was placed at certain strategic points: the gatehouse, the north tower, two postern gates as well as the hall and solar. Matthias didn’t care. In a way he was glad that rooms where he had experienced such happiness would never again be used by anyone else.
Late in the afternoon Douglas’ party left. Scouts were sent out before them because the Scots now feared the English might have learnt what was happening and organised another force. As they left, the engineers fired the long fuses.
When they were some distance away, the troops stopped beneath bare-branched trees. Matthias stared back at Barnwick. He glimpsed the north tower, the empty gatehouse and his eyes filled with tears. He kept whispering, ‘Rosamund! Rosamund!’
Suddenly there was a fierce explosion. Parts of the castle seemed to lift, then collapse in thick clouds of dust. The horses whinnied and pranced about, tossing their heads at the thunder which rolled towards them. The Scots cheered as tongues of flame flared up from the castle. Matthias crossed himself. He heard a cawing from the trees and stared up. Two figures, all in black, sat in the branches glaring down at him: the Preacher and Rahere, pallid-faced, red-eyed. Matthias blinked and stared again. They were only ravens. They cawed fiercely at the tumult and, spreading their great dark wings, soared off up into the sky.
22
Five days later Douglas and his party reached Edinburgh. They had travelled across the wild heathland, past small villages and hamlets. The children and dogs came running out to watch them whilst their parents stood in the doorways and glanced dourly at these fighting men. Eventually they struck east towards the coast, before moving inland to where Edinburgh crouched on its great crag. It looked a princely town but, once within its gates, Matthias found it not very different from London, which he had visited on a number of occasions. The great high street stretched in a herringbone with dark alleys and lanes running off it. Some of the houses had three or four storeys with glazed or painted windows. Others were poor cottages made of wattle and daub, and covered in thatch. They passed the kirk, the Tolbooth and courthouse, across the main market place where the dismembered limbs of traitors were displayed. The crowds swirled about. Rich merchants and their wives in velvets and damask rubbed shoulders with the poor, garbed in coarse linen, wooden clogs on their feet. It was a busy, tumultuous place with different markets in various parts of the city: the fishers, the clothiers, the blood-covered stalls of
the fleshers and butchers. Douglas and his party had to force their way through, using whips and the flats of their swords. As in London, the commoners were not so easily cowed, and Douglas and his men, even though they’d loudly proclaimed a successful foray into England, were cursed and spat at.
At last they broke free of the city and entered the palatial grounds of the Abbey of Holyrood. They crossed gardens and fields where lay brothers worked busily on the land, past fisheries and orchards, laundries, outhouses, barns and granges, then into the great cobbled yard which divided the abbey from the small palace which adjoined it. Here, retainers, wearing the black and scarlet of the royal household, came out to meet them, grooms and ostlers, supervised by men-at-arms in quilted jackets.
Douglas snapped his fingers and ordered Matthias to follow him into a flat-stoned passageway. The galleries and entrances to every room were guarded by knight bannerets all wearing the livery of the red lion rampant of Scotland. Holyrood was a close, secretive place. Despite the wooden wainscoting, the coloured cloths on the walls, the beautifully polished oak furniture, the broad sweeping stairs and clean, well-lit galleries, the palace was a military camp with armed men thronging about. Time and again Douglas was stopped and, before he entered the royal chambers, he reluctantly had to surrender his sword and dirk to a royal archer, who also searched him for any hidden weapons. Douglas scarcely greeted anyone, whilst those he and Matthias passed stared askance or looked away. They were ushered into a small waiting chamber opulently furnished with cushioned seats round the wall. More guards thronged here. Douglas told Matthias to wait: an archer opened a door and led the Scottish lord into the royal presence.
Matthias must have kicked his heels for an hour. No one approached; now and again the archers would stare but mainly they chose to ignore him. Nevertheless, Matthias realised that they had him in custody: both the entrance to the royal chamber and the door which they had just come through were locked and guarded.
At last the door to the royal chamber was thrown open. Douglas came out and beckoned Matthias forward. The chamber they entered was hot and stuffy, the windows shuttered. A fire burnt fiercely under a mantled hearth. Pitch torches flickered on the walls whilst a table in the centre of the room was covered with lighted candles. The man standing in the far corner talking softly to a handsome peregrine, perched hooded on the great wooden stand, came out of the shadows. Douglas poked Matthias in the ribs.
