‘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!’
‘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.