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.
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 bulclass="underline" 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.