‘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 alclass="underline" 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 reflected, 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.