‘Where’s Mairead?’
Fitzgerald glanced at him. ‘
Matthias stared in dismay. ‘You could have saved her!’ he hissed.
‘What is this?’ de Vere snapped.
‘You bastard!’ Matthias shrieked. ‘I was never party to what you did.’
Fitzgerald leant across and, bringing his gauntleted hand back, smashed Matthias on the side of the head. Matthias fell. He heard de Vere’s voice, Fitzgerald shouting, but the pain was too much and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
PART III
A Rose in Winter
Bears the highest price.
17
Matthias regained consciousness in a small, lime-washed cell. He threw back the blankets and staggered to his feet. The chamber was so narrow, if he stretched out his hands he could touch both walls. He peered through the arrow slit window. He was in a castle. The bailey below was busy with grooms leading horses in and out of the stables. A line of geese waddled past guided by a girl with a stick. Somewhere a dog was baying mournfully. Matthias stared down at himself. He was still in the clothes he had worn before the battle, but his belt and boots were gone. A cracked pitcher of water stood in the corner. Dried bread and cheese on a tin plate were being gnawed by rats. Matthias lifted the water, sipped greedily then threw the rest over his plate.
The door opened. Two men came in. The first was stooped and balding, with a thin pinched face and the screwed up eyes of one who had difficulty seeing. He was dressed in a grey, dusty gown, the sleeves folded back; his long fingers were covered in ink. His companion was a typical soldier, burly, thickset, his fair hair cropped so close Matthias at first thought he was bald. He was dressed in a boiled leather jacket, stained and blackened with sweat; dark blue, woollen hose and tight leather boots on which spurs jangled and clattered as he walked. He looked at Matthias and winked. His leathery, weather-beaten face broke into a grin.
‘John Vane,’ he introduced himself. ‘Master-at-arms. This is Master Winstanley, royal clerk.’
‘Where am I?’ Matthias felt unsteady on his feet. He went back and sat on the bed.
‘You are in Newark Castle, brought here late last night.’
Matthias recalled Fitzgerald’s blow to his face. He felt the side of his head.
‘You are a mystery, Master Fitzosbert.’ Winstanley came over and peered down at him. ‘Some say you are a rebel. Others that you are loyal and true. Anyway, his Grace the Earl of Oxford has decided that you won’t hang. Clerks are too valuable to be strung up like rats!’
‘Where’s Fitzgerald?’ Matthias asked. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Fitzgerald! Fitzgerald!’ Winstanley shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Fitzgerald is or who he is! The royal army is moving south. People like me and Master Vane are left to clean up the mess.’
‘You have received a pardon.’ Vane thrust a small parchment scroll into Matthias’ hands. ‘But on one condition.’
Matthias undid the parchment. He read the copperplate lettering. The small blob of wax at the end bore the personal insignia of the Earl of Oxford. Matthias sighed and closed his eyes. The letter proclaimed that he, Matthias Fitzosbert, be pardoned for all crimes on one condition, that he serve no less than three years as castle clerk at Barnwick on the Scottish march.
‘It’s better than hanging, lad,’ Vane said quietly. The master-of-arms chewed the corner of his mouth. ‘God knows I’ve seen enough hangings to last me ten lifetimes. I have to take you to Barnwick. I’m also taking provisions and money for the garrison.’ He crouched before Matthias. ‘Now look, lad, I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done. Really, I don’t give a damn.’ He tapped the piece of parchment. ‘This is a second chance. I advise you to take it. Now, we are leaving in two hours, just after noon. I can truss you like a pig and if you try to escape,’ he touched the side of Matthias’ neck, ‘I’ll cut your throat. That will be the end of the matter. But you look a bonny lad, you’ve got honest eyes — give me your word you won’t cause me trouble and I’ll give you a sword belt, your own horse and treat you as one of the lads.’
Matthias gave his word.
‘Good!’ Vane got to his feet. He extended his hand.
Matthias clasped it: he held on, squeezing the fingers tightly.
‘Who are you?’ Matthias whispered. ‘Are you really John Vane?’
‘Of course I am.’ The soldier pulled his hand away. ‘I think you’ve had one too many knocks on the head, lad. I was born John Vane and I will die John Vane but, if you want, you can think of me as the great Cham.’ The man-at-arms wrinkled his nose. ‘But if you are going to travel with me I want you to bathe. You stink like a pig pen!’
He and Winstanley left. A short while later a servant brought in a leather bucket full of warm water. Matthias stripped and washed, cleaning himself with a rag and rubbing some oil the servants also brought into his skin.
Vane came into the room and tossed a pile of clothes and a good set of riding boots upon the bed. A bleary-eyed, bald-pated man accompanied him: he cut Matthias’ hair and expertly shaved the stubble from his face. Matthias found the clothes fitted him. They were musty but clean. Vane gave him a war belt with a sheath for the small broadsword and dagger also provided.
‘You don’t look like a rebel now,’ Vane smiled. ‘Come on.’
They went down to the castle refectory. Vane introduced Matthias to the rest of the soldiers, nine men in all: grizzled veterans, men-at-arms looking forward to the journey north as a break from the boring routine of garrison duty. They left Newark a little later than planned, Vane’s nine companions, with Matthias in the centre, riding ahead of the three great lumbering carts which accompanied them. On the outskirts of Newark, six archers, dressed in stained Lincoln green, joined them, their specific responsibility to guard the carts. The rest of the day’s travelling was taken up in good-natured banter between these and Vane’s men.
They journeyed through narrow, country lanes. Matthias still felt unreal. He could hardly accept that the same bright sun, these green fields, the blue sky filled with wispy clouds were the same as he had marched under with the rebel army. They camped out in the open that night, on a small hill overlooking a field of waving corn. One of the archers trapped and skinned some rabbits. Another foraged for herbs. The savoury smell abruptly reminded Matthias of the hermit in that lonely, deserted church at Tenebral. The soldiers accepted him as part of their company but, when Vane remarked that Matthias had marched with the rebels, they took a closer interest.
‘Did you really think he was Edward of Warwick?’ one of the men-at-arms asked, his mouth full of meat.
‘No.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I thought.’
‘Just like us,’ another shouted. ‘You march where your bloody officers tell you to and, if you’re lucky and you don’t get killed, then you march somewhere else.’
