‘Were you there?’ Matthias asked Vane.
‘The battle at East Stoke? No. We were left at Newark to guard the bloody castle.’
He persuaded Matthias to tell them what had happened. Matthias sat under the stars, the night breeze cooling the sweat on his brow as he relived, once again, that bloody fight. He tried not to think of Fitzgerald or Mairead. He gave no hint of why he had really been there.
‘Thousands died you know,’ Vane declared. ‘They say the burial pit was as long and as broad as a castle bailey, the bodies stacked like faggots of wood.’
‘And the Irish?’ another asked.
‘Aye, the poor bastards!’ Vane shook his head. ‘You heard what happened, Matthias?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Oxford’s bullyboys pinned them against the Trent. It was just like Michaelmas except instead of sheep and cows it was men. They say the blood was ankle-deep in places. The rebel leaders were killed except Lovell, who escaped. No one knows where he is. Symonds, being a priest, has been locked up, immured for life in some lonely monastery. The imposter, Lambert Simnel, has confessed to being the son of an Oxford carpenter. The King — he’s a sly one — wouldn’t make him a martyr. Lambert’s now cleaning out the royal stables.’
The rest of the men began to joke about the imposter. Matthias got up and walked into the clump of trees. What did they mean to me anyway? he thought. He recalled the cards Lady Stratford had dealt that night they were fleeing from Oxford. Symonds had come to judgment whilst the so-called ‘young prince’ had been forced to face the truth. Matthias smiled. He was glad the young man had suffered no greater indignity and, remembering his skill with horses, he was probably happier in the royal stables than he was with Symonds.
Matthias thought of Dublin and the hundreds of widows amongst the clans, waiting for their men who would never return. He mourned Mairead and cried quietly for her: if only he had reached the baggage train! He closed his eyes: Fitzgerald was there, grinning at him, as he had before de Vere’s tribunal in that blood-stained camp. Matthias wondered when the Rose Demon had taken full possession. He had no doubt that Fitzgerald had always been a spy but Matthias, for the life of him, couldn’t recall any abrupt change or suspicious circumstances. The mercenary had struck him, not out of anger but to keep Matthias quiet. If he’d gone on talking, shouting curses, de Vere would have probably hanged him out of hand.
Matthias opened his eyes and stared up through the branches. An owl hooted, low and mournful. A night bird fluttered in the branches above him. Where was Fitzgerald now? Where was the Rose Demon? He glanced back over his shoulder. Vane and the others stretched out before the camp fire. Might one of them house this terrible being now pursuing him? Matthias was beginning to understand it. The Demon could not control him but he could, when he wanted, intervene to protect him. But why not protect Mairead? Or did the Demon want no one in Matthias’ life to distract him? He sighed and went back to the campfire. Whatever, he ruefully concluded, three years in a lonely castle on the Scottish march would give him time to think and reflect.
The next morning they reached the Great North Road, a busy thoroughfare with pedlars, packmen, tinkers, wandering friars, scholars, beggars and peasants. The road also carried grim testimony to the royal victory at East Stoke. At every half-mile, for at least a hundred miles, scaffolds and gibbets had been set up: from each hung rotting cadavers. Corruption fouled the air; so great was the stink under the summer sun, Vane ordered the soldiers to leave the highway and use country lanes and trackways.
‘The Tudor intends there will be no more Yorkist revolts,’ he commented. ‘The news of his victory will soon be known to everyone.’
They continued their journey: progress was slow but Vane didn’t really care.
‘The longer we take,’ he joked, ‘the more time we can enjoy ourselves. Up to Barnwick by the end of July, it will be September before we dawdle back to Newark. Who knows?’ he added. ‘We may even avoid another battle!’
They made their way to York, skirting the city, going up towards the moors. The weather remained good, with only an occasional shower. Matthias used the time to calm his soul and soothe his mind. He decided his best course of action was to accept things as they were, not complain and wait for the Rose Demon to make its presence felt. The moors they now crossed were a vast sea of gorse and purple heather, grass turning brown under a searing sun; curlew and snipe whirling above them. Now and again they passed a farm but large, fierce- looking dogs kept them well away. Sometimes there would be a break in the land, a small village clustered around a narrow church. They bought supplies but the villagers were unwelcoming and, most evenings, they slept out under the stars. The weather changed slightly as they travelled north, the breeze colder, brisker, tugging at their hoods and cloaks. One sumpter pony damaged a leg and had to be destroyed, its baggage piled high in one of the carts. Vane became more vigilant.
‘We are into the war lands,’ he explained. ‘James III of Scotland, not to mention the Douglases, often launch cattle raids. They always choose the moors, especially in summer. A small army could march for days and remain undetected.’
In the end Vane’s precautions were not necessary. Late one afternoon Matthias reined in and exclaimed in surprise at the long range of disused and derelict buildings, a wall of small forts stretching to east and west as far as he could see.
‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Where does it begin? Where does it end?’
‘The Romans built it,’ Vane explained. ‘They say it stretches from sea to sea. We’ll shelter there tonight, tomorrow we’ll be at Barnwick.’
They entered the ruins of one of the castles. Matthias found the sprawling, crumbling walls fascinating and marvelled at the genius which had built it. The horses were hobbled and put out to grass; sentries patrolled the crumbling walls, fires were lit. Matthias thought the men would be happy with some place to shelter but Vane explained how, like sailors, soldiers were suspicious: they feared the ghosts and demons which haunted here.
‘Just like Barnwick,’ he added enigmatically.
‘What do you mean?’ Matthias asked.
‘You’ll see!’
Vane picked up a water bottle and splashed some water on his head and face, wiping it off with his hands.
‘I served at Barnwick. I used to belong to the household of Richard III.’ He grinned slyly. ‘Oh yes, I’ve served them all. Just like a dance, you must know when to change your partner. Anyway, I was up there in 1482 — a little trouble with some of the black Douglases. I tell you this, the cattle up here must get dizzy: Scotland, England, Scotland, England — around here, thievery and poaching are a way of life and having your roof burnt about your head an occupational hazard. Anyway, it’s a sprawling affair, Barnwick. It has a large Norman keep, four towers, one on each corner: it’s the north tower you have to watch. They say a demon dwells there.’
‘Go on,’ Matthias urged. He smiled to hide his anxiety. ‘After all, if I’m to spend three years there. .’
‘Well, the castle was built, you know how it is, little bits added here and there. According to one story, in 1320 a Lord Andrew Harclay was betrothed to Maude Beauchamp. One day he discovered his betrothed and a young squire making love in a bedchamber high in the tower. Now Harclay was an evil man. He was feared as a warlock as well as a brigand. He showed no mercy to either. According to legend, he immured both Maude and her lover in the walls of the north tower. They say their ghosts, or some other presence, haunts there. It’s a frightening place: strange blue lights have been seen, terrible cries heard, candlelight but no candles. Footfalls but no one walks and a terrible moaning, as if some soul is in the last agonies.’
‘Did you see all this?’ Matthias asked.
‘At first I thought it was children’s tittle-tattle. One night, however, I was on the north tower — me and two other lads, archers from Barnsdale: good, true Yorkshiremen, thick in the arm and thick in the head. I tell you this, after that night, they didn’t accept life for what it was. We were on the tower wondering if the Scots were going to show us their bare arses. Then we heard it, a sound like a wolf howling on the stairs below. We unbolted the trapdoor but it wouldn’t move.’ Vane slurped from the wineskin. ‘We thought someone was playing a joke. There was a crack in the trapdoor. One of my lads looked through it. He saw a face staring up at him: yellow with age, crumbling teeth, eyes like molten coins, lips which bubbled blood. He was so terrified that if we hadn’t restrained him, he would have thrown himself over the parapet. The howling began again and the trapdoor began to lift. All three of us flung ourselves on it, praying to every saint we knew. A terrible smell seeped out, like that of corpses piled high on a battlefield. A voice whispered like a wind. We caught the words: “Let me through, let me through, let me kiss the stars once more!”
