Barnwick Castle was built on the brow of a hill which gently sloped away into a wild sea of tangled grass, flowers, purple heather and gorse which stretched up towards the Scottish border.
‘It looks solitary,’ Vane observed as they reined in, ‘but any Scottish army which wants to plunder the northern march will have to either take it or bypass it. Both would be difficult, especially the former.’
As they rode along the white, dusty track up through the great gateway into the castle, Vane pointed out its principal features: two encircling walls, a broad moat fed by underground springs. The outer wall had small towers along it, whilst the inner wall was built slightly higher. The top was crenellated so, even if an enemy did take the gateway, they would find themselves trapped between two lines of fire. The wooden drawbridge they crossed was good and solid. The soldiers on guard in the dark, sombre gatehouse were well turned out, vigilant but not fussy or overweening. The outer bailey had houses built against the walls; small cottages, workshops, a smithy, forge and stables. The inner bailey was approached by a smaller gateway protected by a heavy, wooden and steel portcullis. A foursquare keep dominated the inner bailey. This soared up against the blue sky. It was built of heavy grey ragstone and looked older than the rest of the castle. Vane explained that this had been built earlier than the rest.
The inner bailey was surprisingly quiet. Some geese and pigs wandered about, chickens pecked at the hard-packed earth, a few soldiers lounged in the shade. One of these came across to take their horses and explained that the rest of the garrison were in the chapel. Matthias remembered it was the Feast of St Peter and St Paul, a Holy Day of Obligation. He asked Vane about the castle.
‘The Constable’s quarters,’ the sergeant-at-arms explained, pointing across to a small two-storey house at the far end of the bailey. ‘Solar and parlour on top, hall below.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Remember, Sir Humphrey Bearsden is a stickler for duty. Everything has to be kept in order, be it one’s duty to the King or to God. Ah well,’ he added, ‘let’s make ourselves busy.’
Vane ordered his own soldiers and those lounging about to unload the carts and sumpter ponies: all provisions were to be taken across to the hall. The money he kept with him.
Matthias wandered off. Looking up at the great keep, he studied the north tower and recalled Vane’s story. In the golden ripeness of a summer morning it looked nothing out of the ordinary. Somewhere deep in the keep a bell began to toll, followed by the faint sound of voices and footsteps. The door to the keep, which was reached by steep steps, was flung open. Children, laughing and chattering, ran down into the yard to continue their games. Their mothers and women of the garrison streamed out, chattering noisily, after them their menfolk. The Constable and his party came next: they stood at the top of the steps, staring down at Vane and his men whilst one of the sentries went up and explained their arrival.
‘You are very welcome,’ the leading man shouted down.
He was tall, his silver hair coifed so it fell thick on the nape of his neck, his military-style moustache and beard neatly clipped. He strode quickly down to clasp Vane’s hand. Pleasantries were exchanged, introductions made, questions asked about the journey. Sir Humphrey turned to Matthias.
‘So you are our new clerk? Good. The last one, Fitzwalter, died of a fever: he was old and doddery.’ Bearsden’s light blue eyes crinkled in pleasure. ‘You look neither. You are not only a member of this garrison but also my family. I am a widower,’ he continued. ‘Have been for years.’
‘Oh, don’t tell them your life story, Father!’
The voice was low but carried. Matthias glanced back towards the steps. The young woman coming down moved elegantly, hand clasping a blue samite dress so she wouldn’t trip. Matthias glimpsed a red clocked stocking and a well-turned ankle above the smart, brown-berry leather shoes.
‘My daughter, Rosamund.’ Bearsden must have seen Matthias stiffen. ‘It’s a lovely name,’ he laughed. ‘My wife wanted to call her Catherine but she was so small and pink, I thought of a rose bush, hence her name: “Rose of the World”.’
‘And it suits her,’ Matthias replied.
‘Why, sir, are you a flatterer?’
Rosamund nestled closer to her father, slipping her arm through his. She was small, petite, with pale creamy complexion, dark blue eyes, long eyelashes and rosebud mouth. She reminded Matthias of a little doll: her hair, dark brown, was covered by a white wimple which was held in place by a circlet of gold cord, a silver bracelet dangled from one wrist.
‘We have a courtier at last, Father.’ Her eyes opened wide.
Matthias changed his opinion. This was no demure maid; her eyes danced with mischief. Matthias realised she was studying him carefully to imitate him later. So he bowed stiffly as two more people joined them. The first was Malcolm Vattier, the burly, squat sergeant-at-arms of the castle. Square-faced, his red beard, moustache and hair closely cropped, Vattier looked fierce with a deep, purple scar running under his left eye. He was dressed in a leather jerkin, the sleeves cut off, which emphasised the muscular bulge of his arms and his thickset neck. The sword in his war belt looked as if it could fell an ox, yet Vattier moved quickly as a cat. He didn’t shake his hand but bowed and studied Matthias from head to toe, his light green eyes betraying no emotion.
‘You are a clerk?’ Vattier’s voice was slightly guttural.
‘So they say,’ Matthias replied.
‘Well, they are mistaken.’ Vattier suddenly stretched out one great hand and squeezed Matthias’ shoulder. ‘You are a swordsman, not an archer or a lancer, but a swordsman.’
‘How can you tell, Vattier?’ Rosamund quipped.
‘It’s in the eyes.’ Vattier let his hand fall and stepped back. ‘It’s in the eyes and the way he moves his head.’
Matthias felt embarrassed: he was only too pleased when Sir Humphrey introduced Father Hubert, the chaplain. He took an immediate liking to the small, cheery-faced friar with his lined face, kindly eyes, badly cropped hair: his chin and cheeks were clearly scarred by clumsy attempts to shave. The friar squeezed Matthias’ fingers, his soft, brown eyes twinkling with pleasure.
‘I’m glad you are here, Matthias,’ he said.
‘Come on, let’s eat,’ Sir Humphrey said.
He led the visitors and his own party across the bailey and into the hall. This was a long, barn-like room, the beams painted black, the walls above the wooden panelling of white plaster and lime-washed to keep away the flies. Bright cloths, banners and pennants gave the room some colour. The large windows on either side were open, the wooden shutters thrown back to allow the sunlight to stream through. The tables and benches beneath were cleaned and polished. The scrubbed stone floor had no matting or rushes. No dogs lounged about, only a hawk, a hood covering its face, moved up and down its perch, the jesses on its legs jingling like fairy chimes. Sir Humphrey took them up to the dais, shouting orders to the servants: these scurried in from the scullery behind the screens, bringing large platters of dried meat, cheese and honey.
Father Hubert said the grace and they sat down around the table. Matthias kept silent. Sir Humphrey and the rest now turned to Vane, asking him questions about the King, the recent civil war and the royal victory at East Stoke. Vane chattered back, apparently on good terms with Sir Humphrey and the others. Matthias kept his eyes down, concentrating on the food. When he glanced up, Rosamund was no longer staring at him but imitating the way he sat, morosely popping pieces of food into his mouth. He blushed, drained his tankard and said he wished to take some air.
Matthias went out and wandered round the inner bailey, finding out the small warren behind the hall; the well-kept herb gardens; the bakehouse and fleshing room. The castle seemed a well-ordered community. Matthias accepted this would be his life for at least three years and found he didn’t really care. After the turmoil of Oxford and Dublin, the frenetic and suspicious atmosphere of the Pretender’s court, Barnwick would be an attractive alternative.
But Matthias also wondered how long it would last. How long before the Rose Demon made its presence felt? He wandered the keep, going up a narrow, spiral, stone staircase; a gaunt, bleak place with stark rooms and narrow galleries. Servants and soldiers passed him by, some smiled, others looked curiously at this stranger. He heard Vane calling him below.
‘I’m glad you left,’ the master-of-arms explained when Matthias rejoined him. ‘It gave me a chance to describe who you were and why you had been elevated to this exalted position.’
‘Will they trust me?’ Matthias asked.
