Sir Humphrey’s favourite hawk soaring in the breezes above them. He closed the shutter.
‘Help me! Oh, please help me!’ A woman’s voice, low and pleading.
Matthias’ spine tingled. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘
Matthias walked to the door.
‘Piss off, clerk!’ This time the voice was male, guttural. ‘Go away! Leave us alone! Why do you bring the seigneur here?’
Matthias stood in the entrance to the chamber. The door, half-open, swung as if to smash into him. He stepped sideways. The door abruptly stopped moving as if some invisible hand had gripped it. Matthias continued on down the stairs. It was now biting cold as on a harsh winter’s day. He refused to be cowed.
‘Plead for us!’ The woman’s voice was low, soothing. ‘Please, plead for us!’
Matthias glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and stared open-mouthed: a young woman’s face was forming in the wall as if some invisible sculptor were carving quickly. He glimpsed high cheekbones, parted lips, wide staring eyes and, beside it, another face, as if the plaster on the wall were bubbling under some tremendous heat. This second face was like that of a gargoyle, harsh and cruel, with pointed nose and slobbering lips. Matthias retreated down the steps. Despite a feeling of wild panic, he moved carefully. He sniffed. The stench was terrible, like that from an open coffin or a sewer full of putrid dirt. There was a sound behind him, he whirled round. A man stood there. His pasty white face, popping eyes and parted lips reminded Matthias of the face being formed on the wall. He was dressed like a priest in a black mantle from neck to toe. Matthias’ hand fell to his dagger. The man was coming towards him, not climbing the steps but gliding slowly.
‘Get ye gone!’
Matthias nipped his thigh. Was he asleep? In the space behind this awful figure which moved so slowly, so smoothly towards him, were others: Rahere the clerk, the Preacher, Santerre, Amasia, Fitzgerald but not Mairead. There were others, he couldn’t make out their faces: a host from Hell, their staring eyes full of blood. Matthias opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry, his tongue clove to the top of his mouth. Then suddenly he felt warm. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the stairway. The phantasms retreated and vanished like puffs of smoke swirling up into the air.
19
Matthias and Rosamund were betrothed within the week and, on 18 October, the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist, they were married in the castle chapel by Father Hubert. Matthias’ courtship had been impulsive and passionate. The deep love between the new clerk and the Constable’s daughter was the worst kept secret in the castle. Once Rosamund knew Matthias felt the same, she was too headstrong, too impulsive, too honest to assume the role of the coy, simpering maid. She just sat through every meal smiling at Matthias. He, in turn, stared rapturously back, much to the exasperation of Sir Humphrey and everyone else. Where Matthias went Rosamund followed. If she didn’t, he would go looking for her.
Matthias was frightened by his experiences in the north tower but, there again, or so he reasoned, he was growing accustomed to such manifestations. He was also ruthlessly determined not to let such phenomena interfere in his new-found happiness. And Matthias was happy; for the first time in his life, so he told a mystified Father Hubert, he knew what happiness really was. He confessed as much, quietly pointing out that happiness was thinking of the other and not about one’s self. Rosamund was, truly, all he could think about. She was like no one he had ever met, so honest, so direct, so lovely. When he was away from her, Matthias felt he was incomplete. For the first time since his traumatic childhood days, he felt reconciled, deeply at peace. If Rosamund was by his side then whom should he fear? He would go down to the gates of Hell and back. He was happy at Barnwick. He had proved himself to be a very good clerk. There were worse careers than promotion in the royal service. He said as much to Sir Humphrey when the Constable decided to confront him just before Michaelmas.
The Constable was anxious but secretly pleased with the match. He had taken close counsel with Father Hubert and they had both reached the same sensible conclusion. Rosamund, for the first and only time in her life, had fallen deeply in love. She was as smitten by Matthias as he by her. The Constable confessed that he knew little about this intelligent young clerk but what he did he liked.
‘If he leaves,’ Sir Humphrey confided, ‘Rosamund’s heart will break. I know her.’
The priest nodded solemnly. ‘More importantly, Sir Humphrey,’ Father Hubert replied, ‘we live in a castle, and two young people, their passions running hot. .?’
‘Better to marry than to burn,’ Sir Humphrey joked, quoting St Paul.
‘I can only report what I see,’ the old priest declared. ‘Sir Humphrey, I am well past three score years. I know the human soul. I have seen sin and virtue. Matthias Fitzosbert is a good man. He is mysterious but he is good. More importantly, he loves your daughter.’
Sir Humphrey had been convinced. So, when Matthias blurted out his passion, the Constable sat in his high-backed chair, listening carefully. He agreed, and glancing at his daughter’s face so radiant with happiness, he forced back the tears, for in that moment he remembered her mother and his own hot passion so many years ago.
After that meeting Matthias felt as if he were in Heaven. Every day seemed golden. He could only control his excitement and elation by hacking with his sword at poor Vattier or riding like a demon from hell across the heathland. His joy was shared by the entire garrison. Everyone wished him and his bride every happiness. Golden days, as Sir Humphrey had proclaimed: the weather was good, the harvest would be rich and the truce with the Scots seemed to be holding.
The wedding day itself was a glorious climax to this happiness. Matthias, in a jerkin and hose of dark murrey bought him by Vattier, and a white cambric shirt which was the gift of Father Hubert, met Rosamund at the chapel door. He swore his vows, gazing into her eyes, before leading her by the hand up to the two prie-dieus placed before the altar. After the nuptial Mass his bride was snatched away, Matthias was seized by the men of the garrison, led by Sir Humphrey, and taken to the hall where everyone drank deeply and, much to Father Hubert’s embarrassment, exchanged ribald stories and sly comments accompanied by nudges and winks.
In the evening a great banquet was held. Matthias and Rosamund sat at the high table, served by Sir Humphrey and Vattier. The rest of the garrison, men, women and children, thronged the tables below the dais and drowned out the poor musicians Sir Humphrey had hired specially from Carlisle. The evening wore on. Matthias made sure his wine was generously watered. He felt so happy he dare not turn and glance at Rosamund. Sometimes, as he watched the people laugh, joke and dance, or smelt the sweet odours from the kitchen and buttery, he thought he was having one of his dreams. Surely he would be punched, nipped or kicked awake and find himself lying in some squalid room or filthy cell.
Outside the sun began to set. Matthias wondered if it was time he and his bride left their guests to their pleasures, when the door to the hall was thrust open. Two soldiers came running in, faces white, eyes staring. They searched out Sir Humphrey, drawing him aside, whispering to him, gesturing towards the door. The laughter and talk died, the music subsided. Sir Humphrey, his face grave, came over to the high table.
‘Matthias, Vattier, Father Hubert, you’d best come with me! No, Rosamund, you stay. Look after the guests, tell them all is well.’
The Constable led his party out into the keep. Even as he followed, Matthias’ head cleared of the wine fumes. His happiness was tinged by dread. As soon as he entered the keep, he heard the cries and groans echoing along the gallery of the north tower. One of the soldiers took a pitch torch out of its iron holder, but he was trembling so much that Matthias grabbed it from him and led the rest of them on. Sir Humphrey swore under his breath. Father Hubert began chanting a prayer. The stone passageway was icy cold, filled with the rottenness of decay yet it was the shrieks and cries behind the locked door to the north tower which chilled their blood.
‘It began about an hour ago,’ one of the soldiers whispered. ‘At first I thought it was some joke. Listen now!’
They all did. The groans and screams stopped.
‘Oh Lord save us!’
