because of any invisible force or lord of the air. I just love you. You are the beginning and the end of my life.’ He crouched down beside her. ‘And you?’
‘If I did not love you, Matthias, if I did not trust you completely,’ her eyes held his, ‘I would say you were a madcap, witless, yet I have seen the pain. I can see the shadows in your eyes.’ She grasped his hand. ‘And I tell you this, Fitzosbert the Grim. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor height nor breadth, no power on earth or beyond will ever stop me loving you.’ She touched his lips. ‘I believe what Father Hubert says, what you say. Every person born on this earth has their own demon to fight. And you are right: it is a matter of the will — some give in, some don’t. Whatever comes, Matthias,’ her nails dug into his hands, ‘I will be with you!’
‘You must keep it a secret,’ Matthias whispered, folding her into his arms. ‘No one must know. To you I can speak the truth, others will not understand.’
Matthias gazed up at the sky. The clouds were massing to block out the sun. Shadows crossed the ruin. The breeze had turned chill. Somewhere a bird called low and haunting as nature mourned the passing of the year. Matthias pressed Rosamund fiercely to him. One thought had occurred, one he dare not share with her. He was being watched by that Dark Lord, that Duke of Hell, the Rose Demon, so what would happen now? Would the demon resent Rosamund? And, before he could stop it, Matthias began to pray, not to God — only halfway through did he stop in shock — he was praying to the Rose Demon! He was begging that invisible being not to lay his hand, or turn his power, against this, the love of his life. He recalled Parson Osbert and intoned the prayer, whispering, ‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy.’
Rosamund pushed him away.
‘Do you pray often, Matthias? I mean, we all sketch the sign of the cross, babble our Paternosters or Ave Marias. We stick our tongues out and take the Eucharist but do you really ever pray?’
Matthias glanced down. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘God forgive me, Rosamund, I don’t. I pray as you say. I also become full of self-pity, and yet is my lot any worse than anyone else’s? The thousands of Oxford’s troops slaughtered on the banks of the Trent? Or Mairead, probably ravished before her throat was cut? Or Amasia, who probably died in some hapless accident? Or Agatha, who danced so well?’ He lifted Rosamund to her feet. ‘Or the poor ones, the little people of the soil, slaughtered and exploited in their thousands by the great barons?’ He gripped her hands. ‘Aristotle said nature is where the strong survive, the weak are helpless. I often wonder why God doesn’t intervene. We might believe in him but does He really believe in us?’
‘I pray.’ Rosamund’s answer was direct. ‘I pray and I mean it. God does intervene.’ She fought back her tears. ‘If there wasn’t a God, I wouldn’t have met you.’
Matthias found he could not answer that. He crouched down and neatly folded the pieces of linen which had held their food.
‘We must go,’ he muttered. ‘The weather is changing.’
Rosamund went behind him, putting her hands over his eyes.
‘I’ll never change,’ she whispered. ‘Remember that, Fitzosbert the Grim. I shall pray for both of us.’
They returned to the castle. Matthias felt himself purged, shriven, absolved. He had told Rosamund the truth and recognised she loved him all the more for that. Never once in the succeeding days did she refer to his story again but became more determined to build her life around him. Sir Humphrey, the ever-doting father, talked of extending the hall, of constructing special quarters for Rosamund and her husband.
Matthias, once the week of celebration was over, returned to his duties. There was parchment to prepare, skins to be treated, quills to be fashioned, ink to make. Accounts and letters had to be drawn up, stores checked. The change in the weather made itself felt: heavy, lowering clouds; biting winds. Sir Humphrey declared the castle well provisioned, the truce against the Scots was holding and life went on as before.
‘Indeed,’ the Constable announced, ‘we will celebrate All-Hallows and, in a few weeks when Advent comes, we must collect the holly and ivy. This Christmas,’ he declared, ‘will be one to remember.’
Matthias, sitting at his desk, tensed. He had always been wary of the feast of All-Hallows. In his youth he had, on that date, kept well away from others, greatly relieved when All-Hallows Eve, that dreadful anniversary of what had happened at Sutton Courteny, had come and gone.
On the day in question he woke tense and stiff, finding it difficult to concentrate. He was so abrupt and evasive that Sir Humphrey looked askance whilst Father Hubert wondered if he was coming down with a fever. Only Rosamund, sitting next to him at table, remained quiet and, when she could, gently stroked the back of his hand.
‘It’s just the change in the weather,’ he murmured.
‘Unless, dear Matthias,’ she replied, ‘you’re already sickening of the marriage state!’
He tried to joke back yet, for the rest of that day, he could not shake off a sense of foreboding, of quiet menace. He did not join the rest for supper in the hall but retired to his own chamber. He lit a candle beneath the crucifix which hung on the wall and, kneeling on the small prie-dieu beneath it, prayed for God’s protection, and that He’d bring those who had died at Sutton Courteny so many years ago to a place of peace and light. He lay down on the bed, pretending to leaf through a Book of Hours, studying the fine cursive script and jewel-like pictures. He was not surprised when, after a while, he heard a distant clamour, shouts of alarm, followed by pounding footsteps on the stairs outside. Vattier, still wearing his conical helmet and dressed in leather brigandine as captain of the night watch, burst into the room.
‘Master Matthias, you’d best come! Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert are outside the north tower!’
Matthias put his boots on and followed the sergeant-at-arms. The bailey was pitch-dark, lit only by cresset torches, which flickered and danced where they had been placed away from the biting night breeze. Soldiers had gathered at the foot of the steps. Vattier pushed through these, ignoring their murmuring, and led Matthias up into the gallery. At first the silence was so intense Matthias thought there had been some misunderstanding. Sir Humphrey and Father Hubert were sitting in a window embrasure. The lighted candle Sir Humphrey held in his hand made their faces look drawn and grey. Matthias looked towards the door leading to the north tower. He felt the cold but could see no light or detect any vile odour, nor any of the usual manifestations associated with this haunting. He was about to ask why they had brought him, when the most heart-rending screams came from the tower. These were followed by a man singing. At first Matthias thought it was the chanting of a monk until it turned into a loud, foulsome ranting, a macabre mimicking of the Divine Office: curses, foul epithets, obscene remarks.
‘It started within the hour,’ Father Hubert whispered. ‘I really do think I should go in.’
Matthias shook his head. ‘No, Father, I will.’ He smiled down at both of them. ‘Vattier can guard the door. Now is not my wedding night.’
‘In which case. .’ Father Hubert got to his feet. He brought from beneath his cloak a small, silver pyx which contained the consecrated host. It shimmered and glittered in the candlelight. Without asking, he thrust this into a small pocket inside the lining of Matthias’ jerkin. He also took the small, wooden cross he wore round his neck and looped the rough cord over Matthias’ head. ‘These will protect you,’ he whispered.
Matthias blessed himself and walked down the gallery. Vattier came with him. The sergeant-at-arms carried a torch. When they reached the door he thrust this into Matthias’ hand. Vattier’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, like a man sick with the fever.
‘Against sword and buckler,’ he whispered, ‘I have no fear. But, in God’s name, Master Matthias, what is this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Matthias’ reply was clipped. ‘But lock the door behind me. Only open it at my command.’
Vattier turned the key in the lock, the door swung open. Matthias stepped into the small alcove. He lifted the torch and saw the stairs twisting away up into the darkness. It was bitterly cold but he could detect nothing else. He walked up the stairs, carefully reciting a prayer. He reached the first gallery and stepped into the deserted room as he had done before. This time the door slammed quickly behind him. Matthias spun round.
‘In God’s name, who are you?’ he called.
‘In God’s name, who are you?’ The reply was low and mocking. ‘How dare you interfere in my pleasures?’
‘No pleasure!’
This time it was a woman’s voice, low and tired. Matthias lifted the torch. He could see nothing though he felt a presence, a feeling of sadness, of quiet despair.
‘I speak to the woman,’ he called out. ‘Who are you?’
‘Maude. My name is Maude.’
