Father Hubert walked slowly back into the room and, without any coaxing from Matthias, continued with the Mass. He took the Eucharist and gave Matthias the host and the chalice. When he had finished, he sat back on the small stool, staring through the doorway. Matthias was deeply concerned by the look on the priest’s face. He had aged and sat like a broken man, chest heaving, eyes flitting round the room as if he could barely sense where he was.
‘What is it, Father?’ Matthias came up beside him.
The priest smiled gently. He tugged at a lock of Matthias’ hair.
‘I think we were successful, Matthias. The tortured soul who dwelt here has moved on. But the other?’ He shook his head. ‘There is nothing you or I can do any more.’
The priest’s words proved prophetic. In the days following the Feast of All Souls, the strange manifestation in the north tower subsided. The cost to the old priest, however, was great. He collapsed one morning in the chapel, just after saying Mass, and was carried to his bed. Matthias found there was nothing he could do.
‘Don’t send for a physician.’ Father Hubert grasped his hand. ‘Matthias, I was born to be a priest. I have tried to live my life as a priest. I am going to die as a priest.’ His head went back on the bolster. ‘I’m at peace with God, with my fellow man. I have nothing to take with me.’ He coughed. ‘I am only sorry I am leaving my friends.’
Matthias studied the old priest’s drooping eyes, the sheen of sweat on his head, his rapid breathing. He immediately sent for Sir Humphrey, Rosamund and Vattier. They came at once. Sir Humphrey brought his Book of Hours and, apart from Vattier who couldn’t read, they passed round, reciting prayers and psalms. The old priest lay silent, eyes closed. Only by touching the faint pulse in his neck did Matthias learn he was still with them. The hours passed. It was night before Matthias advised all three of them to leave, that he would stay by the bed and watch. Sir Humphrey and Vattier went. Rosamund remained but, when her eyes began to close and her head drooped, Matthias whispered she should leave. She had hardly left, her footsteps faint down the gallery, when Father Hubert turned, his eyes open, staring fixedly at Matthias.
‘I’m going now,’ he whispered.
Matthias made to rise but the priest’s hands caught his arm.
‘Stay with me, Matthias. We’ll all meet again merrily in Heaven. I shall pray for you, Matthias. I have dreamt about you. You face such a hideous struggle but when it comes, the time of testing. .’ The breath in the priest’s throat rattled. He paused. ‘When it comes,’ he continued weakly, ‘the time of testing, I shall be with you.’
His fingers slipped away. Father Hubert gave one sigh, his head slumping to the side. Matthias leant over. There was no longer any blood beat in the neck. The flesh was already growing cold. Matthias closed his eyes, whispered the requiem for this good little priest and sent for the others.
Three days later, a priest came from one of the outlying villages. He sang the requiem in the castle chapel and Father Hubert’s corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was buried in the small cemetery in a far corner of the outer bailey. His death created gloom and despondency in the castle. The priest had been respected and popular. For weeks afterwards, little mementoes were placed on his grave. A collection was made amongst the garrison for a special cross to be carved and Father Hubert’s name be inscribed upon it. The general mood was not helped as the weather grew worse: dark, lowering clouds, bitter winds.
At the beginning of December, just as the garrison prepared for Christmas, the snow began to fall. At first, it was only small flurries, but by Christmas Eve it started to lie and there was no break in the clouds. Matthias, together with Sir Humphrey and Rosamund, celebrated a quiet Christmas. Father Hubert’s death still affected them and it didn’t seem right for no Christmas Mass to be sung or prayers to be said.
‘It’s the same in every castle,’ Sir Humphrey declared as they sat before the fire in the solar, sipping mulled wine. ‘It will take months before we get a suitable replacement.’ He smiled at Matthias. ‘It will mean plenty of letters to the abbots and priors of local monasteries.’
‘I wish he was here.’ Rosamund, wrapped in a fur robe, cradled the wine cup in her hands.
‘Don’t we all.’ Sir Humphrey gently brushed her hand.
‘Especially today,’ she continued. ‘Christ’s birth. I would have liked to ask him.’
‘Ask him what?’ Matthias stared curiously at Rosamund. Over the last two or three weeks she had become secretive, rather withdrawn, though happy enough. Now she sat dreamy-eyed.
‘I’d ask him,’ she replied slowly, ‘to baptise our child.’
Matthias nearly fell out of his chair. Sir Humphrey sat as if he had been pole-axed.
‘You?’ Matthias couldn’t comprehend it. Here, in the solar with the flames merrily crackling round the logs, the windows and doors sealed, the air fragrant with the herbs thrown on the fire and the braziers. He felt as he had on his wedding day, an excitement which made him want to either sit and revel in it or jump to his feet and dance.
‘Don’t you ever ask?’ Rosamund teased. ‘Don’t you know a woman’s courses should come every month and I’ve missed mine for a second time!’
‘But we’ve only just got married!’
Rosamund threw her head back and cried with laughter. She grasped Matthias’ hand and kissed her bemused husband on the cheek.
‘What did you expect?’ she whispered. ‘Some people go to bed to sleep, Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘I think you’d best take care of your father,’ Matthias, embarrassed, whispered back.
Sir Humphrey was still staring, mouth gaping: his face lit with pleasure. He put his cup down and hugged Rosamund: he shook Matthias’ hand so vigorously, the young man thought it would fall off. Sir Humphrey did a little dance then, pacing up and down the chamber, still shaking his head.
‘I’ve got to tell someone,’ he declared and, spinning on his heel, walked out of the room.
‘He’ll tell everyone,’ Rosamund whispered.
He did. Within the hour, Vattier and others of the garrison found some excuse to come up to the solar, their faces bright with smiles. Rosamund was kissed, Matthias’ hand ached with being clasped so much.
Matthias himself couldn’t believe it. For the remaining few days of the year he kept pestering his wife: ‘Are you sure? Are you well?’
Eventually she threatened to box his ears if he didn’t shut up.
The New Year was greeted with joy and acclamation. The news of Rosamund’s condition was soon known to everyone in the castle. Sir Humphrey, ever genial and generous, could not be restrained in organising celebrations. Even the weather became more clement, the snow stopped falling, the clouds began to break. A weak sun turned the inner and outer baileys into pools of muddy slush. Sir Humphrey and Matthias insisted on following Rosamund around, terrified that she’d slip on a stair or fall on the ice, badgering her to stay indoors and sit by the fire.
On the day after the Epiphany, matters changed again. A sentry on the great gateway chilled the castle by blowing three warning blasts on the war horn: the agreed signal that some danger was approaching. Sir Humphrey and Matthias were chatting in the Chancery. They seized their war belts and hurried out to see what was the matter. Vattier met them at the door of the gatehouse.
‘Riders,’ he said. ‘Some distance away. Two of them but they are coming as fast as they can. I’ve ordered the drawbridge to be raised and the portcullis dropped.’
‘Only two?’ Matthias interrupted.
‘They may be scouts!’ Vattier snapped. ‘We can take no chances!’
In the end the riders proved to be messengers. Sir Humphrey and Matthias took them to the solar.
‘We are from Lord Henry Percy. My name is David Deveraux.’ The principal messengertook out a scroll of parchment from his wallet. He handed this to Sir Humphrey who, in turn, gave it to Matthias. ‘This is Bogodis, my squire.’
Matthias studied the two men. Deveraux was tall, fair-haired, chubby-faced, clean-shaven and clear-eyed. He was fidgety, nervous.
‘My feet are like blocks of ice,’ he protested.
Sir Humphrey waved them to stools in front of the fire. Deveraux took off his cloak, pulled off his boots and sighed. Bogodis was small and dark: crooked-faced, one eye much lower than the other, thin-nosed, a perpetual sneer on his lips. He kept fingering the dagger stuck in his belt and was as restless as his master. Sir Humphrey served them some wine and shouted for a servant to bring platters of food from the kitchen.
Matthias undid the scroll; it was a letter from Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, giving safe conduct to
