his faithful squire Deveraux. Matthias studied the red seal bearing the imprint of the Percy lion. He tossed the letter on to a table and walked across to stand behind Sir Humphrey.
‘We’ve travelled far and fast,’ Bogodis declared, rubbing his feet. ‘The truce with Scotland is over.’
Sir Humphrey groaned.
‘As you know,’ Bogodis continued, ‘King James III is having trouble with his barons. They have hanged his favourites in Edinburgh and brought the King to book. King James hopes to unite the country in a war against the “auld enemy”. He’s sent out writs ordering levies. The great nobles are bringing their men in. They could be over the border within days.’
‘At the dead of winter?’ Sir Humphrey exclaimed.
‘They are on the move already,’ Deveraux spoke up. ‘We have seen the banners of James’s principal commander, the Black Douglas.’
‘And what advice does the Lord Percy give?’ Sir Humphrey asked.
Deveraux shrugged. ‘Be on your guard. Keep the drawbridge up, the battlements manned. Don’t send parties out into the countryside, they could be ambushed.’
‘And you?’ Matthias asked.
He had taken an immediate dislike to both men but couldn’t understand why, which made him feel guilty. Perhaps he just resented them as outsiders. They were intruders, bringing harsh news into the castle, reminding Matthias that there was a world beyond the walls: cold, bloody and threatening. Bogodis looked up at him.
‘We have ridden hard and long,’ he retorted. ‘We are tired, our horses spent. Sir Humphrey, if you will, a few days to rest and then we’ll continue.’
‘There are other riders out,’ Deveraux added. ‘We are to do what we can, then return.’
Sir Humphrey thanked them and beckoned Matthias into the Chancery. The Constable sat on a stool and rubbed his face.
‘I don’t like this,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the dead of winter. The roads are clogged with mud. Snow covers the moors.’
‘Could a Scottish raiding party move south so quickly?’ Matthias asked anxiously.
‘Oh yes,’ Sir Humphrey replied. ‘The snow melts and there are trackways and byways. They have done it before. Have you ever seen Scottish horses, Matthias? Stout little garrons, they are half-wild and roam the glens. Our snow-covered moors will be little problem for them. All we can do is pray that the snow returns. What we need is it laying thick and fast. For the rest?’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll tell Vattier no patrols are to be sent out. We’ll keep a watch.’
In the end the sky fully cleared. The sun, weak though it was, melted the snow even further round the castle. Matthias’ anxiety deepened as the tenor of the castle changed. Stores had to be carefully counted, armaments readied, a constant watch by day and night. On the Feast of St Hilary, as Matthias was breaking his fast with Rosamund and Vattier, he heard the distant braying of the war horn and the alarm being raised. He told Rosamund to go back to their chamber, and followed Vattier out up into the high tower of the gatehouse. He didn’t need the guards’ explanation, a dark plume of smoke stained the horizon.
‘God help us!’ Vattier breathed. ‘There’s a farm burning out there. The bastards are coming!’
Vattier again sounded the war horn. The children stopped playing in the outer and inner baileys and were led away by their white-faced mothers. Soldiers tumbled out of their lodgings, fully armed. Vattier and Matthias went down to check the drawbridge was up and the portcullis down and locked. They continued their long vigil.
On the following day, just before noon, Matthias glimpsed small, dark figures on the horizon. At first they reminded him of ants creeping down a white-washed wall, just a few at first. Leaning over the battlements he strained his eyes against the whiteness of the landscape and made out horse and riders. He tried to calm the churning in his stomach. Within the hour there were more. Soon, a dark mass of horse and foot were moving slowly but inexorably towards the castle. They fanned out, reminding Matthias of the horns of a bull: on each wing, horsemen; men-at-arms in the centre; carts behind a dark, seething mass.
Every man stood to arms and, by late in the afternoon, the enemy had gathered across the frozen moat. They included mounted men-at-arms and a whole mass of lightly armed foot soldiers dressed in a motley collection of rags, braids and cloaks. Matthias recalled the Irish that had fought at East Stoke, with their rounded shields and long stabbing dirks. Slowly, the Scots force, under the brilliant banners of its commanders, fanned out along the moat and pitched camp. Tents and pavilions were set up: bothies made out of branches and pieces of wood, for the common soldiers. Fires were lit and Matthias caught the stench of burning meat. He also heard the faint cries and taunts of the enemy. Now and again, the lightly armed men would come down to the edge of the water to shriek insults in a tongue Matthias couldn’t understand.
‘They are well provisioned,’ Sir Humphrey remarked. ‘See the carts, Matthias. They would have left Scotland empty, but between here and the border lie solitary farms. These have been plundered for food, fodder for their horses, wood for their kindling. When they need more, they’ll simply send out foraging parties.’
‘But why here?’ Matthias asked. ‘Sir Humphrey, Barnwick is guarded by a gatehouse and walls, not to mention a stout garrison. The Scots have no siege weapons. All we have to do is sit here and wait.’
Sir Humphrey took his helmet off and scratched the back of his neck.
‘I know, Matthias. That’s bothering me.’ He crouched down and drew a line in the dirty snow. ‘These are the English defences along the Scottish march,’ he explained. ‘A line of strong castles, fortified garrisons. The Scots very rarely attack us because, as you say, that takes siege equipment. However, there’s always the chance the Scots may take one castle, punch a hole in the line of defence and continue south. They could do so quickly, ravage the lands in the south where they are least expected and then retreat back into Scotland before the Warden of the northern march can muster his levies.’
‘Why don’t they just go round us?’ Matthias asked.
‘That’s dangerous,’ Vattier broke in, helping Sir Humphrey back to his feet. ‘Once they pass us, we know where they are going. We can send warnings and, when the Scots return, the rest of the castles would amass a force and be waiting for them.’
Matthias looked down at the sprawling camp, listening to their faint cries, watching the flames of the fires grow stronger. The Scots had already set up picket lines, riders being despatched back from where they had come.
‘The other castles don’t know they are here,’ Sir Humphrey explained. ‘And, even if they did, they daren’t send for help.’ He gestured at the enemy. ‘This may only be a raiding party, more waiting further north, looking for one of the castles to weaken itself.’ Sir Humphrey leaned over the battlements. ‘I wonder what he wants?’
Matthias followed his gaze. A knight, his face hidden by a conical helmet, his great cloak flapping behind him, rode slowly down to the edge of the moat and stared up at the castle. He turned, raising one hand, and shouted. Six archers ran forward.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Vattier shouted. ‘Down!’
Sir Humphrey pushed Matthias beneath the crenellations. He heard a whirring noise which awoke nightmares from the battle of East Stoke: the arrows came flying over the battlements, smashing against stone or falling aimlessly into the bailey below.
Matthias peered over the battlements. The six archers, followed by the horseman, were now going back to the Scottish camp. Sir Humphrey clicked his fingers, told Matthias and Vattier to join him and went down to the gatehouse.
‘Now, that’s a surprise,’ Vattier grinned.
‘Yes, it is.’
Sir Humphrey stamped his foot, squeezing his nose, a common gesture whenever he was perplexed or worried.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he muttered. ‘First those Scots can no more break in here than I can fly. They can stay out there and rot till the Second Coming. Secondly, the Scots are not the best archers but they have master bowmen with them. Perhaps twenty, maybe even thirty?’
‘Longbows and arrows can’t take a castle,’ Matthias remarked.
‘No,’ Sir Humphrey sighed, ‘but they can divert us and make sure we keep our heads down. Vattier, let the men know.’
Despite Vattier’s warnings, the Scottish longbow men had some luck with their targets, the occasional sentry
