Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘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.

‘Oh, they’ll trust you! Look around, Matthias. Where can you go?’ Vane clapped him on the shoulder and drew him closer. ‘Matthias, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’m glad I met you. You were no trouble on our journey north. You are a good companion. I think you have many secrets but that’s your business. Let’s go back to the hall. Sir Humphrey is going to celebrate our arrival as well as my early departure tomorrow.’

Matthias found that he was soon accepted as one of the castle garrison. No one seemed really to care that he had fought against the King. As Vane, quite the worse for drink later in the day, commented: ‘Everyone has secrets whilst both myself and Sir Humphrey have fought for both York and Lancaster.’