The Rose Demon

21

Matthias was too frightened, too tongue-tied to offer any explanation. He just advised Sir Humphrey that the corpse be removed and stumbled back to his own chamber. He did not sleep that night but slouched in a chair. The Rose Demon was back, incarnated in some person in the garrison: the macabre killings had begun again. The night seemed to stretch like an eternity. He just sat and waited for Rosamund to wake and, when she did just after daybreak, he told her in clipped sentences what he had seen the previous evening. Rosamund sat up, her back against the bolsters, her long hair flowing down over her shoulders. She was so calm, so unperturbed, Matthias was surprised.

‘Of course I expected it,’ she snapped crossly. ‘Matthias, do you think I am a numbskull? When you told me, that day we went to the wall, I knew then this being would not leave us alone. The question is who? And why now?’

‘Deveraux or Bogodis?’ Matthias asked. ‘They are strangers here. Until now everything has been quiet.’

‘They are sinister,’ Rosamund replied. ‘I know you don’t like them. They are shifty, secretive and certainly deserve watching, but we’ll have to see.’

The news of Anna’s death soon spread amongst the garrison. Matthias felt a slight shift in feelings towards him, dark looks whilst muttered conversations abruptly stopped whenever he appeared. Even Sir Humphrey seemed a little cold. Rosamund was blunt.

‘Matthias, Matthias,’ she put her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek, ‘people have memories. The hauntings in the north tower, the death of Father Hubert, the appearance of the Scots and now this. They put it down to you, but it will pass as all black moods do. You wait and see!’

In the end she was wrong, terribly so. Matthias was accustomed to take guard duty in the late afternoon. He went up into the gatehouse. By now he was bored with the Scots so he and the two guards sat down, their backs to the wall. The soldiers, wrapped in their cloaks, dozed, protected against the cold biting wind. Matthias simply crossed his arms and thought about Anna’s death. He tried to piece together what had happened, wondering if he should advise Sir Humphrey to send Deveraux and Bogodis out of Barnwick.

He heard someone climbing the steps and thought a servant, or perhaps one of the soldier’s women, was bringing food and drink. He heard his name called and looked up. Rosamund was coming towards him. She had a small bowl wrapped in a towel, he could see the steam curling up from it. She was wearing a bright red shawl across her shoulders, pulled up to protect her neck and the back of her head. It was like a dream. She was smiling at him: so happy to see her husband, she had forgotten about the Scots. She was walking directly in line to a gap between the crenellations. Matthias moved, he knew the bright red cloth would present a target but, even as he scrambled to his feet, he heard the death-bearing whirr in the air. A yard-long shaft with its plume of black feathers struck Rosamund full in the chest. She stopped, eyes closing, head down. The bowl dropped from her hands. The other two soldiers sprang to their feet, crossbows at the ready. They loosed back but the damage was done. Matthias could only squat and stare down at Rosamund, horror-struck, as the blood snaked out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Rosamund! Rosamund!’

Her face was white as alabaster. She coughed and opened her eyes. One of the soldiers was already running downstairs, shouting for Sir Humphrey. Matthias lay down beside her; putting his arm beneath her shoulder, he lifted her up as if they were in their bed. He couldn’t believe, he couldn’t accept what was happening.

‘Rosamund, my sweet.’ He pulled her towards him. Her mouth opened. He kissed her on the lips. Already they were cold. ‘Rosamund!’ he screamed.

She opened her eyes, the lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.

‘I love you, Matthias Fitzosbert. I have always loved you. I always will. Don’t you believe that?’ She paused, coughing on her own blood. ‘I’ll always. .’ she gasped. He hugged her close. ‘. . I’ll always be with you.’

Her body shuddered. When he looked down, her eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted. He felt for the blood pulse in her neck but it was gone. There was clattering on the steps. Sir Humphrey was beside him on all fours like a dog. He crouched like a child, hands to his mouth and began to sob.

Matthias couldn’t accept it. He tugged at the arrow, felt his wife’s wrists, then a blackness came over him. He was up, screaming at the sky and ran to the battlements shouting obscenities, filling the air with his curses. He tried to take a crossbow from one of the soldiers. Men were struggling with him. He was pushed down to the ground. A soldier he knew to be called Dickon was pressing him down. The fellow only had one eye, the other was just a white piece of flesh. Matthias called him a devil. He struggled, trying to get to his feet until a blow to his head knocked him unconsciousness.

Matthias spent the rest of the day a captive in his own chamber. The guard outside kept filling his wine cup, refusing to let him leave. Sir Humphrey came up, Matthias saw his mouth move but couldn’t understand what he was saying.

The next morning he bathed and shaved to attend the paltry ceremony in the small graveyard. He watched his wife’s body being committed to the earth. He knelt by the grave but found he couldn’t pray and, when he looked up, Sir Humphrey was kneeling on the other side, glaring balefully at him.

‘You are cursed, Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he muttered. ‘I curse the day you came to Barnwick. You are devil’s spawn! If it were not for Rosamund, I’d execute you now and send you back to Hell!’

The Constable staggered to his feet, his face sodden with drink. ‘You have one more day in Barnwick,’ he rasped. ‘Tomorrow I’ll drive you out of the castle. What the Scots do to you,’ he threw his head back and spat at Matthias, ‘I couldn’t give a fig!’

Matthias stayed by the grave. He couldn’t believe this small stretch of ground contained his heart, his soul, his life. Dickon came over and offered him a cup of hot posset. Matthias drank it greedily and stumbled back to his chamber. Everyone he met avoided him. People drew apart. He heard a woman curse. An urchin picked up a piece of ice and flung it at his head.

He reached his chamber and, for a while, he paced up and down talking to himself. Sometimes he’d punch the side of his head. He was asleep, he was sure of it. This was a nightmare and soon he’d wake up, Rosamund would come in and begin her inevitable teasing. The more he paced, the greater the pain. Rosamund’s hair brush, a wimple she had tossed on a chair, two rings from her fingers and, on the window seat, a small jerkin she had been making for their child. Matthias could stand it no more. He fell to his knees and howled like a dog. He took the cross from the wall and ground it beneath the heel of his boot. As he did so he mocked his childhood prayer.

‘Remember this, my soul, and remember this well. There is no God, neither in the heavens above nor in the earth beneath!’ He raged, shouting obscenities, and then lay curled on the floor, staring blindly around him.

‘Are you here?’ he whispered. ‘Are you, the Rose Demon, here? If you are, I call upon you. I do call upon you!’

He heard a knock on the door. A soldier pushed it open, Matthias told him to piss off. The soldier left hurriedly. Matthias scrambled to his feet. He felt clear-headed, strong and certain. He took his war belt and wrapped it around his waist. He went out of the chamber, telling the guard that he wished to take the air. For a while he walked up and down the bailey. A bell rang for the evening meal but Matthias ignored it. He looked for Deveraux and Bogodis, but those who would meet his eye simply shook their heads. He went into the kitchens. The cooks and slatterns avoided his gaze. They worked lacklustrely, chopping pieces of meat, cutting bread and cheese and laying them out on trenchers. Matthias, feeling the effects of the wine, sat down on a stool.

‘Has anyone seen Bogodis and Deveraux?’ he yelled.

All he could see were blank glances. Matthias drew his knife. He went up to the chief cook and pressed the tip of his dagger into the man’s soft, quivering jowls.

‘I asked a question. The two messengers who came here, Deveraux and Bogodis, where are they?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ the man bleated. ‘Sir Humphrey. .’

Matthias let the dagger fall away. He closed his eyes and tried to think. No one would help him. He opened his eyes and smiled, the dagger came back under the cook’s chin.

‘Vattier will help. Where is he?’

‘He’s gone a-courting,’ one of the maids behind him murmured. ‘You know he’s sweet on Caterina, the maid who cleans the chambers.’

‘Oh yes.’ Matthias grinned. ‘And where does he do his courting?’

‘I saw them in the keep.’

Matthias pushed by the cook. He ran out of the kitchens, across the ice-covered bailey and down the steps to the dungeons beneath the keep. Someone was there: the door was open and sconce torches had been lit along the draughty passageways.

Matthias tiptoed along. He heard a sound from a storeroom and paused. He drew both sword and dagger. The door was open. A candle burnt on the ledge. Peering through the gloom, he glimpsed a pair of legs, Caterina’s long, red hair. The rest was hidden by the man leaning over her as if he were kissing her neck. Matthias moved softly towards him. The man’s head came up like a guard dog sensing danger.

‘Ah, Creatura bona atque parva!’

Vattier got slowly to his feet and turned to face him.

The sergeant-at-arms looked no different though the light was poor. Matthias stepped back. Vattier followed him into the pool of light shed by the thick tallow candle.

‘Always the same,’ Matthias murmured. ‘Except for the eyes!’

‘The poet said the eyes are windows of the soul.’

‘You pursued me here,’ Matthias retorted. ‘Why?’

‘I haven’t pursued you.’

Matthias held himself steady. It was Vattier talking, his lips moving, his hands spread in a gesture of peace, but Matthias watched the eyes, bright and searching: that same soft look he had glimpsed in the hermit or when Rahere had bent over him to explain some point.

‘I am here, Matthias, to protect you. I can’t leave you alone. Can a mother forget her babe? Can a lover the beloved?’

‘You brought me misery,’ Matthias accused.

‘Did I now, Matthias? Or did you call on me? I have been here before, long before you were ever born. That old, babbling hermit Pender told you, did he not?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I love you, Matthias.’

‘If you love me, why did Rosamund die?’

‘Matthias. I am not the Lord God. I did not want her death. I have no power over the will, over the individual actions of every man and woman. You were warned, all of you.’ Vattier closed his eyes. ‘I did what I could, Matthias. Believe me, I did what I could.’

Matthias moved sideways and glanced round him. The body of the maid was slumped on the floor.

‘And Caterina is dead. She died giving life: to drink blood is the price I must pay.’ Vattier breathed in deeply.

‘Sir Humphrey is a fool,’ he went on. ‘He should never have allowed Deveraux and Bogodis in, but his mind is fuddled, always fuddled.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too late, Creatura. Every man makes choices. Every man has an intellect and a will. Sir Humphrey has made his.’

‘You were jealous of Rosamund?’

Vattier stepped closer. ‘Creatura-’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘You must leave here. You must keep yourself safe.’

‘Leave me alone!’ Matthias hissed, stepping back. ‘Tell me now you’ll leave me alone!’

‘Creatura, I cannot. I cannot stop, nor can you. The will is immutable, determined. Its choices are made.’

‘I have made my choice.’

Vattier shook his head. ‘Not now, Creatura, now is not the time.’

Matthias heard an uproar outside, the sound of shouting and screaming. Vattier stretched out a hand.

‘Come, Creatura, come with me. They are all dead.’

‘Why, what’s happening?’

Matthias moved to the doorway, the sound of shouting had grown. He could hear the clatter of swords.

‘The Scots are in the castle,’ Vattier said softly. ‘I told you, Sir Humphrey was a fool. Time and again I’d prick your suspicions. I can make you think, Creatura, but I can’t make you decide. Bogodis and Deveraux are spies,’ he continued. ‘They are not messengers from the Percys. They are traitors. Sir Humphrey should have sent them away immediately.’

Mathias stared at him aghast.

‘They are spies,’ Vattier repeated. ‘And, while the garrison supped, they took care of the guards in the gatehouse. The drawbridge has been lowered, the portcullis raised. The Scots are in.’

Matthias, despite his own fears, closed his eyes and groaned. Of course, Bogodis and Deveraux had been their outriders. The Scots had come, sat down and waited until their men were accepted. Vattier was right. Sir Humphrey had been foolish and so he would pay the price.

‘Now you have called on me, I can help. I shall, in the future, send you warnings.’

‘There is no future!’ Matthias whispered.

‘Come with me,’ Vattier urged.

Matthias felt a sudden spurt of blind rage. He brought his sword back and gave a cutting bow. Vattier swerved aside.

‘I’ll kill you!’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘You could have helped us.’

‘I could not, until you called!’ There were tears in Vattier’s eyes.

‘Then draw your sword,’ Matthias hissed. ‘If you love me, draw your sword.’

Vattier did so. Matthias closed: a hacking blow with the sword, a thrust of the dagger, but Vattier blocked this and stepped back. Outside the screams and clamour were growing. Matthias didn’t care. Rosamund was dead. His world was shattered and Vattier, whoever he was, would pay the price. Again he closed, hacking blows, thrusting with his dagger. Vattier used all his skills to dance aside. Matthias heard footfalls outside but still he pressed on. Vattier was looking over his shoulder. Matthias refused to turn. A voice shouted: ‘Not that one!’ There was a click, Vattier was running towards him. The crossbow bolt took the sergeant-at-arms full in the throat. He collapsed to his knees, gave a loud sigh and fell gently sideways.

Matthias whirled round. Armed men stood at the doorway, crossbows at the ready. Deveraux stood in front. They thronged in. One of them knocked the sword from Matthias’ hand. Deveraux kicked Vattier’s corpse.

‘So, you are fighting amongst yourselves now?’

‘Sir Humphrey, where is he?’ demanded Matthias.

‘He’s dead.’ A knight in chain mail came into the room, the sword he held bloody to the hilt. He took off the heavy sallet which covered most of his face. ‘Lord George Douglas,’ he introduced himself.

Matthias stared at the man’s ruddy, stubbly features under the glistening mop of red hair. His face was as pale as the underbelly of a landed fish, a cruel, warlike face; crooked nose above thin lips, eyes which hardly blinked. Douglas scratched an unshaven cheek and gestured with his head.

‘The garrison have surrendered.’

‘Bogodis?’ Deveraux asked.

‘He’s dead. Sir Humphrey killed him.’ He glanced at Matthias. ‘You must be his son-in-law?’ Douglas sat down on a cask. ‘I tried to save Sir Humphrey, God knows I did, but he refused my terms and fought like a madman!’ Douglas looked round. ‘So, what’s been happening here?’

‘We’ve been entertaining traitors,’ Matthias snapped.

A soldier went to seize Matthias’ arm but Douglas shook his head.

‘Get out, all of you. Deveraux, you stay. Tell the garrison they can take what they carry and piss off! If they are not gone by dawn, I’ll hang every one of them.’

Douglas waited until the soldiers had left the cellar, then got to his feet.

‘I’m not a freebooter,’ he continued. ‘I am here in the service of his Most Esteemed Grace James III of Scotland.’ Douglas’ voice was scornful.

Matthias recalled Sir Humphrey’s remarks about the ineptitude of the present Scottish king. But Sir Humphrey was dead! The heat of the battle drained from him, Matthias felt cold, tired and sick at heart. He sat down, back to the wall, staring through the doorway.

‘We came south.’ Douglas too sat down. He picked up a piece of rag to clean his sword. ‘The weather suited us and Barnwick was chosen. I might as well tell you, because you are going nowhere; well, at least not for the moment. We couldn’t take Barnwick by storm, but by stealth was another matter. Are you interested in what I’m saying, Englishman?’

Matthias kept staring at the doorway. ‘I couldn’t care,’ he replied, ‘whether I live or die. You, my Lord Douglas, and your strategies do not concern me.’

‘Oh, but they do, my bonny lad. You see I’m going to continue south, go on a pilgrimage to Castleden Priory.’

‘And add blasphemy and sacrilege to your crimes?’

Douglas grinned wolfishly. ‘We will not harm a hair on the brothers’ heads. We are simply going to collect what they have.’

Again Matthias recalled Sir Humphrey’s words: how the Warden of the northern march kept armaments, particularly gunpowder, stored in certain houses across the border.

‘We are going to borrow it,’ Douglas continued, ‘use it for our own purposes.’ He glanced at Deveraux. ‘You did good work.’

The traitor smirked. Douglas got to his feet.

‘I told a lie, mind you, Sir Humphrey didn’t kill Bogodis.’

‘Then who?’

‘I did.’

Douglas thrust his sword straight into Deveraux’s stomach, turned and pulled it out. The man stumbled towards him at a half-crouch, the blood spouting out between his fingers. Douglas struck again, a killing blow to the neck. Deveraux crashed to the ground.

‘Two things I never trust,’ Douglas leant down and cleaned his sword on the man’s corpse, ‘are mercenaries and traitors.’ He grinned at Matthias. ‘And they both know a little too much about you. Ah well, let’s see what is happening.’

He called his soldiers back. Matthias’ hands were tied, though loosely. He was bundled out into the inner bailey, now a scene of carnage with bodies lying everywhere. Already the Scots were preparing a funeral pyre. Matthias asked to search out Sir Humphrey. He begged Douglas for the pitiful, scarred corpse to be buried next to that of his daughter. The Scottish lord shrugged but agreed. Matthias was given the help of two archers to hack the hard-packed earth. Sir Humphrey’s corpse, wrapped in his military cloak, was interred, the earth kicked back over it. Matthias stared at the two pathetic mounds of soil, the sole reminder of what had been halcyon days. He found he couldn’t cry. He was glad that Bogodis and Deveraux were dead. If the Douglas hadn’t killed them, he would have done so himself.

The soldiers then imprisoned Matthias in an outhouse. The rest of the garrison, those who had survived, were now being herded out through the gateway across the drawbridge, driven off by their conquerors with the flats of their swords.

The next morning a group of Scots, led by Douglas himself, took the best horses and galloped south. A large party was left behind under the command of one of the master bowmen. He immediately ordered the portcullis to be lowered, the drawbridge raised. The castle was scoured for any supplies. Matthias felt as if he were dreaming. All traces of Sir Humphrey, Rosamund, the people he had worked and played with, were ruthlessly swept away. The Scots weren’t harsh but hostile. Matthias’ cords were cut and he was allowed to wander wherever he wished.

‘You can try to escape,’ the master bowman declared. ‘You’ll either break your neck or freeze in the moat. Or, if you wish, we can use you for target practice.’

Matthias didn’t bother to answer. He spent most of his day wrapped in his cloak in the cemetery, staring at the mounds of earth, quietly mourning Rosamund and the child they never had. He was also puzzled by Vattier and what he had told him. Apparently the Rose Demon could not influence or direct events as he wished. On reflection, Matthias realised that Sir Humphrey had acted most foolishly. He should never have allowed Deveraux and Bogodis to stay. He could have sent a letter along the border to another castle or at least kept those two spies under close watch.

Matthias returned to his chamber: this had been looted. All the chests, Rosamund’s jewellery and clothes had long disappeared, and the Scots were beginning to dismantle the great four-poster bed. Anything and everything of value was being taken into the outer bailey whilst the Scots scoured the castle for carts.

‘What will you do?’ Matthias asked the master bowman.

The lean-visaged villain smirked in a display of yellow, cracked teeth.

‘Och we’ll take it all with us. You don’t think we are going to leave Barnwick as we found it? You wait and see.’

Matthias went to the north tower of the keep. So far, no manifestations or phenomena had been reported by the Scots. Matthias climbed the steps and went into the chamber where he and Father Hubert had celebrated the Mass. The floor was still spattered with candle grease. Matthias found he was no longer frightened. After Rosamund’s death nothing concerned him. He pulled the shabby shutters away and stared out over the frozen moorland. A bird flew by. Matthias recalled the Scottish archer’s threats.

‘So what?’ Matthias murmured. ‘Perhaps it’s best.’

He could throw himself over the battlements and finish it all: life, the fear of death, the pain and hurt. Surely God wouldn’t mind? After all, what did it matter? Matthias stood, running his hand along the dust-covered ledge. The more he reflected, the more his conviction grew. He’d decided to leave when the door to the chamber slammed shut. Matthias caught at the latch but the door was locked as if someone was holding fast to the other side. In frustration Matthias threw his weight against it and hammered so hard, pain shot through his arms. Exhausted, he slipped down the wall and sat staring at the pale ray of sunlight coming through the arrow slit window. He dozed.

When he awoke, a sweet, soft fragrance, the same perfume Rosamund had worn, filled the room. The fragrance was so heavy, it was as if she were sitting close to him. Matthias recalled their wedding night, her passionate embraces, the air sweet with the rich cream she had rubbed on her arms, neck and body. Matthias put his hands out as if, in some way, he could touch, grasp, hold her. The sunlight grew stronger and the air filled with the smell of incense, as if Mass were being celebrated and the thurible were throwing out sweet smoke.

Matthias got to his feet and went to the door. This time it opened easily. He went out on to the stairwell and caught a flurry of colour, bottle-green, as if Rosamund were running ahead of him. He charged down the steps and out into the bailey but there was nothing, only a group of Scottish soldiers lounging against the wall. These stared curiously. Matthias walked into the outer bailey and up the steps to the battlements. He had no real desire or firm conviction to throw himself over but he was curious. He wanted to see what would happen.

He reached the top, the biting wind caught at his face and hair. Matthias leant over the battlements and stared down. Far below him, the moat was still frozen hard. Matthias raised his foot; there was a ledge there. It would be so easy to climb on, to stand for a few seconds before falling like a stone.

‘Matthias! Matthias!’

He whirled round, mouth gaping. Rosamund was calling him as she often did but, in the yard below, only Scots moved about.

‘Matthias, come down! You are to come down now!’

Matthias rubbed his eyes. He could see no one even looking at him. The figures below were intent on carting out any valuables, curtains, drapes, chests and coffers. Matthias looked over the battlements. The drop was dizzying. He felt sick. He gingerly went down the steps and back across into the cemetery. Despite the weak sunlight he was freezing cold. He knelt beside Rosamund’s grave, digging his fingers in the dirt as hot, scalding tears ran down his cheeks.

‘Are you with me, Rosamund? Are you truly with me?’

He heard a sound behind him and looked round. Nothing. Only a piece of parchment, blown away from some plundered coffer, skittered across the earth. Matthias caught it: the writing was cramped, small and faded. He recognised Rosamund’s hand. It must have been written months ago, before she declared her love for him.

‘Matthias,’ he read, ‘amo te, amo te, Matthias. Matthias, I love you. Matthias, I love you.’ The same words were written time and again.

On the bottom of the page Rosamund had drawn a face with a miserable expression. Matthias smiled. He kissed the scrap of parchment, folded it carefully and put it inside his jerkin. He then got to his feet and left the graveyard.

Early next day Lord George Douglas and his party were seen approaching. His commander in the castle breathed a sigh of relief and danced a jig.

‘Thank God! Thank the Guid Lord!’ he shouted. ‘If the English had known what happened,’ he clapped Matthias on the shoulder, ‘the hunter would have become the hunted and I couldn’t face being besieged in Barnwick until Easter. It was all a gamble before the refugees from here could raise a warning. My Lord of Douglas is a bonny lad!’

The portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered. Douglas and his party entered. They had now brought with them a string of carts. Some were empty, others full of armaments, crossbows, arbalests, lances, buckets full of arrows, swords, halberds, even a pile of chain-mail jerkins and leather sallets. One cart was full of gunpowder: barrels and tuns stacked on top of each other and covered with a canvas cloth.

Lord George Douglas came to a stop. He threw Matthias his reins. Matthias let them drop. The Scotsman made a face and dismounted.

‘I am your prisoner, not your servant,’ Matthias declared.

‘That’s obvious,’ Douglas replied.

‘Then why am I here? Why wasn’t I released with the rest?’

Douglas narrowed his eyes and, grasping Matthias by the shoulders, walked him away from the others.

‘I have a task for you, Fitzosbert,’ he murmured. ‘Deveraux told me what had happened here: the young girl who was mysteriously killed and, above all, the hauntings in the north tower. Are you fey? Do you have the second sight?’

‘I am a clerk, I am cold, I am hungry and I want to leave!’

Douglas’ hand fell to his dagger hilt. ‘I asked you a question, Englishman. I did give your father-in-law honourable burial.’

‘I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what I have,’ Matthias replied. ‘But the north tower is haunted.’ He pointed to a cart full of gunpowder. ‘You are going to use some of that here, aren’t you?’

‘Of course! We are leaving this afternoon. We dare not stay here any longer. I would like to destroy Barnwick completely, leave not one stone upon another. However, that would take too long and I haven’t got the powder, so I am choosing what I should destroy. The gatehouse will go. Some of the outer and inner walls and, as a favour to you, Englishman, I’ll store powder in the base of the north tower.’

Orders were rapped out, the plunder was hoisted into the carts, the Scots sweeping the castle again to make sure they had missed nothing. Five of Douglas’ soldiers were engineers, one a master of ordnance. The gunpowder was placed at certain strategic points: the gatehouse, the north tower, two postern gates as well as the hall and solar. Matthias didn’t care. In a way he was glad that rooms where he had experienced such happiness would never again be used by anyone else.

Late in the afternoon Douglas’ party left. Scouts were sent out before them because the Scots now feared the English might have learnt what was happening and organised another force. As they left, the engineers fired the long fuses.

When they were some distance away, the troops stopped beneath bare-branched trees. Matthias stared back at Barnwick. He glimpsed the north tower, the empty gatehouse and his eyes filled with tears. He kept whispering, ‘Rosamund! Rosamund!’

Suddenly there was a fierce explosion. Parts of the castle seemed to lift, then collapse in thick clouds of dust. The horses whinnied and pranced about, tossing their heads at the thunder which rolled towards them. The Scots cheered as tongues of flame flared up from the castle. Matthias crossed himself. He heard a cawing from the trees and stared up. Two figures, all in black, sat in the branches glaring down at him: the Preacher and Rahere, pallid-faced, red-eyed. Matthias blinked and stared again. They were only ravens. They cawed fiercely at the tumult and, spreading their great dark wings, soared off up into the sky.