The Rose Demon

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 Over the last two or three weeks she had become secretive, rather withdrawn, though happy enough.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