The Rose Demon

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 who forgot or was too rash. On the second day of the siege, one was killed, an arrow straight through his cheek: another was knocked off the parapet and later died of