Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘And of course that’s you,’ Dan said under his breath.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. By all means carry on.’ Dan made an expansive gesture with his hands, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

  Helen ignored him and looked at Paul and Charlie. ‘Ready?’

  They both nodded and Helen took a deep breath. ‘I humbly invite Henry Plantagenet, King of England, and Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, to join us,’ she said. ‘Are you there?’

  The planchette moved to point at the word yes on the board. Everybody – including Helen – gasped in surprise and lifted their hands away.

  ‘Who did that?’ Dan said. ‘Who moved it?’

  Helen, Paul and Charlie looked at each other – all innocent.

  ‘It must have been one of you,’ Dan insisted.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Helen snapped. ‘Shall we continue before whoever it is leaves in disgust?’

  ‘I’d have thought both Henry and Becket would feel quite at home with this squabbling,’ Ed said, breaking the tension.

  Helen smiled, placed her fingers back on the planchette, and looked up at Paul and Charlie. ‘Well boys?’

  They glanced at each other, then followed Helen’s lead and assumed the Ouija position.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The planchette moved almost immediately and pointed at the letter H, then to the 2.

  ‘Are you Henry Plantagenet, the king of England we know as Henry II?’ Helen asked.

  The planchette moved to indicate yes, then moved back to the empty space in the middle of the board.

  ‘One of you is moving it,’ Dan said. ‘This isn’t real, it can’t be.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Paul.

  ‘Thank you, Sire, for joining us, you are most welcome and we are honoured you have chosen to be with us this evening.’

  No movement.

  ‘You need to ask a question,’ Sarah hissed.

  Helen swallowed. Deep down, she hadn’t thought this would work and hadn’t prepared any questions.

  Paul came to her rescue. ‘Greetings, King Henry. I am Paul Fuller and have the very great honour of representing you in our play.’

  Dan guffawed with laughter, and Sarah elbowed him to quiet him. Paul ignored him, and Sarah was the only one to see Dan’s look of anger.

  ‘I humbly beseech thee—’

  ‘He’s getting into the lingo now, at least,’ Dan mocked.

  ‘—to help me give a true and flattering portrayal of Your Majesty,’ Paul continued. ‘Would you be willing to help me tell your story?’

  The planchette stayed still, then shot back to yes.

  ‘My humble thanks, Sire.’

  ‘If anyone says humble one more time, I’ll sucker-punch them,’ Dan said, then screamed as his chair shot backwards, tipping him over and dumping him on the boards.

  ‘Nice try, Dan, grow up,’ Mike said.

  ‘That wasn’t me.’

  ‘So what, you do believe in ghosts now?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, the chair moved by itself!’

  ‘In that case, I suggest you show more respect, Dan,’ Mike said. ‘You are disrespecting the first Plantagenet king of England, the head of one of our greatest dynasties.’

  Dan said nothing, just glared at his fellow actors, then picked up his chair and gingerly sat down.

  ‘Come on, Paul,’ Sarah said, earning a more intense glare from her husband, which she ignored.

  Helen glanced between the two of them, concerned at the marital discord on display, but pushed her worries to one side for now, and turned her attention back to the spirit board, Paul and Charlie. ‘We all thank you for joining us, Sire,’ she said, ‘and apologise for our colleague’s cynicism. He means no disrespect.’

  Nothing. Helen looked at Paul, whose colour had drained to white.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ Charlie said into the silence. ‘May I respectfully ask if your great friend, Thomas Becket is with you?’

  The planchette vibrated, but did not move.

  ‘Ask Becket,’ Mike hissed and Charlie nodded.

  ‘Thomas Becket, are you here with us?’

  Again the planchette vibrated, then inched its way to yes.

  ‘Welcome, sir,’ Charlie said, swallowing. ‘I am humbled that you have chosen to join us and ask you the same question, would you be willing to help me tell the true story of your later life?’

  The planchette moved again to yes, then back to the empty place, then yes, back, yes over and over, gaining speed and ferocity.

  Charlie, Paul and Helen snatched their fingers away all at the same moment. ‘Hot,’ Helen said, protecting her fingers under her armpits. ‘It’s just got hot.’

  ‘But the room’s freezing cold,’ Sarah said.

  Helen looked around and shivered. Sarah was right. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘The first time the planchette moved,’ Sarah said.

  Nobody spoke. All wondered what the hell they’d been thinking.

  ‘Our turn,’ Mike said and everyone looked at him in surprise. He shrugged. ‘Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? We’ve set this in motion, might as well follow it through. This is gonna be one kickass play,’ he said, shuddered and placed his right forefinger on the planchette.

  ‘Come on Sarah, Ed. Dan, are you up for this?’

  With all attention on him, Dan coloured then added his finger to the planchette. ‘If this goes tits-up, it’s your fault, not mine.’

  ‘Way to be positive, Dan,’ Mike said. Everyone laughed and the atmosphere lightened.

  ‘Come on, Helen, you’re the medium, remember,’ Sarah said. ‘Give us your finger.’

  More laughter, and Helen complied. She took a deep breath, glanced at Sarah, Dan, Mike and Ed, who all looked apprehensive with their fingers on the planchette, despite the laughter and bravado.

  ‘Come on then, Helen, the surprise is killing me.’

  ‘Not the best choice of words, Ed,’ Alec pointed out.

  Helen broke the ensuing silence. ‘We are most grateful for the presence of King Henry and Archbishop Becket, and now respectfully ask that the barons and knights Morville, FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett also join us.’

  The planchette quivered.

  ‘Sir Hugh de Morville, are you here?’

  Yes

  ‘Sir Reginald FitzUrse . . .’

  The planchette moved away then back to yes before Helen could complete her sentence and Dan smirked at her.

  ‘Sir William de Tracy, are you here?’

  Yes

  ‘Richard le Brett, are you here?’

  No

  ‘No?’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘Why is my character the only one who says no?’

  ‘If he’s not here, how did he say no?’ Mike asked. ‘Ask again, Sarah.’

  ‘Sir Richard le Brett, are you here?’

  Yes

  ‘Ask again, best out of three,’ Alec suggested.

  ‘Sir Richard le Brett are you with us?’

  Yes

  ‘Our thanks and gratitude to you all,’ Helen said. ‘History is vague and we know not the true circumstances leading up to and after that fateful day of 29th December 1170 . . .’

  ‘Less speeches, more questions,’ Dan interrupted.

  Helen made to retort, then thought better of it. He was right. She looked at Charlie and Paul, then back at the planchette. They both understood and added their fingers to the others.

  Helen took a deep breath, then said, ‘Did you, King Henry, mean to order the assassination of Archbishop Thomas Becket?’

  Board, planchette and table were thrown against the back wall of the stage, only missing the heads of the assembled company because all eight of them were thrust backwards from the epicentre of their séance, their chairs splintering as they fell against the wooden boards of the stage.

  ‘I told you this was a bloody stupid thing to do,’ Dan shouted, the first to get to his feet. ‘We’ve messed with things that shouldn’t
be messed with. God knows what we’ve unleashed. Bloody stupid woman!’ He looked around, then added, calmer, ‘Where’s Helen?’

  The rest of the cast got to their feet, shocked, but only bruised, and looked around.

  ‘There! She’s down there,’ Sarah called, pointing to the front row of seats.

  ‘Shit,’ Paul said, and jumped off the stage. ‘Someone call an ambulance!’

  Chapter 8

  January 1170

  ‘There she is, Cnaresburg Castle,’ Hugh de Morville declared with evident pride as the knights emerged from the forest.

  ‘God’s blood, Hugh,’ FitzUrse said. ‘Even if Broc does turn the King against us, no bugger’s going to get to us up there.’

  The castle’s keep, newly built from stone, perched atop the cliff, the deep gorge more of an obstacle than any man, or siege engine, would be able to conquer. The sight of it stunned the men; despite being of Norman descent and used to sights of the strongest castles in Europe, none were familiar with the rugged landscape of Yorkshire.

  A deep, clear river sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight before them, above which the red-orange sandstone cliff towered. Trees and lush vegetation grew to the very banks of the River Nydde.

  As the horsemen approached the river, a group of young goatherds looked up from their charges and spotted them.

  ‘Á Morville,’ they cried and a couple ran up the steep bank towards the town.

  ‘Á Morville?’ Tracy asked with a smile. ‘You have them well trained.’

  Morville shrugged, pleased at the welcoming war cry, but trying not to show it to his companions.

  He led the way, his palfrey splashing through the shallow waters of the ford. ‘Take care not to stray too far to either side, the waters can be treacherous,’ he called to the following men. The knights glanced at each other and smirked, knowing full well that Morville was enjoying his role as overlord and the chance to assert the authority this status gave him, over Reginald FitzUrse in particular. All the men, not just the knights, but the accompanying men-at-arms of each house, had had more than enough of The Bear’s overbearing bluster on their exhausting ride north.

  ‘What are the defences on the far side?’ FitzUrse called to Morville. ‘I doubt you are as well-protected from the town as you are from the river.’

  ‘The curtain wall is twenty feet high and four feet thick. The ditch is being deepened, but will be completed shortly, especially now that I’m here to oversee the work.’

  ‘Towers?’

  ‘At all four compass points, including those of the gates, although the southern tower is still under construction, as you can see.’

  ‘It sounds like there is much still under construction.’ Tracy laughed.

  Morville turned in his saddle. ‘When I was entrusted with the castle, it was little more than motte and bailey. That was seven years ago. In that time, the curtain wall has been raised, towers constructed, and the keep is now of stone. If you disapprove, you are more than welcome to continue to Scotland as Broc suggested and try your welcome there.’

  Tracy held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘No offence meant, My Lord. It is a wondrous castle.’

  The others laughed and Morville screwed up his face in disgust, faced forward once more and spurred his palfrey up the steep bank of Brig-Gate.

  *

  ‘My apologies, My Lord,’ Tracy whispered once they’d reached flatter ground. ‘I did not mean to insult. It just struck me that we may be under siege here before long should the King take up arms against us.’

  Morville glanced at him and sighed. He knew that Tracy was suffering larger and longer pangs of conscience than any of the others. He was not a killer by nature, merely a follower of killers.

  ‘The King needed Becket stopped before he did any more harm. He was a traitor. Had we not taken care of the problem he would have revolted against not only the Young King, but King Henry himself. You know this to be true, we have talked of little else since we left Canterbury.’

  ‘Bad things happen, William,’ FitzUrse bellowed from behind them. ‘We served our king well, he shall reward us.’

  ‘And Broc?’ Morville asked.

  ‘Yes, he shall reward Broc as well,’ FitzUrse replied with a grin. ‘Handsomely, no doubt.’

  ‘Broc won’t . . . betray us?’ Richard le Brett asked. As the youngest, of lowest status, and the man who had dealt the fatal blow, he had become the quietest, most timid of the quartet.

  ‘He would no doubt attempt it should it be to his benefit,’ FitzUrse laughed, ‘but he hosted us at Saltwood Castle. He accompanied us and he supplied men-at-arms. We had more than enough between us, but he wanted a share of the glory.’

  ‘And the loot,’ Morville muttered. The four of them had helped themselves to gold plate and coin as they left. Broc and his men had taken everything else of value in the Archbishop’s Palace, although had left the cathedral treasures. That would have been a sacrilege too far.

  ‘He cannot betray us without betraying himself,’ FitzUrse continued.

  ‘But what of his suggestion for us to flee to Scotland?’ Tracy asked.

  FitzUrse bellowed laughter. ‘His idea of a jest, is all.’

  ‘A jest? To send us to a man who would gladly hang us as Englanders?’

  ‘He has an evil sense of humour.’

  ‘Á Morville! Á Morville!’

  The knights’ conversation was halted by the cheers as the townsfolk swarmed out of the alleyways to greet their returning overlord.

  Morville raised his gauntleted hand in acknowledgement of the praise.

  ‘They love you here,’ FitzUrse said in wonder.

  ‘No, they love the coin we will have to spend in the market. Look behind you.’

  The knights twisted in their saddles to view the trailing men-at-arms. A force drawn from four houses.

  ‘The population of Cnaresburg has just doubled.’

  Chapter 9

  Morville led the way over the drawbridge and through the north gate, and the knights clattered into the courtyard of the outer ward. Grooms rushed from the stables at the noise and the men jumped down from their mounts.

  ‘Welcome to Cnaresburg Castle, My Lords,’ Morville said. ‘Make yourselves at home, we may be residing here for some time.’

  The knights grimaced, all of them wondering the same thing: how had King Henry received the news of their deeds?

  Morville led them through the inner gate to the bailey of the inner ward and pointed out the chapel and administration buildings. Nobody paid much attention. Once past the grandeur of the situation of the castle, the innards were nothing remarkable. The curtain walls and keep were the only stone edifices; all else was timber. Whilst it was apparent much building work had been undertaken, it was just as apparent there was a great deal still to be done.

  *

  ‘Helwise, welcome our guests,’ Morville said to his wife, who stood at the door to the stone tower of the keep.

  ‘Husband,’ she acknowledged and nodded.

  Brett, the last to be admitted, wondered at the faint trace of a smile on Lady de Morville’s face at such an abrupt greeting.

  Hugh de Morville flung open the doors to his great hall and stopped in shock. The force of FitzUrse blundering into his back pushed him onward and he took a couple of paces forward before once again coming to an abrupt halt. Cursing, FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett stepped around him before halting themselves and Brett understood the reason for the young Helwise de Morville’s pleasure in spite of her husband’s rude homecoming.

  Morville remembered his manners and bowed to the men seated at the lord’s table, instigating equivalent gestures from his companions. ‘My Lords, I-I-I welcome you to my castle.’

  ‘Not your castle, Morville, my brother’s, King Henry. You are merely custodian here. For the present, at least,’ said Sir Hamelin Plantagenet, Earl of Surrey. Seated at the overlord’s place – Sir Hugh de Morville’s seat – at the lord’s table at the head of th
e hall, it was very clear to all present who held authority at Cnaresburg Castle this day. It was not Sir Hugh de Morville, Lord of the Manor of Cnaresburg, Baron of Burgh-on-the-Sands, Lord of Westmoreland.

  Morville gathered his composure and greeted the other great men seated at his table.

  Sir William de Courcy Lord of Harewood, and Morville’s close neighbour Sir William de Percy Baron of Topcliffe, Lord of Spofford and Wetherby, sat at either side of Hamelin Plantagenet. None of the three appeared pleased to see the four travel-worn knights.

  Morville looked around the bustling hall, nearly full he now realised, his awareness of his surroundings having been paralysed by his shock of seeing three great lords; three of King Henry’s innermost and most loyal circle. He noted who else was present: Nigel de Plumton; Sir John Goldesburgh; Gamellor, Lord of the Manor of Beckwith; Morville’s brother-in-law, William de Stoteville; and even his forester, Thomas de Screven. Everyone of any import in the vicinity was here, dining at Morville’s pleasure, and cost, without his knowledge.

  ‘H-H-How . . . ?’ he stammered and FitzUrse poked him in the back. Morville drew himself to his full height and tried again. ‘Forgive me, My Lords, it is of great surprise to find you here. We rode like the wind . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Plantagenet drawled. ‘From Canterbury. We heard. Then we sailed with the wind to ask you what the hell you were thinking.’

  ‘Becket,’ Morville began.

  ‘Yes, Becket. Pray, enlighten us.’

  ‘He was a traitor.’ FitzUrse stepped forward, unwilling to allow Morville to plead his case on his behalf. ‘He was planning to depose the Young King and, more than likely, King Henry himself. He was a man of great ambition, it is of no surprise to anyone that he had his sights on the crown of England. King Henry wanted him stopped. We stopped him.’

  ‘You certainly did that,’ Plantagenet said.

  ‘How did King Henry take the news?’ Morville found the courage to ask.

  ‘Ahh, the pertinent enquiry.’ Plantagenet pushed his trencher aside, crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table, glaring at the nervous knights.

  He pulled back and addressed the men sitting either side of him. ‘How would you say my brother took the news of the horrific murder of his closest friend of, what, twenty years?’