HAUNT OF MURDER, A

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘I must go.’ Clothilde’s voice was now a deep rasp. ‘I cannot stay here!’

  Beatrice looked round but her companion had disappeared. Beatrice walked to the Lion Tower. Perhaps she should go up and see Ralph.

  ‘Christ be with you, Mistress Arrowner.’

  The young man she had seen earlier in the night, with his fresh, cheerful face and spiky hair, was standing on the cobbles behind her.

  ‘Tarry awhile.’ He held his hands out.

  ‘Why should I?’ Beatrice noticed a silver disc hovering between her and the young man, then it disappeared.

  He walked towards her. In the early morning light she could see that his face was a weather-beaten ruddy brown and his eyes were light blue. He was now dressed in a leather, sleeveless jerkin over a white cambric shirt, leggings of brown wool pushed into soft leather boots, a black belt round his slim waist. He drew closer. She noticed how fine his teeth were, how clean and neat he was.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why do you keep warning me to be careful?’

  ‘My name is Brother Antony.’

  Beatrice smiled. ‘That’s the name of my favourite saint, Antony of Padua, the Franciscan. Aunt Catherine has a small statue of him.’

  Brother Antony laughed. ‘Would you like to walk with me?’

  ‘But who are you? Another relic of this castle?’

  Antony’s face grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. What is really important, Beatrice, is who are you? It is important to realise that Ralph is still in great danger and so are you.’

  ‘But I am dead,’ she laughed. ‘I am beyond all pain and hurt.’

  ‘Death is not an end,’ Antony replied gravely. ‘It marks a new beginning. I have let you wander, now I must speak to you. I mean you well. I swear that on the wounds of Christ. Afterwards, it is up to you whether you heed my advice or not.’

  ‘Do you know who murdered me?’

  Antony shook his head. ‘Only God knows that.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t God intervene?’

  ‘But God does, Beatrice. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘How do I know that?’ she snapped, and as she spoke the castle yard changed again. Great gibbet posts rose up from the cobbles. They were about five yards high with three branches and from each bodies jerked and spluttered in their death spasms. The cruel knight was there again, seated on his black war horse, watching. Women carrying children screamed and begged for mercy but the knight and his henchmen mocked them. The victims were hustled up the ladders, nooses placed round their necks, the ladders turned and more bodies danced in the air.

  ‘Come away! Come away!’ Antony was beside her. He smelt of sweet grass and herbs.

  ‘What is all this?’ Beatrice whispered.

  But Antony was leading her away, talking soothingly to her. Soon they were out of the castle, walking towards Devil’s Spinney. Halfway there he stopped and sat down on the grass, gesturing at Beatrice to join him. He grasped her hands as Ralph would, rubbing them between his, watching her intently.

  ‘I do not know who killed you, Beatrice. The assassin really intended to slay Ralph your beloved. I know that. You are truly dead, Beatrice Arrowner. There is no going back. No return to the life you have left.’

  ‘And is this Heaven or Hell?’ Beatrice asked bravely.

  ‘This is no place, Beatrice.’ He paused. ‘It’s like dusk, caught between night and day. Death is a journey, one that takes all eternity. If you die with your face towards God, you journey towards God and He is eternal.’

  ‘A journey?’ Beatrice queried.

  Antony nodded. ‘An eternal journey, but you have not yet begun on it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you don’t want to leave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice asked.

  He held out his hands, fingers splayed. ‘You have intellect, love and will. The first can propose, the second can be your aim – or not, depending on yourself. The third, however, is most important. It is what determines your actions. Your will is what keeps you here. You have decided not to travel on. You have unfinished business.’

  ‘But what about Goodman Winthrop? He was collected by those terrors.’

  ‘He made his choice.’

  ‘Will he travel towards God?’

  ‘God will always call him, but if Goodman Winthrop lives his death like he lived his life, he will for all eternity refuse to hear the call and travel away from God, into his own self, his own love of wickedness. That’s why he was taken by the demons. They did not come from Hell, Beatrice, they came from within himself.’

  ‘And the poor beggar man?’

  ‘Ah.’ Antony smiled. ‘The Church teaches of Heaven and Hell and I have described both to you. The Church also teaches Purgatory where the soul is undecided. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I put that wrongly, the soul is not yet prepared for the journey.’

  ‘But that’s like me.’

  ‘No, your soul is ready but your will wants to delay because you have unfinished business which, I suspect, is connected with Master Ralph. That poor beggar man was collected by the wraiths of his mind and will, the sins and impurities he accummulated during life, for he was a beggar man by choice rather than by misfortune.’

  ‘And Elizabeth Lockyer?’

  ‘Ah. She was visited by the seraphims, beings of light. Elizabeth lived a good life, she died with her face towards God and God smiled on her. She wished to travel on and all the good she did in life has taken her forward.’

  ‘Seraphims? Wraiths? Demons? What about those others? Malkyn the torturer, Lady Johanna de Mandeville, the poor unfortunate who haunts the crossroads?’

  ‘They do not wish to travel on,’ Antony explained. ‘They are still locked in the pain and misery of their lives. Lady Johanna died a miserable death. God wishes to comfort her but she will not respond. Etheldreda, the young woman at the crossroads, is the same. She’s no sinner, just an unfortunate young woman who died when her wits were turned.’

  ‘And Malkyn the torturer?’

  ‘A cruel man in life, Beatrice. He did repent before he died, he was shriven by a priest here in the castle, but he does not wish to purge himself. He will stay here until he does.’

  ‘And those shapes and shades, spectres and ghouls?’ Beatrice asked. ‘That terrible knight, those men being hanged in the courtyard? And the battle?’

  ‘They are different. They are nothing but shadows of former beings. They are like tapestries which show a scene from the past.’ He sensed Beatrice’s puzzlement. ‘Have you ever been into a room, Beatrice, after there has been feasting and revelry? It’s very quiet but if you stand and listen you can almost hear the laughter, the music, the dancing which occurred there.’

  Beatrice nodded. ‘But what am I to do?’

  ‘Do you want to leave?’ Antony asked quietly.

  ‘I want to marry Ralph. I want justice for my death.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Antony murmured.

  Beatrice sprang to her feet. ‘The others didn’t say that!’

  ‘What others, Beatrice? Clothilde and Crispin?’

  ‘Yes.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘I am flouncing away in a temper but what good will that do? They did offer to help.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m here.’ Antony spoke sharply. ‘Of all the beings you’ve met, Beatrice, those two are the most dangerous!’

  He spoke so vehemently, Beatrice sat down again. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They are one and the same person,’ Antony replied. ‘Succubus and Incubus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They are the true devils,’ Antony warned.

  ‘But they were so beautiful, so helpful.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the old phrase, Beatrice, “The Devil can appear as an angel of light”?’ He grasped her hands. ‘When Goodman Winthrop died, you saw demons, but they came from within. They were of his own making, his lusts, his avarice and desire for power.’

  ‘Did he kill
that young girl?’ Beatrice asked. ‘Phoebe? Where is she and why can’t I see her spirit?’

  Antony smiled. ‘Phoebe has gone on; her death cannot be laid at Goodman Winthrop’s door. In life, as in death, nothing is what it seems. Oh, listen to me, Beatrice! There is a difference between the demons we create and those devils, those fallen angels who constantly rage against the light, who would, if they could, scale the walls of Heaven and burn them to the ground.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Beatrice withdrew her hands, yet she could tell from Antony’s eyes that he was deeply worried.

  ‘What do you expect devils to be like, Beatrice? Little men with forked tails and horns? Creatures from some mummers’ play?’ he scoffed. ‘They are nothing but lurid paintings. Devils are like angels, Beatrice, a mixture of pure light, energy, intelligence and will. They can take on many forms and guises.’

  ‘But I am dead. Holy Mother Church teaches that after death comes judgement.’ She shook her head. ‘Why should they be interested in my soul now?’

  ‘Oh, they are, Beatrice. Very, very interested, especially in one like you. You have not yet travelled on. You are capable of free choice. You are here because you want to be. You have not journeyed on because you have refused to. In a way, you are no different from Malkyn or Lady Johanna de Mandeville, so the angels of Hell are interested in you, deeply interested. If they can, they will turn your will so your face no longer looks towards God.’

  ‘Is that what is happening to Malkyn and the rest?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it is. That’s what Satan and all his armies want. A shattering of harmony, the breakdown of peace, misery and tribulation. The capture of souls.’

  ‘But if I have a will, why can’t I …’

  ‘Intervene? Cross to the other side? You could.’

  ‘I can.’ Beatrice smiled.

  ‘You have intellect, you have will,’ Antony went on cautiously. ‘And that’s the supreme temptation.’

  ‘You mean, if I obey Crispin and Clothilde?’

  ‘They will give you that power for a price.’

  ‘And can’t the beings of light?’

  ‘They can, Beatrice, but it has to be earned.’

  A silver disc came between them and moved away.

  ‘What is that?’ Beatrice asked.

  Antony did not answer.

  ‘Are Crispin and Clothilde my guardian devils?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘They are one and the same,’ Antony repeated. ‘Succubus and Incubus, the male and female face of a fallen angel. They can appear in many forms, many guises. They can laugh and tease, they can rage and plot.’

  Beatrice stared up at the sky. It was blue but tinged with that strange bronze coppery light. Shapes and shades were moving across like a flock of geese, dark and forbidding.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘The Devil’s huntsmen.’ Antony narrowed his eyes. ‘They streak across the world seeking their quarry. And to answer your question, Beatrice, yes, Crispin and Clothilde are your guardian devil.’

  ‘And where is my guardian angel?’

  ‘The silver disc,’ he replied. ‘I can only tell you so much.’ His voice grew weaker. ‘In the end, Beatrice, you must make your own choices. I can help if you wish but in the end only you can decide.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Intellect, love and will. You can force anyone to do anything but you cannot force someone to love. God’s love is eternal, it is like that of a loving mother. God wants that love returned, freely, without hindrance.’ Antony got to his feet and helped her up. ‘He loves you, Beatrice, but you have to decide. Remember the words of scripture: “You cannot have two masters.’”

  ‘But I haven’t seen God. I am here by myself.’

  ‘No, you are not, Beatrice. You are not alone. And you do see God. You see Him in the faces of those around you.’ He held both her hands and drew her close.

  Beatrice felt strange; she was out on this bronze-coloured heath, the castle behind her, those eerie shapes scurrying across the sky above her. She only wished Ralph was here, not this strange young man. If Ralph were here she could travel on. If Ralph died, they’d be together. As that strange thought began to turn and twist, she saw the sad look in Antony’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t think that, Beatrice,’ he whispered. ‘The lover always wishes the best for the loved.’

  Beatrice glanced away.

  ‘Remember what I have said. Remember the warnings I have given you. Let me tell you something else. As you travel this world, as you cross from one existence to another, be careful of those who seem to be angels of light.’

  ‘How will I know the difference?’

  ‘How do you know an apple tree?’ He countered, and answered his own riddle. ‘By the fruit it bears.’

  Beatrice started at the terrible howling of a dog, followed by terrible cries from Devil’s Spinney.

  ‘I must go.’ Antony smiled. ‘But I shall return. I shall watch you, Beatrice, and, when I can, I will help. But in the end all decisions must be yours.’ He passed a hand over his face, gently stretched forward and patted her cheek. His eyes were sad. ‘You have so much light in you, so much power. Don’t let it be turned. Beware. Crispin and Clothilde are what they are but, in your travels, be most careful of the Minstrel Man.’

  ‘The Minstrel Man?’

  ‘You will meet him.’ Antony was now moving away.

  ‘The Minstrel Man?’

  ‘That’s what he calls himself,’ Antony replied. ‘He knows you are here, Beatrice, and he’ll come looking for you. You are a great prize. You are not as lonely as you think. Farewell, Beatrice!’

  The silver disc of light appeared between them and Antony was gone.

  Beatrice rose and walked towards Devil’s Spinney. She went into the trees, moving without effort through the undergrowth; the brambles and weeds proved no hindrance. At last she found herself in the grove, a small glade in the centre, fringed by seven great oaks. She had been here on many occasions with Ralph; they’d lie in the soft grass and plan their future lives. Beatrice again felt that terrible surge of rage like a tongue of fire through her whole being. She crouched down, stared across the glade and blinked. She was not alone.

  Men, old and grizzled, grey beards reaching down beneath their stomachs, their heads garlanded with wreaths, stood beneath an oak tree. They were garbed from head to toe in dirty white robes. They carried sickle-shaped knives and were staring up into the branches. Beatrice felt a chill of fear and started in alarm as a naked body crashed from the branches only to jerk and dangle on the rope tied round its neck. Beatrice stared in disgust. The man was naked except for a loin cloth. He choked and kicked as the ancient priests, following some bloodthirsty ritual, lifted their hands and chanted to the skies. The grisly scene provoked memories of what Ralph had told her about this place. He used to frighten her, in a teasing way, when he described the pagan priests who would meet here to sacrifice victims to their pagan god of the oak.

  Beatrice was watching a phantasm but the horror repelled her. She wished, despite what Antony had said, that Crispin or Clothilde were here.

  Words Between the Pilgrims

  The clerk of Oxford paused in his tale and stared at the faces, tense and watchful in the firelight.

  ‘Would you fill my stoup with ale?’

  The miller hastened to obey.

  The summoner, his pimples even brighter in the firelight, staggered to his feet and stared across at the clerk. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘He didn’t say it was true,’ the squire pointed out.

  ‘Well, is it true?’ the summoner demanded, his voice shrill.

  ‘It depends,’ said the clerk, ‘what you mean by true.’

  ‘That’s no answer,’ the summoner replied aggressively.

  The clerk stared across at their leader. Sir Godfrey was studying him closely. The knight did not wish to intervene even though he was a man who had experienced the twilight world of demons. He had hunted the murderous blood-drinker
s scattered throughout Europe from the shores of the Bosphorus to the cold, icy wastes of Norway. Yet that was his personal struggle. He was also special emissary for the Crown and the Archbishop of Canterbury and often attended hushed, closed meetings in certain chambers at the House of Secrets in London. Beside him his son, the squire, stirred.

  ‘Father,’ he whispered. ‘Weren’t you sent to Ravenscroft Castle?’

  ‘Hush now,’ his father responded.

  He sat and listened as the summoner continued to question the clerk. For some strange reason the summoner seemed most perturbed by the story. The knight smiled grimly to himself. His son was right, he had been sent to Ravenscroft Castle, and it was only a matter of time before someone recognised the name Goodman Winthrop. After all, the tax collector had been the scourge of the southern shires.

  The taverner raised his fat, cheery face. ‘Sir!’ he shouted at the summoner. ‘Will you shut up!’ He stretched out his hands towards the flames. ‘I know of Ravenscroft Castle and I also know of two people called Robert and Catherine Arrowner who owned a tavern named the Golden Tabard.’

  ‘But if the tale is true,’ the pardoner exclaimed, ‘it concerns us. Good ladies, gentle sirs, look around you.’

  They did so, staring into the mist-cloying darkness.

  ‘The miller said this place was haunted,’ the pardoner continued. ‘Does that mean the dead are all around us now?’

  ‘Oh, spare the thought and don’t tickle my imagination!’ the wife of Bath squeaked. She just wished she hadn’t turned away from the flames. The trees stood like menacing sentinels around them. And that mist! Did it bring more to this silent grove than just the cold night air?

  ‘It could be true,’ the prioress’s priest spoke up. Usually this handsome, florid-faced man kept his own counsel. ‘I believe death is like entering a mansion house; each chamber is full of new worlds.’ He smiled at the clerk. ‘I am much taken by your description, sir.’ He paused as an owl hooted. ‘And before this night is done, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell us where this story came from.’