‘Perhaps I will,’ the clerk muttered. ‘But listen now, gentle sirs and ladies. True, the darkness is deep, a mist has swirled in through the trees and the owl keeps its lonely vigil. Yet these are not real terrors.’ He glanced away. ‘Not like the ones to come.’
PART II
Chapter 1
Ralph Mortimer sat in Devil’s Spinney, his back to an oak tree. He watched a squirrel clamber between fallen branches and scrabble up the trunk of one of the ancient oaks. Ralph wiped the tears from his eyes and pushed the wineskin away.
‘I’ve drunk enough,’ he muttered. ‘And that’s no help.’
A few hours earlier he had attended Beatrice’s funeral in the small cemetery in the far corner of the castle near the rabbit warren. Her aunt and uncle had attended, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, and of course Sir John Grasse and Lady Anne. Father Aylred had sung the Requiem Mass and then the corpse had been taken out on a bier and lowered into the shallow grave. The carpenter had put together a crude cross and Sir John had solemnly promised that it would be replaced, within the month, by a stone plinth bearing Beatrice’s name.
It was only when the grave was being filled in that Ralph had fully understood what was happening. Beatrice was gone. He would never see her again: those beautiful eyes, the merry mouth, her endearing mannerisms. Above all, her presence, warm and loving, like stepping out into the sunshine and basking in its golden warmth. Sometimes, in his chamber, he smelt her perfume – Beatrice had kept some there and unable to bear the reminder he’d given it to Marisa.
Ralph, who had studied all forms of knowledge at the Halls of Cambridge, could not come to terms with his grief. Deep in his heart he felt a devastating loneliness, a savage hurt which would not heal. Adam and Marisa had been helpful. Father Aylred had tried to give words of comfort but it was to no avail. The more they spoke, the more intense the pain flared.
‘What can I do?’ Ralph whispered. He stared up at the interlacing branches. The weather had turned cold, dark clouds scudded in to block out the sun. ‘If I drink, I become sottish. If I work, my mind becomes distracted.’ He beat his fist against his thigh. ‘Why?’ he screamed, his voice echoing round the empty glade. ‘Why, Beatrice, did you climb the parapet walk at night?’
Doubts pushed away his grief, and allowed reason to surface. Beatrice was not frightened of heights. She had often walked along the parapet at the dead of night. She knew the dangers. She was safe as long as she kept to the wall. The night had been calm. No rain or wind. So how had she fallen? He recalled her corpse, laid out in its coffin before the chapel altar. Lady Anne and her tiring-women had done their best to dress the body for burial. Ralph had inspected the wounds and bruises most closely. The terrible fall had left its mark. Father Aylred, however, had whispered about the great bruise on the right side of Beatrice’s head. Had that occurred before the fall? The priest seemed agitated so Ralph had questioned him.
‘Why, Father, do you think it is significant?’
They had been standing alone in the small sacristy. Father Aylred put his fingers to his lips; he closed the door, turning the key in the lock.
‘I am just worried, Ralph.’ The little priest’s face was pale and unshaven. ‘Nightmares plague my sleep; I am troubled by doubts and worries.’
Ralph had only half listened, eager to return and sit beside the coffin before the lid was sealed for ever. ‘Father, this is not the time or the place.’
‘No, no, it isn’t.’ And the priest picked up a pruning knife to trim one of the purple candles for the Requiem Mass.
Ralph pulled his cloak firmly about him. The grove was dark, it looked threatening. He half smiled as he recalled the frightening stories he had told Beatrice, more the work of his imagination than anything else. He heard a twig snap and whirled round. Someone was in the trees behind him.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘Ralph!’ His name came in a loud whisper.
The clerk felt the hair on his neck curl with fear. He scrambled to his feet, his hand going to the knife in his belt. He peered through the gloom. The trees were so close together, the brambles and gorse sprouted high. Were his wits wandering?
Ralph cursed the wine he had drunk; he felt unsteady on his feet, slightly sick. He should leave here. The castle was already in uproar. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse had been brought back on a cart. The tax collector’s clothing was drenched in blood from the gaping wounds to his back and throat. Sir John had muttered about rebels and miscreants, and loudly cursed the stupidity of the tax collector for wandering alone around the taverns and ale-houses of Maldon. He’d sent urgent messages to London; the barons of the Exchequer would not be pleased, commissioners and soldiers would be sent. Sir John Grasse would feel their wrath until the killers were brought to justice. Were these same assassins in Devil’s Spinney now? wondered Ralph. A jay flew up in a flurry of black and white feathers. He must not stand like a maudlin sot; his grief, like his hands and his feet, were now part of him and he would have to bear it.
Ralph picked up the wineskin and, whirling it round his head, threw it into the undergrowth. As he staggered back along the trackway leading out on to the heathland, he quietly cursed his foolishness. ‘You should be careful what you drink,’ Beatrice had always warned him. ‘You do not have a strong head for ale or wine.’
The clerk paused, closing his eyes against the hot tears which threatened.
‘If you were only here, Beatrice! If you were only here, I’d let you nag me until the end of time!’
He stumbled on. The spinney was quiet, even the birdsong had died. Ralph recalled the stories and legends about the place. Wasn’t it near here that little Phoebe had been found murdered? He hurried on. His foot caught on something and he crashed to the ground. He twisted over, and even as he did, the club caught him on the side of the head. Ralph did not lose consciousness though the pain was intense. He struggled to get up but a kick to the stomach winded him and he collapsed, his face scored by the pebbled trackway. He was dragged, his cloak being used like a rope, tightening round his neck. He couldn’t resist. He was aware of brambles and briars ripping his hose. A boot came off. He tried to struggle but couldn’t. He was pushed, his body rolled, then he felt the ground beneath him give way. Was he dreaming? Was he falling? He tried to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He kicked out with his legs but it was hard. He stared down and noticed green slime oozing over his thighs. He had been knocked on the head and dragged only a few yards to one of the treacherous mires, the small but deep marshes which peppered Devil’s Spinney. The shock brought him to his senses. He was sinking. He flailed about, screaming and yelling.
‘Ah, sweet Jesu miserere!’ he prayed.
He remembered that the more he struggled, the quicker he’d sink. He tried to calm his mind, allow his body to float. He managed to turn over but the movement took him down a little further. The thick green mud was now pulling at his body as if invisible hands at the bottom of the marsh were clutching at him.
Ralph tried to ignore the pain, stretching his arms out to grasp the branches of a bush growing near the mire. He flung himself forward but the bush seemed to have a life of its own. His fingers missed. The mire crept above his stomach. Ralph was consious of sounds, strange noises; the sky was turning an eerie bronze. He lunged again, his hand caught the bush.
‘Oh, please!’ he prayed. ‘Please, God, don’t break!’
The bush was old and tough, it took his weight. Slowly but surely, Ralph pulled himself towards it, ignoring the pain. Then he was beneath it, grasping the broad stem. He pulled himself out, almost grateful for the way the harsh branches cut and marked him. At least he was alive. The bush had saved his life. He crawled up through the undergrowth then rolled on his side and stared back. The mire was now peaceful again, the green surface unmarked, its treacherous depths hidden.
Ralph lay sobbing for a while before pulling himself to his feet. His whole body ached. He was missing one boot, the other was so muddy he took it off and threw
it into the trees. He touched his still bleeding face and felt his head where the assailant had struck him. He staggered along the path and out on to the heathland.
Beardsmore saw him first. Before Ralph had reached the drawbridge, Sir John Grasse, Father Aylred and Theobald Vavasour, accompanied by soldiers, hastened out to meet him.
‘I was attacked,’ Ralph stammered. ‘I don’t know who. In Devil’s Spinney. I was thrown into the mire.’
Sir John shouted out orders. Father Aylred helped Ralph across the bailey. They placed him in the guestroom. Father Aylred talked to him as if he was a child, pulling off his muddy clothes. Theobald helped. They washed away the mud from the cuts and bruises. The physician pushed a cup between his lips.
‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Drink and then you will feel better.’
Ralph obeyed. He was aware of Adam coming into the room, Marisa behind him.
‘We heard what happened, Ralph. I was in the herb garden with Marisa.’
‘They tried to kill me,’ Ralph whispered. He felt his eyes grow heavy and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Later that day, as darkness fell, Ralph washed and dressed in new clothes, and joined the others in the great hall of the castle. He found the room more sombre than usual with its heavy hammer-beam roof and the axes, hauberks and shields nailed to the wall. The long trestle tables were bare, but glowing braziers kept the chill away and hunting dogs snouted among the rushes for scraps of food.
Sir John gathered everyone round the high table on the dais. Cold meats, bread, cheese and jugs of ale were served. The company included Sir John, his wife, the huge, burly sergeant-at-arms Stephen Beardsmore, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, the captain of the watch and Ralph. Father Aylred hastened in and said grace; the food was distributed, the jugs circulated. Sir John, bowing to etiquette, allowed them to satisfy their hunger before tapping on the table with the hilt of his dagger.
‘We live in troublesome times,’ he began. ‘A castle wench, Phoebe, has been murdered, her corpse found in Devil’s Spinney. God rest her.’
His words were greeted with a chorus of assent.
‘And with Ralph we mourn the sad death of Beatrice,’ he continued, ‘but now we have other more pressing matters to consider. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse lies sheeted, ready for burial. He wasn’t the pleasantest of companions, a boor, a sot, but he was still a royal official. Last night he was stabbed to death in Maldon. We know he left a tavern with a wench. Master Beardsmore, you and Ralph will investigate that matter tomorrow.’
‘Which tavern?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.
‘The Pot of Thyme. I have no doubt that Winthrop’s murder is a symptom of the deep unrest caused by the poll tax. However, the King’s Council in London are obdurate. Archbishop Sudbury and Hailes the treasurer are determined that the Exchequer be filled and the poll tax will go ahead. I have sent urgent missives to London. God knows what will happen now.’
‘And the attack on our young clerk here,’ said Lady Anne. ‘Do you believe that is also linked to the tax?’
Sir John nodded, scratching his vein-streaked cheek.
Ralph put his piece of bread down. ‘I don’t think so. How did they know I was a member of the castle? And, even if they did, why should they attack me? I am not a tax collector.’
‘I agree.’ Beardsmore spoke up. The gruff sergeant-at-arms pushed his platter away. ‘True, rebels are active all through Kent and Essex but why should they attack Master Ralph the way they did? That’s not their manner. More an arrow from a tree or a knife in the back.’
His words chilled Ralph and created a sombre silence.
‘Do you know what you are saying?’ Sir John asked carefully.
‘Yes, I do.’ Beardsmore was firm. ‘Sir John, I am your sergeant-at-arms. My job is to defend this castle and those within it. Goodman Winthrop was undoubtedly killed by peasant rebels. Tomorrow we’ll go down and turn the Pot of Thyme on its head and see what muck spills out.’
Ralph smiled at Beardsmore’s bluntness. The gruff soldier usually kept his own counsel, but young Phoebe’s murder still haunted him.
‘You were sweet on Phoebe, weren’t you?’ The words were out before Ralph could think.
The sergeant-at-arms tugged at the laces on his boiled leather jerkin. ‘I was more than sweet on her, Master Ralph,’ he murmured, ‘and over the last few days I have been thinking.’
‘Then let us know what you have been thinking,’ said Lady Anne.
‘The night Phoebe was murdered,’ Beardsmore replied, ‘she wasn’t supposed to be going home. She had agreed to meet me near Midnight Tower. Now, Sir John, Phoebe was a good girl. Sometimes her wits were not as sharp as they should be but she had common sense.’ He paused to take a drink from his tankard.
Ralph felt a bond with this gruff soldier who had also lost a loved one yet hid his grief so well.
‘Phoebe never left this castle,’ Beardsmore went on. ‘She wasn’t stupid. Oh, some of the lads teased her but she could look after herself. She told me how Winthrop the tax collector had offered her a silver piece to lie with him.’ He clenched his fist. ‘I was going to have words with him.’ He blinked back the tears that filled his eyes. ‘In the gathering dusk she would never have gone to a place like Devil’s Spinney. I believe she was murdered in Ravenscroft and her body taken out there. Physician Vavasour, you examined Phoebe’s corpse. Had she been raped?’
Theobald, who had been pushing pieces of bread around on his trauncher, looked up like a frightened rabbit, eyes blinking, lips puckered.
‘No, she hadn’t. She had been beaten about the head before she was slain.’
Father Aylred frowned. ‘But why? If she wasn’t raped? She was poor, she had no silver or gold. Moreover, if she was murdered here, why didn’t anyone hear her cries? And you can’t just pick up a corpse and take it out across the drawbridge without being noticed.’
A murmur of assent greeted his words. Lady Anne, seated next to her husband, pushed her greying hair under the tight coif round her face. She nervously scratched her cheek and tapped the table with her fingers. ‘Thank God the servants are not here.’ She stared round the hall. ‘Only a few days ago we all celebrated May Day. Lent and winter were behind us. There was fresh meat from the fleshers’ yard, spring vegetables, herbs and flowers.’ She shivered. ‘But now it’s like the dead of winter. Master Beardsmore,’ her voice grew harsh, ‘you seem to be saying there’s a killer in this castle. Do you know anybody who would want to murder Phoebe?’
Before Beardsmore could reply, Father Aylred spoke up. ‘As you say, Master Beardsmore, Phoebe was a good girl, a merry wench. But we all know Phoebe was curious.’
‘I agree, Father.’ Beardsmore’s eyes fell away.
‘She was more than that,’ Lady Anne declared. ‘She liked listening at keyholes, spying on people.’
‘That’s right,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Last year on the feast of All Souls one of the kitchen wenches had a furious argument with her. She accused Phoebe of spying on her when she was in the stable with one of the grooms.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Theobald held up a bony finger. ‘I remember her doing that.’
‘Where are the groom and wench now?’ Ralph asked.
‘Gone,’ Beardsmore said thinly. ‘They left after the Epiphany. I sided with Phoebe, that’s how I first met her.’
Ralph’s attention was caught by shadows dancing on the wall. Darkness had fallen swiftly and seemed to be closing in around them, despite the cresset torches and candles. The killer was in this castle. He glanced at Father Aylred, telling him with his eyes to keep his own counsel.
‘What shall we do?’ Lady Anne asked.
Sir John looked at Adam. ‘You are our principal clerk. What do you advise?’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘I agree with what has been said. Goodman Winthrop’s death is the work of rebels. The attack on Ralph, however, was not the work of some peasant.’
‘Is it possible,’ asked Marisa, ‘that the rebels
have an accomplice here in the castle?’
They all looked at the petite, usually quiet young woman.
‘After all,’ Marisa continued, spots of excitement high in her cheeks, ‘Ravenscroft defends the Blackwater estuary and the northern approaches to London. If the peasants are planning a revolt, they will want to seize it.’
‘And how vital was Phoebe to the defence of this castle?’ Lady Anne tried, and failed, to keep the sneer from her voice.
‘Don’t mock Marisa!’ Adam retorted heatedly. ‘What she says is possible.’
The atmosphere in the hall grew tense. Lady Anne, unused to such sharp reproofs, glared at her husband.
‘Both of you could be correct,’ Ralph intervened, eager to keep the peace. ‘It’s possible that the rebels do have supporters here among the garrison. What better way to weaken our defences than indiscriminate killings and attacks which provoke suspicion and bitter acrimony?’
Everybody seized on his explanation. Ravenscroft was a happy, amiable garrison. The castle had numerous spacious chambers which allowed people a degree of privacy, and relationships with the townspeople were usually cordial. Ralph was afraid this would soon change. Sir John smiled gratefully at him. He repeated his orders about Beardsmore and Ralph investigating Winthrop’s death and ordered guards to be doubled on the barbican.
‘From now on,’ he concluded, ‘the drawbridge will be winched up at dusk, the portcullis lowered. I want beacon lights on each rampart along the walls. No one is to enter between dusk and dawn without my permission. Now.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think enough has been said.’
The meeting broke up. Ralph, still feeling sore and shaken, walked out of the hall and sat on the steps. Adam and Marisa came and sat on either side of him. Ralph felt the warmth of their friendship.
‘You didn’t really mean that, did you, Ralph?’ Marisa clasped his left hand, rubbing it gently between hers.
‘Am I so easy to see through?’ Ralph asked with a smile.
‘You never were a good liar.’ Adam’s blue eyes twinkled in amusement. ‘What do you really think happened?’
HAUNT OF MURDER, A Page 7
