Brother Antony smiled sadly. ‘Beatrice, most sins are the result of human weakness, of weariness and frustration. A man becomes tired of ploughing the soil, of watching his bairns starve, of his wife shrivel before his eyes. So he drinks too much. He doesn’t control his lusts. But that’s not badness, wickedness, just human frailty. Or take those who rob. Many are brought up in abject poverty, they know no different.’ Brother Antony’s face seemed to become smoother and younger, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘The compassion of Christ is all-understanding. In the end, Beatrice, God’s love will invade this world. It will sweep away, it will turn back, it will heal. At the end of time, when the heavens crack with fire, time will run back and God will make all things well.’ He paused and said something softly in Latin, staring up at the sky. ‘God is coming again, Beatrice. He has counted and weighed the tear of every child, the loneliest cry of pain. He has noted every injustice under the sun, and there will be a reckoning.’ His voice rose, his eyes bright. ‘Every time a child is abused, God is abused. Every time a woman is raped, God is raped. Every time an injustice is committed, God is violated. All these things must be put right.’
‘So why does the Minstrel Man go to Ravenscroft?’
‘The Minstrel Man sings a demonic hymn.’ Brother Antony stepped closer. ‘He’s attracted by the real evil there, true wickedness, a human soul, a being comfortable, endowed with talents, deliberately and maliciously plotting then carrying out dreadful murders. For what?’
‘I don’t know. Brythnoth’s cross?’
‘Perhaps. But, it’s not just greed. Other darker sins run in harness with it: an enjoyment, a malicious desire. A nightmare soul has sung its song and Hell has answered.’
‘Do you know who the assassin is?’ Beatrice asked. Brother Antony shook his head. ‘The all-seeing God knows. But God depends on us, Beatrice. On those who have the means, and the will, to see justice done.’
‘But the Minstrel Man threatened Ralph.’
Brother Antony shook his head. ‘Ralph’s soul and life lie in the hand of God.’
‘Like mine did,’ Beatrice declared. Her voice shook with emotion. ‘I saw that vision of my future.’
‘But was it the truth?’ Brother Antony retorted. ‘I tell you this, Beatrice, what God has prepared for you and Ralph, when his justice is done, will compensate for the evil and wickedness you have suffered. Trust in him, trust in me.’ He grasped her hands. ‘Promise me, Beatrice, now you have been tested, now you have chosen for yourself, that never again will you listen to Crispin and Clothilde, Robin and Isabella. Or whatever other demon Hell spits out.’
‘I promise.’ Beatrice turned away.
‘Where are you going, Mistress?’
‘Why, Brother, to Ravenscroft.’
He pointed down the road at the retreating party of Moon people.
‘But you have done an injustice, reparation is demanded.’
‘If I could, Brother Antony, I would do anything. That poor child, the terror in his eyes …’
Brother Antony seized her by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s catch up.’
They seemed to cover the separating distance in a twinkling of an eye. Brother Antony pulled Beatrice on to the tail of the cart. Beatrice could sense the Moon people’s fear.
‘What do I do?’ she asked.
‘Think!’ Brother Antony hissed. ‘Forget yourself. Try and put yourself in the place of each of them.’
‘What do they do?’
‘The man is a tinker. I can only help you so much. You must do it for yourself. You cannot enter their souls but pain is self-evident. Put yourself in their place. Think of the other, Beatrice Arrowner, forget yourself. Let your mind slip.’
Beatrice did so.
‘Stare at each of them.’
Beatrice obeyed. She first looked at the young woman holding the boy. She saw how tired her face was, heavy-eyed, the constant gnawing of the lip. She felt herself slip into what the woman was fearful of. The Moon woman had forgotten the terrifying experience, she was more concerned with something practical.
‘She’s frightened for the man,’ Beatrice declared. ‘She’s worried about him.’
‘What is she worried about?’
Once again Beatrice immersed herself, and this time it was easier. She discovered the Moon woman was the man’s wife, the older woman her mother. She experienced their courage in the face of hardship, their deep devotion to each other and their unspoken fears.
‘He’s a good tinker,’ she said, ‘an honest man who looks after her and her aged mother.’
‘And what are they worried about, Beatrice Arrowner?’
‘Two months ago he injured his right wrist and it hasn’t healed properly. He cannot hold the hammer and they fear for the future.’
Beatrice moved through the cart and sat next to the man on the rough driver’s seat. His face was sweat-soaked, his right hand dangling in his lap. He was having difficulty holding the reins. Now and again, eyes half-closed, he would wince with pain.
‘His wrist is really hurting him,’ Beatrice said. ‘And he wants to hide this from the others.’
‘Think of his wrist, Beatrice.’
Beatrice did. She felt a fiery pain shoot through her own arm and her fingers went limp.
‘Oh, what can I do?’ she cried. ‘I’d do anything!’
‘Hold his wrist!’
Beatrice did so. She felt a deep compassion for this poor tinker. She forgot about herself, about Ralph, Ravenscroft, the Minstrel Man. All she was aware of was the fear and pain mingling in the tinker’s mind. She kept rubbing his wrist, pushing with her fingers, willing it to be better. Brother Antony was talking but she ignored him. She felt dreadfully sad that she had frightened such a man and deeply concerned that she had stirred up his anxieties.
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I am so very, very sorry.’
She felt a fire within her. If she could only break out. She had now grasped the man’s wrist between both hands. The horse seemed to sense something and picked up speed. The man became alarmed. Beatrice was aware of a silver disc passing between her and the tinker. The horse shied. The cart hit a rut and lurched. The man screamed as his damaged wrist caught the wooden seat.
‘Oh no!’ Beatrice cried.
But then the tinker was pulling at the reins to halt the horse. He raised his right arm, flexing his fingers. Beatrice felt a deep exhaustion as if she had been drained of all energy. She panicked at what might be happening. The tinker, meanwhile, was staring in stupefaction. Once again Beatrice tried to sense what he was feeling. She experienced a deep sense of relief, an absence of pain. The tinker, to the amazement of his family, jumped down from the cart and started waving his arms. He was jabbering in a tongue she couldn’t understand. The two women were laughing and crying at the same time.
‘It’s healed, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘It’s a miracle.’
‘Of sorts,’ Brother Antony replied. ‘But what’s a miracle, Beatrice? His wrist was dislocated. The cart jolted, his wrist received a blow and the joint was realigned.’
‘I feel so tired,’ she said wearily. ‘Why should I feel tired? I have no body.’
‘Yes, you have,’ Brother Antony replied. ‘But it’s incorporeal. You have given him your strength, the power of your will.’
He sat down beneath a tree and indicated that she should do likewise. They watched the tinker embrace his wife and the old woman, and hug the child.
‘Our prayers are answered,’ the tinker declared in a tongue she could understand. ‘So now to Ravenscroft where Sir John always has good trade for me.’
They all climbed back on the cart. Beatrice watched them go. Brother Antony put an arm round her; unresistingly she allowed him to put her head on his shoulder.
‘Surely I can’t sleep,’ she murmured.
‘Rest,’ he soothed. ‘Think of the darkness, of warmth.’
Beatrice felt herself falling, then she shook herself. Brother Antony
was gone. She was still seated under the tree, the daylight was fading. Hours must have passed but it felt like moments. She sprang to her feet. She thought of Ralph and hastened along the track …
She reached the crossroads. Etheldreda was squatting there. She glanced fearfully up at Beatrice. ‘A great lord has passed,’ she said.
‘Leave her, Beatrice Arrowner.’ Crispin and Clothilde had appeared on the other side of the crossroads. They were smiling at her. Beatrice recalled the Moon people, that terrible dagger scything the air, the abject tears of the little boy. She had had enough of this precious pair with their lies and deceit.
‘Go away!’ she screamed.
They stared back, eyebrows raised.
‘In Christ’s name,’ Beatrice crossed herself, ‘leave me alone!’
The two merged into one, then separated again, as Robin and Isabella. Their faces changed and, Beatrice glimpsed the mocking features of the Minstrel Man, before once again they became Crispin and Clothilde. Behind her Etheldreda was gibbering with fright.
‘Hell’s spawn!’ Beatrice screamed. ‘You lied to me! You tricked me!’
They turned away. Clothilde looked over her shoulder, her face no longer beautiful, eyes red like glowing coals, mouth twisted in a leer. She parted her lips and gave a hiss, a blast of fire. The searing gust of heat made Beatrice flinch and stagger back, then they were gone.
Beatrice waited for a while and, when her strength returned, made her way along the track. Ravenscroft’s turrets and towers came into sight. She hastened across the drawbridge. She was aware of the Moon people’s cart, the tinker’s hammer clattering against the pots, the ordinary sights and sounds of a castle. The bailey, however, was also full of ghosts, two worlds co-existing. In the centre was the Minstrel Man and around him were grouped Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, kneeling in obeisance to this great Lord of Hell.
Chapter 2
Ralph entered his chamber and leaned against the door. He sniffed and, once again, caught the faint fragrance of Beatrice’s perfume. He felt uneasy. The chamber was gloomy, the night candle flickering under its metal cap. He wondered if Beatrice was still with him.
‘Are you there?’ he called out but the only answer was the shutter rattling in the breeze. Ralph moved across to his writing desk and stared down at the manuscripts. He had deliberately said and written nothing about his discovery. Nevertheless, he was sure someone had been in here, sifting through the manuscripts, searching for something.
He opened the shutters and stared out. Later that evening Father Aylred was to celebrate Mass in the entrance to Midnight Tower. Everyone else was busy trying to do their work despite the oppressive atmosphere at Ravenscroft. Now was the best time to go. Ralph took his war belt from a peg and strapped it round his waist. He put on his cloak and left his chamber, locking the door behind him.
The castle bailey was deserted apart from the travelling Moon people. The man, a professional tinker by trade, seemed happy to be here, grateful to Sir John for bringing out the pots, pans and skillets that required attention.
Ralph quickly made his way across the green and into the Salt Tower. Sir John had still not followed his advice to protect this vulnerable part of the castle defences. He went up the steps, trying not to indulge in fanciful notions, yet it was hard. The assassin must have crept up here bringing those arbalests which had killed Beardsmore.
Ralph reached the first landing and walked into the chamber. The assassin had used that large window to smuggle poor Phoebe’s corpse out of the castle. Now, Ralph intended to use it for his own secret purposes. He opened the large shutters and climbed carefully out. The day had been a dull one and the gathering dusk made it even more grim. He paused to close the shutters behind him and continued on down. He stepped on to the muddy bank and quickly crossed the moat. He set out over the heathland then glanced back. He glimpsed the sentry, but the only real danger was if the assassin was also looking out; that would be the most cruel of coincidences.
Ralph continued on. When he reached the trees, he stopped and listened, drew his dagger and walked deeper into the spinney. This copse, he reflected, must be very old; it contained beech, copper, sycamore and, of course, the great oak trees. He studied them closely. Which tree housed the treasure? An old forester had once told him that oaks could grow and survive for hundreds and hundreds of years, and they changed as they grew. Their great trunks split, branches became twisted and extended, they were damaged by thunderstorms and lightning.
‘Think!’ Ralph whispered. ‘You are coming from a battle. You have something precious to hide.’ Cerdic would have been in a hurry, eager to get back to the battlefield. So, what did he do? Dig?
Ralph smiled to himself. Cerdic would scarcely do that. He wouldn’t have the time, energy or the tools to dig a deep hole. And anything hidden beneath the soil would soon be disturbed and discovered. Ralph gazed round, and counted seven great oak trees in all, interspersed by bushes and other trees. Wasn’t seven a sacred number to the ancient rituals as well as to the Christian faith? Seven sacraments. Seven days of the week. Ralph got up and walked round the trees. He tried to put himself into the position of that bedraggled, weary, blood-spattered squire, a man entrusted with a sacred task.
Ralph stopped. The spinney was now very quiet as if the birds and animals who lived here resented his intrusion and quietly watched from the gathering shadows. He was standing before one of the ancient oak trees and looked up. He began to climb. At first it was difficult. He bruised his legs, scraped his hands but, at last, he reached the lower branches which provided him with a better foothold. Up and up he climbed till the branches thinned. He stared down the length of the great trunk. He could see no crack or rent, no gap or hole. He was about to climb down when he heard the murmur of voices and froze. Two men had entered the spinney from the other end. They were hooded and masked, quivers slung across their backs, bows in their hands. Poachers? Outlaws? The men stopped beneath him, whispering, their heads together. He could make out no face, no distinguishing mark. They crossed the glade and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ralph’s arms ached. He was about to clamber down when three more abruptly appeared, following their companions across the glade. Ralph tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, grateful for the branches and leaves which concealed him. He waited and eventually, the men came back, this time together in a group of five. Ralph peered down. They were certainly not from the castle and they did not seem intent on hunting game. They appeared to have simply gone to the fringe of the spinney, stared out at the castle then returned.
They must be from the village, Ralph thought. He waited until the men were gone then clambered down. Brythnoth’s cross would have to wait. He ran across the clearing, out of the spinney and back towards the castle. He found Adam in the barbican talking to one of the guards.
‘In Heaven’s name, Ralph, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ralph replied wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I went out for a walk and …’ He shook his head. ‘I wish Sir John would listen. There’s villainy being plotted in Maldon. Where is the Constable now?’
Adam shrugged. ‘In his chambers, I think. Can I help?’
Ralph nodded. ‘Sir John may listen to you. Tell him I’ve seen villagers armed with bows and arrows studying the castle. I urge him to double the guard. Put every man we have on a war footing.’
‘Dramatic language, Ralph!’
‘For the love of God, Adam, just do what I say! I’m going to check the Salt Tower.’
Adam hastened away. Ralph was pleased to be free of his questioning stare; he was also embarrassed by his own hypocrisy. Here he was urging his Constable to prepare the castle carefully and yet he had left that window door unsecured. He hurried to the Salt Tower and up the steps. The chamber was now very dark. The shutters, slightly opened by the evening breeze, allowed in some light. Ralph hurried across, pulled the shutters together and lowered the bar. He turned and sat, his back to the
wall, trying to catch his breath. He was soaked in sweat. He got up and, as he did so, once again caught that pleasing fragrance Beatrice always wore.
‘Are you there?’ he whispered. ‘Are you really near me?’ Ralph felt a shiver go up his spine. He’d always believed that when a person died, the soul left the body and travelled on. Yet what had Father Aylred once told him? That some souls lingered in a twilight world between life and death? Was that happening now? Had Beatrice, who loved him so passionately, refused to journey on? Was she here with him now? Tears pricked his eyes. What did it matter whether or not he found Brythnoth’s cross? The real treasure in his life had gone. And what should he do when all this was over? In his heart he knew he could not stay at Ravenscroft. It would always evoke memories of Beatrice and he could not live with that. For the moment, however, he had to stay because of the assassin which stalked them all; he could not leave the garrison in its moment of danger. But if he survived? If God brought him safely through this? Where to then? To the Halls of Oxford, to resume his studies of the great Aristotle? Ralph drew a deep breath. The tinge of perfume was even stronger. He remembered that Theobald had distilled it. Ralph chewed on his lip. He’d ask the physician for one last jar, a keepsake.
Ralph walked to the door. He thought of the upper chamber from which the assassin had loosed his killing shaft and went up the crumbling steps, ignoring the squeak of rats as they scampered away. The upper room was colder than when he had last visited it, the shutters had not been fully closed. He went and looked out of a window. It was almost night and a mist was creeping in from Devil’s Spinney, curling out towards the castle. Father Aylred would be waiting for him. Castle servants had already laid out the altar, cross and sacred vessels. Sir John had agreed that Ralph could act as altar boy but no one else should be present.
Ralph walked back to the door and heard a sound on the stairs. A rat? He took out his dagger, gripping it firmly because his hands were sweaty. With his back to the wall he went carefully down the steps. Again the sound. He turned a corner and listened. Was there someone there? Ralph could hear the beat of his own heart. He wished he had brought a candle. Had someone seen him come here? He swallowed hard. The tower steps were freezing. He could not stay here. He went on down. Suddenly his heel slipped, the dagger clattered on the steps. Cursing softly, Ralph crouched down and stretched out, and as he did so, his hand caught a piece of twine, tight like that of a drawn bow. He followed it across to some nails that had been driven into the wall from the time when the stairs had had a wooden rail or panelling. Each end of the twine was tied to one of these nails. Ralph lowered his hands. Another stretch of twine was there, just as taut, spanning a lower step. Ralph slashed through the twine with his dagger. He went down at a crouch, feeling rather ridiculous, as if he was a child learning to go up or down steps for the first time. He reached the bottom and fled from the Salt Tower.
HAUNT OF MURDER, A Page 14
