A haunt of murder ctomam-6

by Paul Doherty

  The summoner tossed it on to the table and grasped her by the arm.

  ‘It will stay there until I have had my pleasure.’ He paused at the sound of voices from the taproom below. ‘What’s happening below?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual grumbles.’

  ‘I heard rumours about a tax collector being murdered.’

  ‘Yes,’ the wench replied, enjoying the look of fear on the summoner’s face. ‘He came here collecting what he shouldn’t.’

  ‘Not like me,’ the summoner replied. ‘I pay for what I take.’

  ‘What about these powers?’ the wench asked. ‘What do you mean by supernatural?’

  ‘I have powers,’ the summoner replied, holding one hand up, fingers splayed.

  Robin and Isabella were now giggling like two mischievous children.

  ‘I can call on the Dark Lords to do my bidding.’

  ‘And do what?’ the wench asked.

  ‘Things. I can make matter move without touching it.’

  Isabella darted forward and knocked a tin cup off the table; Robin picked up the war belt and flung it across the room. The summoner stared, mouth open, eyes popping.

  ‘You can do it!’ said the wench, awed.

  ‘I… er…’ The summoner was alarmed.

  Robin and Isabella were enjoying their game. They pulled a cloak off a peg and tossed it to the floor. They picked up the grimy towel from the lavarium and waved it like a pennant. The wench was now frightened. She climbed off the bed and retreated to the door. Isabella was ready for her, pulling across the bolts and turning the key. Other items were picked up and thrown like scraps of straw.

  The summoner paled with fright, beads of sweat ran down his cheek. He was so taken by the terrors that he wet himself. He sat rigid, hands on his knees. The maid began to scream.

  ‘Stop it!’ Beatrice called. ‘For the love of God, stop it!’

  Immediately Robin and Isabella became docile and stood with their hands at their sides, heads lowered, looking at her from under their brows. Their eyes seemed to have lost their colour. The tavern wench drew back the bolts, flung open the door and went screaming down the gallery. The summoner moved quickly, grasping at his possessions, putting the silver coin back in his purse. He threw himself through the open doorway. Robin and Isabella laughed.

  ‘You see, Beatrice,’ Isabella crowed, grasping her husband’s hand. ‘Brother Antony was wrong. You can cross the divide. You could intervene.’

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘Let your hate flow,’ Robin replied with a smile. ‘Think of it as a stick or a dagger, put all your mind, heart and soul behind it.’

  Beatrice stared at this precious pair. What they offered was tantalising but she sensed there was something dreadfully wrong about it, that if she accepted what they said, there would be no turning back.

  ‘I want to go,’ she said.

  ‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’

  She looked through the window. Brother Antony stood in the street below, shaking a raised finger in warning.

  Beatrice fled from the room, down the steps. But outside there was no high street, no Brother Antony, only a long, dark trackway fringed by trees. The chapman leading his sumpter pony, the two great mastiffs bounding before him, was coming towards her.

  Words Between the Pilgrims

  The clerk paused in his tale. The pilgrims clustered round the crackling fire beseeched him with their eyes to continue. The pardoner, clawing at his flaxen hair, was smirking mischievously at the summoner who sat, head down, shoulders hunched.

  ‘Have you ever been to Maldon, sir?’ The pardoner asked sweetly.

  ‘Never!’ this messenger of the Church snapped. ‘I’ve never been to Maldon. I know nothing of a tavern called the Pot of Thyme.’ Yet the way he moved his lips and a shift in his eyes showed the pilgrims he was lying. The man of law hitched his fur robes tighter round his shoulders. This tale disturbed him, and so did this God-forsaken wood, with the mist seeping in, the sounds of the night all around them. Only the fiery warmth of the fire kept the terrors at bay.

  ‘I’ve been to Maldon,’ the reeve announced, looking quickly at the knight. Sir Godfrey hid a smile behind his hand. He knew all about the reeve’s activities in the great revolt that had swept through Essex and Kent some nine years previously: the reeve had been high in the rebels’ council.

  ‘I recognise some of the names,’ the Reeve continued in his nasal whine. ‘The farmer, Piers, Taylis the taverner, though he’s now dead.’

  ‘These visions you describe, Master Clerk,’ Sir Godfrey said, ‘can you explain them?’

  Surprisingly, the monk leaned forward, one bony hand extended as a sign that he wished to speak.

  ‘There are many worlds,’ he said in a deep, rich voice. ‘How do we know that five or six realities don’t exist at the same time? Even the great philosophers admit to such a possibility.’

  ‘And do you think,’ the knight asked, ‘that there are creatures who can pass through the twilight?’

  ‘Why, of course, Sir Godfrey,’ the monk replied softly. ‘And they come for many reasons.’ He bared his teeth.

  The wife of Bath flinched at the sight of his sharp dog’s teeth.

  ‘In death as in life, there are hunters and hunted.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sir Godfrey replied. ‘And it is as well to know which is which.’

  The monk glanced away.

  ‘I would like to know,’ the wife of Bath chirped up, ‘if this is a true story, or at least which strands of it are true. How do you know what Beatrice saw?’ She studied the clerk’s soft face. In the flickering firelight he looked very handsome and the wife of Bath wetted her lips. It had been so long since she had bounced merrily on a bed. The clerk did not answer her question. He looked round at his audience and said, ‘Prepare your minds, kind sirs and ladies, for the Lords of Hell!’

  PART III

  Words Between the Pilgrims

  Chapter 1

  Beatrice stood and watched the man on his sumpter pony draw nearer and, as he did so, the snow-filled valley and the hounds disappeared. Once again he looked like an ordinary chapman on the high road of Maldon, his pony a bedraggled mount with bulging panniers and baskets on either side. The man was tall, now soberly dressed in a brown leather jerkin and brown leggings. His blue cloak was gathered behind him, fastened at the neck by a silver chain. A war belt round his slim waist carried sword and dagger. One hand held the reins, the other a stout walking staff. He had a handsome face, deep-set eyes, sharp nose and a merry mouth. His black moustache and beard were neatly clipped. Beatrice noticed that his fingers were long, the nails carefully cut. On one wrist he wore a gold band, on the other a leather guard. He stopped in front of her.

  ‘Beatrice Arrowner?’ He smiled, showing teeth that were white and even. The little bells sewn to his jerkin tinkled musically at his every movement.

  ‘Who are you?’ Beatrice asked. ‘I can see you and you can see me. Are you a ghost?’

  ‘I’m the Minstrel Man.’

  ‘And where are you going, sir?’ Beatrice was too curious to heed Brother Antony’s warning.

  ‘Why, Beatrice, the same as you, Ravenscroft Castle.’

  ‘But are you a ghost?’ she insisted.

  He slipped the staff through a cord in the saddle of his sumpter pony and grasped her hand.

  ‘Come with me, Beatrice. I’ve been invited there. I’ve heard the summons. I want to see what songs can be sung, stories told, webs woven.’ He squeezed her hand; his touch was very warm. Beatrice felt calm and peaceful; and it seemed only natural to walk with him. Soon she was chattering like a child, telling him everything that had happened. The Minstrel Man was a good listener. When she fell silent, he began to sing a song softly under his breath, a heartcatching tune though Beatrice did not understand the guttural words.

  ‘What words are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, it’s an ancient song.’ The Minstrel Man paused and turned to face
her. ‘I’ve sung it many a time, before the soaring monuments of Egypt, the hanging gardens of Babylon, the great towers of Troy and the golden palaces of the Byzantine.’

  ‘You’ve travelled far?’ she asked.

  ‘I travel, Mistress, wherever I’m invited.’ His reply was soft, followed by a slow wink of the eye.

  ‘And what will you do at Ravenscroft?’

  ‘Why, Beatrice, make music.’

  ‘But they won’t hear you!’

  ‘Oh, they will. The song I sing has been heard many times.’

  Beatrice felt a tinge of apprehension. She noticed how dark the highway had become and something else: in the fields on either side the grazing cattle were moving away and all birdsong had ceased. There was no crackling or bustling in the thicket. She stared back in the direction of Maldon. Shadows clustered there as if an army of the dead were following them. Nothing substantial, just those black plumes of smoke she had glimpsed from the taproom of the Pot of Thyme, now gathering together. Above her the sky was streaked with dark-red clouds.

  ‘So, what do you want?’ the Minstrel Man asked.

  ‘To help Ralph. Robin and Isabella said I could have that power.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ The Minstrel Man’s voice was a purr. ‘Do you remember Ralph in the mire struggling to get out? If you had wanted to, if you had really tried, you could have grasped his hand and plucked him out.’

  ‘Could I?’

  The Minstrel Man looked down the trackway and whistled under his breath. ‘Come, Beatrice, I’ll show you.’

  They rounded a corner. To the side of the trackway stood a small cart. The horse had been unhitched and the Moon people – a man, two women and a child dressed in motley rags – had gathered bracken and lit a fire against the approaching night. One of the women was skinning a rabbit and cleaning out the entrails before packing the meat with herbs and putting it on a makeshift spit over the fire. The Minstrel Man left his horse and walked towards them, still grasping Beatrice’s hand. Immediately, the older woman, with yellowing skin and greying hair, looked up, eyes rounded. She spoke in a strange tongue to the man, whose hand went clumsily for the dagger in his belt. Their horse, a docile-looking cob, hobbled some yards away, reared and whinnied. The young boy ran to his mother. She clasped him, wrapping her arms round him. All were staring fixedly, their terror tangible.

  ‘Can they see us?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘No,’ the Minstrel Man replied. ‘But they know I’m here.’

  The old woman held up her hand, thumb pushed between her fingers as she made the sign to ward off evil.

  ‘Just ignore their little game,’ the Minstrel Man murmured.

  The touch of his hand had gone cold. Beatrice’s unease deepened. The Moon man crouched down and placed his dagger on a piece of wood. He, too, had one hand extended, moving it slowly backwards and forwards as if trying to reassure whatever was around him.

  ‘Look at that dagger,’ the Minstrel Man murmured. ‘Go on, Beatrice, look at it!’

  She obeyed.

  ‘Think of Ralph. Think of that killer waiting in the shadows on the parapet walk.’ He was now behind her, one hand on her shoulder. ‘It wasn’t fair, was it, Beatrice?’ His voice had taken on a sing-song tone. ‘It wasn’t fair to be thrust out of life, to be sent flying into the night air, smashing into the ground below. And why should it happen to you? You were a good girl, Beatrice. Good to your aunt and your uncle. Good to the church. You deserved long life. It was your right to lie naked in Ralph’s arms. To be his handfast, to bear his children.’

  Beatrice felt a deep sadness.

  ‘Look across the field, Beatrice.’

  She did so. Instead of green grass she saw a smartly-painted house and a cobbled yard. She and Ralph were sitting on a bench against the wall. A small boy, dressed in a little green shift, was staggering around, his fat face creased in a smile. He held a wooden sword in his chubby hands. He was chuckling with glee. Ralph was teasing him, telling him to come closer. When the young boy did, Ralph pretended to be a dragon. The little lad laughed and ran away. Beatrice watched herself get up, put the piece of embroidery down and run after the child. She picked him up, clasping him to her. Beatrice moaned at the sweetness of it all.

  ‘This is your life,’ the Minstrel Man said. ‘This was cruelly taken from you. A long and happy life in which you gave love and love was returned. How could God do that? Why should an assassin get away with it? Hurry now. Ralph is waiting.’

  ‘What do I do? What do I do?’

  ‘Take the knife.’ He pushed Beatrice gently across the grass.

  ‘I can’t touch it.’

  ‘Think, Beatrice,’ He said ‘Think of vengeance. Think of justice. Think of Ralph. Take the knife, pick it up, show these fools that they are in the presence of someone great.’

  Beatrice went forward. She grasped the knife but she could feel nothing.

  ‘Think of the assassin,’ the Minstrel Man urged. ‘Think of the murderer laughing and joking, of the long years ahead, of Ralph lying in the arms of another. Of that child you’ll never see.’

  Beatrice felt a spurt of anger go through her like dye colouring water. She lunged and plucked the knife up. She looked round; the Minstrel Man was smiling.

  ‘There you go, Beatrice. There’s my bonny lass.’

  The Moon people were staring transfixed. The young woman began to shriek, clutching the boy close to her.

  ‘Silence her!’ The voice seemed to come from within her. ‘Silence her, Beatrice! Let loose the power you have within you. You have so much power, Beatrice, that’s why I have travelled to meet you.’

  She took a step forward. The man was crouched on the ground, arms wrapped round himself, whimpering like a dog. The old crone squatted as if she had been turned to stone. The young woman rent the air with her terrible screams.

  ‘Shut her up!’ The words came in a snarl.

  Abruptly one of those silver discs of light came between Beatrice and the woman and then moved away. The young boy broke free. He approached the knife, his eyes large and dark above tear-soaked cheeks.

  ‘Please!’ He mouthed the words. ‘Please don’t hurt us! We didn’t mean to steal the rabbit!’

  Beatrice’s resolve crumbled. She put the knife gently on the ground and stretched out her hand to touch the child’s cheek. For a moment she felt wet skin, a wisp of hair.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ she soothed. ‘Don’t you worry, little one.’

  ‘Beatrice Arrowner!’

  She glanced round. The Minstrel Man was standing, legs apart, an ugly snarl on his face.

  ‘You stupid wench! You foolish bitch! You whine, you beg and, when you have the power, you throw it away as if it was a dirty rag!’

  He took a step forward. A silver disc came between him and Beatrice. The Minstrel Man smirked. He spoke in that strange guttural tongue. The disc moved away. The Minstrel Man snatched the reins of his pony and the animal raised its head. Beatrice recoiled in horror; it was no longer a sumpter pony but a shape with black hair, long ears, snarling mouth, fiery eyes.

  ‘Farewell, Beatrice Arrowner.’ The Minstrel Man waggled a finger at her. ‘I still have company to keep at Ravenscroft.’ And, whistling under his breath, he and his ghoulish mount walked away along the track. He lifted a hand in farewell but didn’t turn his head.

  ‘Beatrice Arrowner! I told you to be careful!’ Brother Antony was standing under a tree. He came towards her and grasped her by the hand. ‘Stay well away from him.’

  ‘I thought he could help.’

  ‘You thought he could help!’ Brother Antony shook his head sadly. ‘Do you realise what he was urging you to do, Beatrice?’

  ‘I wanted to help,’ she stammered.

  He took her away across the track. Behind them the Moon people were more composed, talking among themselves, intent on moving camp as quickly as possible. Brother Antony and Beatrice watched them go then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

>   ‘Why did you do that?’ Beatrice asked, surprised.

  ‘You’ve been tested and you have not been found wanting.’ Brother Antony smiled. ‘I told you, Beatrice, where you are now is just the same as life.’ He tapped her on the head and on the heart. ‘The intellect and the will are all that matter. Now the games are over. Robin and Isabella? They are demons.’

  ‘No!’ Yet she could tell from the grave expression on his face that he was telling the truth.

  ‘They are demons,’ Antony repeated. ‘They are the same as Crispin and Clothilde. In fact, they are one and the same being, manifesting themselves in either sex, assuming many forms. They were sent to tempt you. To entice you into the darkness. To hate, to seek vengeance. To argue constantly with God like their master does.’

  ‘And the Minstrel Man?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘One of the great Lords of Hell, Dominus Achitophel. A great baron of the fiery pit, one of Satan’s tenants-in-chief. He wanders the wastelands which are both freezing and hot while the hordes of Hell pay him tribute.’

  Beatrice repressed her fear. ‘But why would such a baron have anything to do with me?’

  ‘For two reasons. Yours is a soul still out for capture and a soul full of power. Satan, in the very depths of his hate, is always attracted by such souls.’

  ‘But the Minstrel Man said he was still going to Ravenscroft.’

  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.’