Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  Morville and Mandeville, the eldest and most cognisant men on the battleground, were the only two who had not yet landed a blow. They circled, feinted and taunted, each determined to place the other in the wrong. Each determined he was in the right.

  ‘Cease! Cease! In the name of King Henry, cease this madness!’ Hamelin Plantagenet, mounted on a large destrier in full barding, cantered into the throng of warriors. Percy and Courcy, similarly mounted, accompanied him. ‘How dare you disrespect my brother, the King? Cease, damn you!’

  The men separated, lowering their weapons.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Plantagenet addressed Mandeville.

  ‘Settling an old score, My Lord,’ he replied.

  ‘Consider it settled,’ Plantagenet said. ‘Return to your quarters.’

  Mandeville, Humez and their men-at-arms retreated, faces impassive.

  ‘The King demands an audience with you, FitzUrse and Brett at dawn,’ Plantagenet said to Morville. He glanced around. ‘Where is Reginald?’

  Morville searched the diminishing circle of men and could not see him. ‘I am unsure, My Lord.’

  ‘Find him before dawn.’ Plantagenet wheeled his destrier around and moved off. ‘There is to be no further discord,’ he proclaimed. ‘We are here to challenge the Irish rebels, not each other. In the name of the King!’

  ‘In the name of the King!’ shouted the gathered knights and men-at-arms, both those so recently fighting and those who, Morville now recognised, had gathered to witness it.

  Morville met Percy’s eyes for a brief moment. Neither spoke, then both Percy and Courcy turned their horses on the spot and followed the King’s half-brother.

  Brett stood, having been felled by Humez. ‘Where is Reginald, Hugh?’

  ‘I know not, Richard. Nor where Broc has disappeared to. We must find them before we face the King. I fear there will be no rest for us this night.’

  *

  ‘Here! My Lord, here!’ The shout was taken up by more men-at-arms and both Morville and Brett turned as one in the direction of the cry, and hurried through the trees as best they could to see what had been found.

  ‘No! Reginald!’ Brett sank to his knees, shaking. ‘Why? My God, why? He did not deserve this!’

  Morville said nothing, but approached his comrade-in-arms, his own men retreating to give him room. He looked up.

  Reginald FitzUrse swung and twisted at the end of a rope; his face purple in the predawn light. Very clearly dead.

  ‘Cut him down,’ Morville said.

  As the body of his late friend thumped on to the mulch beside him, Morville bent over him. ‘Pass me a torch.’

  He held the flaming pitch-soaked branch over FitzUrse and the men around him gasped. Brett erupted into further moans.

  FitzUrse had not only been hung, but disembowelled, snakes of his guts writhing around his body, still slithering from the impact of his fall.

  Morville held the torch close to the face to make sure of the man’s identity, and gasped. Clear in the light of the fire, the letters T R A I T O R had been written on Sir Reginald FitzUrse’s forehead in his own blood.

  Morville stared for a moment, then handed the torch back. ‘Bury him,’ he said, walked over to Brett, and hauled the young knight back to his feet.

  ‘But who . . .’ Brett said.

  Morville did not answer. ‘We must prepare for our audience with the King,’ he said instead, marching the boy back in the direction of the camp.

  *

  ‘What do we do now?’ Brett asked after Morville had sat him in front of the fire and forced a goodly amount of Rhenish down his throat.

  ‘We have little choice, Richard. We stay and die as Reginald did. We flee and live as outlawed excommunicants in a vicious and strange land. Or we petition the King to allow us free passage to Rome and throw ourselves on the mercy of Pope Alexander.’

  ‘But the Dominicans?’

  ‘We pray that we are sent to serve the Knights Templar and not the Dominicans.’

  They stayed silent for some minutes. Then Brett asked, ‘What are our chances?’

  Morville looked at him, shook his head, and emptied his wineskin.

  *

  ‘So,’ Henry said, still in his hunting hose and tunic. ‘Sir Reginald has departed us.’

  ‘He has, Sire, in the most gruesome manner,’ Morville said.

  ‘A shame. He was abased when he fell. I would not have wished eternity in Hell for him.’

  Morville and Brett said nothing.

  ‘And Broc? What of him?’ Henry asked the gathering of interested knights.

  ‘Spent the night with his whore,’ Mandeville said. ‘He is not responsible for this.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Yes, that sounds like Broc.’

  Morville gritted his teeth and clamped his fingers into Brett’s arm to stay any reckless statements.

  ‘Well, what to do with you two?’ Henry mused, steepling his fingers and looking at his two most errant knights.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sire,’ Morville ventured and took Henry’s raised eyebrows as permission to continue. ‘Richard and I beg leave to depart Ireland for Rome, there to throw ourselves upon Pope Alexander’s mercy and subject ourselves to the penance of his choosing for our misdeeds.’

  Henry nodded in thought, held out a hand into which was immediately placed a fine goblet of Rhenish. He took a long drink then relinquished the goblet and looked back at Morville and Brett and nodded. ‘God have mercy on your souls.’

  Chapter 46

  1st August 2015

  Donna glanced around as she handed in her ticket at the door, her hand trembling. She was relieved to see that no Castle Players were front of house, but was dismayed at the steady stream of cars entering the car park. There were too many. Far too many.

  She ignored the door to the auditorium and hurried to the ladies, glad that she’d had the opportunity during the cleansing to explore all the theatre’s nooks and crannies. She shut herself into the far cubicle, closed the toilet lid and sat down to wait.

  By her watch there were ten minutes left before the curtain rose, giving Henry and Becket centre stage and a captive audience. She waited a little longer until she was sure no one else was in the ladies, then emerged from her cubicle.

  In the hallway she took off one of her shoes – she’d worn stilettoes in preparation for this performance – took a tight hold of it and smashed the heel into the fire alarm.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as the siren wailed – she’d half expected the spirits to put a stop to her plan and somehow take the alarm system offline. She felt a brief pang of pity for Helen and the other players, then hardened herself once again. However much work they’d put in, and however important this was to them, she had to put a stop to it. Nothing else had worked.

  *

  Half an hour later, huddled in the car park in the wash of blue flashing lights from two fire engines, Donna held her breath once more as Helen stood at the top of the steps with a firefighter at her side and called for everyone’s attention.

  Please cancel, please cancel, please cancel.

  ‘Thank you everyone for staying, I’m relieved to announce it was a false alarm – a prank.’ Helen stared at Donna as she said this and Donna glared back, her heart sinking. ‘We can all go back in, the show will go on!’

  Helen raised her hands to quell the surge of words her announcement had ignited and added, ‘And in apology for the inconvenience, your interval drinks will be on the house.’

  The crowd of theatregoers applauded and made their way back into the auditorium.

  ‘Not you.’ Helen stepped in front of Donna as she tried to re-enter. ‘I know it was you, but you won’t stop us. You’re not welcome here.’

  The firefighter stepped behind Donna, giving her a disgusted look and effectively trapping the Wiccan.

  ‘Helen, please – you’re putting the safety of all these people at risk. You can’t do this!’

  ‘Thes
e gentlemen would like you to go with them.’ Helen indicated two police officers who stepped forward.

  ‘Hoax fire alarms are serious, miss. If there’d been a real fire elsewhere, people could have died.’

  ‘People will die if you don’t stop this show!’

  ‘That’s a serious threat.’

  ‘It’s not a threat! I’m trying to stop something awful happening. These people are being controlled by spirits, they’re not in their right minds!’

  ‘I see. Have you taken anything tonight, miss?’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Drugs, Donna. He’s asking if you’re high,’ Helen said.

  ‘No! Of course not. You have to believe me!’

  ‘Come along, miss. We’ll have a doctor check you out at the police station.’

  Defeated, Donna allowed herself to be escorted away. She took one last look back at Helen, and saw the shape of a medieval knight standing behind her, almost melding with the director.

  *

  Helen gave Paul a thumbs up as he rushed to his new position on the balcony, then turned to Mike, Dan, Ed and Sarah. ‘This is our best opening night ever, despite all that nonsense with Donna earlier. They’re loving it!’

  All four nodded with smiles and prepared themselves for their final scene.

  Helen opened her mouth to give more encouragement, then closed it and turned to watch as the stage was lit once more.

  Charlie was barely visible, kneeling before his table which had been transformed into an altar by cloth and cross.

  Paul, standing on the new platform Ed and Alec had constructed, was six feet above the stage, shining in the full glare of the spotlight. He watched Becket pray for a moment then turned to the audience.

  In the wings, Helen silently clapped her hands: his timing was perfect.

  ‘A man who came to me with naught. A man I raised up from naught treats me with such contempt as this! And you, you do naught!

  ‘What miserable and cowardly drones and traitors have I nourished and promoted that allow their king to be so shamed?

  ‘Who here shall take vengeance for the wrongs that I have suffered? Which man that swore fealty to me, to redress all injury done to me, and pledged their loyalty and honour to me shall make good on their vow now?

  ‘Are you so weakened by castles, wealth and comfort that you no longer care to fight for your king?

  ‘Damn the lot of you for weaklings – allowing a troublesome, low-born clerk to treat their king with such scorn!

  ‘I am ashamed to call you my vassals. England is ashamed of her lords! Who shall cut this canker from England’s breast?’

  A recording of loud male cheers and the thumping of booted feet on wooden floors and goblets on wooden tables reverberated throughout the theatre, and the knights rushed on to stage, passing underneath Henry and confronting Becket who rose to meet them as the spotlight on him brightened.

  ‘What insanity is this, that you would enter Canterbury Cathedral bearing arms?’

  ‘We are the King’s men, come to take you to Henry to answer for your crimes,’ FitzUrse declared.

  ‘Crimes? Crimes? Of what crimes do you speak? I have committed no act that could be so described.’

  ‘You excommunicated your king’s bishops – a traitorous act! By so doing you have declared yourself against the Young King, the Crown of England, and King Henry himself!’ FitzUrse turned and pointed at Henry.

  Becket laughed, shook his head, and looked up at his king, who returned his stare as he braced himself on the railings of his balcony.

  ‘King? You are naught but a small boy, stamping your foot in anger when he has lost the game!’

  ‘What are you doing? You should not be talking to Henry! Get back to the others!’ Helen hissed, gesticulating to get Charlie’s attention. He ignored her.

  ‘You have gone too far, my old friend,’ Henry said. ‘All I have done for you, and you betray me so heinously.’

  ‘I betray you? You sent your knights to silence me!’ Becket protested. ‘You betray not only my own person but the Church and God Himself.’ He smacked the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

  ‘Do not presume to chastise your king, Thomas. You shall only make matters go worse for you.’

  Helen gave up her protests and watched silently, as did the two hundred people in the auditorium, all captivated by the two powerful men on stage.

  ‘Cease this nonsense, Henry.’ Becket indicated the stage with a wave of his arm. ‘We have chased each other through Heaven and Hell for near a millennium, and now look,’ Becket gestured to the auditorium, ‘we are naught but a mummers’ show, displayed for the entertainment of commoners.’

  ‘You call this a mummers’ show?’ Henry asked, incredulous. ‘What do you call the farce at your so-called shrine? Saint Thomas – that is the most heinous fallacy of all! You are a low-born clerk!’ He slammed his fist on the rail, his face turning purple with rage. ‘Look how you have been raised up both in life and in death, by me!’ The last word was a roar.

  ‘Raised up? Hounded and murdered!’ Becket roared back. ‘Murdered by my closest friend. And for what? Because I carried out the duties of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The duties you laid on me despite my protests!’

  ‘You were my friend, my ally, together we could have transformed both England and the Church.’

  ‘Your demands were unjust, Henry! You wanted power over the Church, nothing more. You wanted to use me to weaken the Church. You were not a king but a tyrant, too full of his own glory!’

  ‘A tyrant you say?’ Henry’s voice was quiet, menacing, yet carried to every ear in the auditorium. ‘You talk to me of tyranny? You, who refused the just demands of your king? You, who raised the Church against me? A low-born clerk challenging the rule of his king and you talk to me of tyranny?’ Henry’s voice rose in a crescendo. ‘You, who damned my bishops? You, who would deny my son his crown? You, who incited the common folk of this good country against me?’

  ‘The common folk of this country know what is just,’ Becket answered, fumbling in the folds of his green robe. ‘The common folk of this country need both King and Church. The common folk of this country have the sense to know that one without the other breeds only terror! Yes, I gave voice to the common folk of this country. Yes, I spoke and acted for the common folk of this country. And you – you still stand above them on a pedestal of your own making! You still send your knights to murder!’ Becket indicated the four men behind him, a flash of light from the blade he had retrieved from his robe blinding Henry for a moment.

  ‘Not this time! You shall not murder me again, tonight our story changes.’ Becket threw the dagger, and laughed as the blade sank into Henry’s chest, blood spurting from the wound and splattering his upturned face. ‘Tonight I finally have my revenge!’

  ‘Sire! King Henry!’ the knights shouted as the audience gasped and Paul toppled over the railing of his balcony to thud on the boards below.

  ‘You have murdered the King!’ FitzUrse shrieked. ‘Murderer! Traitor!’

  Charlie staggered and looked around in shock, his eyes fixed on the body of his friend. ‘Paul? What, what happened?’ He screamed as FitzUrse’s blade sank into his shoulder at the point where it met his neck.

  ‘Dan, no!’ he gasped as he fell to his knees, blood spurting from his wound.

  The four knights stood and stared at the felled men in shock.

  Tracy dropped his sword with a clatter. ‘The King . . . the King is dead. We shall be blamed.’

  ‘Silence, William,’ FitzUrse shouted.

  ‘But we will be blamed! You’ve done it again and led us to ruin!’

  ‘Silence!’ FitzUrse roared and swung his sword.

  Mike jumped backwards, avoiding the blade. ‘Dan, stop! What are you doing?’

  ‘Charlie!’ Sarah sobbed as she knelt beside her friend in a growing pool of blood, then looked up at her husband. ‘You’ve killed him!’

 
Dan stared at his wife, then at his bloody sword and dropped it in shock. ‘N-n-n-no. No. No.’ He fell to his knees, hugged himself and swayed back and forth, still uttering the denial.

  Chapter 47

  8th August 2015

  The remnants of The Castle Players walked away from the police station, down Castlegate towards the centre of Knaresborough a week later, after being questioned by the police yet again.

  ‘Helen!’

  They turned to see Donna running towards them.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really,’ Helen said. ‘They keep asking us the same questions, as if they think the answers are going to change!’

  ‘Asking if we killed our friends,’ Sarah added.

  ‘It’s been a nightmare,’ Ed said.

  ‘But they’ve let you go,’ Donna said.

  ‘Reluctantly,’ Helen said. ‘They couldn’t charge us with anything. Everyone could, could s-s-see . . .’

  Donna held Helen as she fought against tears. She’d already shed more in the past week than she had in the past year.

  ‘They still think we did it, though,’ Mike said. ‘You could see it on their faces. I’m sure they’re convinced we poisoned them or slipped them some acid or something.’

  ‘But you didn’t and there’s no evidence of any drugs or poison.’

  ‘No. They’ve put it down to mass hysteria,’ Alec said. ‘Blaming it on the pressure of putting on the play.’

  ‘You know it wasn’t that,’ Donna said, and the others nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,’ Helen said. ‘Did you get into much trouble?’