Knight of Betrayal: A Medieval Haunting (Ghosts of Knaresborough Book 1)

by Karen Perkins

  ‘There.’ Tracy pointed at a window under repair. ‘The masons have left it incomplete!’

  ‘Up you go then, William,’ FitzUrse said. ‘Climb in and unlock the door.’

  Tracy glanced at him, then back at the window. His fear of FitzUrse was greater than his fear of heights, however, and he searched the stonework for a path up to the open invitation.

  Just as he was about to start his climb, Brett called, ‘One moment, William.’

  Tracy turned and smiled when he saw the young knight dragging a ladder.

  ‘The masons must have thrown it into the shrubbery and fled when they saw the men.’ Brett nodded at the score of men-at-arms behind Broc.

  ‘Your lucky day,’ Broc said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Tracy glanced at him, then led the way up to the window, followed by Brett. Morville was the only man to think to hold the ladder steady for them.

  When both had disappeared through the narrow aperture into the archive building, then made their way downstairs to let the others in, FitzUrse led the way to the chancel door to gain entrance to the cathedral itself, sword drawn.

  ‘It’s locked,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Then we’ll break it down,’ FitzUrse said. He raised his hand to bang for entry but the door swung away before his fist connected, causing him to stumble.

  He glared up at the monk, expecting to see mirth, which he would have sliced off his face in an instant. Instead, he saw fear.

  ‘The cathedral is open to all,’ the monk at the door said in a shaky whisper, blanching at the sight of steel. FitzUrse ignored him and brushed past, searching the gloom of the great cathedral for his quarry. His eyes lit on a huddle of men. ‘North transept. By the high altar. Onward.’

  He strode forward, heartened by the sound of purposeful boots on flagstones behind him.

  ‘Becket! Traitor! You will come with us by the order of the King.’

  ‘I am no traitor, Reginald. The traitors here are you and your friends. You are my sworn vassals yet you dare enter the sanctuary of Our Lord with swords drawn?’

  ‘We are the sworn vassals of the King, above all other men!’

  ‘And what about God? You insult Him by entering His house so armed?’

  ‘Traitor!’ FitzUrse accused again, unable to conjure a more ribald riposte.

  ‘And what are you?’ Becket taunted, pushing past two of his monks who were doing their best to shield him. ‘A procurer! And I see the Lord Broc, the King’s most senior whoremaster is here too. Good afternoon, Sir Ranulf. Has the King really sent his pimps to procure an archbishop rather than whores? He must think highly of you after all!’

  FitzUrse roared with rage and rushed forward, his impetus enough to carry Morville, Tracy and Brett in his wake.

  ‘Reginald, are you mad?’ Becket’s voice at last portrayed fear, but it only drove the knights on and broke the paralysed terror of Becket’s men as half of them fled. Now it was four against four, although the knights had an army at their backs; the clerics had naught but an altar.

  FitzUrse and Brett grabbed the priest. ‘Tracy, bend over,’ FitzUrse ordered. At Tracy’s bewildered look, he explained further. ‘We shall get him on your back, then carry him outside.’

  ‘No!’ Becket lunged at the nearby pillar, clutching it to his bosom as if his life depended on it.

  FitzUrse burst into bellows of laughter as Brett tried to pull the Archbishop’s grip from the pillar and Tracy attempted to heave the man away. Morville stood, sword raised to keep those clerics who had stayed under guard, whilst Broc and his men stood back, seemingly viewing the proceedings as a mummers’ show.

  FitzUrse flicked out his sword and caught the Archbishop’s fur cap which he flung towards the altar, then smacked the holy man’s rump with the flat of his blade. Becket roared in outrage and Tracy gave up the tug of war, dumping the Archbishop in an ungainly heap on the floor.

  ‘Sire!’ one of the monks, Grim, cried out, and escaped Morville to rush to his master’s side.

  Becket jumped to his feet, his face red, and confronted FitzUrse. ‘You have gone mad, Reginald. You have lost what few wits you were born with! This is no way to treat any man, especially in God’s house, never mind me. You swore fealty to me! Yet you make a mockery, not only of yourselves, but of My, Our Lord, and His sanctuary! Leave this place and do not return!’

  In reply, FitzUrse took hold of the Archbishop’s cloak and pulled the man closer. Before he could speak, however, Becket spat in his face.

  ‘Unhand me, pander. You are not worthy to touch this cloth.’

  ‘By God, men, if you do not shut him up, I shall rip the very head from his body,’ FitzUrse roared. He let go his hold of the holy cloth and stood back to give himself room to swing his sword. Becket bent forwards, clasping his hands before his face in prayer, beseeching God to be ready to welcome him through the gates of Heaven.

  Tracy lunged before FitzUrse finished his backswing. The monk – Grim – raised his arm to protect his master, but Tracy did not flinch. His blade glanced off the top of the Archbishop’s head, sliced a deep gouge through Grim’s upper arm, and parted the flesh of Becket’s shoulder until he struck bone.

  Grim screamed in agony, yet Becket barely paused in his prayers. ‘Into Thy care, Lord, I commend my spirit.’ He sank to his knees as the blood flowing from his wounds weakened him.

  Tracy struck at his head once more, screaming as he swung his blade and the priest fell.

  Tracy rested on his sword, the effort of such a heavy swing winding him, and Brett stepped forward.

  Shrieking in rage, he thrust his blade at Becket, slicing the crown of his head clean away. Sparks flew, momentarily gracing Becket with a halo as the steel blade shattered. ‘That’s for William, my friend, the King’s brother! He died of a broken heart when you refused his marriage. Now you have paid the price for his suffering,’ Brett shouted.

  Grim fell over his master, weeping, and Hugh Mauclerk – Morville’s clerk – stepped forward. With the tip of his sword, he scraped the pinkish-white brain matter from the holy skull and smeared it over the bloody flags. ‘That’s one pesky priest who shall give no further trouble.’

  Morville grabbed him, horrified at the callousness of his man – a man who had played no part in the actual deed. ‘Hurry, we must depart.’

  The knights turned to leave but paused at the glare of Broc and the horrified faces of the men who stood with him. ‘What have you done?’ Broc said.

  ‘We have cured the King of his priestly troubles,’ FitzUrse said, ‘and you stood by and watched.’

  Broc gritted his teeth in thought then said, ‘Go. Back to Saltwood Castle. Take your belongings and ride north. Scotland may be safe for you.’

  ‘And you?’ Morville enquired.

  ‘Me? I shall go to the King and plead your case.’

  A man burst into the cathedral and hurried to his master. He hesitated at the sight before the high altar, then whispered into Broc’s ear.

  ‘Mandeville and Humez have beached. Hurry, you must leave.’

  Chapter 4

  12th June 2015

  Friday night rehearsal over, the cast and crew of Knaresborough’s amateur drama group – The Castle Players – headed out of the Castle Theatre to the Borough Bailiff for a pint or few and the debriefing. The rehearsal had not gone well and everyone had more anticipation for the alcohol than the discussion.

  Helen Forrester’s phone rang. She checked the display, then called to the others to order her a large gin and tonic and she’d catch them up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said into the phone, a mass of nerves as she prepared to hear the verdict on her proposal.

  *

  Half an hour later she joined the rest of the group in the pub. ‘That was Richard Armitage from feva. They want us to perform Knight of Betrayal.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s fantastic news,’ Paul Fuller said, ‘well done, Helen!’

  Feva was Knaresborough’s annual festival of e
ntertainment and visual arts, attracting authors, poets, musicians and artists of all persuasion from all over the country, as well as hosting a number of local attractions. It was quite a coup to have been chosen to put on a play as part of the event – and would be a definite boost to the Castle Players’ status.

  ‘They liked the idea of a play about Thomas Becket’s death, given that the knights responsible hid out here afterwards. Apparently the BBC set a play here about fifty years ago, but since then nothing. Most events have been centred on John of Gaunt or Isabella – Edward II’s queen.’

  ‘But Morville and the others are barely acknowledged here – did you know there’s not one book about them in the bookshop?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘I guess the feva committee aren’t so eager to brush history under the carpet.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that,’ Charlie Thorogood said. ‘Otherwise we’d have been wasting our time with the play.’

  ‘Charlie! We’ve only just started rehearsals,’ Sarah Stoddard said.

  ‘True, it’s Helen who’s put the time in writing the script,’ agreed Sarah’s husband, Dan.

  ‘The main thing is we’ve got the green light,’ Helen said. As writer and director, the hardest part of her role was to keep the egos of her actors in check, and she was well used to intervening before squabbles erupted into full-blown fights.

  ‘We have until August to rehearse – that’s two months and, judging by tonight’s performance, we’ll need every day of that.’

  ‘Plus the sets to paint, props to source and costumes to make,’ Ed Thomas said.

  ‘And the sound and lighting programme, and equipment – don’t forget that,’ Alec Greene added.

  Helen held her hands up. ‘Yes, we have a lot to do, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. We’ve been given a grant of £500 to help with expenses so we can buy some props in.’

  ‘What? They said yes? That’s fantastic!’

  Helen grinned. ‘I know. We’ll all pitch in with the sets and costumes. This is our big chance to play to a full house. If it goes well, we may get into Harrogate Theatre for a run too – maybe even York or Leeds.’

  ‘Let’s just focus on Knaresborough first,’ Alec cautioned. ‘Bad luck to count our chickens.’

  ‘True enough, Alec. First things first,’ Helen said. ‘Speaking of the first things, what on earth went wrong tonight?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well?’ Helen prompted. ‘I can’t be the only one who noticed. You know the lines, but it just didn’t flow.’

  Everyone looked at Charlie – who was cast as Thomas Becket – and Paul – cast as Henry II.

  Finally Charlie spoke. ‘It’s difficult to get into the characters. They lived nearly eight hundred and fifty years ago, spoke a variation of French, and not only is there little source material, but what does exist is contradictory. I’m struggling to get a sense of who Becket was as a man as opposed to an archbishop.’

  ‘I second that – there is more information out there about Henry, but it focuses on his temper, dress sense, and marriage. Everything is just . . . one dimensional.’

  ‘And there’s even less known about the knights,’ Ed, cast as Morville, said. ‘They only feature in the history books on the night they assassinated Becket.’

  Helen nodded. ‘I had the same problems when writing the script, but I had hoped the dialogue would be enough to convey their characters.’

  ‘We’re not criticising your writing, Helen,’ Charlie was quick to say. ‘It’s just that the twelfth century was so long ago and life and culture so different, we’re struggling to get a handle on it.’ He looked around the table for support, aware he’d inadvertently spoken for everyone.

  ‘I’m finding the same,’ Paul said. ‘Royalty then was different to royalty now.’

  ‘Well at least that’s an easy one,’ Helen said. ‘Henry II was your quintessential dictator and warlord. Think Mugabe, al-Assad, Gaddafi, Hitler, Stalin et cetera.’

  ‘But that’s a simplification,’ Paul persisted. ‘Yes he was a dictator, but he didn’t have total control of power over his subjects – he shared it with the Church and was second to God and, by association, the Pope. There is no situation or role today that compares.’

  Helen nodded and finished her gin. Mike got up, took a couple of notes from the pile they had pooled together in the centre of the table and went to the bar to get the next round in.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Helen said. ‘Sarah, are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Why?’

  ‘Meet me at nine, we have some shopping to do before tomorrow’s rehearsal.’

  ‘What for?’ Dan asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘So what’s this mysterious shopping trip about?’ Sarah asked as Helen approached.

  ‘Ah, wait and see,’ Helen said, looping her arm through her friend’s and leading her through the market square. ‘To be honest I’m not sure if it’s genius or madness but we’re about to find out.’

  ‘Now you really have me intrigued,’ said Sarah with a nervous laugh. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Well, you know the new shop that’s opened up on Kirkgate?’

  ‘Which one? Oh, you don’t mean the witchy one, what’s it called, Spellbound?’

  Helen laughed. ‘Oh yes. Desperate times and all that.’

  ‘Not that desperate, surely?’

  ‘Did you not see them last night? They were so wooden they may well have been planted in Knaresborough Forest. We need to do something drastic to loosen them up and help them embrace Becket and Henry.’

  ‘But spells, seriously?’

  ‘No, not spells,’ Helen said. ‘We’re here, come on.’

  The smell hit them first, a mix of herbs and incense, and both women relaxed. A large display of crystals adorned the table in the middle of the shop which drew them closer, both of them compelled to touch the beautiful diodes, points and tumble stones.

  They wandered around the rest of the filled interior; books, tarot cards, bags of herbs with appropriate spells, wands, dreamcatchers, all inspiration to their imaginations.

  ‘Okay, I give up,’ Sarah said, hands full of crystals, angel cards and incense that she felt she just had to have. ‘What are we here for?’

  Helen said nothing, but pointed up to the objects displayed on top of the bookcases.

  ‘No, oh no, Helen, you can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’m very serious,’ Helen said. ‘No one is connecting with their characters, we’ve tried the conventional exercises – picturisation, sense memory, circle of concentration – but nothing is working. We have eight weeks to put on a play to wow feva, Knaresborough, and every visitor who pays good money to see us. How better than to ask the men themselves?’

  ‘But a spirit board? They scare me, Helen.’

  ‘We’ll be fine as long as we’re careful and responsible.’

  ‘Good morning, ladies, I’m Donna.’ A petite blonde woman dressed in purple, and with a genuine smile on her face approached them. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear, and you’re right to be wary of the Ouija. The boards need to be used properly and with care, but if they are, they can be a powerful tool.’

  ‘But isn’t it like opening the doors to your home and inviting any passing stranger inside? Dead strangers I mean,’ Sarah said.

  ‘It is if you don’t take precautions, but I don’t let anybody buy one of these from me without full instructions to ensure that does not happen.’

  ‘Which is the best one?’ Helen said, studying the half dozen designs, all featuring the letters of the alphabet, digits 0 to 9, yes, no and – very prominently – the word goodbye.

  ‘Whichever you feel drawn towards,’ Donna said.

  ‘That one,’ Helen said, pointing at one with the Spellbound branding. ‘I want yours.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Donna pulled a footstool out from behind the counter and plucked a board and planchette from the shelf. She went back be
hind the counter and rummaged through some paperwork to find a three-page sheaf of A4. ‘Please read this carefully before you use it.’ She put the paper, board and planchette into a black paper bag. ‘It tells you everything you need to know to make sure you use the board safely.’

  ‘That’s a lot of advice,’ Sarah said, still nervous.

  ‘Not really, it basically says the same three things in a number of different ways. Be positive, protect yourselves, and close the board at the end of your séance.’

  ‘Close the board?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Yes. Say goodbye. Make it clear that the session has ended and the spirit is no longer welcome.’

  Helen nodded but said nothing.

  ‘That’s £30 please.’

  Helen handed over her credit card, then Sarah emptied her hands of her own prospective purchases and paid for them.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Helen?’ Sarah asked as they walked to the High Street and the Castle Theatre.

  ‘Nothing else has worked,’ Helen said. ‘It’s different, we can have fun with it, and hopefully it can connect the cast with their characters.’

  ‘By bringing forth their spirits?’ Sarah asked.

  Helen laughed. ‘You don’t believe that crap do you? There’s no way Thomas Becket, Henry II and those knights will visit us. I just want the guys to open their minds and embrace their characters. It’s all psychological. If they believe their spirits are with them, they’ll become them – I just need them to break through whatever is blocking them at the moment. We don’t have long and they need to be perfect or the Castle Players may as well disband. I’ll do everything I can to make sure we pull this off.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘Henry has decided on Becket for Archbishop of Canterbury,’ Helen said, her voice projecting throughout the empty theatre.

  Paul and Charlie stood on stage, scripts in hand. ‘So are they still friendly at this point?’