by Paul Doherty
They left the inner bailey, passed the keep and went through the small orchard which stood in a corner of the castle. On the way, Adam lit a cresset torch. When they reached the postern gate, Ralph took one look and realised he was wrong. The gate was small and narrow, fashioned out of thick oak reinforced by metal bands and steel studs. Its two huge bolts were secure and the gate was padlocked in three places. From the rust on both the locks and the bolts, it would have been easier to knock a hole in the wall than to open the gate. Adam doused the pitch torch in a water butt, threw it down and beckoned Ralph and Marisa to follow him back into the trees.
‘What now, Ralph?’ he asked. ‘The castle has only two entrances, the barbican and the postern gate. You have examined the latter. It has not been opened for years.’
‘What about a cart or barrow?’ Marisa suggested. ‘Phoebe’s assassin could have hidden the corpse in one of them and covered it with a sheet.’
‘I doubt that,’ a voice called from the darkness.
Ralph started. Beardsmore came slipping like a shadow through the trees towards them.
‘I’m sorry to startle you.’ The soldier cradled his conical helmet in his arms. ‘I saw the torchlight and I wondered what was happening. I am not like Phoebe.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I examined the postern gate the morning after Phoebe’s murder. I also inquired about the keys of Sir John but he doesn’t even know where they are.’
‘Why are you so sure that the killer didn’t smuggle Phoebe’s corpse out in a cart or barrow?’ Adam asked, then shook his head. ‘Of course, on the night Phoebe was killed you were on duty.’
‘From three o’clock in the afternoon till nine,’ said Beardsmore
‘I played dice with the lads in the guardhouse a couple of times but I tell you this, sirs, no one left the castle that day. If they had, I would have already brought them in for questioning.’
‘And you are sure Phoebe never left?’ Ralph asked.
‘Not unless she could sprout wings and fly!’
Ralph studied the soldier closely. Beardsmore was actually much younger than he appeared at first glance. He had a thick, square face with close, deep-set eyes, and a jutting nose above a harsh mouth. He was clean-shaven, his hair closely cropped. Ralph recalled that he had served with Sir John both at sea and in Gascony.
Beardsmore put his helmet on. ‘Now, I’ve got duties to attend to.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away into the darkness.
‘Now, there’s a strange fellow,’ Adam said softly. ‘Notice how quietly he moves.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ralph asked.
‘He was on guard the night Phoebe died yet he has just assured us that she never left. But she must have done, one way or the other. How do we know he didn’t let Phoebe run out and offer to meet her in Devil’s Spinney? Maybe they argued, he became angry…’
Ralph looked at the thin sliver of moon visible through the branches. He felt cold and lonely. He missed Beatrice dreadfully. Yet there was something else now. A deep suspicion that she had not slipped but been murdered. Was his friend right? Was Beardsmore the killer?
As if she could read his thoughts, Marisa plucked at his sleeve. ‘He was also on guard duty the night Beatrice fell. Maybe she saw something.’
Ralph sucked in his lips. ‘And where was everybody when I was attacked in Devil’s Spinney?’ He glanced at Adam. ‘Beardsmore was the first to see me. Is that because he had just returned?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam replied. ‘Marisa and I were in the herb garden.’
‘You should take care.’ Marisa clasped his hand.
‘Oh, I will.’ But even as he uttered the words, Ralph knew he wasn’t as fearless as he sounded.
Chapter 2
Ralph sat alone in his round chamber in the Lion Tower which stood near the barbican on the north-facing wall. He’d lit a rushlight and two candles and wondered whether he should fire the brazier, for the night had turned cold. He went across and secured the shutters. He sat at his desk, peering down at the sheaf of manuscripts which had once meant so much – the fruit of his studies and searches for Brythnoth’s cross. Ralph had been born in Maldon, educated in the parish school. His father, a prosperous weaver, had secured the patronage of a local priest and sent his only son to the cathedral school at Ely before he entered the Halls of Cambridge. Ralph would always love Maldon. He had hunted wild ducks in the marshes, played outlaws with the other boys in Devil’s Spinney and gone down to the Blackwater estuary to re-enact the battle of Brythnoth against the Danes.
It was old Father Dominic who had first told him about the treasure, recounting tales he himself had heard many years earlier and showing him old and tattered manuscripts about the battle. At Cambridge Ralph had pursued his searches and learnt about the flight of the squire Cerdic and those memorable words about the treasure being hidden ‘on an altar to your God and mine’.
Ralph picked up a quill and tapped it against his cheek. What did the words mean? He stared at his chancery desk. He remembered how he had left everything this morning. He was punctilious in his work and particular about how he left his desk. The manuscript was askew and the ink horn and pumice stones had been moved. What could it mean?
He went and checked his coffer but the purse of silver and bronze coins had not been disturbed, and nor had his precious books, bound in vellum, on a closed shelf high on the wall. Ralph poured himself a goblet of wine to ease the pain in the back of his head.
‘There can be only one conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Whoever came here did not come to rob but to search.’
The only really valuable thing he owned was this battered manuscript written in his own cipher.
‘They think I’ m close to the treasure,’ he whispered to the crucifix fastened on the wall.
A wave of nausea gripped his stomach so he went and lay on the bed. He thought of the feasting on May Day and his stupid boast about the treasure. He should have been on the parapet walk, not Beatrice. Father Aylred was right. The blow to Beatrice’s head was dealt before she fell; the assassin thought he was striking at Ralph. In the dark he would only have had a few seconds to see a shadow approach the tower door. And this morning? If he’d been killed, his corpse would have been dragged out of the mire, the result of a tragic accident. People would have thought he had been drunk, as indeed he was, distraught with grief, and wandered off the trackway. And what about Phoebe? Had she been killed because she had overheard something? But how had they taken her corpse from the castle? Unless it was Beardsmore. Ralph breathed in and started. He could smell Beatrice’s perfume, faint but still perceptible. Why was that? He heard a rap on the door, stretched across to his war belt and took out the dagger.
‘Come in!’ he called.
Father Aylred entered. Ralph relaxed and shamedfacedly threw the dagger down.
The priest shook his hand. ‘I do not blame you for that, Ralph.’ He came closer, his eyes sad. ‘There is an assassin in our castle. He or she slew Beatrice, killed Phoebe and, this morning, tried to murder you. I’ve been to see old Vavasour. He confirms Beatrice could have been struck before she fell.’
Ralph rose and led the old priest across to the bed and made him sit down.
‘You’ll have some wine, Father?’
‘Have you checked it first?’
Ralph repressed a shiver; the gentle old priest had a stubborn look.
‘For the love of God, Ralph, someone tried to kill you this morning! Don’t you think they’ll try again?’
Ralph sniffed at the wine. ‘If it’s poisoned, I’ve already drunk half a cup but I’ll heed your warning, Father.’ He sat next to the priest. ‘You really do believe someone is hunting my life?’
‘Worse than that, Ralph. Someone is hunting our souls!’
‘Oh come, Father. Old stories about ghosts and ghouls.’ He watched the candle flame suddenly dance as if a door had been opened and he sniffed the air. For a few fleeting seconds he again caught Beatrice’s fragrance, soft and warm. My wits
are wandering! Ralph Mortimer, you are a scholar from the Halls of Cambridge. An eternal gulf lies fixed between life and death. This old priest, with his wild accusations, is filled with superstition.
Father Aylred blessed his wine and took a sip. ‘I am a peasant born and bred, Ralph.’ He rolled the cup between his hands. ‘My fingers are stubby and engrained with dirt. I can read sufficiently well to understand the scriptures and to preach. I put my trust in Christ the Divine Boy. I try and preach his love.’
‘You are a good priest.’ Ralph gripped his companion’s shoulder.
‘Flattery is only half the truth.’ Aylred smiled. ‘I can read your mind, Ralph Mortimer. You think I’m slightly fey-witted, don’t you? And, by the time I am finished, you may well believe it. Look around the room, Ralph.’
Ralph obeyed.
‘What do you see?’
‘Light and shadows, pieces of furniture, the enclave where the window is, the shutters.’
‘Our world is like that,’ said Father Aylred. ‘It’s full of light and shadows. But, how do you know, Ralph, that someone else isn’t here? Have you carefully checked?’
‘No, of course, I haven’t.’
‘And what of the other world? The spiritual world? How do we know, Ralph, when something else has entered to wreak havoc and cause great evil?’
‘Do you think that’s happening at Ravenscroft?’
‘Yes, I do. Read the Bible. The first real sin was that of Cain, the assassin, slaying his brother. Murder is a terrible sin, Ralph. It opens the gateways between our world and the powers of Hell. It is the abnegation of all love. A direct confrontation with God. There have been at least two murders at Ravenscroft.’
‘At least?’ Ralph interrupted.
‘Yes. There could have been three. Now, I don’t know the full reason why, but the attack on Beatrice was meant for you, I’m sure of it. Ralph, you are a good clerk. Before Beatrice’s death you were investigating the legends about Brythnoth’s cross. Perhaps it had something to do with that. What hour is it, please?’
Ralph walked to where an hour candle glowed faintly under its copper hood. He peered closely.
‘Shortly before midnight. Why do you ask?’
‘Come with me.’ The priest got to his feet and walked to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Please, Ralph, come with me.’
Ralph sighed, grabbed his war belt and cloak and followed Father Aylred down the spiral staircase. The castle bailey was empty; a dog came out snarling but recognised them and slunk away. From the parapets Ralph saw the glow of braziers and torches, the shadows of sentries. Sir John’s instructions were being carried out.
‘It’s too late,’ the priest whispered, following his gaze. ‘The enemy is within.’
He hastened across to Midnight Tower. A cold wind tugged at Ralph’s hair and he regretted coming. He felt deeply uneasy, wary of the shadows. Ravenscroft was no longer a friendly place. Did the assassin even now peer at them from the darkness? And what did the old priest mean by the powers of Hell?
Father Aylred opened the door. As soon as he stepped inside, Ralph flinched: The tower was cold, freezing, as if this was the depths of winter and all the shutters had been opened, and the stench was as rotten as that from the moat in the height of summer; it made him gag.
‘It’s getting worse, Ralph.’ Father Aylred’s face was pallid and sweat-soaked. ‘Over the last few days this freezing cold and the terrible odour has increased.’ He grasped Ralph’s wrists and they stood like two frightened boys.
Ralph noticed how the flames of the sconce torches flickered as if the pitch and tar were thin. Usually they gave a robust fiery glow; now the flames were weak with a strange blue tint.
‘In God’s name!’ Father Aylred called out.
A deep sigh answered his words. Ralph felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl, his legs tremble; he felt sick, and as weak as he was after the attack earlier today.
The priest led him up the spiral staircase, and the stench grew weaker, the cold less intense. On the first stairwell, they paused. Father Aylred crouched down against the wall, his breath coming in loud rasps.
‘Every night the evil waxes stronger,’ he declared. ‘Each time, more and more of this tower falls under its control.’
‘Can’t you bless the place?’ Ralph asked.
‘I am just a simple country priest, Ralph. Hush now, listen!’
Ralph heard the door at the bottom of the tower open and slam shut. Someone, a knight in armour by the sound, started climbing the stairs. Ralph drew his dagger.
‘It’s not what you think, Ralph,’ Father Aylred murmured.
As if by magic, the sound of mailed feet disappeared. Ralph went to investigate. A hideous shriek echoed from the storerooms below, ringing through the stones, so frightening he retreated.
‘Father, I am not staying here.’
‘I agree with that.’ The priest struggled to his feet and they fled from Midnight Tower. Ralph insisted that Father Aylred return with him to his own chamber. They stopped at the kitchen where a sleepy-eyed pot boy cut chunks from a flitch of bacon for them and laid the meat on a platter. He then sliced some of the bread Ralph helped him lower from where it was kept in wire baskets hanging from the rafters, well away from the mice and vermin which plagued the castle kitchens.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Father Aylred smiled as they climbed the steps back to Ralph’s chamber. ‘After such encounters I always feel the same, hungry and weak.’
Once inside, Ralph locked the door. He stared carefully around. When they’d left, he hadn’t locked the chamber. He quietly vowed never to do that again even though nothing had been disturbed. He cut up the bacon and bread and shared them out, re-filling their wine cups. The old Franciscan had now recovered his poise.
‘I first discovered such horrors the night Phoebe died,’ he explained. ‘At first I thought it was my own imaginings but, each evening, around midnight, I’d return, determined to prove that I am not fey-witted. Each time it grows worse.’
‘Hasn’t anyone else noticed?’
‘Whispers have begun, gossip, chatter. As you know, Ralph, Midnight Tower is not a favoured place during the hours of darkness.’
‘Father, you call yourself a simple priest yet what do you think is really happening?’
‘As I have said, evil has taken up camp at Ravenscroft. It is linked, like a chain, to the evil which flourished here before.’
‘What can be done?’
‘I’ll say a Mass there, offer it up for the repose of souls and write to the local bishop. More importantly, we must unmask this evil and confront it.’ Father Aylred scratched his greying hair. ‘But that’s easier said than done.’ He put his cup down, got to his feet and patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘Lock the door, say your prayers and be careful.’
Ralph let him out then sat for a while at his table, listening to the faint sounds of the castle. It was well past midnight. Grief over Beatrice welled up within him.
‘I wish you were here.’ He spoke softly into the darkness. ‘I wish I could see you just one more time. If I could, I would tell you how much I love you. Death has not changed that. I will love you for as long as I live and beyond.’
He closed his eyes, summoning up Beatrice’s face. He didn’t know whether it was imagination but he grew warmer, calmer. He opened his eyes quickly. He was almost sure she was here, like the candle flame burning so brightly. He crossed himself, tugged off his boots and lay down on the bed. Beatrice was gone but her murder had to be avenged, he thought as his mind slipped in and out of sleep, but who was the killer? And who had seen him go into Devil’s Spinney this morning?
Ralph woke heavy-eyed next morning. He stripped, shaved and washed in the ice-cold water brought up from the butts outside the tower. He went across to the chapel and arrived just in time for the early morning Mass. Afterwards he found Beardsmore and six archers waiting for him in the great hall, breaking their fast. The sergeant-at-arms gestured at
the platter of cheese and bread.
‘Eat quickly,’ he urged. ‘We have business in Maldon. I don’t want any whispers creeping out.’
Ralph sat opposite the sergeant-at-arms and quaffed the ale but left the cheese and bread as his stomach felt unsettled.
Beardsmore looked at him closely. ‘What do you think of last night, sir?’ he asked as the archers left to prepare their mounts.
Ralph held the soldier’s gaze. He trusted Father Aylred. Could he trust this man?
‘We have a common bond,’ Beardsmore insisted. ‘We have both lost someone we love and we both know it was murder.’
Ralph stretched his hand out. Beardsmore looked surprised but clasped it.
‘I trust you, sir,’ Ralph said quietly, ‘though God knows why. When we have finished this business in Maldon, I must have words with you.’
An hour later they clattered into the village. The high street was fairly deserted. Stalls and booths had not been set up. Peasants and cottagers were still making their way out to the fields. They stopped and looked surly-eyed at the mailed men from the castle. The Pot of Thyme was shuttered and closed. Beardsmore kicked at the door until a haggard-faced serving girl answered.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was surly.
Beardsmore shoved her aside and walked in. He dug into his pouch, took out Sir John’s writ and, finding a nail in one of the supporting posts, pushed the commission onto it.
‘Right!’ He started kicking away stools and tables. ‘Where’s the taverner?’
‘I’m here, Beardsmore.’ A small, grey-faced man with greasy black hair stepped out of the scullery behind the wine vats. He wiped dirty fingers on a leather apron and stood, legs apart, as if to show he was not frightened of this show of force. ‘What do you want?’
Beardsmore pointed to the commission.
‘I can’t read but I can see the seal.’ The taverner’s heavylidded glance moved to Ralph. ‘You’re here about Goodman Winthrop, aren’t you?’
‘You were always quick of wit, Master Taylis,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘Goodman Winthrop was a tax collector and the King’s official. He was found stabbed, his corpse left on the high road.’ He pointed to the hour candle. ‘Before noon he will be buried in the castle cemetery.’