by Paul Doherty
‘This is where Beardsmore’s assassin stood,’ he declared. ‘He fired first from the facing window and, when I fled, moved across to the side which provides a view from the flank of the tower.’
Sir John looked through both windows, the wind whipping his white hair, making his eyes water.
‘I’ve sent a sentry out.’ He turned and leaned against the wall. ‘Including the quarrel which killed Beardsmore, at least five crossbow bolts were loosed.’
Ralph stared out of the window. He had liked Beardsmore and felt guilty at the suspicions of him he had nursed earlier, but at the same time the sergeant-at-arms’ death seemed to have calmed his grief for Beatrice. Instead he felt an implacable desire to bring her killer to justice. He had seen a man hang once and had hated it, but he quietly conceded that he’d stand and enjoy this assassin have the life throttled out of him! Someone in this castle had watched him meet Beardsmore at the gatehouse and walk round the moat; he’d feared that Beardsmore would either find out how Phoebe’s corpse was removed or discover the whereabouts of poor Fulk’s corpse.
‘Yes, that’s it!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is?’ Adam asked.
‘The assassin meant to kill both Beardsmore and myself.’
‘Why?’ Sir John asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Ralph replied cautiously. ‘But I tell you, Sir John, this castle should be put on a war footing. Every tower, every gateway should have a sentry not only to guard the approaches but to watch who goes where. We should also be very careful about being alone and what we eat or drink.’
‘Sir John Grasse! Sir John Grasse!’ a voice bellowed from the bottom of the staircase.
‘Oh Lord save us! What now?’
‘Sir John, followed by his two clerks, clambered down the stairs. The captain of the guard was there, helmet under his arm.
‘Sir John, it’s the prisoner, the woman Eleanora.’
‘Oh, don’t say she’s escaped.’
‘No, sir, she’s dead!’
They ran through the overgrown garden and bailey, across the green to Bowyer Tower. The door to the cell was open. Eleanora was sprawled on the floor, mouth gaping, eyes staring; her body was twisted like a piece of cloth, wrung and tossed aside. Father Aylred was sitting on the bed rocking gently backwards and forwards, singing under his breath. Theobald knelt by the corpse. He shook his head as Sir John came in.
‘Dead, Sir John. Poisoned.’
‘What?’ Sir John turned to the captain of the guard.
‘Sir, she ate what we ate and drank!’
Ralph crossed to the little table where a platter lay containing the remains of some food.
‘I’ve tested those already,’ Theobald said. ‘Indeed, when I came in two rats were finishing it off and they seemed none the worse.’
‘There are poisons enough in the castle,’ Sir John remarked.
‘Used to destroy vermin.’ He looked at Theobald. ‘And of course you have a fine collection of elixirs, haven’t you?’
Theobald would have retorted heatedly but Ralph intervened.
‘What is important,’ he said, ‘is how the wench died. You say the food is not tainted?’
‘Yes!’ Theobald snapped.
Ralph turned to the archers standing in the doorway. ‘Did any of you come into the cell?’
‘We kept well away from her,’ one of them replied.
‘And no one came down to visit her?’
‘No.’ The archer shook his head. ‘The Constable’s orders were quite clear. She was to be kept comfortable and not disturbed. The only time I came in here was to empty that.’ The archer pointed to a chamber pot peeping out from beneath the bed. ‘I put in some saltpetre to hide the smell. Apart from that, we left her alone.’
‘When did she last eat?’
‘Oh, about ten of the clock.’
‘Three hours ago.’ Ralph stared up at the grille in the wall which looked out on to the castle bailey. ‘So how did you find her?’
‘The corpse was cold,’ Theobald interjected. ‘She must have been dead for at least two hours.’
‘As I said,’ the archer replied, ‘we left her in peace. I remembered the chamber pot, looked through the bars and saw her lying there.’
‘How on earth did this happen?’ Sir John demanded. ‘Here’s a young woman in her cell. The food and drink are not tainted and yet she’s found poisoned by some noxious substance.’
Ralph knelt beside the corpse and put his fingers into the half-open mouth. It was slightly warm. He felt along the gums, the cracked teeth. He felt something half-chewed and pulled it out. Keeping it on the end of his finger, he went to the window. He sniffed, rubbed his finger along the wall and poured some water from the jug over his hands.
‘What is it?’ Sir John demanded.
‘I’m no physician or leech, Sir John. But I think I’ve just examined the last thing she ate. A sweetmeat, marchpane possibly.’
‘But she was never given any!’ the guard exclaimed.
Ralph stared up at the grille. ‘Someone in this castle approached that window. He secured Eleanora’s confidence and dropped a piece of marchpane or something through the bars. Eleanora would relish that. More importantly, she must have trusted the person who gave it to her.’
‘But who in the castle knew her?’ Adam asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ralph replied wearily. ‘I really don’t. Sir John, you’d best get the corpse removed.’
Sir John stamped out of the cell, shouting orders. Ralph followed and went back to his own chamber. He unlocked the door and went in. Everything was as he had left it. He sniffed at the jug of wine and examined the cup before going to sit at his table. He pulled across a scrubbed sheet of vellum, opened the inkpot, sharpened a quill and wrote out a list of names. He included his own among them.
‘I’m so confused,’ he muttered. ‘I could even half convince myself that I’ve done something wrong.’
He studied the names. Any one of them could have been lurking in that tower the night Beatrice died. And Phoebe? A blow to the back of the head. Yes, they could all do that. And what about the attack on him in Devil’s Spinney? That would take some strength. He’d been knocked half unconscious and he recalled being dragged through the grass. The Constable was a strong man. So was Adam. But Theobald and Aylred?
‘Yes?’ he said aloud. ‘They would have the strength.’
And the attack on Fulk? He closed his eyes. He could imagine the miller’s son being taken to the Salt Tower, up the steps to that shabby chamber. Fulk would be full of himself, eager to get his hands on the silver to buy his silence. A blow to the back of the head would end all that. And this morning, the attack on Beardsmore? Both Theobald and Father Aylred had done military service. Any of the men on the council could load three or four arbalests and fire them. But Eleanora’s death? Whom would she trust?
Ralph put his head in his hands. Where could he start? He recalled the arbalest and the number of quarrels that had been loosed. He should check the armoury. Everyone owned a crossbow, his own stood over in the corner of the room, but four, even five? What about Lady Anne? She was a tall, sinewy woman. She was capable and strong enough for these secret attacks and no stranger to a crossbow. Marisa, too, could not be discounted.
Ralph put on his war belt and left his chamber. He first visited the armoury. The archer guarding the stores shook his head and scratched a weather-beaten cheek.
‘You can see for yourself, Master Clerk, if you want, though Sir John’s already done it. We have the same number of arbalests as we had this time last week. No one has taken either crossbow or bolts.’
‘You are sure?’
‘As I am that I am talking to you, sir. Even if the Constable himself came and asked for four or five crossbows, questions would be asked.’
Ralph then visited Father Aylred in his chamber above the chapel. Despite his warnings, the door was off the latch, the priest was asleep on his bed, a half-filled wine cup beside him. N
ext he went in search of Theobald whom he found busy in his chamber. Ralph always marvelled at how untidy the physician’s room was. On hooks in the walls hung garish cloths depicting strange symbols which, Theobald had explained, were the signs of the zodiac. An astrolobe stood on a table, dried frogs, toads and rats hung from more hooks. Bottles and jars littered the desk and shelves; manuscripts and documents lay strewn about. The physician was kneeling on the floor sniffing at a jar which gave off a foul odour.
‘You should keep your door locked, Master Vavasour.’
The physician didn’t even bother to turn round.
‘If I am going to die, Master Ralph, I am going to die. Come in.’ He got to his feet, wiping his fingers on his dirty robe. ‘Do you know, you are the only person who comes in here and never complains about the smell. So, what do you want?’
Ralph stared round the chamber. ‘What are these potions and strange odours?’
Theobald sucked on his teeth. ‘You are too young to remember the plague, Ralph, the great pestilence. However, in my journeys, I met a Greek who studied at Montpellier and Salerno.’ He moved to the window and opened a shutter. ‘I lost both my parents, my brothers and my sisters to the plague. All died within a week. I vowed, one day, I’d find a cure.’
‘For the pestilence?’ Ralph exclaimed. ‘Impossible!’
‘That’s what everyone says, except the Greek. He’d studied with the Arabs and claimed the pestilence was carried by the black rat. Remove the dirt, kill the rats and the pestilence would die with them. He also said something else: that if you took milk, let it go sour then mixed it with dried moss you could produce a powder, odiferous and unpalatable but, give it to a plague victim, and he could be cured.’
‘So, why don’t you do it?’ Ralph teased.
‘I have, with varying degress of success. And it set me wondering. Do powders from dead dried things protect the living?’
Ralph moved the astrolobe and sat down on a stool. ‘And have you experimented?’
‘On sick animals, yes. Sometimes they live, sometimes they die. I have to be careful, that’s why I stay at Ravenscroft. It’s easy for someone to point a finger and shout witch or warlock. Sir John Grasse protects me. I’m no witch.’ He pointed to the stark black crucifix pinned to the wall just inside the door. ‘I serve the Lord Jesus in my own way. I fashioned that cross myself from some oak I took out of Devil’s Spinney. It’s a constant reminder to visitors, to reflect before they accuse.’
Ralph studied the little physician. He had always considered Theobald Vavasour a grey man in looks as well as character. Now he regretted his arrogant judgement. Theobald was intent on finding his own treasure, the secrets of alchemy and medicine, as he was Brythnoth’s cross.
‘But you haven’t come here to discuss physic, have you?’
‘Yes and no,’ Ralph replied.
‘The poisoning?’
‘The poisoning,’ Ralph nodded. ‘What would kill so quickly?’
Theobald spread his hands. ‘Look at this chamber, Ralph. If you’ve come to find evidence then put the chains on my wrists and call the guards. I have henbane, foxglove, belladonna, as well as two types of arsenic, red and white. Sometimes I lock my door, sometimes I don’t. Anyone could come in here and take something from my jars. Anyone could go down to the castle’s stores, too, and find poison for rats and vermin in the corners. Any of the poisons I have mentioned could have killed that young woman,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘in a few heartbeats.’
‘So quickly?’
‘Master Clerk, forget the troubadours’ tales. Poison in sufficient quantities will kill speedily.’ He sniffed, doffed his skull cap and placed it on the floor beside him. ‘And you suspect me?’
‘Somebody had the young woman’s trust,’ Ralph replied.
Theobald sighed. ‘I see, and of course everyone trusts a physician, eh, Ralph?’ He shook his head. ‘I swear on my parents’ graves I never spoke to that young woman.’
Ralph studied him.
‘I speak the truth,’ Theobald said. ‘And, do you know, Ralph, I feel calm. I’ve lived my life.’ He shrugged and got to his feet. ‘If I have to die then perhaps Ravenscroft is the friendliest place to end my days.’
Ralph thanked him and left.
Down in the castle bailey two of the coffins had been lifted on to a cart to be taken to the village. Beardsmore’s was being carried up to the chapel. Sir John had placed a black pall over it. Ralph walked on to the green and paused. It seemed an age since he had sat beside Beatrice on that lovely sunny afternoon before the shadows came racing in. He felt a deep sense of sorrow and found himself walking towards the steps to the parapet walk from which Beatrice had fallen. Two sentries now stood on guard at either end. Ralph stopped in the centre and stared across at Devil’s Spinney.
‘It’s the treasure,’ he whispered, the wind catching his words. ‘Brythnoth’s cross caused all this.’
He thought of his visit to Theobald’s room. The cross! The black cross nailed to the wall! Theobald claimed he had fashioned it from an oak in the spinney. Ralph laughed. It was so easy! A child-like solution to a complex riddle, virtually staring at him from the wall of the physician’s chamber. Cerdic’s cryptic message, ‘On an altar to your God and mine.’ Pagan altars were supposed to be drenched in human gore; what had they to do with the crisp linen cloths where the Mass was celebrated? But Cerdic had not been talking about a marble slab or some blood-soaked plinth of stone. He had been taunting the Danes. They did have one thing in common: Christ had died on the wood of the cross while pagan priests often hung their sacrificial victims from the branches of oak trees.
Ralph controlled his excitement and stared out over the silent greenness. He could visualise Cerdic fleeing from the battle, coming here, to the makeshift stockade Brythnoth had set up. It was probably deserted, not a place to hide a precious treasure, so Cerdic had turned, fleeing to the spinney. Was the copse of trees the same in his day? Ralph frowned in thought. He had never noticed any forest clearance. As a boy he had climbed some of the great oaks; two or three of them had hollow trunks. Cerdic must have gone there. Oak trees survived for hundreds of years. Brythnoth’s cross was in Devil’s Spinney!
Ralph heard his name being called and looked down. Father Aylred was gazing up at him.
‘Ralph,’ he called. ‘If I say a Mass in Midnight Tower would you be my altar boy?’
Ralph nodded and, nursing his secret, hurried down the steps.
‘When will you say the Mass?’
Father Aylred looked calm, more composed. ‘Soon,’ he replied. ‘What were you doing up on the parapet, Ralph?’ He stepped closer. ‘What’s wrong? Your face is pale, your eyes are bright. Do you know who the killer is?’
‘Not yet, Father, but God does!’
Chapter 5
‘Why can’t I intervene?’ Beatrice stared desperately as her lover and Father Aylred walked back across the green. ‘What are we?’ she screamed at Brother Antony who watched her, his eyes full of compassion.
‘Beatrice, you are an Incorporeal. I have told you. You are not of their world but of another.’
‘But I can speak, I can see, I can hear, I have my body!’
‘Yes, you have,’ he said kindly. ‘But they have all changed.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Yes it is, Beatrice. Even in the world you have left, one substance can take many forms. Water can turn to ice, it can be still or fast-running; it can be small, it can be large, it can be salt-filled, it can be clear. It rises and it comes down. So it is with you. Your body has not been taken away, it has simply changed, as your consciousness has.’
Beatrice gazed around. The strange coppery tint had grown in strength. She was becoming accustomed to her new world. She even knew how to rest, to withdraw into a warm darkness, shutting off her consciousness, asleep but not asleep. Nevertheless, she was growing frantic. This existence was like watching a mummer’s play or studying the tale told on some tape
stry. She had not seen the attack on Ralph in Devil’s Spinney but she had become aware of his cries and, within the twinkling of an eye, she had been there. She had pulled down the briar so he could grasp it, she was sure she had! Or had it been a breeze or simply some subtle treachery of this strange light? She did not know who had attacked him, and she did not see the killer who had struck from the Salt Tower. She had seen Beardsmore fall and the wraiths gather to collect his soul. She had wanted to move, discover the identity of the mysterious assassin but she had been too terrified to leave Ralph. She had been with him in the green-filled darkness beneath the moat. And in the Salt Tower she had known of Eleanora’s death, heard her heart-rending cries as her soul was taken off. Deep in her mind, Beatrice believed that knowledge of the killer was deliberately forbidden her. If she had kept her wits and tried to find out his identity, some obstacle would have arisen, as it had when Cerdic disappeared.
‘Can’t I intervene?’ she asked.
Brother Antony smiled. ‘In a way you can but that is something you must earn, Mistress Arrowner.’ He touched her gently on the lips. The silver disc now shone at the back of his head, a circle of gleaming light. ‘Be careful. Remember what I said about the Minstrel Man.’ He walked away then disappeared as if into thin air.
Beatrice stood staring across the green. She was changing, becoming more powerful. She was fully aware of herself; she accepted that she was dead but her determination had grown. She was aware of her own will thrusting out, wishing to intervene, to protect the man she so dearly loved and had so tragically lost.
‘Are you well, Beatrice Arrowner?’
Crispin and Clothilde were next to her, hands joined. They stood like beautiful twins smiling at her.