Read HAUNT OF MURDER, A Online
Authors: P. C. Doherty
HAUNT OF MURDER, A (10 page)
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. Next 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?’
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?’
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.
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!’
‘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 tapestry. 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.
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.
‘Brother Antony warned me against you.’
‘Of course he did.’ Clothilde threw her head back and laughed, a tinkling sound. ‘He is the guardian of the wastelands. It is his task to keep you in order.’ Clothilde pointed to the sentries on the parapet walk. ‘Just like they protect the castle.’
‘You promised to help me.’
‘And in time we will,’ Crispin replied languidly. ‘But we must have your trust, Beatrice. Everything in life, and in
death, has a price; it must be earned, must be bought. Nothing is free.’
death, has a price; it must be earned, must be bought. Nothing is free.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Your trust, Beatrice. Here we are,’ Crispin stretched out and stroked her hair, ‘willing to help and yet you stand like a wench in the marketplace studying us as if we are hucksters!’
‘What is happening in Midnight Tower?’ Beatrice asked, trying to distract herself from Crispin’s light-blue eyes.
‘The priest summed up the truth of it. Spiritual life is, as Brother Antony says, akin to water. In most people, and in most places, it lies sluggish like a lazy river at the height of summer, then something stirs its depths.’ Crispin’s face became excited. ‘It grows stronger and fuller. The currents beneath pull and tug and the surface is disturbed.’
Beatrice studied these silver-haired twins. She wanted to believe what they said. They looked so beautiful. Brother Antony was so plain. All he could give was good advice while horrors bubbled around the man she loved and threatened to engulf him.
‘Who is the killer?’ she demanded.
‘In time, Mistress Arrowner.’
She turned away in disgust and, before they could stop her, ran towards the wall, through it and out into the heathland. She reached Devil’s Spinney and walked among the great oak trees. She had been with Ralph on the parapet walk. She had heard his whispers. She knew what he had discovered. This was an ancient place. She had become accustomed to the shapes and shadows, those strange priests with their ivy garlands and bronze, sickle knives, the terrible sacrifices they made to their demons. Even now they were clustered, chanting in a tongue she could not understand. Other phantasms appeared: that terrible knight in armour, his band of robbers around him, hanging some unfortunate peasant, drowning others in the marsh. They sat on their horses and laughed as the unfortunates shrieked for mercy before disappearing into the green, dark slime. Such phantasms no longer troubled her. Brother Antony
had explained that they were mere shadows of what had been. Now and again she encountered the occasional wandering soul. Never a child but sometimes a man or woman lost in their own world, disturbed, distracted, unwilling to go on. She was also conscious of those beings who met the souls of the dead, the seraphim, glowing orbs of light, and the wraiths clustered together like monks chanting their psalter, and the demons, mailed men, knights in armour, hunting for souls.
had explained that they were mere shadows of what had been. Now and again she encountered the occasional wandering soul. Never a child but sometimes a man or woman lost in their own world, disturbed, distracted, unwilling to go on. She was also conscious of those beings who met the souls of the dead, the seraphim, glowing orbs of light, and the wraiths clustered together like monks chanting their psalter, and the demons, mailed men, knights in armour, hunting for souls.
‘Mistress Arrowner!’
Two figures stepped out from the trees. Beatrice recognised Robin and Isabella, a young man and his wife. She had met them here before. They had explained how, many years ago, they had owned a tavern on the Maldon road, which had been burnt by French corsairs who brought their galleys up the Blackwater estuary before riding inland. They were merry souls, unable really to explain why they had not moved on.
‘Perhaps we loved this world,’ Isabella had laughed. ‘We had such a good life, Beatrice. Robin served ales and wines while I cooked in the kitchens. On one occasion we even served the King.’ She blinked. ‘I forget his name …’
Beatrice had come to accept them. They always appeared hand in hand, chattering incessantly about the petty things of their lives, what they had done, whom they had met.
‘What are you doing here?’ Robin came forward, thumb stuck in the belt round his green jerkin, his brown leggings pushed into strange-looking boots. He was clean shaven and had smiling brown eyes beneath his auburn hair. Isabella looked similar but thinner, more prone to laughter than her husband.
Beatrice told them everything she had learnt.
‘Then why don’t we help?’ Isabella suggested.
‘Is that possible?’ Beatrice asked.
‘If Brythnoth’s cross is here,’ said Robin, ‘at least we can look at it. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
Beatrice was distracted by shadows flitting across the skies like dark clouds. ‘I should go back to the castle,’ she murmured. ‘I really shouldn’t leave Ralph. He’s in danger, you know …’
‘Stay for a while,’ Isabella soothed. ‘Stay here, Beatrice. Let’s search for Brythnoth’s cross.’
‘But where can we begin?’ Beatrice asked. The shadows were lengthening and, because she wanted to, she felt the growing coldness of the air. ‘Have you met Crispin and Clothilde?’
‘Oh yes, on many occasions,’ Robin smiled. ‘A precious pair, them!’
‘They said that one day I could learn how to intervene in the world of the living, make my presence felt.’
‘Oh, we can do that.’
Beatrice started in surprise.
‘We can,’ Isabella confirmed, grasping her hand. ‘Come, Beatrice, we’ll show you.’
‘What about Brythnoth’s cross?’
‘Oh, leave that,’ Robin laughed. ‘If, as you say, it is in Devil’s Spinney then it will stay there for a little while longer.’
‘But what about Ralph?’ Beatrice looked longingly towards the barbican.
‘Don’t you want to intervene?’ Isabella asked.
‘Come away, Mistress!’ Brother Antony was suddenly standing on the trackway glaring angily at her. ‘Come away, Beatrice!’ He lifted a hand, dark and threatening against the blue sky.
‘Oh, just ignore him!’ Isabella hissed mischievously. ‘Where would you like to go, Beatrice?’
Beatrice experienced a cold blast of air. Brother Antony appeared to have grown larger. He stood with his hands hanging by his sides, staring fixedly at her. Beatrice suddenly resented his lecturing, his vague promises, his constant watching of her.
‘The Pot of Thyme!’ she declared defiantly, shouting the words as if she wanted Brother Antony to hear. ‘Let’s go to the Pot of Thyme!’
She ran, Robin and Isabella clasping her hands. They hastened across the heathland like children playing some game. Robin and Isabella were laughing, squeezing Beatrice’s hands.
They passed the churchyard and Beatrice paused. Usually God’s acre stretched out, a mixture of headstones and weather-beaten crosses among high-growing grass and old yew trees, gnarled and bent, their branches stretching out. A quiet, serene place. Beatrice stared in horror. It had all gone. Instead she was looking down an icy-white valley, high banks of snow on either side with a pathway stretching to the light-blue horizon. At the end of the valley a fiery sun glowed as it dipped into the west. On either side of the valley an army of shadows thronged. What really caught Beatrice’s attention was the figure coming along the pathway. Two great hounds bounded before him, barking loudly, their great ears flapping as they dived in and out of the snow. The figure drew nearer. He looked like a chapman with his sumpter pony. He was dressed in vari-coloured garments on which little bells jingled at every step. Beatrice glanced quickly at her companions. Robin and Isabella were kneeling, foreheads against the ground.
They passed the churchyard and Beatrice paused. Usually God’s acre stretched out, a mixture of headstones and weather-beaten crosses among high-growing grass and old yew trees, gnarled and bent, their branches stretching out. A quiet, serene place. Beatrice stared in horror. It had all gone. Instead she was looking down an icy-white valley, high banks of snow on either side with a pathway stretching to the light-blue horizon. At the end of the valley a fiery sun glowed as it dipped into the west. On either side of the valley an army of shadows thronged. What really caught Beatrice’s attention was the figure coming along the pathway. Two great hounds bounded before him, barking loudly, their great ears flapping as they dived in and out of the snow. The figure drew nearer. He looked like a chapman with his sumpter pony. He was dressed in vari-coloured garments on which little bells jingled at every step. Beatrice glanced quickly at her companions. Robin and Isabella were kneeling, foreheads against the ground.
‘What is it?’ she gasped, feeling a fear she had never experienced since that dreadful fall from the parapet walk. ‘Robin, Isabella, what is it?’
She was aware of singing, the deep-throated voices of the shadows on either side of the valley chanting a paean of praise. Robin and Isabella still knelt, heads down. Beatrice again looked at the valley but it had gone, the snow, the trackway, the mysterious jingling figure and those fierce barking hounds.
‘What happened?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘I saw snow, a pedlar!’
Isabella was now on her feet, face glowing, eyes sparkling. ‘Oh, it’s only a friend of ours.’
Beatrice felt uneasy. ‘But why did you kneel?’ She looked again at the graveyard where grey shapes moved among the tombstones like tendrils of mist on a spring morning.
‘You’ll see,’ said Robin. ‘But forget the dead, Beatrice, the living await.’
Beatrice remained fixed to the spot. The graveyard was now full of those silver discs, shining and shimmering. They formed
a path as a golden sphere left the church, rising up in the air and then back down again. Beatrice was sure the golden sphere, or whatever was in it, was staring directly at her. She had learnt how to experience, to feel, to stretch out her mind. She closed her eyes and experienced a deep warmth, a loving embrace, as when she and Ralph used to lie together in the grass and stare up at the sky. Then the sphere disappeared and Brother Antony was standing on a tombstone like some huge, forbidding black raven, gesturing at her to come closer.
a path as a golden sphere left the church, rising up in the air and then back down again. Beatrice was sure the golden sphere, or whatever was in it, was staring directly at her. She had learnt how to experience, to feel, to stretch out her mind. She closed her eyes and experienced a deep warmth, a loving embrace, as when she and Ralph used to lie together in the grass and stare up at the sky. Then the sphere disappeared and Brother Antony was standing on a tombstone like some huge, forbidding black raven, gesturing at her to come closer.
‘No, come with us, Beatrice,’ Robin whispered. ‘And you’ll learn something. You’ll find the power that he denies you.’
Beatrice was about to refuse then she recalled her helplessness as Ralph struggled in the mire and, turning away, she joined the other two in their wild flight along the cobbled high street of Maldon.
The Pot of Thyme’s taproom was filling with customers. Beatrice was acutely aware something was wrong. She had visited the tavern on a number of occasions. It was usually friendly, the meeting place of travelling people, chapmen, tinkers, pedlars, wandering scholars, itinerant friars. None of these was present now. Only peasants, villeins, cottagers, young men from the village and the surrounding hamlets. Taylis coldly turned away anyone else. The men were gathered round the overturned casks which served as tables. Beatrice noticed that the trap door to the cellars beneath had been opened; one of the pot boys was bringing out quivers of arrows, bows, helmets, pikes and hauberks. Martin the miller was there, his face wet with in tears. Others tried to comfort him.
‘Come on,’ Isabella urged. ‘Let’s see what mischief we can cause.’
‘No, no, let me stay here. What’s happening?’ Beatrice sensed the resentment, hatred and grudges curdling in these men’s hearts.
‘It’s only a cauldron,’ Robin whispered. ‘Coming to bubble – it will spill over soon enough.’
Beatrice would not be moved. She stood in the corner. The
ugly mood of the gathering was apparent and audible in the muttered curses about the King’s taxmen, the castle, and Sir John Grasse. After Taylis closed and barred the door, he went and stood in the middle of the room, banging his staff against the wooden floorboards.
ugly mood of the gathering was apparent and audible in the muttered curses about the King’s taxmen, the castle, and Sir John Grasse. After Taylis closed and barred the door, he went and stood in the middle of the room, banging his staff against the wooden floorboards.
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