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Authors: P. C. Doherty

BOOK: HAUNT OF MURDER, A
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‘I don’t believe you.’ Beatrice withdrew her hands, yet she could tell from Antony’s eyes that he was deeply worried.
‘What do you expect devils to be like, Beatrice? Little men with forked tails and horns? Creatures from some mummers’ play?’ he scoffed. ‘They are nothing but lurid paintings. Devils are like angels, Beatrice, a mixture of pure light, energy, intelligence and will. They can take on many forms and guises.’
‘But I am dead. Holy Mother Church teaches that after death comes judgement.’ She shook her head. ‘Why should they be interested in my soul now?’
‘Oh, they are, Beatrice. Very, very interested, especially in one like you. You have not yet travelled on. You are capable of free choice. You are here because you want to be. You have not journeyed on because you have refused to. In a way, you are no different from Malkyn or Lady Johanna de Mandeville, so the angels of Hell are interested in you, deeply interested. If they can, they will turn your will so your face no longer looks towards God.’
‘Is that what is happening to Malkyn and the rest?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it is. That’s what Satan and all his armies want. A shattering of harmony, the breakdown of peace, misery and tribulation. The capture of souls.’
‘But if I have a will, why can’t I …’
‘Intervene? Cross to the other side? You could.’
‘I can.’ Beatrice smiled.
‘You have intellect, you have will,’ Antony went on cautiously. ‘And that’s the supreme temptation.’
‘You mean, if I obey Crispin and Clothilde?’
‘They will give you that power for a price.’
‘And can’t the beings of light?’
‘They can, Beatrice, but it has to be earned.’
A silver disc came between them and moved away.
‘What is that?’ Beatrice asked.
Antony did not answer.
‘Are Crispin and Clothilde my guardian devils?’ Beatrice asked.
‘They are one and the same,’ Antony repeated. ‘Succubus and Incubus, the male and female face of a fallen angel. They can appear in many forms, many guises. They can laugh and tease, they can rage and plot.’
Beatrice stared up at the sky. It was blue but tinged with that strange bronze coppery light. Shapes and shades were moving across like a flock of geese, dark and forbidding.
‘What are they?’
‘The Devil’s huntsmen.’ Antony narrowed his eyes. ‘They streak across the world seeking their quarry. And to answer your question, Beatrice, yes, Crispin and Clothilde are your guardian devil.’
‘And where is my guardian angel?’
‘The silver disc,’ he replied. ‘I can only tell you so much.’ His voice grew weaker. ‘In the end, Beatrice, you must make your own choices. I can help if you wish but in the end only you can decide.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Intellect, love and will. You can force anyone to do anything but you cannot force someone to love. God’s love is eternal, it is like that of a loving mother. God wants that love returned, freely, without hindrance.’ Antony got to his feet and helped her up. ‘He loves you, Beatrice, but you have to decide. Remember the words of scripture: “You cannot have two masters.’”
‘But I haven’t seen God. I am here by myself.’
‘No, you are not, Beatrice. You are not alone. And you do
see God. You see Him in the faces of those around you.’ He held both her hands and drew her close.
Beatrice felt strange; she was out on this bronze-coloured heath, the castle behind her, those eerie shapes scurrying across the sky above her. She only wished Ralph was here, not this strange young man. If Ralph were here she could travel on. If Ralph died, they’d be together. As that strange thought began to turn and twist, she saw the sad look in Antony’s eyes.
‘Don’t think that, Beatrice,’ he whispered. ‘The lover always wishes the best for the loved.’
Beatrice glanced away.
‘Remember what I have said. Remember the warnings I have given you. Let me tell you something else. As you travel this world, as you cross from one existence to another, be careful of those who seem to be angels of light.’
‘How will I know the difference?’
‘How do you know an apple tree?’ He countered, and answered his own riddle. ‘By the fruit it bears.’
Beatrice started at the terrible howling of a dog, followed by terrible cries from Devil’s Spinney.
‘I must go.’ Antony smiled. ‘But I shall return. I shall watch you, Beatrice, and, when I can, I will help. But in the end all decisions must be yours.’ He passed a hand over his face, gently stretched forward and patted her cheek. His eyes were sad. ‘You have so much light in you, so much power. Don’t let it be turned. Beware. Crispin and Clothilde are what they are but, in your travels, be most careful of the Minstrel Man.’
‘The Minstrel Man?’
‘You will meet him.’ Antony was now moving away.
‘The Minstrel Man?’
‘That’s what he calls himself,’ Antony replied. ‘He knows you are here, Beatrice, and he’ll come looking for you. You are a great prize. You are not as lonely as you think. Farewell, Beatrice!’
The silver disc of light appeared between them and Antony was gone.
Beatrice rose and walked towards Devil’s Spinney. She went into the trees, moving without effort through the undergrowth; the brambles and weeds proved no hindrance. At last she found herself in the grove, a small glade in the centre, fringed by seven great oaks. She had been here on many occasions with Ralph; they’d lie in the soft grass and plan their future lives. Beatrice again felt that terrible surge of rage like a tongue of fire through her whole being. She crouched down, stared across the glade and blinked. She was not alone.
Men, old and grizzled, grey beards reaching down beneath their stomachs, their heads garlanded with wreaths, stood beneath an oak tree. They were garbed from head to toe in dirty white robes. They carried sickle-shaped knives and were staring up into the branches. Beatrice felt a chill of fear and started in alarm as a naked body crashed from the branches only to jerk and dangle on the rope tied round its neck. Beatrice stared in disgust. The man was naked except for a loin cloth. He choked and kicked as the ancient priests, following some bloodthirsty ritual, lifted their hands and chanted to the skies. The grisly scene provoked memories of what Ralph had told her about this place. He used to frighten her, in a teasing way, when he described the pagan priests who would meet here to sacrifice victims to their pagan god of the oak.
Beatrice was watching a phantasm but the horror repelled her. She wished, despite what Antony had said, that Crispin or Clothilde were here.
The clerk of Oxford paused in his tale and stared at the faces, tense and watchful in the firelight.
‘Would you fill my stoup with ale?’
The miller hastened to obey.
The summoner, his pimples even brighter in the firelight, staggered to his feet and stared across at the clerk. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘He didn’t say it was true,’ the squire pointed out.
‘Well, is it true?’ the summoner demanded, his voice shrill.
‘It depends,’ said the clerk, ‘what you mean by true.’
‘That’s no answer,’ the summoner replied aggressively.
The clerk stared across at their leader. Sir Godfrey was studying him closely. The knight did not wish to intervene even though he was a man who had experienced the twilight world of demons. He had hunted the murderous blood-drinkers scattered throughout Europe from the shores of the Bosphorus to the cold, icy wastes of Norway. Yet that was his personal struggle. He was also special emissary for the Crown and the Archbishop of Canterbury and often attended hushed, closed meetings in certain chambers at the House of Secrets in London. Beside him his son, the squire, stirred.
‘Father,’ he whispered. ‘Weren’t you sent to Ravenscroft Castle?’
‘Hush now,’ his father responded.
He sat and listened as the summoner continued to question the clerk. For some strange reason the summoner seemed most perturbed by the story. The knight smiled grimly to himself. His son was right, he had been sent to Ravenscroft Castle, and it was only a matter of time before someone recognised the name Goodman Winthrop. After all, the tax collector had been the scourge of the southern shires.
The taverner raised his fat, cheery face. ‘Sir!’ he shouted at the summoner. ‘Will you shut up!’ He stretched out his hands towards the flames. ‘I know of Ravenscroft Castle and I also know of two people called Robert and Catherine Arrowner who owned a tavern named the Golden Tabard.’
‘But if the tale is true,’ the pardoner exclaimed, ‘it concerns us. Good ladies, gentle sirs, look around you.’
They did so, staring into the mist-cloying darkness.
‘The miller said this place was haunted,’ the pardoner continued. ‘Does that mean the dead are all around us now?’
‘Oh, spare the thought and don’t tickle my imagination!’ the wife of Bath squeaked. She just wished she hadn’t turned away from the flames. The trees stood like menacing sentinels around them. And that mist! Did it bring more to this silent grove than just the cold night air?
‘It could be true,’ the prioress’s priest spoke up. Usually this handsome, florid-faced man kept his own counsel. ‘I believe death is like entering a mansion house; each chamber is full of new worlds.’ He smiled at the clerk. ‘I am much taken by your description, sir.’ He paused as an owl hooted. ‘And before this night is done, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell us where this story came from.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ the clerk muttered. ‘But listen now, gentle sirs and ladies. True, the darkness is deep, a mist has swirled in through the trees and the owl keeps its lonely vigil. Yet these are not real terrors.’ He glanced away. ‘Not like the ones to come.’
Ralph Mortimer sat in Devil’s Spinney, his back to an oak tree. He watched a squirrel clamber between fallen branches and scrabble up the trunk of one of the ancient oaks. Ralph wiped the tears from his eyes and pushed the wineskin away.
‘I’ve drunk enough,’ he muttered. ‘And that’s no help.’
A few hours earlier he had attended Beatrice’s funeral in the small cemetery in the far corner of the castle near the rabbit warren. Her aunt and uncle had attended, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, and of course Sir John Grasse and Lady Anne. Father Aylred had sung the Requiem Mass and then the corpse had been taken out on a bier and lowered into the shallow grave. The carpenter had put together a crude cross and Sir John had solemnly promised that it would be replaced, within the month, by a stone plinth bearing Beatrice’s name.
It was only when the grave was being filled in that Ralph had fully understood what was happening. Beatrice was gone. He would never see her again: those beautiful eyes, the merry mouth, her endearing mannerisms. Above all, her presence, warm and loving, like stepping out into the sunshine and basking in its golden warmth. Sometimes, in his chamber, he smelt her perfume – Beatrice had kept some there and unable to bear the reminder he’d given it to Marisa.
Ralph, who had studied all forms of knowledge at the Halls of Cambridge, could not come to terms with his grief. Deep in his heart he felt a devastating loneliness, a savage hurt which would not heal. Adam and Marisa had been helpful. Father
Aylred had tried to give words of comfort but it was to no avail. The more they spoke, the more intense the pain flared.
‘What can I do?’ Ralph whispered. He stared up at the interlacing branches. The weather had turned cold, dark clouds scudded in to block out the sun. ‘If I drink, I become sottish. If I work, my mind becomes distracted.’ He beat his fist against his thigh. ‘Why?’ he screamed, his voice echoing round the empty glade. ‘Why, Beatrice, did you climb the parapet walk at night?’
Doubts pushed away his grief, and allowed reason to surface. Beatrice was not frightened of heights. She had often walked along the parapet at the dead of night. She knew the dangers. She was safe as long as she kept to the wall. The night had been calm. No rain or wind. So how had she fallen? He recalled her corpse, laid out in its coffin before the chapel altar. Lady Anne and her tiring-women had done their best to dress the body for burial. Ralph had inspected the wounds and bruises most closely. The terrible fall had left its mark. Father Aylred, however, had whispered about the great bruise on the right side of Beatrice’s head. Had that occurred before the fall? The priest seemed agitated so Ralph had questioned him.
‘Why, Father, do you think it is significant?’
They had been standing alone in the small sacristy. Father Aylred put his fingers to his lips; he closed the door, turning the key in the lock.
‘I am just worried, Ralph.’ The little priest’s face was pale and unshaven. ‘Nightmares plague my sleep; I am troubled by doubts and worries.’
Ralph had only half listened, eager to return and sit beside the coffin before the lid was sealed for ever. ‘Father, this is not the time or the place.’
‘No, no, it isn’t.’ And the priest picked up a pruning knife to trim one of the purple candles for the Requiem Mass.
Ralph pulled his cloak firmly about him. The grove was dark, it looked threatening. He half smiled as he recalled the frightening stories he had told Beatrice, more the work
of his imagination than anything else. He heard a twig snap and whirled round. Someone was in the trees behind him.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘Ralph!’ His name came in a loud whisper.
The clerk felt the hair on his neck curl with fear. He scrambled to his feet, his hand going to the knife in his belt. He peered through the gloom. The trees were so close together, the brambles and gorse sprouted high. Were his wits wandering?
Ralph cursed the wine he had drunk; he felt unsteady on his feet, slightly sick. He should leave here. The castle was already in uproar. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse had been brought back on a cart. The tax collector’s clothing was drenched in blood from the gaping wounds to his back and throat. Sir John had muttered about rebels and miscreants, and loudly cursed the stupidity of the tax collector for wandering alone around the taverns and ale-houses of Maldon. He’d sent urgent messages to London; the barons of the Exchequer would not be pleased, commissioners and soldiers would be sent. Sir John Grasse would feel their wrath until the killers were brought to justice. Were these same assassins in Devil’s Spinney now? wondered Ralph. A jay flew up in a flurry of black and white feathers. He must not stand like a maudlin sot; his grief, like his hands and his feet, were now part of him and he would have to bear it.
Ralph picked up the wineskin and, whirling it round his head, threw it into the undergrowth. As he staggered back along the trackway leading out on to the heathland, he quietly cursed his foolishness. ‘You should be careful what you drink,’ Beatrice had always warned him. ‘You do not have a strong head for ale or wine.’
The clerk paused, closing his eyes against the hot tears which threatened.
‘If you were only here, Beatrice! If you were only here, I’d let you nag me until the end of time!’
He stumbled on. The spinney was quiet, even the birdsong had died. Ralph recalled the stories and legends about the place.
Wasn’t it near here that little Phoebe had been found murdered? He hurried on. His foot caught on something and he crashed to the ground. He twisted over, and even as he did, the club caught him on the side of the head. Ralph did not lose consciousness though the pain was intense. He struggled to get up but a kick to the stomach winded him and he collapsed, his face scored by the pebbled trackway. He was dragged, his cloak being used like a rope, tightening round his neck. He couldn’t resist. He was aware of brambles and briars ripping his hose. A boot came off. He tried to struggle but couldn’t. He was pushed, his body rolled, then he felt the ground beneath him give way. Was he dreaming? Was he falling? He tried to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He kicked out with his legs but it was hard. He stared down and noticed green slime oozing over his thighs. He had been knocked on the head and dragged only a few yards to one of the treacherous mires, the small but deep marshes which peppered Devil’s Spinney. The shock brought him to his senses. He was sinking. He flailed about, screaming and yelling.
‘Ah, sweet Jesu miserere!’ he prayed.
He remembered that the more he struggled, the quicker he’d sink. He tried to calm his mind, allow his body to float. He managed to turn over but the movement took him down a little further. The thick green mud was now pulling at his body as if invisible hands at the bottom of the marsh were clutching at him.
Ralph tried to ignore the pain, stretching his arms out to grasp the branches of a bush growing near the mire. He flung himself forward but the bush seemed to have a life of its own. His fingers missed. The mire crept above his stomach. Ralph was consious of sounds, strange noises; the sky was turning an eerie bronze. He lunged again, his hand caught the bush.
‘Oh, please!’ he prayed. ‘Please, God, don’t break!’
The bush was old and tough, it took his weight. Slowly but surely, Ralph pulled himself towards it, ignoring the pain. Then he was beneath it, grasping the broad stem. He pulled
himself out, almost grateful for the way the harsh branches cut and marked him. At least he was alive. The bush had saved his life. He crawled up through the undergrowth then rolled on his side and stared back. The mire was now peaceful again, the green surface unmarked, its treacherous depths hidden.
Ralph lay sobbing for a while before pulling himself to his feet. His whole body ached. He was missing one boot, the other was so muddy he took it off and threw it into the trees. He touched his still bleeding face and felt his head where the assailant had struck him. He staggered along the path and out on to the heathland.
Beardsmore saw him first. Before Ralph had reached the drawbridge, Sir John Grasse, Father Aylred and Theobald Vavasour, accompanied by soldiers, hastened out to meet him.
‘I was attacked,’ Ralph stammered. ‘I don’t know who. In Devil’s Spinney. I was thrown into the mire.’
Sir John shouted out orders. Father Aylred helped Ralph across the bailey. They placed him in the guestroom. Father Aylred talked to him as if he was a child, pulling off his muddy clothes. Theobald helped. They washed away the mud from the cuts and bruises. The physician pushed a cup between his lips.
‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Drink and then you will feel better.’
Ralph obeyed. He was aware of Adam coming into the room, Marisa behind him.
‘We heard what happened, Ralph. I was in the herb garden with Marisa.’
‘They tried to kill me,’ Ralph whispered. He felt his eyes grow heavy and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Later that day, as darkness fell, Ralph washed and dressed in new clothes, and joined the others in the great hall of the castle. He found the room more sombre than usual with its heavy hammer-beam roof and the axes, hauberks and shields nailed to the wall. The long trestle tables were bare, but glowing
braziers kept the chill away and hunting dogs snouted among the rushes for scraps of food.
Sir John gathered everyone round the high table on the dais. Cold meats, bread, cheese and jugs of ale were served. The company included Sir John, his wife, the huge, burly sergeant-at-arms Stephen Beardsmore, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, the captain of the watch and Ralph. Father Aylred hastened in and said grace; the food was distributed, the jugs circulated. Sir John, bowing to etiquette, allowed them to satisfy their hunger before tapping on the table with the hilt of his dagger.
‘We live in troublesome times,’ he began. ‘A castle wench, Phoebe, has been murdered, her corpse found in Devil’s Spinney. God rest her.’
His words were greeted with a chorus of assent.
‘And with Ralph we mourn the sad death of Beatrice,’ he continued, ‘but now we have other more pressing matters to consider. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse lies sheeted, ready for burial. He wasn’t the pleasantest of companions, a boor, a sot, but he was still a royal official. Last night he was stabbed to death in Maldon. We know he left a tavern with a wench. Master Beardsmore, you and Ralph will investigate that matter tomorrow.’
‘Which tavern?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.
‘The Pot of Thyme. I have no doubt that Winthrop’s murder is a symptom of the deep unrest caused by the poll tax. However, the King’s Council in London are obdurate. Archbishop Sudbury and Hailes the treasurer are determined that the Exchequer be filled and the poll tax will go ahead. I have sent urgent missives to London. God knows what will happen now.’
‘And the attack on our young clerk here,’ said Lady Anne. ‘Do you believe that is also linked to the tax?’
Sir John nodded, scratching his vein-streaked cheek.
Ralph put his piece of bread down. ‘I don’t think so. How did they know I was a member of the castle? And,
even if they did, why should they attack me? I am not a tax collector.’
‘I agree.’ Beardsmore spoke up. The gruff sergeant-at-arms pushed his platter away. ‘True, rebels are active all through Kent and Essex but why should they attack Master Ralph the way they did? That’s not their manner. More an arrow from a tree or a knife in the back.’
His words chilled Ralph and created a sombre silence.
‘Do you know what you are saying?’ Sir John asked carefully.
‘Yes, I do.’ Beardsmore was firm. ‘Sir John, I am your sergeant-at-arms. My job is to defend this castle and those within it. Goodman Winthrop was undoubtedly killed by peasant rebels. Tomorrow we’ll go down and turn the Pot of Thyme on its head and see what muck spills out.’
Ralph smiled at Beardsmore’s bluntness. The gruff soldier usually kept his own counsel, but young Phoebe’s murder still haunted him.
‘You were sweet on Phoebe, weren’t you?’ The words were out before Ralph could think.
The sergeant-at-arms tugged at the laces on his boiled leather jerkin. ‘I was more than sweet on her, Master Ralph,’ he murmured, ‘and over the last few days I have been thinking.’
‘Then let us know what you have been thinking,’ said Lady Anne.
‘The night Phoebe was murdered,’ Beardsmore replied, ‘she wasn’t supposed to be going home. She had agreed to meet me near Midnight Tower. Now, Sir John, Phoebe was a good girl. Sometimes her wits were not as sharp as they should be but she had common sense.’ He paused to take a drink from his tankard.
Ralph felt a bond with this gruff soldier who had also lost a loved one yet hid his grief so well.
‘Phoebe never left this castle,’ Beardsmore went on. ‘She wasn’t stupid. Oh, some of the lads teased her but she could look after herself. She told me how Winthrop the tax collector
had offered her a silver piece to lie with him.’ He clenched his fist. ‘I was going to have words with him.’ He blinked back the tears that filled his eyes. ‘In the gathering dusk she would never have gone to a place like Devil’s Spinney. I believe she was murdered in Ravenscroft and her body taken out there. Physician Vavasour, you examined Phoebe’s corpse. Had she been raped?’

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