A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 2

Ralph entered his chamber and leaned against the door. He sniffed and, once again, caught the faint fragrance of Beatrice’s perfume. He felt uneasy. The chamber was gloomy, the night candle flickering under its metal cap. He wondered if Beatrice was still with him.

‘Are you there?’ he called out but the only answer was the shutter rattling in the breeze. Ralph moved across to his writing desk and stared down at the manuscripts. He had deliberately said and written nothing about his discovery. Nevertheless, he was sure someone had been in here, sifting through the manuscripts, searching for something.

He opened the shutters and stared out. Later that evening Father Aylred was to celebrate Mass in the entrance to Midnight Tower. Everyone else was busy trying to do their work despite the oppressive atmosphere at Ravenscroft. Now was the best time to go. Ralph took his war belt from a peg and strapped it round his waist. He put on his cloak and left his chamber, locking the door behind him.

The castle bailey was deserted apart from the travelling Moon people. The man, a professional tinker by trade, seemed happy to be here, grateful to Sir John for bringing out the pots, pans and skillets that required attention.

Ralph quickly made his way across the green and into the Salt Tower. Sir John had still not followed his advice to protect this vulnerable part of the castle defences. He went up the steps, trying not to indulge in fanciful notions, yet it was hard. The assassin must have crept up here bringing those arbalests which had killed Beardsmore.

Ralph reached the first landing and walked into the chamber. The assassin had used that large window to smuggle poor Phoebe’s corpse out of the castle. Now, Ralph intended to use it for his own secret purposes. He opened the large shutters and climbed carefully out. The day had been a dull one and the gathering dusk made it even more grim. He paused to close the shutters behind him and continued on down. He stepped on to the muddy bank and quickly crossed the moat. He set out over the heathland then glanced back. He glimpsed the sentry, but the only real danger was if the assassin was also looking out; that would be the most cruel of coincidences.

Ralph continued on. When he reached the trees, he stopped and listened, drew his dagger and walked deeper into the spinney. This copse, he reflected, must be very old; it contained beech, copper, sycamore and, of course, the great oak trees. He studied them closely. Which tree housed the treasure? An old forester had once told him that oaks could grow and survive for hundreds and hundreds of years, and they changed as they grew. Their great trunks split, branches became twisted and extended, they were damaged by thunderstorms and lightning.

‘Think!’ Ralph whispered. ‘You are coming from a battle. You have something precious to hide.’ Cerdic would have been in a hurry, eager to get back to the battlefield. So, what did he do? Dig?

Ralph smiled to himself. Cerdic would scarcely do that. He wouldn’t have the time, energy or the tools to dig a deep hole. And anything hidden beneath the soil would soon be disturbed and discovered. Ralph gazed round, and counted seven great oak trees in all, interspersed by bushes and other trees. Wasn’t seven a sacred number to the ancient rituals as well as to the Christian faith? Seven sacraments. Seven days of the week. Ralph got up and walked round the trees. He tried to put himself into the position of that bedraggled, weary, blood-spattered squire, a man entrusted with a sacred task.

Ralph stopped. The spinney was now very quiet as if the birds and animals who lived here resented his intrusion and quietly watched from the gathering shadows. He was standing before one of the ancient oak trees and looked up. He began to climb. At first it was difficult. He bruised his legs, scraped his hands but, at last, he reached the lower branches which provided him with a better foothold. Up and up he climbed till the branches thinned. He stared down the length of the great trunk. He could see no crack or rent, no gap or hole. He was about to climb down when he heard the murmur of voices and froze. Two men had entered the spinney from the other end. They were hooded and masked, quivers slung across their backs, bows in their hands. Poachers? Outlaws? The men stopped beneath him, whispering, their heads together. He could make out no face, no distinguishing mark. They crossed the glade and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ralph’s arms ached. He was about to clamber down when three more abruptly appeared, following their companions across the glade. Ralph tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, grateful for the branches and leaves which concealed him. He waited and eventually, the men came back, this time together in a group of five. Ralph peered down. They were certainly not from the castle and they did not seem intent on hunting game. They appeared to have simply gone to the fringe of the spinney, stared out at the castle then returned.

They must be from the village, Ralph thought. He waited until the men were gone then clambered down. Brythnoth’s cross would have to wait. He ran across the clearing, out of the spinney and back towards the castle. He found Adam in the barbican talking to one of the guards.

‘In Heaven’s name, Ralph, what’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ralph replied wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I went out for a walk and…’ He shook his head. ‘I wish Sir John would listen. There’s villainy being plotted in Maldon. Where is the Constable now?’

Adam shrugged. ‘In his chambers, I think. Can I help?’

Ralph nodded. ‘Sir John may listen to you. Tell him I’ve seen villagers armed with bows and arrows studying the castle. I urge him to double the guard. Put every man we have on a war footing.’

‘Dramatic language, Ralph!’

‘For the love of God, Adam, just do what I say! I’m going to check the Salt Tower.’

Adam hastened away. Ralph was pleased to be free of his questioning stare; he was also embarrassed by his own hypocrisy. Here he was urging his Constable to prepare the castle carefully and yet he had left that window door unsecured. He hurried to the Salt Tower and up the steps. The chamber was now very dark. The shutters, slightly opened by the evening breeze, allowed in some light. Ralph hurried across, pulled the shutters together and lowered the bar. He turned and sat, his back to the wall, trying to catch his breath. He was soaked in sweat. He got up and, as he did so, once again caught that pleasing fragrance Beatrice always wore.

‘Are you there?’ he whispered. ‘Are you really near me?’ Ralph felt a shiver go up his spine. He’d always believed that when a person died, the soul left the body and travelled on. Yet what had Father Aylred once told him? That some souls lingered in a twilight world between life and death? Was that happening now? Had Beatrice, who loved him so passionately, refused to journey on? Was she here with him now? Tears pricked his eyes. What did it matter whether or not he found Brythnoth’s cross? The real treasure in his life had gone. And what should he do when all this was over? In his heart he knew he could not stay at Ravenscroft. It would always evoke memories of Beatrice and he could not live with that. For the moment, however, he had to stay because of the assassin which stalked them all; he could not leave the garrison in its moment of danger. But if he survived? If God brought him safely through this? Where to then? To the Halls of Oxford, to resume his studies of the great Aristotle? Ralph drew a deep breath. The tinge of perfume was even stronger. He remembered that Theobald had distilled it. Ralph chewed on his lip. He’d ask the physician for one last jar, a keepsake.

Ralph walked to the door. He thought of the upper chamber from which the assassin had loosed his killing shaft and went up the crumbling steps, ignoring the squeak of rats as they scampered away. The upper room was colder than when he had last visited it, the shutters had not been fully closed. He went and looked out of a window. It was almost night and a mist was creeping in from Devil’s Spinney, curling out towards the castle. Father Aylred would be waiting for him. Castle servants had already laid out the altar, cross and sacred vessels. Sir John had agreed that Ralph could act as altar boy but no one else should be present.

Ralph walked back to the door and heard a sound on the stairs. A rat? He took out his dagger, gripping it firmly because his hands were sweaty. With his back to the wall he went carefully down the steps. Again the sound. He turned a corner and listened. Was there someone there? Ralph could hear the beat of his own heart. He wished he had brought a candle. Had someone seen him come here? He swallowed hard. The tower steps were freezing. He could not stay here. He went on down. Suddenly his heel slipped, the dagger clattered on the steps. Cursing softly, Ralph crouched down and stretched out, and as he did so, his hand caught a piece of twine, tight like that of a drawn bow. He followed it across to some nails that had been driven into the wall from the time when the stairs had had a wooden rail or panelling. Each end of the twine was tied to one of these nails. Ralph lowered his hands. Another stretch of twine was there, just as taut, spanning a lower step. Ralph slashed through the twine with his dagger. He went down at a crouch, feeling rather ridiculous, as if he was a child learning to go up or down steps for the first time. He reached the bottom and fled from the Salt Tower.

He paused beneath a tree, re-sheathed his dagger and wiped the sweat from his face.

‘God help you, Ralph!’ he whispered. ‘You are a fool, for all your logic!’

He had nearly fallen for one of the oldest tricks employed in the defence of a castle. Stone spiral staircases were dangerous at the best of times. On any other occasion he would have gone clattering down the steps. He would have tripped and the least he could have suffered was broken limbs; more probably he would have smashed his skull or snapped his neck. Someone had seen him go into the tower and immediately followed. It would be easy enough to take twine from an arbalest or bow and wrap it round those nails. Then it would only be a matter of waiting. He had had a lucky escape. Or was it luck? Was Beatrice here, guiding and protecting his every step? If the heel of his boot hadn’t slipped, if he hadn’t dropped the dagger… Ralph shivered at the thought. But who? Rage replaced his fear as he strode back towards the keep.

Sir John and Adam were standing on the green, heads together. The captain of the guard hovered nearby. Torches, lashed to poles, had been thrust into the ground. The Constable looked expectantly at him.

‘Ralph, where have you been?’

He bit back an angry reply. ‘Sir John, I’m more interested in where everybody else has been.’

Adam looked puzzled. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Adam and I have been together since we saw you walk across the green,’ Sir John said brusquely.

‘Did you see anyone else go towards the Salt Tower?’

‘No.’ Adam shook his head. ‘Why, Ralph, what has happened?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Ralph sighed. ‘Look, Sir John, this castle is vulnerable, the Salt Tower is not securely guarded. That large window door should be bricked up.’

‘Ralph, Ralph, calm yourself. I know dreadful things are happening. Adam here says that you think we are in some danger. But from whom? How could a group of ragged-arsed peasants take a castle like this?’

‘What happens if there is a rebel army in the vicinity?’ Ralph replied heatedly. ‘Sir John, you fought the French. The men who throng the Pot of Thyme in Maldon are the sons of those who brought down the cream of French chivalry at Crecy and Poitiers.’

‘I’ve doubled the guards. I’ll see to the Salt Tower.’ Sir John looked towards the main gate. ‘I’ll be glad when the royal commissioners arrive. They’ll advise me.’ And he walked off, shaking his head.

‘He’s tired,’ Ralph said quietly. ‘He’s an old and rather frightened man.’

‘Be gentle in your judgements, Ralph,’ Adam replied. ‘Sir John is a warrior; he mounts his horse and charges the enemy. He’s not skilled in dealing with secret assassins and prowling outlaws.’ Adam took a step closer, his handsome face full of concern. ‘I don’t like this place, Ralph. Forget Brythnoth’s treasure. Let’s be away from it. We could pile our possessions on to a sumpter pony and be gone. Clerks like ourselves will always find comfortable benefices, good employment.’

Ralph was about to reply when he heard his name being called. Father Aylred was beckoning him over.

‘I must go.’ And, making his apologies, Ralph hurried over to the priest.

Father Aylred looked tired and anxious. He plucked at Ralph’s sleeve and took him into the tower, locking and bolting the door behind him.

‘All is ready,’ he said. ‘Sir John has cleared Midnight Tower of everyone.’

Ralph gazed around. The vestibule had been transformed. All the sconce torches had been lit and burnt fiercely against the darkness. At the bottom of the steps a small altar had been set up, covered with a linen cloth. On this stood candles, a small metal cross, a wooden triptych, breviary, chalice and paten with two offertory cruets, one full of wine, the other of water. On a small stool lay the black and gold vestments for a Requiem Mass. On the wall above, a makeshift crucifix had been fixed.

‘We should begin now,’ Father Aylred said wearily. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘Are you well enough, Father? It can always wait. Do you think this is really necessary?’

‘The dead are close about us here,’ the priest replied hoarsely. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘They throng about. There’s wickedness, an evil which has to be purged, sins that cry out to be forgiven. The Mass for the dead will provide some light and hallow this dreadful place.’

Ralph forgot his own misgivings and helped the priest dress. Then Father Aylred stood at the altar. He bowed and kissed the red cross painted in the centre of the altar cloth.

‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti… I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, ‘to the God who gives joy to my youth.’

Ralph was about to reply when another voice spoke, clear as a bell.

‘I will go unto the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth!’

Both priest and clerk froze. The voice was not pleasant, mocking in its imitation.

‘We should leave this,’ Ralph urged.

‘That’s right, clerk, piss off!’ the voice snapped.

Two of the candles went out.

‘Why don’t both of you just piss off and leave us alone? What good is this mummery!’

Father Aylred calmly crossed himself again and began the Mass. This time there were no offensive remarks. Ralph nervously glanced up. The flames of the sconce torches had changed; they were no longer red and vigorous but weak with a bluish tinge. He noticed how cold it had grown and there was an offensive stench as if a cesspit had been opened. Father Aylred remained resolute. He opened the missal and quietly recited the collect, followed by the epistle. He was about to move the missal to the right side of the altar for the gospel when one of the sconce torches fell from its bracket, narrowly missing the altar, to clatter on to the floor.

‘Look, Ralph!’ the voice commanded. ‘Look up the stairwell!’

He obeyed and sprang back in horror. The darkened stairwell had disappeared. He stood at the mouth of a heavily-wooded valley. He was sure a veritable army was hidden among the trees on either side. Along the floor of the valley a man leading a sumpter pony was coming towards him. At every step the bells sewn on his jerkin jingled; it was as if some madcap child had seized a cluster of handbells and was ringing them for the sheer malicious joy of shattering the silence.

‘Don’t look!’ Father Aylred whispered over his shoulder. ‘Ralph, the Gospel according to St Mark.’

Ralph tore his eyes away and stared at the gold cross on the back of the priest’s chasuble. He forced himself to make the sign on his forehead, lips and heart, a symbolic gesture indicating that he was prepared to listen to and act on the gospel reading. The tower fell silent. Father Aylred finished the reading and moved to the offertory. The bread and wine were raised. Ralph, as if in a dream, got up to help him prepare the lavabo, where the priest washes his hands before the consecration.

Aylred’s face was now soaked in sweat. ‘Remember the Mass, Ralph,’ he whispered. ‘Try not to let the darkness daunt you. Say the psalm with me.’

‘I will wash my hands among the innocent, I will encompass thine altar, Oh Lord, that I may hear the song of your praise and tell them all of your wondrous work.’

‘You stupid bastards!’

Ralph was sure the voice was Beardsmore’s.

‘Ralph, you are a clerk! Tell this hedge-priest he’s just farting in the wind!’

The door to the tower started to shake as if mailed men were trying to break through. The same sound came from the stairs behind as if a horde of marauders had broken in and were clattering down, swords at the ready. Aylred grasped Ralph’s wrists and kept him at the altar.

‘Stay here!’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me!’

Ralph was too frightened to move. A cacophony of sound broke out. People shouting, crying, moaning, accompanied by pungent, acrid smells. Faces appeared on the walls as if the stonework was being sculpted by invisible hands. Somewhere a wolf howled. Ralph looked up. The wall opposite had disappeared. He was in that valley again. The eerie figure was moving towards him. Two great mastiffs had appeared with eyes like hell’s fire, cruel teeth bared. Ralph felt something kick his ankle and stared down at the priest who held the Host in his hands.

‘Stay next to me, Ralph, and watch what I hold.’

Ralph obeyed. The phenomena around him became more intense. Both men had to brace themselves against a rushing wind which seemed to come through the walls. Ralph felt as if he was on the prow of a ship heading into a storm. Shapes and shadows flitted round the altar. Father Aylred was quiet now, weak, but the sacred words were uttered. The bread and wine became the sacred Body of Christ. Everything fell silent. Father Aylred intoned the prayer for the dead, the solemn invocation that Christ and his angels would take all the souls of the faithful to a place of calm and peace. After that the disturbance faded. The sconce torches burnt more fiercely. But, just when Ralph thought they would be troubled no further, he felt as if doors were slamming shut around the altar, trapping them in a cage. Ralph was seized by a great terror as if some hideous horror from Hell was standing close by. A deep despair swept over him, a sense that all this was futile, a waste of time, and when the voice spoke, it seemed to come from the depths of his own heart.

‘What’s the use, Ralph? What is the bloody use of all this? Where’s Beatrice?’ A pause. ‘You know where she is! Wandering the snowy wastelands of Hell. Leave this priest to his mumblings.’

‘No, she isn’t!’ Father Aylred suddenly exclaimed. He turned his pallid, sweat-soaked face to Ralph. ‘My mother’s in Heaven,’ he gasped. ‘Isn’t she, Ralph?’

The clerk opened his mouth.

‘I’ve wasted my life. I might as well whistle across the graveyard. It’s so futile.’

‘It’s not futile!’ Ralph found it difficult to speak. ‘It’s not futile at all, Father!’

The priest looked as if he was going to leave the altar. He placed the Host down and stood, slightly swaying, as if he wanted to walk away but could not.

‘Take him away!’ the voice urged Ralph. ‘What he needs is a good cup of claret and a warm pair of tits!’

‘Let’s be away,’ Father Aylred hissed. ‘I say Mass and God doesn’t listen!’

A chorus swelled up, demonic voices shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ The rattling on the stairs, an icy coldness. Ralph realised that Aylred had reached the doxology of the Mass. He stretched out and picked up the chalice and the sacred Host. They both felt hot to the touch.

‘Say the words!’ he whispered.

Aylred swayed, face white, eyes dark pools of anguish.

‘Say the words!’ Ralph insisted.

Aylred turned away to retch. He leaned against the wall, spluttering and coughing. He began to edge towards the door. Ralph seized him and brought him back. He thrust him against the altar, eyes on the Host and chalice, ignoring the nagging insistence of the voice within. Ralph grasped the chalice and Host.

‘Say the words!’

‘Per Ipsum, in Ipso, et cum Ipso. Through Him, in Him and with Him

…’ intoned Father Aylred.

Ralph lifted the Host above the chalice.

‘All honour and glory and power are yours, Oh Heavenly Father!’

Ralph suddenly felt warm and relaxed. One, two then three spheres of light appeared as if from nowhere, like the brilliant flames of glowing beeswax candles. The sensation of being shut in disappeared. A warm fragrance rose up from the altar. Aylred sighed and continued with the Mass. The Our Father, the Kiss of Peace, the Communion; in the end all was peaceful. Ralph had to help Father Aylred to a stool.

‘What happened there?’ he asked.

‘Can’t you feel it, Ralph?’

‘Are you well, Father?’

‘Can’t you feel it?’ the Franciscan repeated. ‘So warm, so peaceful.’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘I can feel it.’

‘When I was younger and more handsome,’ Father Aylred smiled, ‘I was an exorcist. This is not the first time I’ve confronted demons.’

‘So you are not the hedge-priest you pretend to be?’

The Franciscan blinked. ‘Once, Ralph, I lectured in the Halls of Oxford. I was arrogant, so full of myself I had no room for God. I was a demon-hunter. One day I was called to an exorcism, a young woman in Binsey. I didn’t prepare myself well. The exorcism went wrong and the young woman died.’ He glanced up. ‘But I’ve been doing penance ever since. I pray to St Thomas a Becket. You know how our order has a great devotion to him. I would love to go on pilgrimage to his shrine, Ralph, but I’m too weak, too frail. Each year I promise, each year I fail. One year I must.’ He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. ‘And if I don’t, Ralph?’

‘Oh, you will.’ Ralph smiled. ‘And I’ll go with you.’

Father Aylred shook his head. ‘I learnt a secret tonight, Ralph. I’ll come through this. But, before Christmas, I am going to die. I must prepare for the long journey I have to make.’ He got up and began to divest, laying out the robes. He swayed on his feet but Ralph caught him.

‘Come on, Father. I’ll take you back to your chamber. We’ll share a cup of wine.’