A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 2

Beatrice stared down. She’d felt such terrible pains, as if her body was caught and licked by raging fire, but something was wrong. Was she dreaming? She was wearing the same kirtle. She touched her head. There was no pain now. Her hair still hung unbound, cork pattens on her feet, yet there was a body lying on the cobbles before her: eyes open, a line of blood trickling out between parted lips, head twisted strangely, arms out, fingers splayed. It was herself!

I must be dreaming, in a faint or a swoon, Beatrice thought. She heard a voice call, the sound of footsteps. People came running up: Theobald Vavasour, Father Aylred, Adam and Marisa. All gathered, crouching round her body.

‘No, I’m all right!’ she called out.

Her friends did not respond, yet she was sure she had spoken, she’d heard her own words and she could still feel the cold night air, although the light had changed to a strange bronze colour and it was eerie.

Ralph appeared, running down the steps. He stood on the cobbles and stared across at the small group, his mouth opening and closing.

‘Beatrice!’ he yelled. ‘Beatrice!’

She ran across to meet him but she couldn’t touch him. He seemed to run through her. Sir John came out of the tower, followed by Lady Anne. Beatrice tried to clutch them but it was like trying to seize the air. She went to stand with them. Ralph was leaning over her body, shaking his head. He tried to clutch her but Father Aylred gently blocked him.

‘She’s dead, Ralph. God save her, she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.’

Theobald had his hand pressed against her neck then felt her wrist, searching for the blood pulse. Beatrice was filled with horror.

‘I am not dead!’ she called. ‘I’m here!’

Her words echoed strangely across the bailey.

‘I’m not dead!’ she cried. ‘I’m here! I love Ralph! We are going to be married!’

‘She must have fallen,’ Adam said. ‘She probably went up to the parapet walk to look for Ralph.’

Ralph had his face in his hands. ‘I went to my chamber,’ he murmured. ‘I had a May Day present for her.’ He took his hands away, fumbled in his pouch and brought out a small brooch carved in the shape of a griffin. It was silver and studded with tiny glass stones.

‘Oh, but it’s beautiful,’ Beatrice murmured. She stretched out her hand but her fingers couldn’t clutch the brooch. It was like a dream in which she watched herself walk, talk, eat and drink.

‘She must have stumbled on the parapet,’ Sir John said. ‘Poor child, no one could survive such a fall. Theobald, Father Aylred, Adam, let’s take her up to the chapel. You,’ he gestured at Beardsmore who stood a short way off, ‘did you see anything untoward?’

‘No, sir. We heard a cry and saw something fall, a blur against the night.’

‘We’ll let her lie before the altar in the chapel,’ Father Aylred agreed.

‘I’ll dress the corpse for burial,’ Lady Anne offered. ‘I’ll wash her poor body, dress her in one of my gowns.’

‘It’s summer.’ Father Aylred patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘I’ll sing the Requiem Mass tomorrow. We have no choice, Ralph. She must be buried as soon as possible.’

Ralph wasn’t listening, he was in shock, his face pallid, his mouth open, a drool of saliva running down his chin. Marisa came and put her arm round his waist.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come to the kitchens, I’ll give you some malt wine.’

‘I want to…’

‘No, it’s best if you don’t, Ralph.’ Father Aylred was firm.

Beatrice could stand this no longer. She was dreaming! Yet how could she be? She could see them. When she wanted she could smell the midden, look up at the sky, feel the breeze, but it was as if she was divided from them by a wall of thick but lucidly clear glass. Whatever she did, whatever she said made no impact.

They were gently picking up her body on a makeshift bier, a cloth slung between two poles. Now she looked as if she was sleeping. Someone had closed her eyes. Beatrice gave a loud scream and sank to the cobbles. All she could think of was Ralph. All she wanted was to hold his hand and tell him how much she loved him, how she wanted to be his wife and they would live for ever. Now that was all gone. They were walking away as if she was no more.

‘Oh Jesus miserere!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Lord Jesus, Holy Mary! How can I be dead?’ The souls of the departed, weren’t they whisked off to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory? Isn’t that what Father Aylred had preached? Yet nothing had changed. She was in life but not of it.

Beatrice got to her feet and breathed in. She laughed. If she was dead why did she need air? I want to be warm, she thought, and became aware of heat, as if she was standing before the roaring fire in the taproom of the Golden Tabard. Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine! I must tell them.

Beatrice ran across the cobbles but her feet made no sound. She found she could move, as in a dream, and not stop for rest. A man on horseback rode out of the stables. She halted, terrified the horse was going to crash into her, but both horse and rider passed on. She felt nothing. Beatrice looked over her shoulder and again became aware of that strange bronze light as if everything was tainted with a copper tinge. The green had changed. A gallows stood where the blue cloth had been spread for their feast earlier in the day; from the rope hung a decomposing cadaver, neck awry, hands tied behind its back. Beatrice screamed. A knight came galloping across the cobbles. A terrible vision of armour and horseflesh. Beneath the conical nose guard, Beatrice glimpsed cruel eyes, a drooping moustache, twisted mouth. He wore chain mail and leggings, not like any knight or soldier Beatrice had ever seen. Other changes were taking place. Spheres of golden light moved backwards and forwards, silver discs sparkled, circling the castle bailey like bubbles sprung from warm soapy water. There was a table she hadn’t seen before. On it lay a white skeleton, its bones picked clean, the skull hanging awry. Dark shapes scurried around.

Beatrice felt frightened. If she was dead then she Lord Jesus would help her. The castle yard was the same yet it wasn’t. Shadows were moving in and out of doorways. She moved towards the steps of the keep then paused. A young man was walking towards her. Despite the night she could make out his features: round-faced, smooth-shaven, merry mouth and laughing eyes. He was dressed in an old-fashioned cote-hardie which fell to his knees, a war belt strapped round his waist. His hair was oily and combed back. He walked with a swagger, and as he passed he smiled and winked.

‘Be careful!’ he whispered then strode on.

Beatrice whirled round. The figure disappeared in the gathering darkness. So, she thought, some people can see me. She stared up at the parapet.

‘I didn’t fall,’ she murmured. She touched the side of her head. ‘I was struck.’

She jumped as a great mastiff, with fiery eyes and slavering jaws, came bounding up to her. She stood transfixed in terror as the beast leapt, only to pass through her, racing into the night. She hurried up towards the door of the keep, moving so fast she didn’t realise until it had happened that she had gone through the door without opening it. She was standing at the foot of the spiral staircase leading up to the chapel.

Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘I really am dead,’ she murmured.

She opened her mouth and gave the most hideous, heart-rending scream. She waited. Those in the chapel above must have heard her. Someone would come running down the steps. But they didn’t. Again she screamed like a soul in mortal agony.

‘Who are you?’

Beatrice whirled round. She gazed in dread at the gargoyle figure before her. He was tall, well over two yards high, with a bulbous, grotesque face, cheeks pitted and scarred, eyes thin and glittering under a mop of dirty red hair. A broad, leather belt circled his swollen stomach, and from it hung keys and a dagger. The high-heeled boots he wore were spurred.

‘I’m dreaming,’ she murmured, stepping back.

‘Ye not be dreaming!’ The man stood, head slightly cocked. ‘If ye can see Black Malkyn, then ye not be dreaming! Ye be dead!’ His hideous smile disappeared as a dreadful scream pierced the night.

‘What was that?’ Beatrice demanded.

‘That be Lady Johanna.’ His face became sad. ‘Like you, like me, one of the Incorporeals.’

And he was gone, walking through the wall, spurs clinking, heading towards Midnight Tower. Beatrice climbed the stairs. She could do this effortlessly; there was no need to stop to catch her breath. As she turned a corner, following the spiral staircase up, what looked like a monk in a dirty grey robe passed her. She glimpsed white, pinched features though he seemed unaware of her.

Beatrice entered the chapel. Her corpse now lay in a casket just within the door of the rood screen. Father Aylred was kneeling in prayers. There was no sign of the others. Beatrice approached her corpse. In the light of the flickering candles, the face looked pallid, the horrid gash vivid in the side of her head. Beatrice glanced up at the pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament. Surely, if she was dead, the good Lord Jesus would help.

She went towards the sanctuary steps, intending to grasp the pyx, but the spheres of light, those circles of fiery light which she’d glimpsed in the courtyard below, sprang up all around her. They came together, forming an impenetrable wall between her and the altar. She pressed against them. She felt warm and happy. She caught a beautiful fragrance like the most costly pefume. A sound of singing, children laughing. She wanted to go through this wall of light but she couldn’t. She stared at it and became aware of faces within the spheres of light. Children’s faces, small, beautifully formed, hair framing silver cheeks, eyes like sapphires. Again she pressed but the heat became so intense she had to stand back.

‘Go no further!’ A voice spoke from this wall of gold. ‘Go no further till your appointed time!’

Beatrice paused.

‘Or, if you wish,’ the voice came as a whisper, ‘if you really want to, come towards the light.’

Beatrice took a step forward yet found she couldn’t go any further. Not because of any hindrance. She thought of Ralph, of her wedding day, of that walk along the lonely parapet and that dreadful blow to her head.

Spinning on her heel, Beatrice fled from the chapel, down the steps and out into the courtyard. She stopped there, agitated, troubled. She screamed, yet she knew in her heart of hearts that no one would hear her, no one could see her. Was this how it would be always? Locked here in this strange world for ever? Something caught her eye, a silver disc of light shimmered then disappeared.

Dark shapes thronged all about her. Thoughts came in rapid succession. She now had no problem with memories. Her mother and father had died when she was young but now she saw them clearly. Her mother’s kindly, plump face; her father, who had worked as a weaver, standing in the doorway of some house, a piece of fabric across his arms; the day she had met Ralph; people she had known as a child. It was as if she was alive in both the past and the present. Yet she wasn’t alive! She was here clothed in the attire she had put on this morning after she’d washed her hands and face. She could see the hem of her dress, the cuffs, the bracelets on her wrist but no one else could. She closed her eyes. Nothing but darkness! How long would such confusion last?

Beatrice was roused by a rattle of chains. A strange cavalcade was making its way through the gate, that terrible knight she had glimpsed earlier astride a great black warhorse. Its harness and saddle were of silver, edged with scarlet trimming. He was accompanied by a gaggle of riders dressed in animal pelts. They were drinking and cursing. Behind them a group of men, manacled and chained together, straggled across the castle yard which now seemed different. Buildings she was accustomed to had disappeared. The devilish cavalcade stopped. The knight dismounted. He issued orders in a tongue she did not understand. His voice was sharp and guttural. The prisoners were made to kneel and their wooden neck collars were removed. Beatrice watched in horror as the prisoners were forced down. The knight drew a great two-handed sword out of the scabbard hanging from his saddle horn. Beatrice screamed as he lifted the sword and, in one swift cut, decapitated a prisoner. He moved along the line like a gardener pruning flowers. Time and again that dreadful sword rose and fell. Heads bounced on to the cobbles, blood spouting. The cadavers stayed upright and then fell, jerking spasmodically.

‘Don’t!’ Beatrice screamed. ‘Oh, for the love of God, don’t!’

She ran across, intent on grasping the knight’s arm but again she clutched moonbeams. The knight kept cutting and slicing. The yard stank of the iron tang of blood. Beatrice looked up at the night sky.

‘What is this?’ she screamed. ‘I am dead and the living can’t see me! I am dead and those who have died can’t see me!’

Perhaps it was some dreadful nightmare. She ran up the steps leading to the parapet walk from which she had fallen. She reached the top. A soldier was standing on guard there. His dress was similar to that of the horrid spectre she had seen murdering the prisoners in the bailey below. She reached out but felt nothing. She clutched the crenellated battlements and stared over. The castle wall was bathed in a strange bronze light. Horror piled upon horror! Corpses were hanging in chains from the battlements. She ran along the parapet walk. The door to the tower was open. The young man she had glimpsed before was standing there smiling at her.

‘Go carefully!’ he warned.

Beatrice ignored him. She stood on the edge of the parapet and stared down. The hideous execution scene had disappeared. The yard was as she’d known it; the blue cloth was still spread over the grass. Adam and Marisa were standing by the keep door. They were joined by Father Aylred. A messenger left, spurring his horse towards the barbican. A wild thought seized Beatrice. She was dreaming and to prove it she would jump from the parapet and before she hit the ground she would wake up in her little cot bed above the taproom in the Golden Tabard. She would cry out. Aunt Catherine would come hurrying in to embrace her and tell her not to worry about horrid nightmares.

Beatrice felt the cold night air on her face. She spread her arms like a bird taking flight and launched herself into the darkness. She reached the cobbles. No pain, no flesh-juddering impact, no taste of blood spilling into her mouth, no last dying moments. It was as if she had taken a small step.

‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’

She spun round. A young man stood there. He had blond hair, a smooth face, and was dressed exquisitely in a short cote-hardie, lined and trimmed with fur, parti-coloured hose and a rather exaggerated codpiece. On his feet were long pointed shoes, the toes curled back and fastened to garters below his knee. In one hand he carried a chaperon, and a brocaded dagger sheath hung from his silver belt. He was sniffing at a pomander, red in colour and decorated with gold and silver thread.

‘Who are you?’

The young man smiled. He was beautiful, like a courtier who had passed through Maldon on his way to Westminster some months ago. That visitor to the Golden Tabard had arrogant eyes and a petulant mouth. This young man was friendly, smiling, the lips open to reveal white, even teeth. He walked closer. She could smell the fragrance of his clothes. He offered her the pomander. She didn’t take it but caught a perfume like roses crushed in fresh water.

‘Who are you?’ she repeated. ‘Where am I? Can you please help me, sir?’ A silver disc shimmered on the edge of her vision.

‘You are Beatrice Arrowner. You died in a fall from the parapet wall.’

‘I know that!’ Beatrice snapped. ‘But what has happened? I saw a knight dark and hideous. He was here in the yard slaughtering men. A great mastiff hurled itself at me. Look!’ She pointed at the dark shapes flitting around her.

‘Just phantasms,’ the young man replied.

‘Who are you?’ she insisted.

‘Oh, quite petulant, aren’t we? Fiery-tempered Beatrice. My name, well, you can call me Crispin.’

‘Are you a ghost, Crispin?’

‘I am what you see, Beatrice. I am what you want me to be.’

Beatrice felt uneasy. Crispin was standing there like some beautiful Christ statue in church but the night around him seemed darker, denser; the silver disc had disappeared.

‘I did not die,’ she blurted, suddenly angry. ‘I was murdered!’

‘I know,’ said Crispin smoothly.

‘And do you also know who is responsible?’

He shook his head. ‘If I did, Beatrice, I’d tell you. So, what do you think of it, Beatrice, eh? Not yet eighteen summers old and snatched out of life. No Ralph, no wedding day, no warm embrace or sweet kisses.’

‘Where is Ralph?’ Beatrice asked.

Crispin pointed to the Lion Tower. ‘He’s in his chamber. He’s drunk deeply, Beatrice. He thinks wine will ease the pain, and perhaps it will. In time he will forget you. It could have been so different, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes!’ Her voice came out as a snarl, so sharp, so hate-filled, even she was surprised.

‘And what about Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine? Those poor guardians who regarded you as their only child? Riven with grief, they are.’ Crispin sniffed at the pomander. ‘What a waste,’ he whispered. He glanced mice-eyed at her. ‘Do you want vengeance, Beatrice? I can help you.’ He stepped a little closer, his light-blue eyes full of kindness, red lips parted.

Impulsively Beatrice stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. She felt strange, on the one hand attracted to this beautiful young man, on the other, troubled by the hate his words stirred up in her.

‘I’ll give you another thought,’ Crispin whispered. ‘And listen to me now. Were you the real victim?’

‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.

‘Think about it. Just think.’ His words came in a hiss.

‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’

She whirled round. The merry-faced man she had glimpsed earlier was sitting, cross-legged, on the blue cloth.

‘Come away, Beatrice,’ he murmured. ‘Ralph is crying.’

‘Oh, ignore him!’ Crispin retorted. ‘He’s a liar and a thief!’

Beatrice stepped back. She was being so selfish. Ralph was crying. She should comfort him. As she moved away, Crispin’s eyes turned hard.

‘I’ll come back,’ she whispered. ‘I promise. I must see Ralph.’

‘Of course, Beatrice,’ he said and turned away.

Beatrice was already in the tower hurrying up the spiral staircase, aware of the torches, the dancing shadows, of grotesque shapes, odious smells and macabre forms. She reached Ralph’s room and passed through the door into the small, circular chamber. Beatrice gave a deep sigh of grief. The room was so familiar, so full of loving memories: the rushes on the floor, green and supple; the little pots of herbs she had brought; the crucifix on the wall; the small triptych on the table next to the bed.

Ralph was sprawled there. In the light of the capped candle she could see he was asleep but his cheeks were tear-stained. He moved and jerked, muttering to himself. On the floor lay a cup in a puddle of spilled wine. Beatrice was filled with a deep longing. She wanted to stretch out and touch him but she could feel nothing. She lay down on the bed next to him as if she was his handfast wife. She put her arm round him and kissed him on the cheek, whispering his name. She told him how she loved him and would do so for all eternity. Ralph stirred and moved. He called out her name, his eyes opened and closed. He groaned and dug his face deep into the bolster. Beatrice stroked his hair and tried to dry the tears on his cheeks.

‘Oh Ralph, Ralph!’ she whispered. ‘Oh sweetheart!’

He moved and turned. Beatrice felt as if she was crying herself.

‘It’s all invisible,’ she murmured. ‘My tears mean nothing.’

She recalled Crispin’s words and the flame of anger and hatred seethed. What did he mean, was she the real victim? She sat up and stared across at the crucifix and noticed a silver disc of light was moving around it. She glanced away. Everything had been a mockery. Where was Heaven? Where was the good Lord Jesus? The angels, all the mysteries the Church had taught? She had been cast up like a rotten boat on the banks of a sluggish river. All she could do was watch the water run by. How long would this go on? For ever? Sealed in this existence for all eternity? She kissed Ralph on the brow and walked out of the chamber.

‘Well, Beatrice?’ Crispin was standing in the stairwell. ‘All gone,’ he said. ‘Lost like tears in the rain. Come.’

He took her by the hand and she didn’t resist. They walked out to Midnight Tower and up flights of steps. Beatrice found herself in Adam’s room. He and Marisa were lying, fully clothed, on the bed, arms about each other. Marisa was crying. Adam was soothing her, stroking her hair.

‘So unnecessary,’ Crispin’s voice murmured.

Beatrice felt a surge of resentment. She and Ralph should be lying like this. Why her? Why now? And before Crispin could say another word, she turned and fled down the stairs. Crispin called after her but Beatrice didn’t care. She crashed into the wall and slipped but felt no pain. She stopped and laughed hysterically. A silver disc hovered above her. She drove it away with her hand as a child would a ball. She reached the bottom of the tower and stopped. A woman blocked her way. Tall, hair as black as a raven’s wing, her face could have been beautiful but it was white and ghastly with red-rimmed, staring eyes. Her lovely samite dress was dirt-stained. She stared malevolently at Beatrice and, opening her mouth, screamed like a wild animal. Beatrice stood her ground. The woman advanced. Beatrice recoiled at the disgusting smell which emanated from her.

‘Who are you?’

‘Welcome to the kingdom of the dead, Beatrice Arrowner. Look at me and weep. Lady Johanna de Mandeville, walled up, tombed in for death. Nothing but darkness. He shouldn’t have done it. It was cruel and no one raised a hand. No pity in life, no mercy in death. Nothing but a desert of hate and chambers full of spectres!’

Beatrice could stand no more and fled like a shadow from Midnight Tower.