A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 2

Ralph sat alone in his round chamber in the Lion Tower which stood near the barbican on the north-facing wall. He’d lit a rushlight and two candles and wondered whether he should fire the brazier, for the night had turned cold. He went across and secured the shutters. He sat at his desk, peering down at the sheaf of manuscripts which had once meant so much – the fruit of his studies and searches for Brythnoth’s cross. Ralph had been born in Maldon, educated in the parish school. His father, a prosperous weaver, had secured the patronage of a local priest and sent his only son to the cathedral school at Ely before he entered the Halls of Cambridge. Ralph would always love Maldon. He had hunted wild ducks in the marshes, played outlaws with the other boys in Devil’s Spinney and gone down to the Blackwater estuary to re-enact the battle of Brythnoth against the Danes.

It was old Father Dominic who had first told him about the treasure, recounting tales he himself had heard many years earlier and showing him old and tattered manuscripts about the battle. At Cambridge Ralph had pursued his searches and learnt about the flight of the squire Cerdic and those memorable words about the treasure being hidden ‘on an altar to your God and mine’.

Ralph picked up a quill and tapped it against his cheek. What did the words mean? He stared at his chancery desk. He remembered how he had left everything this morning. He was punctilious in his work and particular about how he left his desk. The manuscript was askew and the ink horn and pumice stones had been moved. What could it mean?

He went and checked his coffer but the purse of silver and bronze coins had not been disturbed, and nor had his precious books, bound in vellum, on a closed shelf high on the wall. Ralph poured himself a goblet of wine to ease the pain in the back of his head.

‘There can be only one conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Whoever came here did not come to rob but to search.’

The only really valuable thing he owned was this battered manuscript written in his own cipher.

‘They think I’ m close to the treasure,’ he whispered to the crucifix fastened on the wall.

A wave of nausea gripped his stomach so he went and lay on the bed. He thought of the feasting on May Day and his stupid boast about the treasure. He should have been on the parapet walk, not Beatrice. Father Aylred was right. The blow to Beatrice’s head was dealt before she fell; the assassin thought he was striking at Ralph. In the dark he would only have had a few seconds to see a shadow approach the tower door. And this morning? If he’d been killed, his corpse would have been dragged out of the mire, the result of a tragic accident. People would have thought he had been drunk, as indeed he was, distraught with grief, and wandered off the trackway. And what about Phoebe? Had she been killed because she had overheard something? But how had they taken her corpse from the castle? Unless it was Beardsmore. Ralph breathed in and started. He could smell Beatrice’s perfume, faint but still perceptible. Why was that? He heard a rap on the door, stretched across to his war belt and took out the dagger.

‘Come in!’ he called.

Father Aylred entered. Ralph relaxed and shamedfacedly threw the dagger down.

The priest shook his hand. ‘I do not blame you for that, Ralph.’ He came closer, his eyes sad. ‘There is an assassin in our castle. He or she slew Beatrice, killed Phoebe and, this morning, tried to murder you. I’ve been to see old Vavasour. He confirms Beatrice could have been struck before she fell.’

Ralph rose and led the old priest across to the bed and made him sit down.

‘You’ll have some wine, Father?’

‘Have you checked it first?’

Ralph repressed a shiver; the gentle old priest had a stubborn look.

‘For the love of God, Ralph, someone tried to kill you this morning! Don’t you think they’ll try again?’

Ralph sniffed at the wine. ‘If it’s poisoned, I’ve already drunk half a cup but I’ll heed your warning, Father.’ He sat next to the priest. ‘You really do believe someone is hunting my life?’

‘Worse than that, Ralph. Someone is hunting our souls!’

‘Oh come, Father. Old stories about ghosts and ghouls.’ He watched the candle flame suddenly dance as if a door had been opened and he sniffed the air. For a few fleeting seconds he again caught Beatrice’s fragrance, soft and warm. My wits are wandering! Ralph Mortimer, you are a scholar from the Halls of Cambridge. An eternal gulf lies fixed between life and death. This old priest, with his wild accusations, is filled with superstition.

Father Aylred blessed his wine and took a sip. ‘I am a peasant born and bred, Ralph.’ He rolled the cup between his hands. ‘My fingers are stubby and engrained with dirt. I can read sufficiently well to understand the scriptures and to preach. I put my trust in Christ the Divine Boy. I try and preach his love.’

‘You are a good priest.’ Ralph gripped his companion’s shoulder.

‘Flattery is only half the truth.’ Aylred smiled. ‘I can read your mind, Ralph Mortimer. You think I’m slightly fey-witted, don’t you? And, by the time I am finished, you may well believe it. Look around the room, Ralph.’

Ralph obeyed.

‘What do you see?’

‘Light and shadows, pieces of furniture, the enclave where the window is, the shutters.’

‘Our world is like that,’ said Father Aylred. ‘It’s full of light and shadows. But, how do you know, Ralph, that someone else isn’t here? Have you carefully checked?’

‘No, of course, I haven’t.’

‘And what of the other world? The spiritual world? How do we know, Ralph, when something else has entered to wreak havoc and cause great evil?’

‘Do you think that’s happening at Ravenscroft?’

‘Yes, I do. Read the Bible. The first real sin was that of Cain, the assassin, slaying his brother. Murder is a terrible sin, Ralph. It opens the gateways between our world and the powers of Hell. It is the abnegation of all love. A direct confrontation with God. There have been at least two murders at Ravenscroft.’

‘At least?’ Ralph interrupted.

‘Yes. There could have been three. Now, I don’t know the full reason why, but the attack on Beatrice was meant for you, I’m sure of it. Ralph, you are a good clerk. Before Beatrice’s death you were investigating the legends about Brythnoth’s cross. Perhaps it had something to do with that. What hour is it, please?’

Ralph walked to where an hour candle glowed faintly under its copper hood. He peered closely.

‘Shortly before midnight. Why do you ask?’

‘Come with me.’ The priest got to his feet and walked to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Please, Ralph, come with me.’

Ralph sighed, grabbed his war belt and cloak and followed Father Aylred down the spiral staircase. The castle bailey was empty; a dog came out snarling but recognised them and slunk away. From the parapets Ralph saw the glow of braziers and torches, the shadows of sentries. Sir John’s instructions were being carried out.

‘It’s too late,’ the priest whispered, following his gaze. ‘The enemy is within.’

He hastened across to Midnight Tower. A cold wind tugged at Ralph’s hair and he regretted coming. He felt deeply uneasy, wary of the shadows. Ravenscroft was no longer a friendly place. Did the assassin even now peer at them from the darkness? And what did the old priest mean by the powers of Hell?

Father Aylred opened the door. As soon as he stepped inside, Ralph flinched: The tower was cold, freezing, as if this was the depths of winter and all the shutters had been opened, and the stench was as rotten as that from the moat in the height of summer; it made him gag.

‘It’s getting worse, Ralph.’ Father Aylred’s face was pallid and sweat-soaked. ‘Over the last few days this freezing cold and the terrible odour has increased.’ He grasped Ralph’s wrists and they stood like two frightened boys.

Ralph noticed how the flames of the sconce torches flickered as if the pitch and tar were thin. Usually they gave a robust fiery glow; now the flames were weak with a strange blue tint.

‘In God’s name!’ Father Aylred called out.

A deep sigh answered his words. Ralph felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl, his legs tremble; he felt sick, and as weak as he was after the attack earlier today.

The priest led him up the spiral staircase, and the stench grew weaker, the cold less intense. On the first stairwell, they paused. Father Aylred crouched down against the wall, his breath coming in loud rasps.

‘Every night the evil waxes stronger,’ he declared. ‘Each time, more and more of this tower falls under its control.’

‘Can’t you bless the place?’ Ralph asked.

‘I am just a simple country priest, Ralph. Hush now, listen!’

Ralph heard the door at the bottom of the tower open and slam shut. Someone, a knight in armour by the sound, started climbing the stairs. Ralph drew his dagger.

‘It’s not what you think, Ralph,’ Father Aylred murmured.

As if by magic, the sound of mailed feet disappeared. Ralph went to investigate. A hideous shriek echoed from the storerooms below, ringing through the stones, so frightening he retreated.

‘Father, I am not staying here.’

‘I agree with that.’ The priest struggled to his feet and they fled from Midnight Tower. Ralph insisted that Father Aylred return with him to his own chamber. They stopped at the kitchen where a sleepy-eyed pot boy cut chunks from a flitch of bacon for them and laid the meat on a platter. He then sliced some of the bread Ralph helped him lower from where it was kept in wire baskets hanging from the rafters, well away from the mice and vermin which plagued the castle kitchens.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Father Aylred smiled as they climbed the steps back to Ralph’s chamber. ‘After such encounters I always feel the same, hungry and weak.’

Once inside, Ralph locked the door. He stared carefully around. When they’d left, he hadn’t locked the chamber. He quietly vowed never to do that again even though nothing had been disturbed. He cut up the bacon and bread and shared them out, re-filling their wine cups. The old Franciscan had now recovered his poise.

‘I first discovered such horrors the night Phoebe died,’ he explained. ‘At first I thought it was my own imaginings but, each evening, around midnight, I’d return, determined to prove that I am not fey-witted. Each time it grows worse.’

‘Hasn’t anyone else noticed?’

‘Whispers have begun, gossip, chatter. As you know, Ralph, Midnight Tower is not a favoured place during the hours of darkness.’

‘Father, you call yourself a simple priest yet what do you think is really happening?’

‘As I have said, evil has taken up camp at Ravenscroft. It is linked, like a chain, to the evil which flourished here before.’

‘What can be done?’

‘I’ll say a Mass there, offer it up for the repose of souls and write to the local bishop. More importantly, we must unmask this evil and confront it.’ Father Aylred scratched his greying hair. ‘But that’s easier said than done.’ He put his cup down, got to his feet and patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘Lock the door, say your prayers and be careful.’

Ralph let him out then sat for a while at his table, listening to the faint sounds of the castle. It was well past midnight. Grief over Beatrice welled up within him.

‘I wish you were here.’ He spoke softly into the darkness. ‘I wish I could see you just one more time. If I could, I would tell you how much I love you. Death has not changed that. I will love you for as long as I live and beyond.’

He closed his eyes, summoning up Beatrice’s face. He didn’t know whether it was imagination but he grew warmer, calmer. He opened his eyes quickly. He was almost sure she was here, like the candle flame burning so brightly. He crossed himself, tugged off his boots and lay down on the bed. Beatrice was gone but her murder had to be avenged, he thought as his mind slipped in and out of sleep, but who was the killer? And who had seen him go into Devil’s Spinney this morning?

Ralph woke heavy-eyed next morning. He stripped, shaved and washed in the ice-cold water brought up from the butts outside the tower. He went across to the chapel and arrived just in time for the early morning Mass. Afterwards he found Beardsmore and six archers waiting for him in the great hall, breaking their fast. The sergeant-at-arms gestured at the platter of cheese and bread.

‘Eat quickly,’ he urged. ‘We have business in Maldon. I don’t want any whispers creeping out.’

Ralph sat opposite the sergeant-at-arms and quaffed the ale but left the cheese and bread as his stomach felt unsettled.

Beardsmore looked at him closely. ‘What do you think of last night, sir?’ he asked as the archers left to prepare their mounts.

Ralph held the soldier’s gaze. He trusted Father Aylred. Could he trust this man?

‘We have a common bond,’ Beardsmore insisted. ‘We have both lost someone we love and we both know it was murder.’

Ralph stretched his hand out. Beardsmore looked surprised but clasped it.

‘I trust you, sir,’ Ralph said quietly, ‘though God knows why. When we have finished this business in Maldon, I must have words with you.’

An hour later they clattered into the village. The high street was fairly deserted. Stalls and booths had not been set up. Peasants and cottagers were still making their way out to the fields. They stopped and looked surly-eyed at the mailed men from the castle. The Pot of Thyme was shuttered and closed. Beardsmore kicked at the door until a haggard-faced serving girl answered.

‘What do you want?’ Her tone was surly.

Beardsmore shoved her aside and walked in. He dug into his pouch, took out Sir John’s writ and, finding a nail in one of the supporting posts, pushed the commission onto it.

‘Right!’ He started kicking away stools and tables. ‘Where’s the taverner?’

‘I’m here, Beardsmore.’ A small, grey-faced man with greasy black hair stepped out of the scullery behind the wine vats. He wiped dirty fingers on a leather apron and stood, legs apart, as if to show he was not frightened of this show of force. ‘What do you want?’

Beardsmore pointed to the commission.

‘I can’t read but I can see the seal.’ The taverner’s heavylidded glance moved to Ralph. ‘You’re here about Goodman Winthrop, aren’t you?’

‘You were always quick of wit, Master Taylis,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘Goodman Winthrop was a tax collector and the King’s official. He was found stabbed, his corpse left on the high road.’ He pointed to the hour candle. ‘Before noon he will be buried in the castle cemetery.’

‘Quite a few deaths in the castle,’ The taverner remarked.

Ralph would have stepped forward but Beardsmore held him back.

‘What happens in the castle, Master Taylis, is none of your business. However, it is our business what happens in your tavern.’

‘Goodman Winthrop wasn’t killed here.’

‘He was seen drinking here. We also have it on good report that he left with a wench. I want to speak to her.’

‘I don’t know who she is. Some wandering whore who stopped in the village.’

‘If that’s the way you wish to dance, Master Taverner,’ Beardsmore snapped, ‘then dance you will!’

He drew his two-handed sword and walked towards the taverner who quickly stepped back. Ralph was too surprised to intervene. The sword came up in one great cutting arc and sliced down into the wooden wine vat. It splintered and cracked, its contents splashing out.

‘For the love of God!’ Taylis roared. His hand went to the knife beneath his apron.

One of the archers brought up his arbalest and released the bolt which whistled above the taverner’s head to bury itself deep in the plaster.

‘That’s good burgundy!’ Taylis bellowed. ‘It cost seven pounds!’

‘Before I’m finished it’s going to cost you more.’

‘You can’t!’

Beardsmore was already stepping forward, sword level, ready to strike at a second vat. ‘Goodman Winthrop,’ he declared, ‘was a royal official. He drank in this tavern. He left here with a wench. He was murdered. To refuse to help the Crown apprehend his assassins is treason.’ He spread his feet, balancing his sword. ‘When you are sent to Newgate in London to stand trial before the King’s Bench, Master Taylis, who will care about your vats of wine? They’ll be Crown property anyway.’ The sword came up.

‘No!’ Taylis shrieked. ‘Eleanora!’

‘Eleanora? Never heard of her.’ Beardsmore raised his sword higher.

‘Stay there!’ Taylis ran back into the scullery.

They heard shouts and screams. Taylis came back grasping a young, greasy-haired slattern by the shoulder. She was dressed in a dark-brown smock which was two sizes too short for her and emphasised her swelling breasts and broad hips. One of the archers whistled provocatively. The girl turned and spat in Taylis’s face but the taverner forced her to her knees in front of Beardsmore. The sergeant-at-arms crouched down, jabbed his finger under her chin and lifted her head.

‘You’re a buxom wench, Eleanora. How would you like to visit the castle? There are dungeons beneath the moat, full of rats, they are. Worse than you’ll ever find at the Pot of Thyme.’ He grinned at the taverner. ‘Of course some of the lads here can keep you company but not for long. You’ll stand trial before Sir John Grasse. He will prove that you had a hand in Winthrop’s death. The least you can expect is to hang, which takes some time – the rope tightens round your neck like a cord round a sack, tighter and tighter until you’ve got no breath left.’

The girl’s face went slack with fear.

‘Then again,’ Beardsmore went on ‘you might have to face the full rigours of treason. If that happens, you could be hanged and then dismembered. No, no, I’m wrong.’ He teasingly tapped his head. ‘You’re a woman, you could burn.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Eleanora whimpered.

‘But you drank with him, yes?’

The girl nodded.

‘And you left the tavern with him?’

Again a nod.

‘And what happened then?’

‘He wanted me to go back to the castle that night. So I left him and ran back here.’

‘Is that true, Master Taverner?’

Taylis gazed back, bleak-eyed.

‘You see, Eleanora,’ said Beardsmore. ‘That’s what happens when you lie, particularly about treason. No one wants to get involved. Now, what I’ll do is arrest the whole tavern, everyone who was here that night, including Master Taylis. I’ll ask them all one question: did you come back.’

Taylis regained his wits. ‘Of course she did.’

‘And then what did she do?’ Beardsmore didn’t wait for an answer but got to his feet, dragging the girl with him. ‘Eleanora, I am placing you under arrest.’

The girl threw herself about but the archers seized her, handling her roughly. Ralph shouted that they were not to abuse her. The archers looked at Beardsmore who nodded.

‘Master Taylis, I shall return.’ Beardsmore raised his voice. ‘I do hope no one leaves. If I can’t find certain people because they’ve suddenly discovered they have business in Chelmsford or Colchester, I’ll know they are my suspects.’

They bundled Eleanora out of the tavern. One of the archers put her up on his horse. The cavalcade mounted and left, going back along the high street. Ralph felt sorry for the girl but knew that Beardsmore was correct. She had probably been the lure, a ploy to take Goodman Winthrop out into the dark to be killed, and the law would have its way.

He did not like what he saw as their horses trotted up the cobbled high street. Rumours were rife about how castles had been attacked elsewhere in Essex and Kent, royal officials wounded, even murdered. Ralph realised that Sir John Grasse had made a serious mistake: the people of Maldon were plotting rebellion. He could tell that from the hateful looks, the way women turned away, slamming doors and shutters. And as they left the village, a clod of earth narrowly missed Ralph’s head.

‘There’ll be trouble before long,’ said Beardsmore grimly.

Ralph pulled his horse back so as to protect Eleanora from the salacious jibes and pokes of the escorting archers. Once they were clear of the town, Beardsmore reined in, dismounted and dragged Eleanora from the saddle. He cut her bonds and took her away from the rest, indicating that Ralph should join them. They walked along the trackway and stopped under sycamore tree.

‘Look, mistress,’ Beardsmore said kindly, ‘I no more wish to see you hang than I would my own sister.’

The tavern wench stared dourly back. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, pawing at her dusty skirt.

‘Not what you think,’ Beardsmore said drily. ‘But I can protect you. I do not want to see your pretty neck twisted. I want to arrest the nimble jacks who killed Goodman Winthrop. I’ll tell you what will really happen. You’ll be taken to the castle, Sir John will keep you until the royal commissioners arrive. Then the merry jig will begin. They won’t care about who you are or where you are from. They will regard you as a hungry mastiff would a piece of meat.’

Eleanora’s courage deserted her, her shoulder’s sagged and she muttered, ‘I can name them. And I can also tell you why.’

‘Why what?’ Beardsmore asked, glancing in puzzlement at Ralph.

‘I hate the castle,’ she replied.

Beardsmore was growing impatient. ‘Woman, what are you talking about?’

Ralph looked back down the trackway. The archers were laughing and talking among themselves. It was turning into a dull grey afternoon. The countryside lay quiet, even the birds had ceased their chirping. Up ahead he could see the towers and crenellated walls of Ravenscroft. He became distracted; his father had once told him how he could judge the date of a hedge by the number and different species of trees it contained. If that was the case, this must be the same hedge Cerdic had passed when he had fled from the battle at Blackwater. Ralph shook himself from his reverie.

‘I was sweet on Fulk,’ Eleanora was saying. ‘He’s the miller’s son.’

Beardsmore nodded. ‘He has disappeared, hasn’t he?’

‘It’s not that,’ Eleanora replied. She scratched at the sweat on her neck with blackened nails and glanced sideways at Ralph. ‘We saw murder, we did.’

Beardsmore grasped her by the shoulder. ‘What murder?’

‘The castle wench, Phoebe. We were in Devil’s Spinney.’ Eleanora now smiled slyly as if she sensed the tables were turned. ‘Me and Fulk, lying there in the long grass, hidden in the dusk. Fulk became afeared; he raised himself up. “Hush,” he whispered. “Someone’s coming!” I thought he was teasing but he grabbed me by the arms.’ She grinned. ‘I couldn’t get up because my shift was all awry so we lay and watched. A dark shape came through the trees. He was carrying a bundle, cords wrapped round it. He put the bundle down.’

‘How do you know it was a man?’ Beardsmore interrupted.

‘I don’t. Whoever it was was dressed like a monk, in a long robe and cowl. Fulk said the figure wore a mask. Anyway, the cords were cut, the bundle unrolled. Fulk whispered it was the corpse of a young woman.’

‘And then?’ Beardsmore asked, still gripping her shoulders.

‘Fulk said he wanted to see who it was. He went over to the edge of the spinney and watched this mysterious intruder go back towards the castle.’

‘Didn’t you think of raising the alarm?’ Ralph asked.

‘Why should we? Fulk was frightened that we’d get the blame.’

‘Did he see who it was?’

‘He thought he knew but he wasn’t certain and wouldn’t answer my questions. The following evening Fulk’s father came to the tavern. He said his son had left early for Ravenscroft and had not returned.’ Eleanora’s eyes became hard. ‘That’s why I hate the castle, and so do the townspeople. We heard about Phoebe, Fulk went to the castle and then he disappeared.’

‘I’ve heard enough.’ Beardsmore growled and, pushing the girl before him, they went back to their horses.