A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 1

Beatrice stood and watched the man on his sumpter pony draw nearer and, as he did so, the snow-filled valley and the hounds disappeared. Once again he looked like an ordinary chapman on the high road of Maldon, his pony a bedraggled mount with bulging panniers and baskets on either side. The man was tall, now soberly dressed in a brown leather jerkin and brown leggings. His blue cloak was gathered behind him, fastened at the neck by a silver chain. A war belt round his slim waist carried sword and dagger. One hand held the reins, the other a stout walking staff. He had a handsome face, deep-set eyes, sharp nose and a merry mouth. His black moustache and beard were neatly clipped. Beatrice noticed that his fingers were long, the nails carefully cut. On one wrist he wore a gold band, on the other a leather guard. He stopped in front of her.

‘Beatrice Arrowner?’ He smiled, showing teeth that were white and even. The little bells sewn to his jerkin tinkled musically at his every movement.

‘Who are you?’ Beatrice asked. ‘I can see you and you can see me. Are you a ghost?’

‘I’m the Minstrel Man.’

‘And where are you going, sir?’ Beatrice was too curious to heed Brother Antony’s warning.

‘Why, Beatrice, the same as you, Ravenscroft Castle.’

‘But are you a ghost?’ she insisted.

He slipped the staff through a cord in the saddle of his sumpter pony and grasped her hand.

‘Come with me, Beatrice. I’ve been invited there. I’ve heard the summons. I want to see what songs can be sung, stories told, webs woven.’ He squeezed her hand; his touch was very warm. Beatrice felt calm and peaceful; and it seemed only natural to walk with him. Soon she was chattering like a child, telling him everything that had happened. The Minstrel Man was a good listener. When she fell silent, he began to sing a song softly under his breath, a heartcatching tune though Beatrice did not understand the guttural words.

‘What words are they?’ she asked.

‘Ah, it’s an ancient song.’ The Minstrel Man paused and turned to face her. ‘I’ve sung it many a time, before the soaring monuments of Egypt, the hanging gardens of Babylon, the great towers of Troy and the golden palaces of the Byzantine.’

‘You’ve travelled far?’ she asked.

‘I travel, Mistress, wherever I’m invited.’ His reply was soft, followed by a slow wink of the eye.

‘And what will you do at Ravenscroft?’

‘Why, Beatrice, make music.’

‘But they won’t hear you!’

‘Oh, they will. The song I sing has been heard many times.’

Beatrice felt a tinge of apprehension. She noticed how dark the highway had become and something else: in the fields on either side the grazing cattle were moving away and all birdsong had ceased. There was no crackling or bustling in the thicket. She stared back in the direction of Maldon. Shadows clustered there as if an army of the dead were following them. Nothing substantial, just those black plumes of smoke she had glimpsed from the taproom of the Pot of Thyme, now gathering together. Above her the sky was streaked with dark-red clouds.

‘So, what do you want?’ the Minstrel Man asked.

‘To help Ralph. Robin and Isabella said I could have that power.’

‘Of course you can.’ The Minstrel Man’s voice was a purr. ‘Do you remember Ralph in the mire struggling to get out? If you had wanted to, if you had really tried, you could have grasped his hand and plucked him out.’

‘Could I?’

The Minstrel Man looked down the trackway and whistled under his breath. ‘Come, Beatrice, I’ll show you.’

They rounded a corner. To the side of the trackway stood a small cart. The horse had been unhitched and the Moon people – a man, two women and a child dressed in motley rags – had gathered bracken and lit a fire against the approaching night. One of the women was skinning a rabbit and cleaning out the entrails before packing the meat with herbs and putting it on a makeshift spit over the fire. The Minstrel Man left his horse and walked towards them, still grasping Beatrice’s hand. Immediately, the older woman, with yellowing skin and greying hair, looked up, eyes rounded. She spoke in a strange tongue to the man, whose hand went clumsily for the dagger in his belt. Their horse, a docile-looking cob, hobbled some yards away, reared and whinnied. The young boy ran to his mother. She clasped him, wrapping her arms round him. All were staring fixedly, their terror tangible.

‘Can they see us?’ Beatrice asked.

‘No,’ the Minstrel Man replied. ‘But they know I’m here.’

The old woman held up her hand, thumb pushed between her fingers as she made the sign to ward off evil.

‘Just ignore their little game,’ the Minstrel Man murmured.

The touch of his hand had gone cold. Beatrice’s unease deepened. The Moon man crouched down and placed his dagger on a piece of wood. He, too, had one hand extended, moving it slowly backwards and forwards as if trying to reassure whatever was around him.

‘Look at that dagger,’ the Minstrel Man murmured. ‘Go on, Beatrice, look at it!’

She obeyed.

‘Think of Ralph. Think of that killer waiting in the shadows on the parapet walk.’ He was now behind her, one hand on her shoulder. ‘It wasn’t fair, was it, Beatrice?’ His voice had taken on a sing-song tone. ‘It wasn’t fair to be thrust out of life, to be sent flying into the night air, smashing into the ground below. And why should it happen to you? You were a good girl, Beatrice. Good to your aunt and your uncle. Good to the church. You deserved long life. It was your right to lie naked in Ralph’s arms. To be his handfast, to bear his children.’

Beatrice felt a deep sadness.

‘Look across the field, Beatrice.’

She did so. Instead of green grass she saw a smartly-painted house and a cobbled yard. She and Ralph were sitting on a bench against the wall. A small boy, dressed in a little green shift, was staggering around, his fat face creased in a smile. He held a wooden sword in his chubby hands. He was chuckling with glee. Ralph was teasing him, telling him to come closer. When the young boy did, Ralph pretended to be a dragon. The little lad laughed and ran away. Beatrice watched herself get up, put the piece of embroidery down and run after the child. She picked him up, clasping him to her. Beatrice moaned at the sweetness of it all.

‘This is your life,’ the Minstrel Man said. ‘This was cruelly taken from you. A long and happy life in which you gave love and love was returned. How could God do that? Why should an assassin get away with it? Hurry now. Ralph is waiting.’

‘What do I do? What do I do?’

‘Take the knife.’ He pushed Beatrice gently across the grass.

‘I can’t touch it.’

‘Think, Beatrice,’ He said ‘Think of vengeance. Think of justice. Think of Ralph. Take the knife, pick it up, show these fools that they are in the presence of someone great.’

Beatrice went forward. She grasped the knife but she could feel nothing.

‘Think of the assassin,’ the Minstrel Man urged. ‘Think of the murderer laughing and joking, of the long years ahead, of Ralph lying in the arms of another. Of that child you’ll never see.’

Beatrice felt a spurt of anger go through her like dye colouring water. She lunged and plucked the knife up. She looked round; the Minstrel Man was smiling.

‘There you go, Beatrice. There’s my bonny lass.’

The Moon people were staring transfixed. The young woman began to shriek, clutching the boy close to her.

‘Silence her!’ The voice seemed to come from within her. ‘Silence her, Beatrice! Let loose the power you have within you. You have so much power, Beatrice, that’s why I have travelled to meet you.’

She took a step forward. The man was crouched on the ground, arms wrapped round himself, whimpering like a dog. The old crone squatted as if she had been turned to stone. The young woman rent the air with her terrible screams.

‘Shut her up!’ The words came in a snarl.

Abruptly one of those silver discs of light came between Beatrice and the woman and then moved away. The young boy broke free. He approached the knife, his eyes large and dark above tear-soaked cheeks.

‘Please!’ He mouthed the words. ‘Please don’t hurt us! We didn’t mean to steal the rabbit!’

Beatrice’s resolve crumbled. She put the knife gently on the ground and stretched out her hand to touch the child’s cheek. For a moment she felt wet skin, a wisp of hair.

‘Don’t you worry,’ she soothed. ‘Don’t you worry, little one.’

‘Beatrice Arrowner!’

She glanced round. The Minstrel Man was standing, legs apart, an ugly snarl on his face.

‘You stupid wench! You foolish bitch! You whine, you beg and, when you have the power, you throw it away as if it was a dirty rag!’

He took a step forward. A silver disc came between him and Beatrice. The Minstrel Man smirked. He spoke in that strange guttural tongue. The disc moved away. The Minstrel Man snatched the reins of his pony and the animal raised its head. Beatrice recoiled in horror; it was no longer a sumpter pony but a shape with black hair, long ears, snarling mouth, fiery eyes.

‘Farewell, Beatrice Arrowner.’ The Minstrel Man waggled a finger at her. ‘I still have company to keep at Ravenscroft.’ And, whistling under his breath, he and his ghoulish mount walked away along the track. He lifted a hand in farewell but didn’t turn his head.

‘Beatrice Arrowner! I told you to be careful!’ Brother Antony was standing under a tree. He came towards her and grasped her by the hand. ‘Stay well away from him.’

‘I thought he could help.’

‘You thought he could help!’ Brother Antony shook his head sadly. ‘Do you realise what he was urging you to do, Beatrice?’

‘I wanted to help,’ she stammered.

He took her away across the track. Behind them the Moon people were more composed, talking among themselves, intent on moving camp as quickly as possible. Brother Antony and Beatrice watched them go then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Why did you do that?’ Beatrice asked, surprised.

‘You’ve been tested and you have not been found wanting.’ Brother Antony smiled. ‘I told you, Beatrice, where you are now is just the same as life.’ He tapped her on the head and on the heart. ‘The intellect and the will are all that matter. Now the games are over. Robin and Isabella? They are demons.’

‘No!’ Yet she could tell from the grave expression on his face that he was telling the truth.

‘They are demons,’ Antony repeated. ‘They are the same as Crispin and Clothilde. In fact, they are one and the same being, manifesting themselves in either sex, assuming many forms. They were sent to tempt you. To entice you into the darkness. To hate, to seek vengeance. To argue constantly with God like their master does.’

‘And the Minstrel Man?’ Beatrice asked.

‘One of the great Lords of Hell, Dominus Achitophel. A great baron of the fiery pit, one of Satan’s tenants-in-chief. He wanders the wastelands which are both freezing and hot while the hordes of Hell pay him tribute.’

Beatrice repressed her fear. ‘But why would such a baron have anything to do with me?’

‘For two reasons. Yours is a soul still out for capture and a soul full of power. Satan, in the very depths of his hate, is always attracted by such souls.’

‘But the Minstrel Man said he was still going to Ravenscroft.’

Brother Antony smiled sadly. ‘Beatrice, most sins are the result of human weakness, of weariness and frustration. A man becomes tired of ploughing the soil, of watching his bairns starve, of his wife shrivel before his eyes. So he drinks too much. He doesn’t control his lusts. But that’s not badness, wickedness, just human frailty. Or take those who rob. Many are brought up in abject poverty, they know no different.’ Brother Antony’s face seemed to become smoother and younger, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘The compassion of Christ is all-understanding. In the end, Beatrice, God’s love will invade this world. It will sweep away, it will turn back, it will heal. At the end of time, when the heavens crack with fire, time will run back and God will make all things well.’ He paused and said something softly in Latin, staring up at the sky. ‘God is coming again, Beatrice. He has counted and weighed the tear of every child, the loneliest cry of pain. He has noted every injustice under the sun, and there will be a reckoning.’ His voice rose, his eyes bright. ‘Every time a child is abused, God is abused. Every time a woman is raped, God is raped. Every time an injustice is committed, God is violated. All these things must be put right.’

‘So why does the Minstrel Man go to Ravenscroft?’

‘The Minstrel Man sings a demonic hymn.’ Brother Antony stepped closer. ‘He’s attracted by the real evil there, true wickedness, a human soul, a being comfortable, endowed with talents, deliberately and maliciously plotting then carrying out dreadful murders. For what?’

‘I don’t know. Brythnoth’s cross?’

‘Perhaps. But, it’s not just greed. Other darker sins run in harness with it: an enjoyment, a malicious desire. A nightmare soul has sung its song and Hell has answered.’

‘Do you know who the assassin is?’ Beatrice asked. Brother Antony shook his head. ‘The all-seeing God knows. But God depends on us, Beatrice. On those who have the means, and the will, to see justice done.’

‘But the Minstrel Man threatened Ralph.’

Brother Antony shook his head. ‘Ralph’s soul and life lie in the hand of God.’

‘Like mine did,’ Beatrice declared. Her voice shook with emotion. ‘I saw that vision of my future.’

‘But was it the truth?’ Brother Antony retorted. ‘I tell you this, Beatrice, what God has prepared for you and Ralph, when his justice is done, will compensate for the evil and wickedness you have suffered. Trust in him, trust in me.’ He grasped her hands. ‘Promise me, Beatrice, now you have been tested, now you have chosen for yourself, that never again will you listen to Crispin and Clothilde, Robin and Isabella. Or whatever other demon Hell spits out.’

‘I promise.’ Beatrice turned away.

‘Where are you going, Mistress?’

‘Why, Brother, to Ravenscroft.’

He pointed down the road at the retreating party of Moon people.

‘But you have done an injustice, reparation is demanded.’

‘If I could, Brother Antony, I would do anything. That poor child, the terror in his eyes…’

Brother Antony seized her by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s catch up.’

They seemed to cover the separating distance in a twinkling of an eye. Brother Antony pulled Beatrice on to the tail of the cart. Beatrice could sense the Moon people’s fear.

‘What do I do?’ she asked.

‘Think!’ Brother Antony hissed. ‘Forget yourself. Try and put yourself in the place of each of them.’

‘What do they do?’

‘The man is a tinker. I can only help you so much. You must do it for yourself. You cannot enter their souls but pain is self-evident. Put yourself in their place. Think of the other, Beatrice Arrowner, forget yourself. Let your mind slip.’

Beatrice did so.

‘Stare at each of them.’

Beatrice obeyed. She first looked at the young woman holding the boy. She saw how tired her face was, heavy-eyed, the constant gnawing of the lip. She felt herself slip into what the woman was fearful of. The Moon woman had forgotten the terrifying experience, she was more concerned with something practical.

‘She’s frightened for the man,’ Beatrice declared. ‘She’s worried about him.’

‘What is she worried about?’

Once again Beatrice immersed herself, and this time it was easier. She discovered the Moon woman was the man’s wife, the older woman her mother. She experienced their courage in the face of hardship, their deep devotion to each other and their unspoken fears.

‘He’s a good tinker,’ she said, ‘an honest man who looks after her and her aged mother.’

‘And what are they worried about, Beatrice Arrowner?’

‘Two months ago he injured his right wrist and it hasn’t healed properly. He cannot hold the hammer and they fear for the future.’

Beatrice moved through the cart and sat next to the man on the rough driver’s seat. His face was sweat-soaked, his right hand dangling in his lap. He was having difficulty holding the reins. Now and again, eyes half-closed, he would wince with pain.

‘His wrist is really hurting him,’ Beatrice said. ‘And he wants to hide this from the others.’

‘Think of his wrist, Beatrice.’

Beatrice did. She felt a fiery pain shoot through her own arm and her fingers went limp.

‘Oh, what can I do?’ she cried. ‘I’d do anything!’

‘Hold his wrist!’

Beatrice did so. She felt a deep compassion for this poor tinker. She forgot about herself, about Ralph, Ravenscroft, the Minstrel Man. All she was aware of was the fear and pain mingling in the tinker’s mind. She kept rubbing his wrist, pushing with her fingers, willing it to be better. Brother Antony was talking but she ignored him. She felt dreadfully sad that she had frightened such a man and deeply concerned that she had stirred up his anxieties.

‘I am sorry,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I am so very, very sorry.’

She felt a fire within her. If she could only break out. She had now grasped the man’s wrist between both hands. The horse seemed to sense something and picked up speed. The man became alarmed. Beatrice was aware of a silver disc passing between her and the tinker. The horse shied. The cart hit a rut and lurched. The man screamed as his damaged wrist caught the wooden seat.

‘Oh no!’ Beatrice cried.

But then the tinker was pulling at the reins to halt the horse. He raised his right arm, flexing his fingers. Beatrice felt a deep exhaustion as if she had been drained of all energy. She panicked at what might be happening. The tinker, meanwhile, was staring in stupefaction. Once again Beatrice tried to sense what he was feeling. She experienced a deep sense of relief, an absence of pain. The tinker, to the amazement of his family, jumped down from the cart and started waving his arms. He was jabbering in a tongue she couldn’t understand. The two women were laughing and crying at the same time.

‘It’s healed, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘It’s a miracle.’

‘Of sorts,’ Brother Antony replied. ‘But what’s a miracle, Beatrice? His wrist was dislocated. The cart jolted, his wrist received a blow and the joint was realigned.’

‘I feel so tired,’ she said wearily. ‘Why should I feel tired? I have no body.’

‘Yes, you have,’ Brother Antony replied. ‘But it’s incorporeal. You have given him your strength, the power of your will.’

He sat down beneath a tree and indicated that she should do likewise. They watched the tinker embrace his wife and the old woman, and hug the child.

‘Our prayers are answered,’ the tinker declared in a tongue she could understand. ‘So now to Ravenscroft where Sir John always has good trade for me.’

They all climbed back on the cart. Beatrice watched them go. Brother Antony put an arm round her; unresistingly she allowed him to put her head on his shoulder.

‘Surely I can’t sleep,’ she murmured.

‘Rest,’ he soothed. ‘Think of the darkness, of warmth.’

Beatrice felt herself falling, then she shook herself. Brother Antony was gone. She was still seated under the tree, the daylight was fading. Hours must have passed but it felt like moments. She sprang to her feet. She thought of Ralph and hastened along the track…

She reached the crossroads. Etheldreda was squatting there. She glanced fearfully up at Beatrice. ‘A great lord has passed,’ she said.

‘Leave her, Beatrice Arrowner.’ Crispin and Clothilde had appeared on the other side of the crossroads. They were smiling at her. Beatrice recalled the Moon people, that terrible dagger scything the air, the abject tears of the little boy. She had had enough of this precious pair with their lies and deceit.

‘Go away!’ she screamed.

They stared back, eyebrows raised.

‘In Christ’s name,’ Beatrice crossed herself, ‘leave me alone!’

The two merged into one, then separated again, as Robin and Isabella. Their faces changed and, Beatrice glimpsed the mocking features of the Minstrel Man, before once again they became Crispin and Clothilde. Behind her Etheldreda was gibbering with fright.

‘Hell’s spawn!’ Beatrice screamed. ‘You lied to me! You tricked me!’

They turned away. Clothilde looked over her shoulder, her face no longer beautiful, eyes red like glowing coals, mouth twisted in a leer. She parted her lips and gave a hiss, a blast of fire. The searing gust of heat made Beatrice flinch and stagger back, then they were gone.

Beatrice waited for a while and, when her strength returned, made her way along the track. Ravenscroft’s turrets and towers came into sight. She hastened across the drawbridge. She was aware of the Moon people’s cart, the tinker’s hammer clattering against the pots, the ordinary sights and sounds of a castle. The bailey, however, was also full of ghosts, two worlds co-existing. In the centre was the Minstrel Man and around him were grouped Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, kneeling in obeisance to this great Lord of Hell.