A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 3

Beatrice had watched the soul-catching drama which unfolded in the stairwell of Midnight Tower. All the shades and phantasms she had glimpsed in Ravenscroft assembled there: Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, other shades and shapes and, standing near the door, the Minstrel Man.

Beatrice felt as if all reality was on the verge of crumbling, like it had when she had fallen from the parapet. At times the tower disappeared and the altar stood in a snow-covered field fringed by dark, threatening forests or a red sandy waste where a hot wind blasted all forms of terrors around the altar.

She could see that Father Aylred was weakening though Ralph stood his ground. Black Malkyn and Lady Johanna screamed. Other ghouls gathered, bathing the altar in their fetid breath, running up and down the steps in a clatter of feet and a rattle of weapons. All the time the Minstrel Man watched with hate-filled eyes as the priest celebrated the divine sacrifice. Beatrice found herself unable to help. She was torn between anxiety for Ralph and the sudden changes of vista and landscape. They were in the field again. Father Aylred was bracing himself against freezing gusts of wind. Mailed horsemen left the forest and charged, lances levelled, at both priest and clerk. Beatrice stared around. This was the Mass surely. Someone would help.

The Minstrel Man appeared to be drawing closer. He seemed unaware of the other phantasms, eyes intent on the priest. Beatrice had never seen such malice, such a tangible hatred. She could almost stretch out and touch his desire to kill. As Father Aylred began the consecration, the Minstrel Man lifted his hands, talking in a gibberish tongue to the darkness around him. A silver disc of light appeared but then vanished. They were on a lake, the altar was in the centre, the water was frozen solid. Beatrice gazed in horror at the heads just above the ice, fastened tight, hair awry, mouths gaping, eyes staring. Then they were in that burning desert and all sorts of terrors seized her soul. Large feather-winged birds massed over the altar. Horsemen milled about on the far horizon. The earth cracked like a crust of bread and columns of fire appeared. Across the desert trooped a legion of the damned with sightless eyes and yawning mouths. Beside them carts rattled on iron-rimmed wheels. They bore makeshift scaffolds from which white-purplish cadavers danced in the final throes of death.

Beatrice moaned. She wanted to move from here, to go into the darkness, seal her eyes against such hideous horrors. She saw the look on Ralph’s face, sensed his fear, the desperate sense of loneliness. Yet, also, his firm courage to continue. Now and again there were moments of peace: the tower disappeared and she glimpsed a hill with three crosses on top, soaring shapes against a setting sun, or Elizabeth Lockyer smiling at her. A group of children, happy and contented, unaware of the terrors, clustered together smiling up at the priest and Ralph as if fascinated by what they were doing.

The Minstrel Man drew closer to the altar. He was reciting a mocking echo of Father Aylred’s words. Beatrice recognised the issue at hand. The Minstrel Man had released hideous images but they were harmless enough. They could do little except weaken the resolve of the priest, make him give up and flee this place. He’d thereby acknowledge, by his lack of faith, the supremacy of this demon lord who’d swept up from Hell.

Sheets of molten metal appeared as if from nowhere, screening off the altar, boxing both priest and clerk inside. They were transparent but gave off a power which repelled Beatrice. It seemed as if both Father Aylred and the man she loved had been trapped in some hideous cell fashioned by Hell. The reason was simple. Aylred’s faith was failing. Beatrice recalled her encounter with the Moon people on the road. She moved closer to the altar, willing the priest to continue but Father Aylred was unreceptive. He moved away, going towards the wall to retch and vomit. Beatrice turned her attention to Ralph, willing with all her soul that he stand his ground.

The Minstrel Man drew closer. A look of triumph played on his lips. The other phantasms he had summoned up, the hideous, repellent shapes, appeared outside the cage he had formed.

Again the tower disappeared. They were now in the hall of some castle. All around was a brooding darkness, broken only by flickering red candles. For the first time since her fall from the parapet, Beatrice experienced true terror, a soul-crushing sensation of despondency and despair.

‘Pray, Beatrice Arrowner!’ Brother Antony was kneeling beside her. She fell to her knees, hands clasped.

‘This is the Mass,’ she hissed. ‘The sacrifice of God’s own Son!’

‘Pray,’ Brother Antony repeated. ‘It depends on man’s faith.’

She obeyed and, when she looked up, they were back in the vestibule of the Midnight Tower. Ralph was forcing the chalice into Father Aylred’s hands. The priest began the words of the solemn doxology. Abruptly there was a change. Other presences made themselves felt, expressed in columns of white-hot light grouped around the altar. The chalice was raised, it seemed to hover by itself in the air. The wine was bubbling to the top and from it shot fire, scarlet flames drenching the altar. Golden spheres appeared. The cage disappeared. The Minstrel Man, the leering faces of Crispin and Clothilde abruptly vanished. All that remained was a musty little stairwell and a sweat-soaked priest finishing the Mass.

‘It’s over.’ Brother Antony went up the stairs, smiling over his shoulder. ‘Soon, Beatrice, it will all be over.’

Beatrice watched Ralph consoling and comforting the old priest. She, too, acknowledged a change: that light, the fire she had seen from the chalice – she wanted to be with it. She was tired. The spiritual contest had drained her. She wanted to travel on. This world of shadows and fleeting shapes was unreal.

Ralph was now helping the priest towards the door. Beatrice glanced at the stairwell. If only Brother Antony had stayed.

Ralph took Father Aylred to his chamber. The castle was deserted apart from the sentries on the parapet walk and the occasional sleepy-eyed scullion taking up food or drink to those doing the night watch. At first Father Aylred kept his own counsel, as if his short speech after Mass had exhausted him. Ralph had his hand on the latch of his chamber when Father Aylred shook his head.

‘Take me downstairs, Ralph. Let me at least go to the chapel and give thanks.’

‘We’ve prayed enough,’ Ralph said lightly. ‘The good Lord will understand.’

‘I want to be there.’ The priest’s voice was almost petulant. ‘I should also go back and collect my robes.’

‘I will do that,’ Ralph reassured him. ‘But come, if you want to go to the chapel.’

He took the priest back down the steps. The chapel was in darkness. Ralph used a tinder to light some candles and the torches in both the sanctuary and nave. Father Aylred sat on a stool just inside the rood screen staring at the altar. Ralph sat on the other side; he felt tired, hungry and thirsty, but the priest needed both comfort and company. Ralph closed his eyes and said his own prayer for guidance. He began to doze so got up to stretch his legs. To keep himself awake he studied the wall paintings. On the left of the altar the artist had depicted the seven days of Creation. Each day had a Roman numeral, and on each panel the artist had also portrayed a scene from Christ’s passion and death. Ralph stopped and studied the one beneath the Roman numeral V: the Old Testament scene didn’t concern him but the one from the Gospels caught his attention. Christ nailed to a tree, behind him a dark, threatening forest. Ralph felt his stomach pitch.

‘On an altar to your God and mine,’ he whispered. The fifth oak tree! But from the left or the right? Ralph clenched his hands in excitement. Tomorrow morning he would see which, he would find Brythnoth’s cross!

‘Ralph, could you take me up now?’ Aylred was staring sleepily at him.

‘Of course, Father.’

He extinguished the lights and helped the old priest up the spiral staircase. At the top, Father Aylred turned and shook his hand.

‘Thank you, Ralph. If you could just go back to Midnight Tower and collect my robes?’

Ralph went down the steps and out. The night sky was brilliant with stars, the breeze refreshing. He walked towards Midnight Tower but then decided against returning immediately to that place. He wanted to savour ordinary things: grass, trees, the smell of the earth. He was also haunted by memories of Beatrice. How they would walk out on a night like this and sit on the green or beneath one of the trees in the orchard. They’d talk and talk about the future. They often left it far too late and he would have to accompany her back to the barbican and down the road into Maldon. Ralph blinked away the tears. He was on the edge of the overgrown garden which led to the small orchard below the Salt Tower. The full realisation of what he had experienced during the Mass suddenly swept over him. There was a world other than his and it was only a step away. Beatrice was in that world.

Ralph stopped under one of the trees and sat down, his back against the trunk. In the poor light he could just make out the outlines of the Salt Tower and the overgrown grass and gorse that fringed the door. He was distracted. In a way he couldn’t explain, the Mass had been a turning point. He had lost Beatrice. She would never return and he must leave Ravenscroft. So strong was his desire that he almost felt like going to his chamber and packing his possessions there and them. He’d seek an interview with Sir John Grasse and, at first light, he’d be gone. But the Constable would miss him, and such actions might provoke suspicions. Ralph chewed on his lip. Until the assassin was caught, he, like the others, lay under suspicion.

Ralph glanced up at the Salt Tower and then froze. He was sure he had seen it! A pinprick of light from one of the unshuttered windows, as if someone was on the stairwell carrying a torch or candle. Was the assassin there now? Was he preparing some fresh mischief? Ralph cursed. He had no war belt on, only a small dagger. He pulled it out and ran at a half-crouch. He quietly cursed as the briars caught his legs. He reached the door to the Salt Tower. It was unlocked. Surely Sir John had left a guard here. Hadn’t he seen two archers go across just before Mass?

Ralph pulled the door open and stepped inside, standing silently in the musty darkness. At first he thought his eyes had played some trick, his imagination running riot. He was about to leave when he heard the clink of metal and the hiss of voices. There were more than one in the Tower, he could almost feel them clustered further up the stairwell. He remembered Devil’s Spinney, those cloaked, cowled men with their bows and quivers. Ravenscroft was under attack! The rebels had stolen across the heathland and into the tower. The two archers must have been killed.

Ralph left the tower. Instead of running through the orchard, he kept to the line of the wall and almost tripped over the body of a guard. He crouched down. There had been two sentries on the parapet walk either side of the Salt Tower. This one was dead. Despite the darkness, some skilled archer had sent a yew shaft straight through his chest. Ralph delayed no longer but sped back towards the keep, shouting and yelling. A soldier loomed out of the darkness. Ralph recognised the captain of the watch.

‘We are under attack!’ he screamed.

The captain of the guard ran back to where the alarm horn hung on a post in the bailey. He grasped it and blew. The horn was clogged. Ralph looked over his shoulder: a dark shape was slipping through the trees. The captain of the guard spat, cleared the horn and, this time, blew a long, wailing blast. Sentries from the parapet had already noticed something was amiss and were hastening down the steps. The captain of the guard ran and shoved Ralph aside. He fell to the grass. He heard the clash of swords – the intruders had already reached the castle green and the captain’s swift action had saved Ralph. He crawled away. His saviour was facing two opponents. Ralph drew his dagger and ran. He felt his head butt into a soft stomach as he lashed out with the dagger. Hot blood spattered on his hands, the cowled assailant fell away. The captain of the guard drove off the other attacker and, grasping Ralph by the arm, pulled him away.

The men-at-arms were already forming up according to the drill they had been taught. Some were not properly clothed, roused from their beds, but they had donned helmets and brought along shields and lances. Behind these, archers were forming up. Sergeants were yelling orders. An arrow whipped through the darkness and took one of the castle garrison in the face. The man dropped his shield and turned away, screaming in agony. The shield wall formed more tightly. Sir John Grasse appeared. Guards were despatched to secure entrances and doorways. The attackers hung back. Apart from the two who had made their lightning attack on the captain, the rest were uncertain. They had expected to find a sleepy garrison, seize the keep, perhaps take Sir John prisoner, but Ralph’s alarm, as well as their own fear and inexperience, made them hesitate. They lurked among the trees on the far side of the keep. The night air was rent by screams as sentries on the parapet walls shot into the trees, finding their targets. Sir John, wearing a ridiculous-looking tilting helm, lifted the visor and raised his sword.

‘Right, lads, advance!’

Ralph grasped the shield and lance dropped by the wounded man-at-arms. The garrison moved carefully across the green and round the keep. At Sir John’s order they stopped. A few attackers came forward. Sir John had had the foresight to have sconce torches thrown on the grass to provide some light. The archers behind the men-at-arms took aim, arrows whirred through the air and caught the intruders, sending them spinning, coughing and choking back into the darkness. Ralph knew the attack was over. It had been led by hotheads, they had counted on surprise and been thwarted. Now they were terrified of being cut off from the Salt Tower, their only means of escape. Nevertheless, Sir John moved cautiously. A horn sounded from the darkness and the intruders fled. Sir John would have ordered a full pursuit but Ralph grasped him by the arm.

‘Don’t!’ he said. ‘Let them go. They’ll only fortify the Salt Tower and wreak havoc on our attack.’

Sir John agreed. The troops were ordered to pause and they stood, sweating, chests heaving, peering into the darkness. Adam appeared, sword belt clasped round him. Sir John told him to take a few archers forward, and they flitted into the trees. The occasional scream followed their departure.

‘The archers must be finishing off the wounded,’ Sir John growled. ‘It’s just as well and saves us a few hangings.’

Adam appeared, a smile on his face, the blade of his sword bloody.

‘Sir John, Master Ralph, they have gone. Fleeing across the heath back into Devil’s Spinney.’

The Constable told his men to stand at ease. Followed by Ralph and his archers, he crossed the overgrown orchard and garden. Here and there a corpse sprawled in a pool of spreading blood, eyes open, mouths gaping.

‘There are no wounded,’ Adam remarked. ‘It will teach them a lesson.’

Ralph hid a tremor of unease: killing when the blood was hot, in battle, sword against sword, he understood but this callous slaughter of injured men turned his stomach. Sir John, however, had no qualms. He turned one or two corpses over and roared at an archer to bring a torch. He then scrutinised the bodies.

‘Thanks be to God,’ he muttered. ‘They are not local men.’

‘But there must have been people from Maldon among them,’ Adam declared. ‘To lead them across the moat and down to…’

Sir John got up, took off his helmet and threw it on the ground. ‘It’s like wearing a chamber pot!’ he cursed. ‘Those men could be outlaws, or rebels who have moved south looking for a fight, stirring up the local people. Get Father Aylred,’ he called out to an archer. ‘And Vavasour. Rouse them now!’

They went into the Salt Tower. In the light of the sconce torch, Ralph saw bloodstains on the steps where the attackers had dragged away their wounded. In the room which contained the large door window lay the corpses of the two archers who had been on guard duty here. The shutters were open. Ralph grasped a torch and stared out into the darkness. He could see the makeshift bridge the attackers had thrown over the moat. Across the heathland the cold night wind stirred the grass, the silence broken only by the haunting call of some animal on the prowl.

He went to close the shutters and became aware of pain in his right hand. He had an ugly gash across his knuckles.

‘You should get that dressed.’ Sir John came forward. ‘Ask Theobald Vavasour to take a look.’

Adam accompanied him out of the Salt Tower. The physician and Father Aylred were already moving among the corpses.

‘It’s nothing,’ Ralph whispered. ‘I can dress it myself.’

‘Nonsense.’ Adam seized him by the arm. ‘Marisa can do it. She’s up anyway and she’ll want to know the news.’

Ravenscroft was now bustling. Women and children came out to see what had happened as Adam led Ralph across into Midnight Tower.

The altar still stood there, the chalice and paten on a chair, the altar cloths neatly piled.

‘What happened?’ Adam asked.

‘Oh, Father Aylred thinks the place is haunted.’

Ralph was more aware of how painful his hand had become.

‘He celebrated a Mass.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all. Adam, I am sorry, but my hand hurts.’

Ralph followed Adam up the steps.

Marisa was waiting in their chamber: a large, oval-shaped room, comfortably furnished. Cloths and tapestries hung on the walls. In the centre was a large four-poster bed with blue and gold fringed curtains neatly tied back, the bolsters white and crisp. Everything was neat and tidy. Two braziers stood in the centre of the room. Beneath their metal caps the charcoal spluttered and sparked on the fragrant herbs Marisa had sprinkled there. She was sitting in the window seat clutching a dagger.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ her husband laughed. ‘The attack is over.’

Marisa threw the dagger down and raced across the room, wrapping her arms round Adam’s neck. She forgot all modesty and kissed him full on the lips.

Adam gently extricated himself. ‘If it hadn’t been for Ralph the castle would have been overrun. His hand is cut.’

Marisa immediately tended to it, telling her husband to fill the water bowl from the lavarium. She made Ralph sit on the edge of the bed and cleaned the wound with a rag.

‘It’s not too deep,’ she said. ‘Adam, bring me some of the salve Theobald gave us. I don’t know what is in this.’ Marisa gently rubbed the grease on the cut, making it smart. ‘But it will keep the wound from festering.’ Helped by Adam, she took a piece of linen and bound the wound carefully.

Ralph felt self-conscious. This was the nearest he had been to any woman since Beatrice had died. He could smell the perfume Beatrice had worn and he remembered he had given it all to Marisa shortly after Beatrice’s death.

‘You should rest, Ralph.’

Ralph stared across the chamber. On a small table beneath the crucifix were other jars of unguents and creams. Marisa followed his gaze.

‘I am sorry, Ralph,’ she whispered. ‘They must bring back memories.’

‘No, no, I’m glad I gave them to you.’ He grinned at Adam. ‘You are a very lucky man.’

‘And you are a very sad one.’

Ralph shrugged. ‘But not for long.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I’ll be gone soon.’ Ralph lifted his bandaged hand. ‘And don’t take offence, Adam, but I’ll be going alone. Ravenscroft has too many memories. It’s like being pricked time and again by a dagger.’ He got to his feet.

‘And Brythnoth’s cross?’ Adam asked.

Ralph shrugged. ‘I’ll give you the manuscripts. You find it.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Cambridge or Oxford.’ Ralph thanked Marisa, bade them good night and left.

He found Father Aylred in the vestibule collecting the chalice, paten and altar cloths. The priest looked more composed though he was still white-faced with dark rings under his eyes.

‘A sad night, eh, Ralph? Such foolishness. So many souls sent unshriven into the darkness.’

‘How many were killed?’ Ralph asked.

‘Five of the garrison and eleven assailants. One was in the moat, apparently too wounded for his friends to carry. The poor man died like a dog.’ He saw the bandage on Ralph’s hand. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Just a cut, Father. Do you need any help?’

The priest shook his head. ‘No, there’ll not be much sleep tonight at Ravenscroft and these cannot stay here. You are going to leave, aren’t you, Ralph?’

‘Yes, Father, I am, as soon as I can. I think Sir John will release me from my indentures.’

‘It’s well that you go, Ralph. There’s terrible evil here.’

‘Who brought it, Father?’

‘I don’t know.’ The priest sat down on the bench, placing the altar cloths in his lap. ‘Ravenscroft, until recently, was a quiet, happy place.’ He waved his hand. ‘True, this place was supposed to be haunted. But in a castle as old as Ravenscroft I suppose there’ll always be unquiet spirits.’

‘So what happened here during Mass?’ Ralph asked curiously.

‘I don’t know. But I can hazard a guess. There’s human weakness and misery, but real malice, planned evil is something different. It calls up the Lords of Hell. That’s what I felt. Not just the unquiet and troubled souls which may still lurk in the shadows but a real malignant presence. I ask myself, what would bring that here?’

‘And what answer did you get?’

‘Like is attracted to like, Ralph. One of us in this castle, as you know, has become a killer. Such evil would attract the attention of Hell.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘What happened tonight is nothing to what might be planned. Tread carefully!’

Ralph went out across to the Lion Tower and climbed to his own room. He unlocked the door and went in. He lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, recalling the night’s events and Father Aylred’s sombre words. He looked at the bandage on his hand and smiled, sniffed at it and then gasped. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Other words, scraps of conversation came jumbling back. Ralph felt the sweat break out on his skin. No, it couldn’t be. He forgot his sore hand and went across to the table. Smoothing a piece of parchment, he listed the victims, those who had been killed since this terrible business had begun. For a while he studied it then, throwing his quill down, Ralph put his face in his hands and wept softly.