Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

Beatrice was no soldier but she could see that the defenders were hard pressed. They were retreating inland, leaving the dead piled two or three high. The sand was red with blood and the air loud with the crash of steel against wood, cries, groans, shouted orders.

‘Look.’ Clothilde pointed with her finger. ‘That warrior beside the Fighting Man standard is Earl Brythnoth.’

Beatrice stared fascinated at the tall, blond-haired giant surrounded by his house carls in their chain-mail byrnies. Some wore helmets, others were bareheaded. Brythnoth was gesturing with his arm, shouting orders, urging the shield wall to hold fast.

‘But this happened many years ago,’ Beatrice said.

‘A shade of the past,’ Clothilde replied. ‘Now, look what is about to happen. Watch Brythnoth carefully.’

The giant earl stepped back as if he wished to distance himself from the fighting. He was talking quickly to a young man kneeling beside him. As Beatrice watched, Brythnoth took something from round his neck; the gold glinted in the light. He thrust it into the young man’s hand.

‘Brythnoth is giving Cerdic the holy cross,’ Beatrice whispered. She clasped her hands, for a few seconds forgetting her own situation. If only Ralph was here. If he could only see what she was witnessing.

‘Watch!’ Clothilde plucked at her.

The young man, shield slung behind him, sword in hand, was now leaving the battlefield, climbing the hill towards them. Round his neck hung the beautiful cross. He came straight towards them, ignorant of their presence. He reminded Beatrice of Ralph with his pale face, generous mouth, large staring eyes. He was obviously exhausted. His chain mail was covered in blood and gore, cuts and scratches scored his face and hands.

He stopped on the brow of the hill and looked back, lips moving worldlessly. Beatrice stared at the cross. It was exquisitely carved with strange emblems and motifs and in the centre, above the gold crosspiece, a blood-red ruby glowed like a living flame. Cerdic took one last look at the fighting and ran down the hill towards the trackway into Maldon.

‘Come, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘let’s follow him.’

They hastened in pursuit, keeping the spectre of the long dead soldier in view.

‘Has this happened before?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Of course!’ Clothilde replied.

‘Then you must know where he hides it.’

Clothilde shook her head. ‘You will see. You will see.’

At last they reached Ravenscroft Castle. It looked so familiar, so ordinary. But Cerdic was running on as if the castle didn’t exist. He crossed the moat and disappeared into the barbican. They followed and found the castle bailey deserted apart from a sleepy-eyed pot boy who was letting the dogs out, and his sister, the goose girl, who was summoning her charges to take them on to the green. Beatrice forgot about the treasure and felt a deep sadness for the familiar scene.

‘You must remember, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘that what you have seen are the shapes and shades of former things. Cerdic left the battlefield and came to Ravenscroft. However, on the day he died, no castle stood here, only a brook which is now the moat, and a wooden palisade where Brythnoth camped before marching against the invaders.’ She shrugged. ‘Cerdic’s ghost comes here with the cross then disappears. So now you know, the treasure really exists. It lies somewhere near and Ralph could find it.’

The door to the keep flew open and Father Aylred came out. A silver and gold cloak hung from his shoulders and in his hands, covered by a white linen cloth, was the ciborium holding the Host. A boy from the castle carried a lighted candle before him.

‘It’s Father Aylred!’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘He must be taking the viaticum to a member of the garrison who is sick. Father Aylred!’ she called but the priest walked on.

‘I must go.’ Clothilde’s voice was now a deep rasp. ‘I cannot stay here!’

Beatrice looked round but her companion had disappeared. Beatrice walked to the Lion Tower. Perhaps she should go up and see Ralph.

‘Christ be with you, Mistress Arrowner.’

The young man she had seen earlier in the night, with his fresh, cheerful face and spiky hair, was standing on the cobbles behind her.

‘Tarry awhile.’ He held his hands out.

‘Why should I?’ Beatrice noticed a silver disc hovering between her and the young man, then it disappeared.

He walked towards her. In the early morning light she could see that his face was a weather-beaten ruddy brown and his eyes were light blue. He was now dressed in a leather, sleeveless jerkin over a white cambric shirt, leggings of brown wool pushed into soft leather boots, a black belt round his slim waist. He drew closer. She noticed how fine his teeth were, how clean and neat he was.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why do you keep warning me to be careful?’

‘My name is Brother Antony.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘That’s the name of my favourite saint, Antony of Padua, the Franciscan. Aunt Catherine has a small statue of him.’

Brother Antony laughed. ‘Would you like to walk with me?’

‘But who are you? Another relic of this castle?’

Antony’s face grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. What is really important, Beatrice, is who are you? It is important to realise that Ralph is still in great danger and so are you.’

‘But I am dead,’ she laughed. ‘I am beyond all pain and hurt.’

‘Death is not an end,’ Antony replied gravely. ‘It marks a new beginning. I have let you wander, now I must speak to you. I mean you well. I swear that on the wounds of Christ. Afterwards, it is up to you whether you heed my advice or not.’

‘Do you know who murdered me?’

Antony shook his head. ‘Only God knows that.’

‘Then why doesn’t God intervene?’

‘But God does, Beatrice. That’s why I’m here.’

‘How do I know that?’ she snapped, and as she spoke the castle yard changed again. Great gibbet posts rose up from the cobbles. They were about five yards high with three branches and from each bodies jerked and spluttered in their death spasms. The cruel knight was there again, seated on his black war horse, watching. Women carrying children screamed and begged for mercy but the knight and his henchmen mocked them. The victims were hustled up the ladders, nooses placed round their necks, the ladders turned and more bodies danced in the air.

‘Come away! Come away!’ Antony was beside her. He smelt of sweet grass and herbs.

‘What is all this?’ Beatrice whispered.

But Antony was leading her away, talking soothingly to her. Soon they were out of the castle, walking towards Devil’s Spinney. Halfway there he stopped and sat down on the grass, gesturing at Beatrice to join him. He grasped her hands as Ralph would, rubbing them between his, watching her intently.

‘I do not know who killed you, Beatrice. The assassin really intended to slay Ralph your beloved. I know that. You are truly dead, Beatrice Arrowner. There is no going back. No return to the life you have left.’

‘And is this Heaven or Hell?’ Beatrice asked bravely.

‘This is no place, Beatrice.’ He paused. ‘It’s like dusk, caught between night and day. Death is a journey, one that takes all eternity. If you die with your face towards God, you journey towards God and He is eternal.’

‘A journey?’ Beatrice queried.

Antony nodded. ‘An eternal journey, but you have not yet begun on it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t want to leave.’

‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice asked.

He held out his hands, fingers splayed. ‘You have intellect, love and will. The first can propose, the second can be your aim – or not, depending on yourself. The third, however, is most important. It is what determines your actions. Your will is what keeps you here. You have decided not to travel on. You have unfinished business.’