Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘You haven’t lost a son,’ Martin the miller jibed.

‘No, but I loved Beatrice Arrowner. She was a comely, kindly lass. Master Ralph the castle clerk loved her as well. What I am saying is this: Goodman Winthrop’s murder was a mistake. The soldiers will come from London and they’ll not rest until they see two or three of us hang. Have you ever seen men throttled at the crossroads? Do you want to see your sons’ corpses picked and clawed at by the birds of the air?’ He paused, his cold words of warning dousing the anger in their hearts.

‘We will put our trust in our brethren from Essex and Kent!’ a farmer shouted.

‘Oh, aye,’ Piers taunted. ‘And when de Spencer, Bishop of Norwich, comes marching south with his mercenaries, burning our houses, pillaging our goods, raping our wives and daughters, will they come to our help then? This will end in blood and tears.’ He pointed a finger at Taylis. ‘You’re planning an attack on the castle, aren’t you?’

‘At night,’ the taverner replied, ‘we’ll take the place by force, burn it to the ground.’

Piers walked closer. ‘And what will you do with Sir John and Lady Anne? Hang them in Devil’s Spinney? What about Master Ralph? Adam? The soldiers and men-at-arms? They are lads like us. And do you think they’ll give up their lives lightly?’ Piers spread his hands. ‘Brothers, what wrong has Sir John Grasse done to us? He’s a kindly man.’

Beatrice felt relieved at the nods of agreement. Piers was much respected. He had served in the Black Prince’s retinue in France. He knew what he was talking about. Beatrice joined her hands in prayer. If these men attacked the castle, they would show no mercy, leave no witnesses. She joined her hands in prayer. If only she could warn Ralph. She felt so hopeless and frightened. She stared around. That strange bronze light also glowed in the taproom; she was aware of dark shadows, like plumes of smoke, rising, moving in and out among the men. She glanced at her companions.

‘What is this?’

She did not like the expression on their faces, eyes glittering, lips parted as if they were enjoying the spectacle, like people watching a bear being baited.

‘They spit out the slime of Hell,’ Robin declared.

Beatrice looked again but the taproom had disappeared. She stood on the edge of a great forest. She was aware of the trees around her as she stared across a plain whose burning sand could nourish no roots. It was ringed by red hills. Herds of naked men and women were being driven across it, eyes burning with their scalding tears. Some had fallen to the ground, others squatted with their arms about them. The air dinned with their hideous lamentations. Men-at-arms, wielding whips, whirled round this herd like hunters would frightened deer. The sky turned an orange colour then the image disappeared. It was replaced by that freezing snow-filled valley. The pedlar with his jingling bells was drawing nearer. The pack pony was like some giant hare with elongated ears and fiery eyes. The mastiffs loped ahead, their barking like the clanging of some deep bell. On the rim of the valley, the army was more distinct: legion after legion of garishly-garbed soldiers, their cry ringing up: ‘Power and glory! All praise!’ The vision disappeared. She was back in the tavern: Piers was holding forth and winning his comrades over. The taproom had become divided, the majority, particularly the older ones, accepting Piers’s words of caution. Taylis the taverner’s face was mottled with fury as he tried to regain the ground he had lost. A vote was taken: the castle would not be attacked. Martin the miller sprang to his feet.

‘And what about my son?’

‘Leave that to the royal justices,’ Piers snapped. ‘Better still, I’ll approach Sir John.’

And on such words the meeting broke up. Some of the younger men gathered round the taverner; their muttered curses and surly looks showed they had not accepted what had been decided.

‘Come with us, Beatrice.’

Her hands were grasped. Robin and Isabella sped with her across the taproom and up the stairs to a chamber. The room was dark and dingy. An unemptied chamber pot stood in the corner covered by a filthy cloth. A rickety table, two narrow stools and a broken coffer were the only items of furniture in the room. A man was sitting on the bed. A tavern wench, a slattern, was kneeling on the floor before him; it was obvious that the greasy-faced, pockmarked young man was attempting a clumsy seduction. He was dressed in a scruffy brown jerkin with dark-blue sleeves unbuttoned to reveal a wine-stained shirt beneath. His fat legs were encased in blue kersey leggings. On the floor beside him were his scuffed boots and a rather battered war belt from which sword and dagger hung. Against the bolsters were two bulging leather panniers full of yellowing scrolls of parchment. The wench was pretty enough, narrow-faced, with long, black hair which reached to her shoulders. The bodice of her bottle-green dress had been undone, revealing swelling breasts beneath a white chemise.

‘Are you really what you say?’ the wench asked, smiling at the silver coin the man twirled between his fingers.

‘I have more power than you think,’ the fellow replied. ‘I am a summoner from the Archdeacon’s Court of Arches. I have powers both natural and supernatural.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I could have you summoned to the Archdeacon’s Court for whoring and lechery.’

‘Don’t be impudent!’ the wench snapped. ‘Master Taylis sent me up because you wanted some company.’

The summoner scratched at a red spot on his cheek, taking away the pus-filled scab. ‘How would you like to travel to Colchester and appear before the Archdeacon, eh? He is a terrible man. So,’ he patted the bed beside him, ‘why not sit here and entertain me?’

The wench obeyed. The summoner knocked his saddlebags full of writs and proclamations on to the floor and grasped the girl, rolling her on to the bed. He plunged a hand up her skirts, pulling back both kirtle and petticoat beneath. The girl kicked out long, brown legs, oohing and aahing as she thrust away his probing hands. Robin and Isabella were laughing but Beatrice did not like being here. It wasn’t so much spying on these two as the atmosphere in the chamber. Those shapes she had seen in the taproom below moved about, the air was tinged with a rank smell like the stench from an unclean latrine. Beatrice could see the wench was repelled by the scabby-faced summoner but attracted by his silver. She sat up on the bed, her dress awry, her hair almost covering her face.

‘Give me the silver piece,’ she demanded.

The summoner tossed it on to the table and grasped her by the arm.

‘It will stay there until I have had my pleasure.’ He paused at the sound of voices from the taproom below. ‘What’s happening below?’ he asked.

‘Oh, the usual grumbles.’

‘I heard rumours about a tax collector being murdered.’

‘Yes,’ the wench replied, enjoying the look of fear on the summoner’s face. ‘He came here collecting what he shouldn’t.’

‘Not like me,’ the summoner replied. ‘I pay for what I take.’

‘What about these powers?’ the wench asked. ‘What do you mean by supernatural?’

‘I have powers,’ the summoner replied, holding one hand up, fingers splayed.

Robin and Isabella were now giggling like two mischievous children.

‘I can call on the Dark Lords to do my bidding.’

‘And do what?’ the wench asked.

‘Things. I can make matter move without touching it.’

Isabella darted forward and knocked a tin cup off the table; Robin picked up the war belt and flung it across the room. The summoner stared, mouth open, eyes popping.

‘You can do it!’ said the wench, awed.