Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘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.’