Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘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.’