Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘I feel so tired,’ she said wearily. ‘Why should I feel tired? I have no body.’

‘Yes, you have,’ Brother Antony replied. ‘But it’s incorporeal. You have given him your strength, the power of your will.’

He sat down beneath a tree and indicated that she should do likewise. They watched the tinker embrace his wife and the old woman, and hug the child.

‘Our prayers are answered,’ the tinker declared in a tongue she could understand. ‘So now to Ravenscroft where Sir John always has good trade for me.’

They all climbed back on the cart. Beatrice watched them go. Brother Antony put an arm round her; unresistingly she allowed him to put her head on his shoulder.

‘Surely I can’t sleep,’ she murmured.

‘Rest,’ he soothed. ‘Think of the darkness, of warmth.’

Beatrice felt herself falling, then she shook herself. Brother Antony was gone. She was still seated under the tree, the daylight was fading. Hours must have passed but it felt like moments. She sprang to her feet. She thought of Ralph and hastened along the track…

She reached the crossroads. Etheldreda was squatting there. She glanced fearfully up at Beatrice. ‘A great lord has passed,’ she said.

‘Leave her, Beatrice Arrowner.’ Crispin and Clothilde had appeared on the other side of the crossroads. They were smiling at her. Beatrice recalled the Moon people, that terrible dagger scything the air, the abject tears of the little boy. She had had enough of this precious pair with their lies and deceit.

‘Go away!’ she screamed.

They stared back, eyebrows raised.

‘In Christ’s name,’ Beatrice crossed herself, ‘leave me alone!’

The two merged into one, then separated again, as Robin and Isabella. Their faces changed and, Beatrice glimpsed the mocking features of the Minstrel Man, before once again they became Crispin and Clothilde. Behind her Etheldreda was gibbering with fright.

‘Hell’s spawn!’ Beatrice screamed. ‘You lied to me! You tricked me!’

They turned away. Clothilde looked over her shoulder, her face no longer beautiful, eyes red like glowing coals, mouth twisted in a leer. She parted her lips and gave a hiss, a blast of fire. The searing gust of heat made Beatrice flinch and stagger back, then they were gone.

Beatrice waited for a while and, when her strength returned, made her way along the track. Ravenscroft’s turrets and towers came into sight. She hastened across the drawbridge. She was aware of the Moon people’s cart, the tinker’s hammer clattering against the pots, the ordinary sights and sounds of a castle. The bailey, however, was also full of ghosts, two worlds co-existing. In the centre was the Minstrel Man and around him were grouped Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, kneeling in obeisance to this great Lord of Hell.

Ralph entered his chamber and leaned against the door. He sniffed and, once again, caught the faint fragrance of Beatrice’s perfume. He felt uneasy. The chamber was gloomy, the night candle flickering under its metal cap. He wondered if Beatrice was still with him.

‘Are you there?’ he called out but the only answer was the shutter rattling in the breeze. Ralph moved across to his writing desk and stared down at the manuscripts. He had deliberately said and written nothing about his discovery. Nevertheless, he was sure someone had been in here, sifting through the manuscripts, searching for something.

He opened the shutters and stared out. Later that evening Father Aylred was to celebrate Mass in the entrance to Midnight Tower. Everyone else was busy trying to do their work despite the oppressive atmosphere at Ravenscroft. Now was the best time to go. Ralph took his war belt from a peg and strapped it round his waist. He put on his cloak and left his chamber, locking the door behind him.

The castle bailey was deserted apart from the travelling Moon people. The man, a professional tinker by trade, seemed happy to be here, grateful to Sir John for bringing out the pots, pans and skillets that required attention.

Ralph quickly made his way across the green and into the Salt Tower. Sir John had still not followed his advice to protect this vulnerable part of the castle defences. He went up the steps, trying not to indulge in fanciful notions, yet it was hard. The assassin must have crept up here bringing those arbalests which had killed Beardsmore.

Ralph reached the first landing and walked into the chamber. The assassin had used that large window to smuggle poor Phoebe’s corpse out of the castle. Now, Ralph intended to use it for his own secret purposes. He opened the large shutters and climbed carefully out. The day had been a dull one and the gathering dusk made it even more grim. He paused to close the shutters behind him and continued on down. He stepped on to the muddy bank and quickly crossed the moat. He set out over the heathland then glanced back. He glimpsed the sentry, but the only real danger was if the assassin was also looking out; that would be the most cruel of coincidences.

Ralph continued on. When he reached the trees, he stopped and listened, drew his dagger and walked deeper into the spinney. This copse, he reflected, must be very old; it contained beech, copper, sycamore and, of course, the great oak trees. He studied them closely. Which tree housed the treasure? An old forester had once told him that oaks could grow and survive for hundreds and hundreds of years, and they changed as they grew. Their great trunks split, branches became twisted and extended, they were damaged by thunderstorms and lightning.

‘Think!’ Ralph whispered. ‘You are coming from a battle. You have something precious to hide.’ Cerdic would have been in a hurry, eager to get back to the battlefield. So, what did he do? Dig?

Ralph smiled to himself. Cerdic would scarcely do that. He wouldn’t have the time, energy or the tools to dig a deep hole. And anything hidden beneath the soil would soon be disturbed and discovered. Ralph gazed round, and counted seven great oak trees in all, interspersed by bushes and other trees. Wasn’t seven a sacred number to the ancient rituals as well as to the Christian faith? Seven sacraments. Seven days of the week. Ralph got up and walked round the trees. He tried to put himself into the position of that bedraggled, weary, blood-spattered squire, a man entrusted with a sacred task.

Ralph stopped. The spinney was now very quiet as if the birds and animals who lived here resented his intrusion and quietly watched from the gathering shadows. He was standing before one of the ancient oak trees and looked up. He began to climb. At first it was difficult. He bruised his legs, scraped his hands but, at last, he reached the lower branches which provided him with a better foothold. Up and up he climbed till the branches thinned. He stared down the length of the great trunk. He could see no crack or rent, no gap or hole. He was about to climb down when he heard the murmur of voices and froze. Two men had entered the spinney from the other end. They were hooded and masked, quivers slung across their backs, bows in their hands. Poachers? Outlaws? The men stopped beneath him, whispering, their heads together. He could make out no face, no distinguishing mark. They crossed the glade and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ralph’s arms ached. He was about to clamber down when three more abruptly appeared, following their companions across the glade. Ralph tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, grateful for the branches and leaves which concealed him. He waited and eventually, the men came back, this time together in a group of five. Ralph peered down. They were certainly not from the castle and they did not seem intent on hunting game. They appeared to have simply gone to the fringe of the spinney, stared out at the castle then returned.