Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

They must be from the village, Ralph thought. He waited until the men were gone then clambered down. Brythnoth’s cross would have to wait. He ran across the clearing, out of the spinney and back towards the castle. He found Adam in the barbican talking to one of the guards.

‘In Heaven’s name, Ralph, what’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ralph replied wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I went out for a walk and…’ He shook his head. ‘I wish Sir John would listen. There’s villainy being plotted in Maldon. Where is the Constable now?’

Adam shrugged. ‘In his chambers, I think. Can I help?’

Ralph nodded. ‘Sir John may listen to you. Tell him I’ve seen villagers armed with bows and arrows studying the castle. I urge him to double the guard. Put every man we have on a war footing.’

‘Dramatic language, Ralph!’

‘For the love of God, Adam, just do what I say! I’m going to check the Salt Tower.’

Adam hastened away. Ralph was pleased to be free of his questioning stare; he was also embarrassed by his own hypocrisy. Here he was urging his Constable to prepare the castle carefully and yet he had left that window door unsecured. He hurried to the Salt Tower and up the steps. The chamber was now very dark. The shutters, slightly opened by the evening breeze, allowed in some light. Ralph hurried across, pulled the shutters together and lowered the bar. He turned and sat, his back to the wall, trying to catch his breath. He was soaked in sweat. He got up and, as he did so, once again caught that pleasing fragrance Beatrice always wore.

‘Are you there?’ he whispered. ‘Are you really near me?’ Ralph felt a shiver go up his spine. He’d always believed that when a person died, the soul left the body and travelled on. Yet what had Father Aylred once told him? That some souls lingered in a twilight world between life and death? Was that happening now? Had Beatrice, who loved him so passionately, refused to journey on? Was she here with him now? Tears pricked his eyes. What did it matter whether or not he found Brythnoth’s cross? The real treasure in his life had gone. And what should he do when all this was over? In his heart he knew he could not stay at Ravenscroft. It would always evoke memories of Beatrice and he could not live with that. For the moment, however, he had to stay because of the assassin which stalked them all; he could not leave the garrison in its moment of danger. But if he survived? If God brought him safely through this? Where to then? To the Halls of Oxford, to resume his studies of the great Aristotle? Ralph drew a deep breath. The tinge of perfume was even stronger. He remembered that Theobald had distilled it. Ralph chewed on his lip. He’d ask the physician for one last jar, a keepsake.

Ralph walked to the door. He thought of the upper chamber from which the assassin had loosed his killing shaft and went up the crumbling steps, ignoring the squeak of rats as they scampered away. The upper room was colder than when he had last visited it, the shutters had not been fully closed. He went and looked out of a window. It was almost night and a mist was creeping in from Devil’s Spinney, curling out towards the castle. Father Aylred would be waiting for him. Castle servants had already laid out the altar, cross and sacred vessels. Sir John had agreed that Ralph could act as altar boy but no one else should be present.

Ralph walked back to the door and heard a sound on the stairs. A rat? He took out his dagger, gripping it firmly because his hands were sweaty. With his back to the wall he went carefully down the steps. Again the sound. He turned a corner and listened. Was there someone there? Ralph could hear the beat of his own heart. He wished he had brought a candle. Had someone seen him come here? He swallowed hard. The tower steps were freezing. He could not stay here. He went on down. Suddenly his heel slipped, the dagger clattered on the steps. Cursing softly, Ralph crouched down and stretched out, and as he did so, his hand caught a piece of twine, tight like that of a drawn bow. He followed it across to some nails that had been driven into the wall from the time when the stairs had had a wooden rail or panelling. Each end of the twine was tied to one of these nails. Ralph lowered his hands. Another stretch of twine was there, just as taut, spanning a lower step. Ralph slashed through the twine with his dagger. He went down at a crouch, feeling rather ridiculous, as if he was a child learning to go up or down steps for the first time. He reached the bottom and fled from the Salt Tower.

He paused beneath a tree, re-sheathed his dagger and wiped the sweat from his face.

‘God help you, Ralph!’ he whispered. ‘You are a fool, for all your logic!’

He had nearly fallen for one of the oldest tricks employed in the defence of a castle. Stone spiral staircases were dangerous at the best of times. On any other occasion he would have gone clattering down the steps. He would have tripped and the least he could have suffered was broken limbs; more probably he would have smashed his skull or snapped his neck. Someone had seen him go into the tower and immediately followed. It would be easy enough to take twine from an arbalest or bow and wrap it round those nails. Then it would only be a matter of waiting. He had had a lucky escape. Or was it luck? Was Beatrice here, guiding and protecting his every step? If the heel of his boot hadn’t slipped, if he hadn’t dropped the dagger… Ralph shivered at the thought. But who? Rage replaced his fear as he strode back towards the keep.

Sir John and Adam were standing on the green, heads together. The captain of the guard hovered nearby. Torches, lashed to poles, had been thrust into the ground. The Constable looked expectantly at him.

‘Ralph, where have you been?’

He bit back an angry reply. ‘Sir John, I’m more interested in where everybody else has been.’

Adam looked puzzled. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Adam and I have been together since we saw you walk across the green,’ Sir John said brusquely.

‘Did you see anyone else go towards the Salt Tower?’

‘No.’ Adam shook his head. ‘Why, Ralph, what has happened?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Ralph sighed. ‘Look, Sir John, this castle is vulnerable, the Salt Tower is not securely guarded. That large window door should be bricked up.’

‘Ralph, Ralph, calm yourself. I know dreadful things are happening. Adam here says that you think we are in some danger. But from whom? How could a group of ragged-arsed peasants take a castle like this?’

‘What happens if there is a rebel army in the vicinity?’ Ralph replied heatedly. ‘Sir John, you fought the French. The men who throng the Pot of Thyme in Maldon are the sons of those who brought down the cream of French chivalry at Crecy and Poitiers.’

‘I’ve doubled the guards. I’ll see to the Salt Tower.’ Sir John looked towards the main gate. ‘I’ll be glad when the royal commissioners arrive. They’ll advise me.’ And he walked off, shaking his head.

‘He’s tired,’ Ralph said quietly. ‘He’s an old and rather frightened man.’

‘Be gentle in your judgements, Ralph,’ Adam replied. ‘Sir John is a warrior; he mounts his horse and charges the enemy. He’s not skilled in dealing with secret assassins and prowling outlaws.’ Adam took a step closer, his handsome face full of concern. ‘I don’t like this place, Ralph. Forget Brythnoth’s treasure. Let’s be away from it. We could pile our possessions on to a sumpter pony and be gone. Clerks like ourselves will always find comfortable benefices, good employment.’

Ralph was about to reply when he heard his name being called. Father Aylred was beckoning him over.

‘I must go.’ And, making his apologies, Ralph hurried over to the priest.