Paul Doherty: A haunt of murder

‘So what happened here during Mass?’ Ralph asked curiously.

‘I don’t know. But I can hazard a guess. There’s human weakness and misery, but real malice, planned evil is something different. It calls up the Lords of Hell. That’s what I felt. Not just the unquiet and troubled souls which may still lurk in the shadows but a real malignant presence. I ask myself, what would bring that here?’

‘And what answer did you get?’

‘Like is attracted to like, Ralph. One of us in this castle, as you know, has become a killer. Such evil would attract the attention of Hell.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘What happened tonight is nothing to what might be planned. Tread carefully!’

Ralph went out across to the Lion Tower and climbed to his own room. He unlocked the door and went in. He lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, recalling the night’s events and Father Aylred’s sombre words. He looked at the bandage on his hand and smiled, sniffed at it and then gasped. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Other words, scraps of conversation came jumbling back. Ralph felt the sweat break out on his skin. No, it couldn’t be. He forgot his sore hand and went across to the table. Smoothing a piece of parchment, he listed the victims, those who had been killed since this terrible business had begun. For a while he studied it then, throwing his quill down, Ralph put his face in his hands and wept softly.

Beatrice was alarmed. The fall from the parapet had shattered one world, now the Mass in Midnight Tower was causing further changes. The strange coppery light was strengthening to a fiery glow. The silver discs were more radiant. The sky had turned a strange blue-gold colour, and the golden spheres were ever present in and around Ravenscroft. She herself felt stronger. She despised Crispin and Clothilde whom she glimpsed with the Minstrel Man in different parts of the castle. They were now subdued, plotting among themselves. Black Malkyn was calmer, while Lady Johanna had disappeared. No more did she haunt and wail in the cellar beneath Midnight Tower.

‘She has travelled on,’ Brother Antony explained as they stood on the green after the Mass.

‘Why?’ Beatrice asked.

‘She wanted to let go. She broke free from her prison and is now allowed to travel on.’

‘And these shapes and shades? Will they always remain?’

Brother Antony shook his head. ‘As time goes by they will grow fainter, like echoes in a room, before disappearing altogether.’

‘And what about the others? Black Malkyn. That unfortunate at the crossroads.’

‘Slowly, surely their wills will edge towards a conclusion. So when they want to, their journey will begin.’

‘And me?’ Beatrice laughed. She glanced over her shoulder across the bailey. She wanted to make sure Ralph was well.

‘Only you can answer that, Beatrice Arrowner. What do you yourself want?’

Beatrice stared around. All the familiar sights were here, the tubs and buckets, the bench near the wall, its legs overgrown by weeds; the barbican, the road down to Maldon. Beatrice guiltily remembered her aunt and uncle.

‘I must go and see them,’ she said.

‘Why?’ Brother Antony asked.

‘I don’t know. But I realise I must leave them.’

‘And Ralph?’

‘I shall always love him. Whatever journey I make, I shall always wait for him.’

Brother Antony smiled. ‘And that is good, Beatrice. When Ralph begins his journey, the more you want him, the faster he will travel.’

‘And where will we travel to?’

‘You know that, Beatrice. To God, and God is eternal. The journey will be marvellous. Do you want to go, Beatrice?’

‘I want to say farewell.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘But why can’t I help?’

‘Since your death, Beatrice Arrowner, you have done great good.’

She stared, puzzled. The castle had disappeared. They were standing on the edge of a most beautiful valley. A brook gurgled, the sunlight danced, the air was thick with the fragrance of wild roses. Brother Antony touched her face. She was aware only of his eyes.

‘What do you mean, I did good?’

‘Elizabeth Lockyer,’ he replied. ‘The old begger man out on the heath. The comfort you gave Etheldreda at the crossroads. The poor Moon people, even Goodman Winthrop. As you will in life, so in death, Beatrice. Before you travel, you shall receive your reward.’

Beatrice stamped her foot. ‘Why can’t I help Ralph now? I can travel where I wish. I can listen to conversations. I can find the assassin.’

‘Could you, Beatrice? Could you really?’ Brother Antony smiled. ‘Can you enter someone else’s soul and discover their dark designs? Do you not remember the Gospels? Only God sees the things done in secret. That does not mean justice is frustrated, it will be done.’

‘Will it?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Oh yes. The Minstrel Man will know that justice is near. He has gone to Ravenscroft to collect his own.’ Brother Antony walked away and disappeared.

‘Beatrice! Beatrice!’ Crispin and Clothilde were before her, hands together, their angelic faces troubled and anxious. ‘Don’t you want to talk to us any more? Aren’t we friends?’

‘You are one and the same,’ Beatrice replied. ‘You do not wish me well.’

A strange whistling rent the air. The Minstrel Man was swaggering towards her, thumbs tucked in his belt. He moved slowly, like a cat ready to spring. His slightly slanted eyes were full of mockery. He stopped and sniffed the air like some hunting dog.

‘Don’t you smell it, Beatrice Arrowner? The iron tang of blood?’

‘Leave me alone.’ Beatrice stepped back. ‘In God’s name, leave me alone!’

Crispin and Clothilde separated. The Minstrel Man gave the most mocking bow.

‘Then be on your way, Beatrice Arrowner, though the day is not yet finished.’

Beatrice hastened out along the trackway. The hedges and grass loomed dark against the coppery light. Figures flitted across the path and, when she turned, she was sure those two great hounds of the Minstrel Man were loping silently behind her. Sometimes her concentration failed. Visions and phantasms sprang up before her: stretches of desert; freezing lakes of ice; trees alight with fire; a low sky with stars that were bright and close. Strange voices spoke, whispers of conversation. Jagged lightning cracked and flashed above Devil’s Spinney. Horsemen, with flapping banners and billowing cloaks, rode by her. Beatrice stopped. The trackway had ended; beneath her was a raging inferno.

‘I’m only young and weak,’ Beatrice prayed. ‘All I want is to see them just one more time.’

She looked again. The visions had disappeared and she was home. Aunt Catherine was baking bread. She had built up the fire to heat the ovens on either side and was now heaping the dough on spatulas of wood, ready to bake them. Uncle Robert was sitting at the table trying to mend a leather belt. Beatrice stood and relished the homely atmosphere. Uncle Robert mentioned her name. Aunt Catherine turned away, fighting back the tears. Uncle Robert got up, put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and gently kissed the back of her head.

‘I’ll stay with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll not go down to the Pot of Thyme tonight. Anyway, there’s trouble brewing. They should leave Ravenscroft alone.’

Beatrice went up to Aunt Catherine, put her arms round her neck and kissed her on both cheeks as if she was going to bed. She then did the same to Uncle Robert. Beatrice willed with all her might that they’d remember how she loved them, that she was grateful for what they had done, that she’d never forget. Aunt Catherine dropped the cloth she held and staggered slightly. Uncle Robert caught her and made her sit down on a stool at the head of the table.