Paul Doherty: A haunt of murder

‘I’ll go up,’ she decided. ‘It will be nice to walk with Ralph and take the cool of the night.’

She hurried up the steps. At the top the wind whipped her hair. She stared out over the moat towards Devil’s Spinney where the great oak trees loomed like petrified monsters against the night sky. What secrets did they hold? she wondered. Why had little Phoebe gone there? She peered ahead of her. Ralph should be here. She hurried along, remembering not to look to her left or right. Ralph had taught her that. ‘Never look down and you’ll never be dizzy,’ he had advised. The door to Midnight Tower was open. She glimpsed a shape then something hit the ground in front of her, ringing like a fairy bell.

Was someone throwing coins at her? Beatrice bent down to pick it up. She heard a sound, a footstep and, as she raised her head, a terrible blow to her temples sent her flying through the night air to crash on to the cobbles below.

Beatrice stared down. She’d felt such terrible pains, as if her body was caught and licked by raging fire, but something was wrong. Was she dreaming? She was wearing the same kirtle. She touched her head. There was no pain now. Her hair still hung unbound, cork pattens on her feet, yet there was a body lying on the cobbles before her: eyes open, a line of blood trickling out between parted lips, head twisted strangely, arms out, fingers splayed. It was herself!

I must be dreaming, in a faint or a swoon, Beatrice thought. She heard a voice call, the sound of footsteps. People came running up: Theobald Vavasour, Father Aylred, Adam and Marisa. All gathered, crouching round her body.

‘No, I’m all right!’ she called out.

Her friends did not respond, yet she was sure she had spoken, she’d heard her own words and she could still feel the cold night air, although the light had changed to a strange bronze colour and it was eerie.

Ralph appeared, running down the steps. He stood on the cobbles and stared across at the small group, his mouth opening and closing.

‘Beatrice!’ he yelled. ‘Beatrice!’

She ran across to meet him but she couldn’t touch him. He seemed to run through her. Sir John came out of the tower, followed by Lady Anne. Beatrice tried to clutch them but it was like trying to seize the air. She went to stand with them. Ralph was leaning over her body, shaking his head. He tried to clutch her but Father Aylred gently blocked him.

‘She’s dead, Ralph. God save her, she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.’

Theobald had his hand pressed against her neck then felt her wrist, searching for the blood pulse. Beatrice was filled with horror.

‘I am not dead!’ she called. ‘I’m here!’

Her words echoed strangely across the bailey.

‘I’m not dead!’ she cried. ‘I’m here! I love Ralph! We are going to be married!’

‘She must have fallen,’ Adam said. ‘She probably went up to the parapet walk to look for Ralph.’

Ralph had his face in his hands. ‘I went to my chamber,’ he murmured. ‘I had a May Day present for her.’ He took his hands away, fumbled in his pouch and brought out a small brooch carved in the shape of a griffin. It was silver and studded with tiny glass stones.

‘Oh, but it’s beautiful,’ Beatrice murmured. She stretched out her hand but her fingers couldn’t clutch the brooch. It was like a dream in which she watched herself walk, talk, eat and drink.

‘She must have stumbled on the parapet,’ Sir John said. ‘Poor child, no one could survive such a fall. Theobald, Father Aylred, Adam, let’s take her up to the chapel. You,’ he gestured at Beardsmore who stood a short way off, ‘did you see anything untoward?’

‘No, sir. We heard a cry and saw something fall, a blur against the night.’

‘We’ll let her lie before the altar in the chapel,’ Father Aylred agreed.

‘I’ll dress the corpse for burial,’ Lady Anne offered. ‘I’ll wash her poor body, dress her in one of my gowns.’

‘It’s summer.’ Father Aylred patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘I’ll sing the Requiem Mass tomorrow. We have no choice, Ralph. She must be buried as soon as possible.’

Ralph wasn’t listening, he was in shock, his face pallid, his mouth open, a drool of saliva running down his chin. Marisa came and put her arm round his waist.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come to the kitchens, I’ll give you some malt wine.’

‘I want to…’

‘No, it’s best if you don’t, Ralph.’ Father Aylred was firm.

Beatrice could stand this no longer. She was dreaming! Yet how could she be? She could see them. When she wanted she could smell the midden, look up at the sky, feel the breeze, but it was as if she was divided from them by a wall of thick but lucidly clear glass. Whatever she did, whatever she said made no impact.

They were gently picking up her body on a makeshift bier, a cloth slung between two poles. Now she looked as if she was sleeping. Someone had closed her eyes. Beatrice gave a loud scream and sank to the cobbles. All she could think of was Ralph. All she wanted was to hold his hand and tell him how much she loved him, how she wanted to be his wife and they would live for ever. Now that was all gone. They were walking away as if she was no more.

‘Oh Jesus miserere!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Lord Jesus, Holy Mary! How can I be dead?’ The souls of the departed, weren’t they whisked off to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory? Isn’t that what Father Aylred had preached? Yet nothing had changed. She was in life but not of it.

Beatrice got to her feet and breathed in. She laughed. If she was dead why did she need air? I want to be warm, she thought, and became aware of heat, as if she was standing before the roaring fire in the taproom of the Golden Tabard. Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine! I must tell them.

Beatrice ran across the cobbles but her feet made no sound. She found she could move, as in a dream, and not stop for rest. A man on horseback rode out of the stables. She halted, terrified the horse was going to crash into her, but both horse and rider passed on. She felt nothing. Beatrice looked over her shoulder and again became aware of that strange bronze light as if everything was tainted with a copper tinge. The green had changed. A gallows stood where the blue cloth had been spread for their feast earlier in the day; from the rope hung a decomposing cadaver, neck awry, hands tied behind its back. Beatrice screamed. A knight came galloping across the cobbles. A terrible vision of armour and horseflesh. Beneath the conical nose guard, Beatrice glimpsed cruel eyes, a drooping moustache, twisted mouth. He wore chain mail and leggings, not like any knight or soldier Beatrice had ever seen. Other changes were taking place. Spheres of golden light moved backwards and forwards, silver discs sparkled, circling the castle bailey like bubbles sprung from warm soapy water. There was a table she hadn’t seen before. On it lay a white skeleton, its bones picked clean, the skull hanging awry. Dark shapes scurried around.

Beatrice felt frightened. If she was dead then she Lord Jesus would help her. The castle yard was the same yet it wasn’t. Shadows were moving in and out of doorways. She moved towards the steps of the keep then paused. A young man was walking towards her. Despite the night she could make out his features: round-faced, smooth-shaven, merry mouth and laughing eyes. He was dressed in an old-fashioned cote-hardie which fell to his knees, a war belt strapped round his waist. His hair was oily and combed back. He walked with a swagger, and as he passed he smiled and winked.

‘Be careful!’ he whispered then strode on.

Beatrice whirled round. The figure disappeared in the gathering darkness. So, she thought, some people can see me. She stared up at the parapet.