basket protected from the flies and heat by a damp linen cloth. Today she would have her own celebration. The Constable of the castle, Sir John Grasse, his wife Anne, Father Aylred the chaplain and Theobald Vavasour the physician were to join her and her beloved, the clerk Ralph Mortimer, for a meal on the castle green. Ralph’s boon companion Adam and his wife Marisa had also been invited.
Beatrice tossed back her long, dark hair – ‘black as the night’ was how Ralph described it. Really she should wear a wimple or veil; Catherine, her aunt, was always lecturing her to do so but Beatrice defied her. Ralph wrote poems about her hair, and about her white skin and sea-grey eyes. Beatrice was in love. Ralph was dearer to her than life itself. Others wondered why, especially the bully-boys and swaggerers who thronged the taproom of the Golden Tabard. They would eye Ralph from head to toe and mutter under their breath about dusty, bare-arsed clerks but Ralph didn’t mind. He was sweet-tempered in looks, sweet-tempered by nature; he had close-cropped, dark hair and rather short-sighted, green eyes. Beatrice had met him at a May Fair two years ago. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Robert, her official guardians since she was a child, had disapproved at first but Ralph had charmed them. He was courtly in his ways, always paying for whatever he ate and, now and again, bringing them small gifts – a beeswax candle or a jar of honey from the castle beehives.
Beatrice suddenly started. She’d reached the castle drawbridge without even noticing it. The guard on duty was sleeping in the shadows, helmet off, spear resting against the wall. And why shouldn’t he? True, the peasants in the shires had been threatening revolt and sedition but this was May Day and Sir John Grasse, an old soldier, was a kindly man, no real stickler for discipline. He knew when to bark and when to hold his peace. The Constable preferred to leave all military matters to Beardsmore, his burly sergeant-at-arms. And yet where was he? Still grieving for poor Phoebe? Who had murdered that unfortunate young woman?
Beatrice put such dark thoughts away and clattered across the drawbridge, her pattens beating a rhythm on its wooden boards. She went through the darkened gatehouse and up the winding path which led to the green before the great keep. Above her, the ravens which gave the castle its name swooped and dived against the blue sky. Somewhere on the grass near the moat a pheasant shrieked; finches, who’d built their nests in the walls, warbled and squabbled, filling the late morning with their chatter. A packman passed her, his sumpter pony laden with goods, probably a traveller who had paid to sleep in the castle and would no doubt visit the fair before taking the dusty road north to other Essex towns.
Beatrice turned a corner and paused. The others were already gathered on the green. Lady Anne had laid out a blue broadcloth, with cushions and bolsters arranged as seats. A trestle table had been set up, pewter jugs and cups glinted in the sunlight. Traunchers and platters of bread, cold meat and sliced fruit were covered by white cloths against the marauding flies, attracted by the mounds of manure and ordure piled against the castle walls. Beatrice wrinkled her nose. The smell was not so sweet now. The moat was dank, its water brackish; as Ralph said, you could often smell Ravenscroft before you saw it.
Beatrice hid in the shadows and stared across. These were all her friends: Sir John Grasse, red, jowly face, clean-shaven, his white hair thinning, popping blue eyes and thick, sensuous lips. He had fought with the Black Prince’s retinue in France. His wife Anne sat beside him, one arm resting on the back of his chair. She was dressed in a honey-coloured smock, a rather ridiculous, over-blown white wimple around her greying hair. A sharp-featured, keen-eyed woman, slightly younger than her husband, Lady Anne could be a martinet; the garrison was more frightened of her than they were of Sir John. Beside her was Father Aylred in his brown Franciscan robe, head bald as a pigeon’s egg – but, as he confessed, he made up for that with a luxurious black beard which fell down to his chest. He was a kindly man and a good priest. Next, Theobald Vavasour, leech and physician, whose grey matted hair reached to below his ears, framing a dusty, tired face. Whatever the weather, Theobald always complained of the cold; even now he wore his patched red cloak lined with ermine, of which he was so proud. He was a true scholar and even possessed a set of eye-glasses so he could examine his patients more closely. He was kindly enough; he distilled perfumes for her from wild flowers. Marisa, her friend, was always borrowing them. She and Adam had also arrived and sat with their backs to her. Adam was blond-haired, tall, thin as a beanpole with light-blue eyes, sharp-faced but ever ready to smile or burst into laughter. His wife Marisa, the Mouse as he nicknamed her, was dressed in her usual grey, her auburn hair carefully hidden by a white starched coif. Ralph always maintained that Marisa reminded him of a nun rather than a young woman in love.
The wine pitcher was being passed round and Sir John had obviously already drunk deeply. Ralph came out on to the steps leading from the keep. Instinctively he stared across.
‘Beatrice!’ he called. ‘Don’t hide in the shadows like a ghost!’
She lifted the hem of her sarcenet gown and hastened across the grass. Everyone rose to greet her. Lady Anne, who had always had a special liking for her, grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cheek. Sir John lifted his cup.
‘Nothing like a beautiful woman,’ he bellowed, ‘on a beautiful May Day!’
Theobald winked, Father Aylred sketched a blessing in her direction. Ralph, his fingers and face smudged with ink, linked his arm through hers, plucked the basket from her fingers and placed it on the table.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ he whispered.
‘I had to help in the tavern,’ Beatrice hissed back. ‘Aunt Catherine is very busy.’
They all sat on cushions, Beatrice next to Adam. Marisa leaned across, her pretty face wreathed in smiles.
‘Your last May Day as a maid,’ she murmured, smiling at the play of words.
Beatrice blushed. On midsummer’s day, 24 June, she and Ralph would exchange vows at the chapel door and be blessed by Father Aylred. Sir John had already declared he would provide a special chamber in Midnight Tower, laughing off Father Aylred’s stories that it was haunted. ‘They’ll be too busy to care!’ he roared, not sparing anyone’s blushes, including those of his wife. ‘A feather mattress, a large four-poster bed, a jug of rich claret and two cups. What more would two lovers need?’
Sir John raised his hand and bellowed at the servants waiting in the shadow of the wall, ‘Come on, you lazy varlets! Let’s eat, drink and bless this merry May Day!’
‘You’ve drunk enough for all of us,’ Lady Anne snapped.
Sir John just made a rude sound with his lips. The servants filled platters with bread, pastries, chicken legs, succulent sausages, a small portion of shallots, white bread, a dab of butter and took them to each of the diners, with a napkin and small bowl of water in which to wash their fingers. Wine, ale and beer were poured.
It was not yet noon so Beatrice drank only sweet milk, promising Sir John that she would drink when she was ready. Father Aylred said the blessing, they all chanted the ‘Ave Maria’ in honour of the Blessed Virgin and the meal began. Beatrice found she was hungry and, between mouthfuls, told Marisa the gossip from the taproom. Ralph seemed lost in thought.
‘Have you been working?’ Beatrice asked him.
‘Of course he has,’ Adam laughed.
‘But not on castle business.’ Sir John waved an admonitory finger. ‘He’s after Brythnoth’s treasure.’
‘Brythnoth’s treasure!’ Father Aylred exclaimed.
‘Oh, Ralph, you’re not still pursuing that?’ Adam scoffed.
‘Tell us about it,’ said Father Aylred. ‘I’ve heard the story before but, like a song, only in snatches.’
Ralph would have refused but Lady Anne insisted. ‘Come on, Ralph.’
‘It’s only a fable.’ Ralph pinched Beatrice quickly on the thigh. ‘But, centuries ago the pagan Danes landed a raiding force at the mouth of Blackwater River. Brythnoth was a great earl, he marched an army down to meet them. The battle was a fierce one. In fact, there’s a poem written about it, copied by the chroniclers. Anyway, Brythnoth refused to leave the field, and he and his men died where they stood. On a silver chain round his neck Brythnoth wore a beautiful jewelled cross. It was made out of pure gold, and it was studded with a costly diamond. Brythnoth knew he was going to die. As his men locked their shields for the final charge, he took the cross off and gave it to one of his squires. Now this young man, whose name was Cerdic, was to take the cross to Brythnoth’s wife. He left the battlefield and hurried inland.’
‘But he stopped here?’ asked Sir John.
‘Yes, Sir John, Cerdic stopped here.’
‘But Ravenscroft wasn’t built then,’ Lady Anne declared.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Ralph agreed, ‘but Brythnoth had built a stockade in which he and his men had camped the night before the battle. Cerdic was troubled. Here he was, leaving the battlefield where his master was about to
