Fortunately, Goodman had kept to himself.
‘He had the cheek to try and invite himself to our celebrations,’ Sir John growled now. ‘I told him to go and join those on the green. I am sure the good people of Maldon will give him a welcome he’ll never forget!’
‘He’s also very interested in the legend,‘Adam remarked. ‘Last Sunday, just after we had gathered for vespers in the chapel, he took me aside. Full of the stories about Brythnoth’s cross, he was. I told you about it, Ralph. He had even searched among the manuscripts at the Inns of Court for references to it.’
Ralph, his face flushed with wine, snorted with laughter and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Goodman Winthrop should be busy about his taxes. I’m much nearer the treasure than anyone will ever be.’
Lady Anne leaned across. ‘Ralph, do you really think you could find it?’
Ralph was embarrassed. ‘I’m just playing with words,’ he stammered. ‘Master Winthrop’s long nose could be used for better purposes,’ he continued quickly, eager to divert attention. ‘I mean the murder of poor Phoebe.’
His words created an immediate silence.
‘Poor Phoebe,’ Father Aylred echoed.
Sir John pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. ‘A terrible murder. The guard who found her corpse is still being sick, says he cannot forget. Beardsmore’s taken up with rage and sorrow.’
Everyone sat in silence. Three days earlier Phoebe, a maid from the castle, a buxom, bright-eyed lass, had left to return to her parents in their wattle-daubed cottage on the main trackway out of Maldon. When she did not arrive home, her father came to the castle the following morning to look for her. Beardsmore, the sergeant-at- arms, had taken charge; he was beside himself with worry. He had been on guard the previous night and had not seen Phoebe leave. He was sure his sweetheart was still in the castle. Still, a search had been organised and, within the hour, Phoebe’s body had been found in Devil’s Spinney, a copse of ancient oaks, only a short distance from the castle. Phoebe’s throat had been cut from ear to ear and it was apparent, so Theobald Vavasour said, that she had been attacked and cruelly beaten before she was killed.
‘Who could do that to a poor girl?’ Father Aylred asked.
‘I…’ Beatrice stared across at an old mangonel which lay on its side on the far side of the green.
‘Go on, Beatrice,’ Ralph urged. ‘Tell Sir John.’
‘When I left on Monday,’ she said, ‘I thought I saw someone near Devil’s Spinney. All I glimpsed was a cowl and cloak, it could have been anyone.’
‘The roads are full of wolf’s-heads and outlaws,’ Sir John commented. ‘Landless men who prey upon the weak.’
Ralph shook his head. ‘The trackway from the castle is fairly busy. Whoever killed Phoebe would have had to lure her into the spinney first, and no stranger could have done that.’
‘You’re saying that Phoebe must have gone to the spinney of her own free will to meet someone – the person Beatrice saw – who later killed her?’
‘Perhaps,’ Ralph replied.
‘It’s all very unsettling.’ Father Aylred was pale-faced and anxious. ‘Phoebe’s murder, Beardsmore vowing vengeance and that cesspool of discontent, the Pot of Thyme.’ He was referring to a tavern in Maldon, a well- known meeting place for malcontents.
‘It’s seething over the disappearance of Fulk the miller’s son.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘No one knows. They say he came to Ravenscroft and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Oh, enough of all this.’ Lady Anne got to her feet. ‘Tax collectors, witches, ghosts, murders! Now, I’ve made something special.’
‘Oh good!’ Ralph rubbed his stomach; Lady Anne’s spiced cheese dish was famous.
‘And for afterwards,’ she said, ‘some oriels. You all like elderberry, don’t you?’
They all did and Sir John, eager to keep everyone happy, said he would serve some of his Rhenish wine which was kept cool in the castle cellars.
Adam brought out his flute and Ralph sang a song to the Virgin Mary, ‘Maria Dulcis Mater’, in a lusty voice, a fine complement to Adam’s playing. The afternoon drew on. Each of the guests had to sing a song or recite a poem. The sun began to set. Wheeled braziers were lit and brought out, and pitch torches fired and lashed to poles driven into the ground. Their flames spluttered and danced in the night air.
‘We shall feast and we shall feast,’ Sir John declared, ‘until we have feasted enough. Then Lady Anne here will serve some marchpane.’
‘Time for a pause, I think,’ said Theobald. ‘A brisk walk, clear the dishes and the tables, then some marchpane. Afterwards we can sit here and really frighten ourselves with ghost stories.’
‘Come on.’ Lady Anne beckoned to Marisa and Beatrice. ‘Help me carry these pots to the kitchens. The scullery maids can wash them.’
Ralph pinched the back of Beatrice’s hand. ‘I’ll go for a walk along the parapet.’ He pointed to the deserted sentry walk high on the wall. ‘The night air is always invigorating.’
Beatrice and Marisa helped Lady Anne to collect the cups, empty bowls and jugs and take them into the chamber at the base of the keep. Scullions had prepared small vats full of hot water so the dishes could be soaked and washed. Beatrice chatted to Marisa for a while and then went back to the green. It was deserted now. The guests had dispersed to the latrines, or to wash or simply to walk off the effects of their feasting. Beatrice stood and stared at the large blue cloth, the great torches on either side, their flames casting strange shadows. She repressed a chill of fear. No more celebrations now. No merriment. It looked a ghostly place. She glanced across at Midnight Tower and wondered what horrors lurked there. She noticed that the parapet walk was dark; the torch which should have been lashed there must have fallen and gone out.
‘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.
Chapter 2
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
