‘Yes, it is. That’s what Satan and all his armies want. A shattering of harmony, the breakdown of peace, misery and tribulation. The capture of souls.’
‘But if I have a will, why can’t I…’
‘Intervene? Cross to the other side? You could.’
‘I can.’ Beatrice smiled.
‘You have intellect, you have will,’ Antony went on cautiously. ‘And that’s the supreme temptation.’
‘You mean, if I obey Crispin and Clothilde?’
‘They will give you that power for a price.’
‘And can’t the beings of light?’
‘They can, Beatrice, but it has to be earned.’
A silver disc came between them and moved away.
‘What is that?’ Beatrice asked.
Antony did not answer.
‘Are Crispin and Clothilde my guardian devils?’ Beatrice asked.
‘They are one and the same,’ Antony repeated. ‘Succubus and Incubus, the male and female face of a fallen angel. They can appear in many forms, many guises. They can laugh and tease, they can rage and plot.’
Beatrice stared up at the sky. It was blue but tinged with that strange bronze coppery light. Shapes and shades were moving across like a flock of geese, dark and forbidding.
‘What are they?’
‘The Devil’s huntsmen.’ Antony narrowed his eyes. ‘They streak across the world seeking their quarry. And to answer your question, Beatrice, yes, Crispin and Clothilde are your guardian devil.’
‘And where is my guardian angel?’
‘The silver disc,’ he replied. ‘I can only tell you so much.’ His voice grew weaker. ‘In the end, Beatrice, you must make your own choices. I can help if you wish but in the end only you can decide.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Intellect, love and will. You can force anyone to do anything but you cannot force someone to love. God’s love is eternal, it is like that of a loving mother. God wants that love returned, freely, without hindrance.’ Antony got to his feet and helped her up. ‘He loves you, Beatrice, but you have to decide. Remember the words of scripture: “You cannot have two masters.’”
‘But I haven’t seen God. I am here by myself.’
‘No, you are not, Beatrice. You are not alone. And you do see God. You see Him in the faces of those around you.’ He held both her hands and drew her close.
Beatrice felt strange; she was out on this bronze-coloured heath, the castle behind her, those eerie shapes scurrying across the sky above her. She only wished Ralph was here, not this strange young man. If Ralph were here she could travel on. If Ralph died, they’d be together. As that strange thought began to turn and twist, she saw the sad look in Antony’s eyes.
‘Don’t think that, Beatrice,’ he whispered. ‘The lover always wishes the best for the loved.’
Beatrice glanced away.
‘Remember what I have said. Remember the warnings I have given you. Let me tell you something else. As you travel this world, as you cross from one existence to another, be careful of those who seem to be angels of light.’
‘How will I know the difference?’
‘How do you know an apple tree?’ He countered, and answered his own riddle. ‘By the fruit it bears.’
Beatrice started at the terrible howling of a dog, followed by terrible cries from Devil’s Spinney.
‘I must go.’ Antony smiled. ‘But I shall return. I shall watch you, Beatrice, and, when I can, I will help. But in the end all decisions must be yours.’ He passed a hand over his face, gently stretched forward and patted her cheek. His eyes were sad. ‘You have so much light in you, so much power. Don’t let it be turned. Beware. Crispin and Clothilde are what they are but, in your travels, be most careful of the Minstrel Man.’
‘The Minstrel Man?’
‘You will meet him.’ Antony was now moving away.
‘The Minstrel Man?’
‘That’s what he calls himself,’ Antony replied. ‘He knows you are here, Beatrice, and he’ll come looking for you. You are a great prize. You are not as lonely as you think. Farewell, Beatrice!’
The silver disc of light appeared between them and Antony was gone.
Beatrice rose and walked towards Devil’s Spinney. She went into the trees, moving without effort through the undergrowth; the brambles and weeds proved no hindrance. At last she found herself in the grove, a small glade in the centre, fringed by seven great oaks. She had been here on many occasions with Ralph; they’d lie in the soft grass and plan their future lives. Beatrice again felt that terrible surge of rage like a tongue of fire through her whole being. She crouched down, stared across the glade and blinked. She was not alone.
Men, old and grizzled, grey beards reaching down beneath their stomachs, their heads garlanded with wreaths, stood beneath an oak tree. They were garbed from head to toe in dirty white robes. They carried sickle- shaped knives and were staring up into the branches. Beatrice felt a chill of fear and started in alarm as a naked body crashed from the branches only to jerk and dangle on the rope tied round its neck. Beatrice stared in disgust. The man was naked except for a loin cloth. He choked and kicked as the ancient priests, following some bloodthirsty ritual, lifted their hands and chanted to the skies. The grisly scene provoked memories of what Ralph had told her about this place. He used to frighten her, in a teasing way, when he described the pagan priests who would meet here to sacrifice victims to their pagan god of the oak.
Beatrice was watching a phantasm but the horror repelled her. She wished, despite what Antony had said, that Crispin or Clothilde were here.
Words Between the Pilgrims
The clerk of Oxford paused in his tale and stared at the faces, tense and watchful in the firelight.
‘Would you fill my stoup with ale?’
The miller hastened to obey.
The summoner, his pimples even brighter in the firelight, staggered to his feet and stared across at the clerk. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘He didn’t say it was true,’ the squire pointed out.
‘Well, is it true?’ the summoner demanded, his voice shrill.
‘It depends,’ said the clerk, ‘what you mean by true.’
‘That’s no answer,’ the summoner replied aggressively.
The clerk stared across at their leader. Sir Godfrey was studying him closely. The knight did not wish to intervene even though he was a man who had experienced the twilight world of demons. He had hunted the murderous blood-drinkers scattered throughout Europe from the shores of the Bosphorus to the cold, icy wastes of Norway. Yet that was his personal struggle. He was also special emissary for the Crown and the Archbishop of Canterbury and often attended hushed, closed meetings in certain chambers at the House of Secrets in London. Beside him his son, the squire, stirred.
‘Father,’ he whispered. ‘Weren’t you sent to Ravenscroft Castle?’
‘Hush now,’ his father responded.
He sat and listened as the summoner continued to question the clerk. For some strange reason the summoner seemed most perturbed by the story. The knight smiled grimly to himself. His son was right, he had been sent to Ravenscroft Castle, and it was only a matter of time before someone recognised the name Goodman Winthrop. After all, the tax collector had been the scourge of the southern shires.
The taverner raised his fat, cheery face. ‘Sir!’ he shouted at the summoner. ‘Will you shut up!’ He stretched out his hands towards the flames. ‘I know of Ravenscroft Castle and I also know of two people called Robert and Catherine Arrowner who owned a tavern named the Golden Tabard.’
‘But if the tale is true,’ the pardoner exclaimed, ‘it concerns us. Good ladies, gentle sirs, look around you.’
They did so, staring into the mist-cloying darkness.
‘The miller said this place was haunted,’ the pardoner continued. ‘Does that mean the dead are all around us now?’
‘Oh, spare the thought and don’t tickle my imagination!’ the wife of Bath squeaked. She just wished she
