harsh branches cut and marked him. At least he was alive. The bush had saved his life. He crawled up through the undergrowth then rolled on his side and stared back. The mire was now peaceful again, the green surface unmarked, its treacherous depths hidden.
Ralph lay sobbing for a while before pulling himself to his feet. His whole body ached. He was missing one boot, the other was so muddy he took it off and threw it into the trees. He touched his still bleeding face and felt his head where the assailant had struck him. He staggered along the path and out on to the heathland.
Beardsmore saw him first. Before Ralph had reached the drawbridge, Sir John Grasse, Father Aylred and Theobald Vavasour, accompanied by soldiers, hastened out to meet him.
‘I was attacked,’ Ralph stammered. ‘I don’t know who. In Devil’s Spinney. I was thrown into the mire.’
Sir John shouted out orders. Father Aylred helped Ralph across the bailey. They placed him in the guestroom. Father Aylred talked to him as if he was a child, pulling off his muddy clothes. Theobald helped. They washed away the mud from the cuts and bruises. The physician pushed a cup between his lips.
‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Drink and then you will feel better.’
Ralph obeyed. He was aware of Adam coming into the room, Marisa behind him.
‘We heard what happened, Ralph. I was in the herb garden with Marisa.’
‘They tried to kill me,’ Ralph whispered. He felt his eyes grow heavy and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Later that day, as darkness fell, Ralph washed and dressed in new clothes, and joined the others in the great hall of the castle. He found the room more sombre than usual with its heavy hammer-beam roof and the axes, hauberks and shields nailed to the wall. The long trestle tables were bare, but glowing braziers kept the chill away and hunting dogs snouted among the rushes for scraps of food.
Sir John gathered everyone round the high table on the dais. Cold meats, bread, cheese and jugs of ale were served. The company included Sir John, his wife, the huge, burly sergeant-at-arms Stephen Beardsmore, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, the captain of the watch and Ralph. Father Aylred hastened in and said grace; the food was distributed, the jugs circulated. Sir John, bowing to etiquette, allowed them to satisfy their hunger before tapping on the table with the hilt of his dagger.
‘We live in troublesome times,’ he began. ‘A castle wench, Phoebe, has been murdered, her corpse found in Devil’s Spinney. God rest her.’
His words were greeted with a chorus of assent.
‘And with Ralph we mourn the sad death of Beatrice,’ he continued, ‘but now we have other more pressing matters to consider. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse lies sheeted, ready for burial. He wasn’t the pleasantest of companions, a boor, a sot, but he was still a royal official. Last night he was stabbed to death in Maldon. We know he left a tavern with a wench. Master Beardsmore, you and Ralph will investigate that matter tomorrow.’
‘Which tavern?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.
‘The Pot of Thyme. I have no doubt that Winthrop’s murder is a symptom of the deep unrest caused by the poll tax. However, the King’s Council in London are obdurate. Archbishop Sudbury and Hailes the treasurer are determined that the Exchequer be filled and the poll tax will go ahead. I have sent urgent missives to London. God knows what will happen now.’
‘And the attack on our young clerk here,’ said Lady Anne. ‘Do you believe that is also linked to the tax?’
Sir John nodded, scratching his vein-streaked cheek.
Ralph put his piece of bread down. ‘I don’t think so. How did they know I was a member of the castle? And, even if they did, why should they attack me? I am not a tax collector.’
‘I agree.’ Beardsmore spoke up. The gruff sergeant-at-arms pushed his platter away. ‘True, rebels are active all through Kent and Essex but why should they attack Master Ralph the way they did? That’s not their manner. More an arrow from a tree or a knife in the back.’
His words chilled Ralph and created a sombre silence.
‘Do you know what you are saying?’ Sir John asked carefully.
‘Yes, I do.’ Beardsmore was firm. ‘Sir John, I am your sergeant-at-arms. My job is to defend this castle and those within it. Goodman Winthrop was undoubtedly killed by peasant rebels. Tomorrow we’ll go down and turn the Pot of Thyme on its head and see what muck spills out.’
Ralph smiled at Beardsmore’s bluntness. The gruff soldier usually kept his own counsel, but young Phoebe’s murder still haunted him.
‘You were sweet on Phoebe, weren’t you?’ The words were out before Ralph could think.
The sergeant-at-arms tugged at the laces on his boiled leather jerkin. ‘I was more than sweet on her, Master Ralph,’ he murmured, ‘and over the last few days I have been thinking.’
‘Then let us know what you have been thinking,’ said Lady Anne.
‘The night Phoebe was murdered,’ Beardsmore replied, ‘she wasn’t supposed to be going home. She had agreed to meet me near Midnight Tower. Now, Sir John, Phoebe was a good girl. Sometimes her wits were not as sharp as they should be but she had common sense.’ He paused to take a drink from his tankard.
Ralph felt a bond with this gruff soldier who had also lost a loved one yet hid his grief so well.
‘Phoebe never left this castle,’ Beardsmore went on. ‘She wasn’t stupid. Oh, some of the lads teased her but she could look after herself. She told me how Winthrop the tax collector had offered her a silver piece to lie with him.’ He clenched his fist. ‘I was going to have words with him.’ He blinked back the tears that filled his eyes. ‘In the gathering dusk she would never have gone to a place like Devil’s Spinney. I believe she was murdered in Ravenscroft and her body taken out there. Physician Vavasour, you examined Phoebe’s corpse. Had she been raped?’
Theobald, who had been pushing pieces of bread around on his trauncher, looked up like a frightened rabbit, eyes blinking, lips puckered.
‘No, she hadn’t. She had been beaten about the head before she was slain.’
Father Aylred frowned. ‘But why? If she wasn’t raped? She was poor, she had no silver or gold. Moreover, if she was murdered here, why didn’t anyone hear her cries? And you can’t just pick up a corpse and take it out across the drawbridge without being noticed.’
A murmur of assent greeted his words. Lady Anne, seated next to her husband, pushed her greying hair under the tight coif round her face. She nervously scratched her cheek and tapped the table with her fingers. ‘Thank God the servants are not here.’ She stared round the hall. ‘Only a few days ago we all celebrated May Day. Lent and winter were behind us. There was fresh meat from the fleshers’ yard, spring vegetables, herbs and flowers.’ She shivered. ‘But now it’s like the dead of winter. Master Beardsmore,’ her voice grew harsh, ‘you seem to be saying there’s a killer in this castle. Do you know anybody who would want to murder Phoebe?’
Before Beardsmore could reply, Father Aylred spoke up. ‘As you say, Master Beardsmore, Phoebe was a good girl, a merry wench. But we all know Phoebe was curious.’
‘I agree, Father.’ Beardsmore’s eyes fell away.
‘She was more than that,’ Lady Anne declared. ‘She liked listening at keyholes, spying on people.’
‘That’s right,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Last year on the feast of All Souls one of the kitchen wenches had a furious argument with her. She accused Phoebe of spying on her when she was in the stable with one of the grooms.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Theobald held up a bony finger. ‘I remember her doing that.’
‘Where are the groom and wench now?’ Ralph asked.
‘Gone,’ Beardsmore said thinly. ‘They left after the Epiphany. I sided with Phoebe, that’s how I first met her.’
Ralph’s attention was caught by shadows dancing on the wall. Darkness had fallen swiftly and seemed to be closing in around them, despite the cresset torches and candles. The killer was in this castle. He glanced at Father Aylred, telling him with his eyes to keep his own counsel.
‘What shall we do?’ Lady Anne asked.
Sir John looked at Adam. ‘You are our principal clerk. What do you advise?’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘I agree with what has been said. Goodman Winthrop’s death is the work of rebels. The attack on Ralph, however, was not the work of some peasant.’
‘Is it possible,’ asked Marisa, ‘that the rebels have an accomplice here in the castle?’
They all looked at the petite, usually quiet young woman.
‘After all,’ Marisa continued, spots of excitement high in her cheeks, ‘Ravenscroft defends the Blackwater estuary and the northern approaches to London. If the peasants are planning a revolt, they will want to seize
