it.’
‘And how vital was Phoebe to the defence of this castle?’ Lady Anne tried, and failed, to keep the sneer from her voice.
‘Don’t mock Marisa!’ Adam retorted heatedly. ‘What she says is possible.’
The atmosphere in the hall grew tense. Lady Anne, unused to such sharp reproofs, glared at her husband.
‘Both of you could be correct,’ Ralph intervened, eager to keep the peace. ‘It’s possible that the rebels do have supporters here among the garrison. What better way to weaken our defences than indiscriminate killings and attacks which provoke suspicion and bitter acrimony?’
Everybody seized on his explanation. Ravenscroft was a happy, amiable garrison. The castle had numerous spacious chambers which allowed people a degree of privacy, and relationships with the townspeople were usually cordial. Ralph was afraid this would soon change. Sir John smiled gratefully at him. He repeated his orders about Beardsmore and Ralph investigating Winthrop’s death and ordered guards to be doubled on the barbican.
‘From now on,’ he concluded, ‘the drawbridge will be winched up at dusk, the portcullis lowered. I want beacon lights on each rampart along the walls. No one is to enter between dusk and dawn without my permission. Now.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think enough has been said.’
The meeting broke up. Ralph, still feeling sore and shaken, walked out of the hall and sat on the steps. Adam and Marisa came and sat on either side of him. Ralph felt the warmth of their friendship.
‘You didn’t really mean that, did you, Ralph?’ Marisa clasped his left hand, rubbing it gently between hers.
‘Am I so easy to see through?’ Ralph asked with a smile.
‘You never were a good liar.’ Adam’s blue eyes twinkled in amusement. ‘What do you really think happened?’
‘I believe Phoebe was murdered here.’
‘But how was her corpse taken out?’ Marisa asked.
‘There’s the postern gate,’ Ralph pointed out.
‘But that’s been closed and locked for years.’
‘It can still be opened and there’s a small wooden bridge across the moat. Don’t forget, the postern gate lies at the rear of the castle. Sir John is a benevolent constable. He never puts guards along the ramparts unless he has to.’
‘But still,’ said Marisa, ‘that means someone had to carry a bloody corpse across the yard. And the hinge to the gate is so rusty it would scream like a ghost.’
‘Well, there’s one way to find out.’ Ralph got to his feet.
They left the inner bailey, passed the keep and went through the small orchard which stood in a corner of the castle. On the way, Adam lit a cresset torch. When they reached the postern gate, Ralph took one look and realised he was wrong. The gate was small and narrow, fashioned out of thick oak reinforced by metal bands and steel studs. Its two huge bolts were secure and the gate was padlocked in three places. From the rust on both the locks and the bolts, it would have been easier to knock a hole in the wall than to open the gate. Adam doused the pitch torch in a water butt, threw it down and beckoned Ralph and Marisa to follow him back into the trees.
‘What now, Ralph?’ he asked. ‘The castle has only two entrances, the barbican and the postern gate. You have examined the latter. It has not been opened for years.’
‘What about a cart or barrow?’ Marisa suggested. ‘Phoebe’s assassin could have hidden the corpse in one of them and covered it with a sheet.’
‘I doubt that,’ a voice called from the darkness.
Ralph started. Beardsmore came slipping like a shadow through the trees towards them.
‘I’m sorry to startle you.’ The soldier cradled his conical helmet in his arms. ‘I saw the torchlight and I wondered what was happening. I am not like Phoebe.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I examined the postern gate the morning after Phoebe’s murder. I also inquired about the keys of Sir John but he doesn’t even know where they are.’
‘Why are you so sure that the killer didn’t smuggle Phoebe’s corpse out in a cart or barrow?’ Adam asked, then shook his head. ‘Of course, on the night Phoebe was killed you were on duty.’
‘From three o’clock in the afternoon till nine,’ said Beardsmore
‘I played dice with the lads in the guardhouse a couple of times but I tell you this, sirs, no one left the castle that day. If they had, I would have already brought them in for questioning.’
‘And you are sure Phoebe never left?’ Ralph asked.
‘Not unless she could sprout wings and fly!’
Ralph studied the soldier closely. Beardsmore was actually much younger than he appeared at first glance. He had a thick, square face with close, deep-set eyes, and a jutting nose above a harsh mouth. He was clean- shaven, his hair closely cropped. Ralph recalled that he had served with Sir John both at sea and in Gascony.
Beardsmore put his helmet on. ‘Now, I’ve got duties to attend to.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away into the darkness.
‘Now, there’s a strange fellow,’ Adam said softly. ‘Notice how quietly he moves.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ralph asked.
‘He was on guard the night Phoebe died yet he has just assured us that she never left. But she must have done, one way or the other. How do we know he didn’t let Phoebe run out and offer to meet her in Devil’s Spinney? Maybe they argued, he became angry…’
Ralph looked at the thin sliver of moon visible through the branches. He felt cold and lonely. He missed Beatrice dreadfully. Yet there was something else now. A deep suspicion that she had not slipped but been murdered. Was his friend right? Was Beardsmore the killer?
As if she could read his thoughts, Marisa plucked at his sleeve. ‘He was also on guard duty the night Beatrice fell. Maybe she saw something.’
Ralph sucked in his lips. ‘And where was everybody when I was attacked in Devil’s Spinney?’ He glanced at Adam. ‘Beardsmore was the first to see me. Is that because he had just returned?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam replied. ‘Marisa and I were in the herb garden.’
‘You should take care.’ Marisa clasped his hand.
‘Oh, I will.’ But even as he uttered the words, Ralph knew he wasn’t as fearless as he sounded.
Chapter 2
Ralph sat alone in his round chamber in the Lion Tower which stood near the barbican on the north-facing wall. He’d lit a rushlight and two candles and wondered whether he should fire the brazier, for the night had turned cold. He went across and secured the shutters. He sat at his desk, peering down at the sheaf of manuscripts which had once meant so much – the fruit of his studies and searches for Brythnoth’s cross. Ralph had been born in Maldon, educated in the parish school. His father, a prosperous weaver, had secured the patronage of a local priest and sent his only son to the cathedral school at Ely before he entered the Halls of Cambridge. Ralph would always love Maldon. He had hunted wild ducks in the marshes, played outlaws with the other boys in Devil’s Spinney and gone down to the Blackwater estuary to re-enact the battle of Brythnoth against the Danes.
It was old Father Dominic who had first told him about the treasure, recounting tales he himself had heard many years earlier and showing him old and tattered manuscripts about the battle. At Cambridge Ralph had pursued his searches and learnt about the flight of the squire Cerdic and those memorable words about the treasure being hidden ‘on an altar to your God and mine’.
Ralph picked up a quill and tapped it against his cheek. What did the words mean? He stared at his chancery desk. He remembered how he had left everything this morning. He was punctilious in his work and particular about how he left his desk. The manuscript was askew and the ink horn and pumice stones had been moved. What could it mean?
He went and checked his coffer but the purse of silver and bronze coins had not been disturbed, and nor had his precious books, bound in vellum, on a closed shelf high on the wall. Ralph poured himself a goblet of wine
