to ease the pain in the back of his head.
‘There can be only one conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Whoever came here did not come to rob but to search.’
The only really valuable thing he owned was this battered manuscript written in his own cipher.
‘They think I’ m close to the treasure,’ he whispered to the crucifix fastened on the wall.
A wave of nausea gripped his stomach so he went and lay on the bed. He thought of the feasting on May Day and his stupid boast about the treasure. He should have been on the parapet walk, not Beatrice. Father Aylred was right. The blow to Beatrice’s head was dealt before she fell; the assassin thought he was striking at Ralph. In the dark he would only have had a few seconds to see a shadow approach the tower door. And this morning? If he’d been killed, his corpse would have been dragged out of the mire, the result of a tragic accident. People would have thought he had been drunk, as indeed he was, distraught with grief, and wandered off the trackway. And what about Phoebe? Had she been killed because she had overheard something? But how had they taken her corpse from the castle? Unless it was Beardsmore. Ralph breathed in and started. He could smell Beatrice’s perfume, faint but still perceptible. Why was that? He heard a rap on the door, stretched across to his war belt and took out the dagger.
‘Come in!’ he called.
Father Aylred entered. Ralph relaxed and shamedfacedly threw the dagger down.
The priest shook his hand. ‘I do not blame you for that, Ralph.’ He came closer, his eyes sad. ‘There is an assassin in our castle. He or she slew Beatrice, killed Phoebe and, this morning, tried to murder you. I’ve been to see old Vavasour. He confirms Beatrice could have been struck before she fell.’
Ralph rose and led the old priest across to the bed and made him sit down.
‘You’ll have some wine, Father?’
‘Have you checked it first?’
Ralph repressed a shiver; the gentle old priest had a stubborn look.
‘For the love of God, Ralph, someone tried to kill you this morning! Don’t you think they’ll try again?’
Ralph sniffed at the wine. ‘If it’s poisoned, I’ve already drunk half a cup but I’ll heed your warning, Father.’ He sat next to the priest. ‘You really do believe someone is hunting my life?’
‘Worse than that, Ralph. Someone is hunting our souls!’
‘Oh come, Father. Old stories about ghosts and ghouls.’ He watched the candle flame suddenly dance as if a door had been opened and he sniffed the air. For a few fleeting seconds he again caught Beatrice’s fragrance, soft and warm. My wits are wandering! Ralph Mortimer, you are a scholar from the Halls of Cambridge. An eternal gulf lies fixed between life and death. This old priest, with his wild accusations, is filled with superstition.
Father Aylred blessed his wine and took a sip. ‘I am a peasant born and bred, Ralph.’ He rolled the cup between his hands. ‘My fingers are stubby and engrained with dirt. I can read sufficiently well to understand the scriptures and to preach. I put my trust in Christ the Divine Boy. I try and preach his love.’
‘You are a good priest.’ Ralph gripped his companion’s shoulder.
‘Flattery is only half the truth.’ Aylred smiled. ‘I can read your mind, Ralph Mortimer. You think I’m slightly fey-witted, don’t you? And, by the time I am finished, you may well believe it. Look around the room, Ralph.’
Ralph obeyed.
‘What do you see?’
‘Light and shadows, pieces of furniture, the enclave where the window is, the shutters.’
‘Our world is like that,’ said Father Aylred. ‘It’s full of light and shadows. But, how do you know, Ralph, that someone else isn’t here? Have you carefully checked?’
‘No, of course, I haven’t.’
‘And what of the other world? The spiritual world? How do we know, Ralph, when something else has entered to wreak havoc and cause great evil?’
‘Do you think that’s happening at Ravenscroft?’
‘Yes, I do. Read the Bible. The first real sin was that of Cain, the assassin, slaying his brother. Murder is a terrible sin, Ralph. It opens the gateways between our world and the powers of Hell. It is the abnegation of all love. A direct confrontation with God. There have been at least two murders at Ravenscroft.’
‘At least?’ Ralph interrupted.
‘Yes. There could have been three. Now, I don’t know the full reason why, but the attack on Beatrice was meant for you, I’m sure of it. Ralph, you are a good clerk. Before Beatrice’s death you were investigating the legends about Brythnoth’s cross. Perhaps it had something to do with that. What hour is it, please?’
Ralph walked to where an hour candle glowed faintly under its copper hood. He peered closely.
‘Shortly before midnight. Why do you ask?’
‘Come with me.’ The priest got to his feet and walked to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Please, Ralph, come with me.’
Ralph sighed, grabbed his war belt and cloak and followed Father Aylred down the spiral staircase. The castle bailey was empty; a dog came out snarling but recognised them and slunk away. From the parapets Ralph saw the glow of braziers and torches, the shadows of sentries. Sir John’s instructions were being carried out.
‘It’s too late,’ the priest whispered, following his gaze. ‘The enemy is within.’
He hastened across to Midnight Tower. A cold wind tugged at Ralph’s hair and he regretted coming. He felt deeply uneasy, wary of the shadows. Ravenscroft was no longer a friendly place. Did the assassin even now peer at them from the darkness? And what did the old priest mean by the powers of Hell?
Father Aylred opened the door. As soon as he stepped inside, Ralph flinched: The tower was cold, freezing, as if this was the depths of winter and all the shutters had been opened, and the stench was as rotten as that from the moat in the height of summer; it made him gag.
‘It’s getting worse, Ralph.’ Father Aylred’s face was pallid and sweat-soaked. ‘Over the last few days this freezing cold and the terrible odour has increased.’ He grasped Ralph’s wrists and they stood like two frightened boys.
Ralph noticed how the flames of the sconce torches flickered as if the pitch and tar were thin. Usually they gave a robust fiery glow; now the flames were weak with a strange blue tint.
‘In God’s name!’ Father Aylred called out.
A deep sigh answered his words. Ralph felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl, his legs tremble; he felt sick, and as weak as he was after the attack earlier today.
The priest led him up the spiral staircase, and the stench grew weaker, the cold less intense. On the first stairwell, they paused. Father Aylred crouched down against the wall, his breath coming in loud rasps.
‘Every night the evil waxes stronger,’ he declared. ‘Each time, more and more of this tower falls under its control.’
‘Can’t you bless the place?’ Ralph asked.
‘I am just a simple country priest, Ralph. Hush now, listen!’
Ralph heard the door at the bottom of the tower open and slam shut. Someone, a knight in armour by the sound, started climbing the stairs. Ralph drew his dagger.
‘It’s not what you think, Ralph,’ Father Aylred murmured.
As if by magic, the sound of mailed feet disappeared. Ralph went to investigate. A hideous shriek echoed from the storerooms below, ringing through the stones, so frightening he retreated.
‘Father, I am not staying here.’
‘I agree with that.’ The priest struggled to his feet and they fled from Midnight Tower. Ralph insisted that Father Aylred return with him to his own chamber. They stopped at the kitchen where a sleepy-eyed pot boy cut chunks from a flitch of bacon for them and laid the meat on a platter. He then sliced some of the bread Ralph helped him lower from where it was kept in wire baskets hanging from the rafters, well away from the mice and vermin which plagued the castle kitchens.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Father Aylred smiled as they climbed the steps back to Ralph’s chamber. ‘After such encounters I always feel the same, hungry and weak.’
Once inside, Ralph locked the door. He stared carefully around. When they’d left, he hadn’t locked the chamber. He quietly vowed never to do that again even though nothing had been disturbed. He cut up the bacon and bread and shared them out, re-filling their wine cups. The old Franciscan had now recovered his poise.
‘I first discovered such horrors the night Phoebe died,’ he explained. ‘At first I thought it was my own
