imaginings but, each evening, around midnight, I’d return, determined to prove that I am not fey-witted. Each time it grows worse.’
‘Hasn’t anyone else noticed?’
‘Whispers have begun, gossip, chatter. As you know, Ralph, Midnight Tower is not a favoured place during the hours of darkness.’
‘Father, you call yourself a simple priest yet what do you think is really happening?’
‘As I have said, evil has taken up camp at Ravenscroft. It is linked, like a chain, to the evil which flourished here before.’
‘What can be done?’
‘I’ll say a Mass there, offer it up for the repose of souls and write to the local bishop. More importantly, we must unmask this evil and confront it.’ Father Aylred scratched his greying hair. ‘But that’s easier said than done.’ He put his cup down, got to his feet and patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘Lock the door, say your prayers and be careful.’
Ralph let him out then sat for a while at his table, listening to the faint sounds of the castle. It was well past midnight. Grief over Beatrice welled up within him.
‘I wish you were here.’ He spoke softly into the darkness. ‘I wish I could see you just one more time. If I could, I would tell you how much I love you. Death has not changed that. I will love you for as long as I live and beyond.’
He closed his eyes, summoning up Beatrice’s face. He didn’t know whether it was imagination but he grew warmer, calmer. He opened his eyes quickly. He was almost sure she was here, like the candle flame burning so brightly. He crossed himself, tugged off his boots and lay down on the bed. Beatrice was gone but her murder had to be avenged, he thought as his mind slipped in and out of sleep, but who was the killer? And who had seen him go into Devil’s Spinney this morning?
Ralph woke heavy-eyed next morning. He stripped, shaved and washed in the ice-cold water brought up from the butts outside the tower. He went across to the chapel and arrived just in time for the early morning Mass. Afterwards he found Beardsmore and six archers waiting for him in the great hall, breaking their fast. The sergeant-at-arms gestured at the platter of cheese and bread.
‘Eat quickly,’ he urged. ‘We have business in Maldon. I don’t want any whispers creeping out.’
Ralph sat opposite the sergeant-at-arms and quaffed the ale but left the cheese and bread as his stomach felt unsettled.
Beardsmore looked at him closely. ‘What do you think of last night, sir?’ he asked as the archers left to prepare their mounts.
Ralph held the soldier’s gaze. He trusted Father Aylred. Could he trust this man?
‘We have a common bond,’ Beardsmore insisted. ‘We have both lost someone we love and we both know it was murder.’
Ralph stretched his hand out. Beardsmore looked surprised but clasped it.
‘I trust you, sir,’ Ralph said quietly, ‘though God knows why. When we have finished this business in Maldon, I must have words with you.’
An hour later they clattered into the village. The high street was fairly deserted. Stalls and booths had not been set up. Peasants and cottagers were still making their way out to the fields. They stopped and looked surly- eyed at the mailed men from the castle. The Pot of Thyme was shuttered and closed. Beardsmore kicked at the door until a haggard-faced serving girl answered.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was surly.
Beardsmore shoved her aside and walked in. He dug into his pouch, took out Sir John’s writ and, finding a nail in one of the supporting posts, pushed the commission onto it.
‘Right!’ He started kicking away stools and tables. ‘Where’s the taverner?’
‘I’m here, Beardsmore.’ A small, grey-faced man with greasy black hair stepped out of the scullery behind the wine vats. He wiped dirty fingers on a leather apron and stood, legs apart, as if to show he was not frightened of this show of force. ‘What do you want?’
Beardsmore pointed to the commission.
‘I can’t read but I can see the seal.’ The taverner’s heavylidded glance moved to Ralph. ‘You’re here about Goodman Winthrop, aren’t you?’
‘You were always quick of wit, Master Taylis,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘Goodman Winthrop was a tax collector and the King’s official. He was found stabbed, his corpse left on the high road.’ He pointed to the hour candle. ‘Before noon he will be buried in the castle cemetery.’
‘Quite a few deaths in the castle,’ The taverner remarked.
Ralph would have stepped forward but Beardsmore held him back.
‘What happens in the castle, Master Taylis, is none of your business. However, it is our business what happens in your tavern.’
‘Goodman Winthrop wasn’t killed here.’
‘He was seen drinking here. We also have it on good report that he left with a wench. I want to speak to her.’
‘I don’t know who she is. Some wandering whore who stopped in the village.’
‘If that’s the way you wish to dance, Master Taverner,’ Beardsmore snapped, ‘then dance you will!’
He drew his two-handed sword and walked towards the taverner who quickly stepped back. Ralph was too surprised to intervene. The sword came up in one great cutting arc and sliced down into the wooden wine vat. It splintered and cracked, its contents splashing out.
‘For the love of God!’ Taylis roared. His hand went to the knife beneath his apron.
One of the archers brought up his arbalest and released the bolt which whistled above the taverner’s head to bury itself deep in the plaster.
‘That’s good burgundy!’ Taylis bellowed. ‘It cost seven pounds!’
‘Before I’m finished it’s going to cost you more.’
‘You can’t!’
Beardsmore was already stepping forward, sword level, ready to strike at a second vat. ‘Goodman Winthrop,’ he declared, ‘was a royal official. He drank in this tavern. He left here with a wench. He was murdered. To refuse to help the Crown apprehend his assassins is treason.’ He spread his feet, balancing his sword. ‘When you are sent to Newgate in London to stand trial before the King’s Bench, Master Taylis, who will care about your vats of wine? They’ll be Crown property anyway.’ The sword came up.
‘No!’ Taylis shrieked. ‘Eleanora!’
‘Eleanora? Never heard of her.’ Beardsmore raised his sword higher.
‘Stay there!’ Taylis ran back into the scullery.
They heard shouts and screams. Taylis came back grasping a young, greasy-haired slattern by the shoulder. She was dressed in a dark-brown smock which was two sizes too short for her and emphasised her swelling breasts and broad hips. One of the archers whistled provocatively. The girl turned and spat in Taylis’s face but the taverner forced her to her knees in front of Beardsmore. The sergeant-at-arms crouched down, jabbed his finger under her chin and lifted her head.
‘You’re a buxom wench, Eleanora. How would you like to visit the castle? There are dungeons beneath the moat, full of rats, they are. Worse than you’ll ever find at the Pot of Thyme.’ He grinned at the taverner. ‘Of course some of the lads here can keep you company but not for long. You’ll stand trial before Sir John Grasse. He will prove that you had a hand in Winthrop’s death. The least you can expect is to hang, which takes some time – the rope tightens round your neck like a cord round a sack, tighter and tighter until you’ve got no breath left.’
The girl’s face went slack with fear.
‘Then again,’ Beardsmore went on ‘you might have to face the full rigours of treason. If that happens, you could be hanged and then dismembered. No, no, I’m wrong.’ He teasingly tapped his head. ‘You’re a woman, you could burn.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Eleanora whimpered.
‘But you drank with him, yes?’
The girl nodded.
‘And you left the tavern with him?’
