‘And do you think,’ the knight asked, ‘that there are creatures who can pass through the twilight?’
‘Why, of course, Sir Godfrey,’ the monk replied softly. ‘And they come for many reasons.’ He bared his teeth.
The wife of Bath flinched at the sight of his sharp dog’s teeth.
‘In death as in life, there are hunters and hunted.’
‘Aye,’ Sir Godfrey replied. ‘And it is as well to know which is which.’
The monk glanced away.
‘I would like to know,’ the wife of Bath chirped up, ‘if this is a true story, or at least which strands of it are true. How do you know what Beatrice saw?’ She studied the clerk’s soft face. In the flickering firelight he looked very handsome and the wife of Bath wetted her lips. It had been so long since she had bounced merrily on a bed. The clerk did not answer her question. He looked round at his audience and said, ‘Prepare your minds, kind sirs and ladies, for the Lords of Hell!’
PART III
Chapter 1
Beatrice stood and watched the man on his sumpter pony draw nearer and, as he did so, the snow-filled valley and the hounds disappeared. Once again he looked like an ordinary chapman on the high road of Maldon, his pony a bedraggled mount with bulging panniers and baskets on either side. The man was tall, now soberly dressed in a brown leather jerkin and brown leggings. His blue cloak was gathered behind him, fastened at the neck by a silver chain. A war belt round his slim waist carried sword and dagger. One hand held the reins, the other a stout walking staff. He had a handsome face, deep-set eyes, sharp nose and a merry mouth. His black moustache and beard were neatly clipped. Beatrice noticed that his fingers were long, the nails carefully cut. On one wrist he wore a gold band, on the other a leather guard. He stopped in front of her.
‘Beatrice Arrowner?’ He smiled, showing teeth that were white and even. The little bells sewn to his jerkin tinkled musically at his every movement.
‘Who are you?’ Beatrice asked. ‘I can see you and you can see me. Are you a ghost?’
‘I’m the Minstrel Man.’
‘And where are you going, sir?’ Beatrice was too curious to heed Brother Antony’s warning.
‘Why, Beatrice, the same as you, Ravenscroft Castle.’
‘But are you a ghost?’ she insisted.
He slipped the staff through a cord in the saddle of his sumpter pony and grasped her hand.
‘Come with me, Beatrice. I’ve been invited there. I’ve heard the summons. I want to see what songs can be sung, stories told, webs woven.’ He squeezed her hand; his touch was very warm. Beatrice felt calm and peaceful; and it seemed only natural to walk with him. Soon she was chattering like a child, telling him everything that had happened. The Minstrel Man was a good listener. When she fell silent, he began to sing a song softly under his breath, a heartcatching tune though Beatrice did not understand the guttural words.
‘What words are they?’ she asked.
‘Ah, it’s an ancient song.’ The Minstrel Man paused and turned to face her. ‘I’ve sung it many a time, before the soaring monuments of Egypt, the hanging gardens of Babylon, the great towers of Troy and the golden palaces of the Byzantine.’
‘You’ve travelled far?’ she asked.
‘I travel, Mistress, wherever I’m invited.’ His reply was soft, followed by a slow wink of the eye.
‘And what will you do at Ravenscroft?’
‘Why, Beatrice, make music.’
‘But they won’t hear you!’
‘Oh, they will. The song I sing has been heard many times.’
Beatrice felt a tinge of apprehension. She noticed how dark the highway had become and something else: in the fields on either side the grazing cattle were moving away and all birdsong had ceased. There was no crackling or bustling in the thicket. She stared back in the direction of Maldon. Shadows clustered there as if an army of the dead were following them. Nothing substantial, just those black plumes of smoke she had glimpsed from the taproom of the Pot of Thyme, now gathering together. Above her the sky was streaked with dark-red clouds.
‘So, what do you want?’ the Minstrel Man asked.
‘To help Ralph. Robin and Isabella said I could have that power.’
‘Of course you can.’ The Minstrel Man’s voice was a purr. ‘Do you remember Ralph in the mire struggling to get out? If you had wanted to, if you had really tried, you could have grasped his hand and plucked him out.’
‘Could I?’
The Minstrel Man looked down the trackway and whistled under his breath. ‘Come, Beatrice, I’ll show you.’
They rounded a corner. To the side of the trackway stood a small cart. The horse had been unhitched and the Moon people – a man, two women and a child dressed in motley rags – had gathered bracken and lit a fire against the approaching night. One of the women was skinning a rabbit and cleaning out the entrails before packing the meat with herbs and putting it on a makeshift spit over the fire. The Minstrel Man left his horse and walked towards them, still grasping Beatrice’s hand. Immediately, the older woman, with yellowing skin and greying hair, looked up, eyes rounded. She spoke in a strange tongue to the man, whose hand went clumsily for the dagger in his belt. Their horse, a docile-looking cob, hobbled some yards away, reared and whinnied. The young boy ran to his mother. She clasped him, wrapping her arms round him. All were staring fixedly, their terror tangible.
‘Can they see us?’ Beatrice asked.
‘No,’ the Minstrel Man replied. ‘But they know I’m here.’
The old woman held up her hand, thumb pushed between her fingers as she made the sign to ward off evil.
‘Just ignore their little game,’ the Minstrel Man murmured.
The touch of his hand had gone cold. Beatrice’s unease deepened. The Moon man crouched down and placed his dagger on a piece of wood. He, too, had one hand extended, moving it slowly backwards and forwards as if trying to reassure whatever was around him.
‘Look at that dagger,’ the Minstrel Man murmured. ‘Go on, Beatrice, look at it!’
She obeyed.
‘Think of Ralph. Think of that killer waiting in the shadows on the parapet walk.’ He was now behind her, one hand on her shoulder. ‘It wasn’t fair, was it, Beatrice?’ His voice had taken on a sing-song tone. ‘It wasn’t fair to be thrust out of life, to be sent flying into the night air, smashing into the ground below. And why should it happen to you? You were a good girl, Beatrice. Good to your aunt and your uncle. Good to the church. You deserved long life. It was your right to lie naked in Ralph’s arms. To be his handfast, to bear his children.’
Beatrice felt a deep sadness.
‘Look across the field, Beatrice.’
She did so. Instead of green grass she saw a smartly-painted house and a cobbled yard. She and Ralph were sitting on a bench against the wall. A small boy, dressed in a little green shift, was staggering around, his fat face creased in a smile. He held a wooden sword in his chubby hands. He was chuckling with glee. Ralph was teasing him, telling him to come closer. When the young boy did, Ralph pretended to be a dragon. The little lad laughed and ran away. Beatrice watched herself get up, put the piece of embroidery down and run after the child. She picked him up, clasping him to her. Beatrice moaned at the sweetness of it all.
‘This is your life,’ the Minstrel Man said. ‘This was cruelly taken from you. A long and happy life in which you
