Ravenscroft. Now was the best time to go. Ralph took his war belt from a peg and strapped it round his waist. He put on his cloak and left his chamber, locking the door behind him.
The castle bailey was deserted apart from the travelling Moon people. The man, a professional tinker by trade, seemed happy to be here, grateful to Sir John for bringing out the pots, pans and skillets that required attention.
Ralph quickly made his way across the green and into the Salt Tower. Sir John had still not followed his advice to protect this vulnerable part of the castle defences. He went up the steps, trying not to indulge in fanciful notions, yet it was hard. The assassin must have crept up here bringing those arbalests which had killed Beardsmore.
Ralph reached the first landing and walked into the chamber. The assassin had used that large window to smuggle poor Phoebe’s corpse out of the castle. Now, Ralph intended to use it for his own secret purposes. He opened the large shutters and climbed carefully out. The day had been a dull one and the gathering dusk made it even more grim. He paused to close the shutters behind him and continued on down. He stepped on to the muddy bank and quickly crossed the moat. He set out over the heathland then glanced back. He glimpsed the sentry, but the only real danger was if the assassin was also looking out; that would be the most cruel of coincidences.
Ralph continued on. When he reached the trees, he stopped and listened, drew his dagger and walked deeper into the spinney. This copse, he reflected, must be very old; it contained beech, copper, sycamore and, of course, the great oak trees. He studied them closely. Which tree housed the treasure? An old forester had once told him that oaks could grow and survive for hundreds and hundreds of years, and they changed as they grew. Their great trunks split, branches became twisted and extended, they were damaged by thunderstorms and lightning.
‘Think!’ Ralph whispered. ‘You are coming from a battle. You have something precious to hide.’ Cerdic would have been in a hurry, eager to get back to the battlefield. So, what did he do? Dig?
Ralph smiled to himself. Cerdic would scarcely do that. He wouldn’t have the time, energy or the tools to dig a deep hole. And anything hidden beneath the soil would soon be disturbed and discovered. Ralph gazed round, and counted seven great oak trees in all, interspersed by bushes and other trees. Wasn’t seven a sacred number to the ancient rituals as well as to the Christian faith? Seven sacraments. Seven days of the week. Ralph got up and walked round the trees. He tried to put himself into the position of that bedraggled, weary, blood-spattered squire, a man entrusted with a sacred task.
Ralph stopped. The spinney was now very quiet as if the birds and animals who lived here resented his intrusion and quietly watched from the gathering shadows. He was standing before one of the ancient oak trees and looked up. He began to climb. At first it was difficult. He bruised his legs, scraped his hands but, at last, he reached the lower branches which provided him with a better foothold. Up and up he climbed till the branches thinned. He stared down the length of the great trunk. He could see no crack or rent, no gap or hole. He was about to climb down when he heard the murmur of voices and froze. Two men had entered the spinney from the other end. They were hooded and masked, quivers slung across their backs, bows in their hands. Poachers? Outlaws? The men stopped beneath him, whispering, their heads together. He could make out no face, no distinguishing mark. They crossed the glade and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ralph’s arms ached. He was about to clamber down when three more abruptly appeared, following their companions across the glade. Ralph tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, grateful for the branches and leaves which concealed him. He waited and eventually, the men came back, this time together in a group of five. Ralph peered down. They were certainly not from the castle and they did not seem intent on hunting game. They appeared to have simply gone to the fringe of the spinney, stared out at the castle then returned.
They must be from the village, Ralph thought. He waited until the men were gone then clambered down. Brythnoth’s cross would have to wait. He ran across the clearing, out of the spinney and back towards the castle. He found Adam in the barbican talking to one of the guards.
‘In Heaven’s name, Ralph, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ralph replied wiping the sweat from his face. ‘I went out for a walk and…’ He shook his head. ‘I wish Sir John would listen. There’s villainy being plotted in Maldon. Where is the Constable now?’
Adam shrugged. ‘In his chambers, I think. Can I help?’
Ralph nodded. ‘Sir John may listen to you. Tell him I’ve seen villagers armed with bows and arrows studying the castle. I urge him to double the guard. Put every man we have on a war footing.’
‘Dramatic language, Ralph!’
‘For the love of God, Adam, just do what I say! I’m going to check the Salt Tower.’
Adam hastened away. Ralph was pleased to be free of his questioning stare; he was also embarrassed by his own hypocrisy. Here he was urging his Constable to prepare the castle carefully and yet he had left that window door unsecured. He hurried to the Salt Tower and up the steps. The chamber was now very dark. The shutters, slightly opened by the evening breeze, allowed in some light. Ralph hurried across, pulled the shutters together and lowered the bar. He turned and sat, his back to the wall, trying to catch his breath. He was soaked in sweat. He got up and, as he did so, once again caught that pleasing fragrance Beatrice always wore.
‘Are you there?’ he whispered. ‘Are you really near me?’ Ralph felt a shiver go up his spine. He’d always believed that when a person died, the soul left the body and travelled on. Yet what had Father Aylred once told him? That some souls lingered in a twilight world between life and death? Was that happening now? Had Beatrice, who loved him so passionately, refused to journey on? Was she here with him now? Tears pricked his eyes. What did it matter whether or not he found Brythnoth’s cross? The real treasure in his life had gone. And what should he do when all this was over? In his heart he knew he could not stay at Ravenscroft. It would always evoke memories of Beatrice and he could not live with that. For the moment, however, he had to stay because of the assassin which stalked them all; he could not leave the garrison in its moment of danger. But if he survived? If God brought him safely through this? Where to then? To the Halls of Oxford, to resume his studies of the great Aristotle? Ralph drew a deep breath. The tinge of perfume was even stronger. He remembered that Theobald had distilled it. Ralph chewed on his lip. He’d ask the physician for one last jar, a keepsake.
Ralph walked to the door. He thought of the upper chamber from which the assassin had loosed his killing shaft and went up the crumbling steps, ignoring the squeak of rats as they scampered away. The upper room was colder than when he had last visited it, the shutters had not been fully closed. He went and looked out of a window. It was almost night and a mist was creeping in from Devil’s Spinney, curling out towards the castle. Father Aylred would be waiting for him. Castle servants had already laid out the altar, cross and sacred vessels. Sir John had agreed that Ralph could act as altar boy but no one else should be present.
Ralph walked back to the door and heard a sound on the stairs. A rat? He took out his dagger, gripping it firmly because his hands were sweaty. With his back to the wall he went carefully down the steps. Again the sound. He turned a corner and listened. Was there someone there? Ralph could hear the beat of his own heart. He wished he had brought a candle. Had someone seen him come here? He swallowed hard. The tower steps were freezing. He could not stay here. He went on down. Suddenly his heel slipped, the dagger clattered on the steps. Cursing softly, Ralph crouched down and stretched out, and as he did so, his hand caught a piece of twine, tight like that of a drawn bow. He followed it across to some nails that had been driven into the wall from the time when the stairs had had a wooden rail or panelling. Each end of the twine was tied to one of these nails. Ralph lowered his hands. Another stretch of twine was there, just as taut, spanning a lower step. Ralph slashed through the twine with his dagger. He went down at a crouch, feeling rather ridiculous, as if he was a child learning to go up or down steps for the first time. He reached the bottom and fled from the Salt Tower.
He paused beneath a tree, re-sheathed his dagger and wiped the sweat from his face.
‘God help you, Ralph!’ he whispered. ‘You are a fool, for all your logic!’
He had nearly fallen for one of the oldest tricks employed in the defence of a castle. Stone spiral staircases were dangerous at the best of times. On any other occasion he would have gone clattering down the steps. He would have tripped and the least he could have suffered was broken limbs; more probably he would have smashed his skull or snapped his neck. Someone had seen him go into the tower and immediately followed. It would be easy enough to take twine from an arbalest or bow and wrap it round those nails. Then it would only be a matter of waiting. He had had a lucky escape. Or was it luck? Was Beatrice here, guiding and protecting his every step? If the heel of his boot hadn’t slipped, if he hadn’t dropped the dagger… Ralph shivered at the thought. But who? Rage replaced his fear as he strode back towards the keep.
Sir John and Adam were standing on the green, heads together. The captain of the guard hovered nearby.
