was a change. Other presences made themselves felt, expressed in columns of white-hot light grouped around the altar. The chalice was raised, it seemed to hover by itself in the air. The wine was bubbling to the top and from it shot fire, scarlet flames drenching the altar. Golden spheres appeared. The cage disappeared. The Minstrel Man, the leering faces of Crispin and Clothilde abruptly vanished. All that remained was a musty little stairwell and a sweat-soaked priest finishing the Mass.
‘It’s over.’ Brother Antony went up the stairs, smiling over his shoulder. ‘Soon, Beatrice, it will all be over.’
Beatrice watched Ralph consoling and comforting the old priest. She, too, acknowledged a change: that light, the fire she had seen from the chalice – she wanted to be with it. She was tired. The spiritual contest had drained her. She wanted to travel on. This world of shadows and fleeting shapes was unreal.
Ralph was now helping the priest towards the door. Beatrice glanced at the stairwell. If only Brother Antony had stayed.
Ralph took Father Aylred to his chamber. The castle was deserted apart from the sentries on the parapet walk and the occasional sleepy-eyed scullion taking up food or drink to those doing the night watch. At first Father Aylred kept his own counsel, as if his short speech after Mass had exhausted him. Ralph had his hand on the latch of his chamber when Father Aylred shook his head.
‘Take me downstairs, Ralph. Let me at least go to the chapel and give thanks.’
‘We’ve prayed enough,’ Ralph said lightly. ‘The good Lord will understand.’
‘I want to be there.’ The priest’s voice was almost petulant. ‘I should also go back and collect my robes.’
‘I will do that,’ Ralph reassured him. ‘But come, if you want to go to the chapel.’
He took the priest back down the steps. The chapel was in darkness. Ralph used a tinder to light some candles and the torches in both the sanctuary and nave. Father Aylred sat on a stool just inside the rood screen staring at the altar. Ralph sat on the other side; he felt tired, hungry and thirsty, but the priest needed both comfort and company. Ralph closed his eyes and said his own prayer for guidance. He began to doze so got up to stretch his legs. To keep himself awake he studied the wall paintings. On the left of the altar the artist had depicted the seven days of Creation. Each day had a Roman numeral, and on each panel the artist had also portrayed a scene from Christ’s passion and death. Ralph stopped and studied the one beneath the Roman numeral V: the Old Testament scene didn’t concern him but the one from the Gospels caught his attention. Christ nailed to a tree, behind him a dark, threatening forest. Ralph felt his stomach pitch.
‘On an altar to your God and mine,’ he whispered. The fifth oak tree! But from the left or the right? Ralph clenched his hands in excitement. Tomorrow morning he would see which, he would find Brythnoth’s cross!
‘Ralph, could you take me up now?’ Aylred was staring sleepily at him.
‘Of course, Father.’
He extinguished the lights and helped the old priest up the spiral staircase. At the top, Father Aylred turned and shook his hand.
‘Thank you, Ralph. If you could just go back to Midnight Tower and collect my robes?’
Ralph went down the steps and out. The night sky was brilliant with stars, the breeze refreshing. He walked towards Midnight Tower but then decided against returning immediately to that place. He wanted to savour ordinary things: grass, trees, the smell of the earth. He was also haunted by memories of Beatrice. How they would walk out on a night like this and sit on the green or beneath one of the trees in the orchard. They’d talk and talk about the future. They often left it far too late and he would have to accompany her back to the barbican and down the road into Maldon. Ralph blinked away the tears. He was on the edge of the overgrown garden which led to the small orchard below the Salt Tower. The full realisation of what he had experienced during the Mass suddenly swept over him. There was a world other than his and it was only a step away. Beatrice was in that world.
Ralph stopped under one of the trees and sat down, his back against the trunk. In the poor light he could just make out the outlines of the Salt Tower and the overgrown grass and gorse that fringed the door. He was distracted. In a way he couldn’t explain, the Mass had been a turning point. He had lost Beatrice. She would never return and he must leave Ravenscroft. So strong was his desire that he almost felt like going to his chamber and packing his possessions there and them. He’d seek an interview with Sir John Grasse and, at first light, he’d be gone. But the Constable would miss him, and such actions might provoke suspicions. Ralph chewed on his lip. Until the assassin was caught, he, like the others, lay under suspicion.
Ralph glanced up at the Salt Tower and then froze. He was sure he had seen it! A pinprick of light from one of the unshuttered windows, as if someone was on the stairwell carrying a torch or candle. Was the assassin there now? Was he preparing some fresh mischief? Ralph cursed. He had no war belt on, only a small dagger. He pulled it out and ran at a half-crouch. He quietly cursed as the briars caught his legs. He reached the door to the Salt Tower. It was unlocked. Surely Sir John had left a guard here. Hadn’t he seen two archers go across just before Mass?
Ralph pulled the door open and stepped inside, standing silently in the musty darkness. At first he thought his eyes had played some trick, his imagination running riot. He was about to leave when he heard the clink of metal and the hiss of voices. There were more than one in the Tower, he could almost feel them clustered further up the stairwell. He remembered Devil’s Spinney, those cloaked, cowled men with their bows and quivers. Ravenscroft was under attack! The rebels had stolen across the heathland and into the tower. The two archers must have been killed.
Ralph left the tower. Instead of running through the orchard, he kept to the line of the wall and almost tripped over the body of a guard. He crouched down. There had been two sentries on the parapet walk either side of the Salt Tower. This one was dead. Despite the darkness, some skilled archer had sent a yew shaft straight through his chest. Ralph delayed no longer but sped back towards the keep, shouting and yelling. A soldier loomed out of the darkness. Ralph recognised the captain of the watch.
‘We are under attack!’ he screamed.
The captain of the guard ran back to where the alarm horn hung on a post in the bailey. He grasped it and blew. The horn was clogged. Ralph looked over his shoulder: a dark shape was slipping through the trees. The captain of the guard spat, cleared the horn and, this time, blew a long, wailing blast. Sentries from the parapet had already noticed something was amiss and were hastening down the steps. The captain of the guard ran and shoved Ralph aside. He fell to the grass. He heard the clash of swords – the intruders had already reached the castle green and the captain’s swift action had saved Ralph. He crawled away. His saviour was facing two opponents. Ralph drew his dagger and ran. He felt his head butt into a soft stomach as he lashed out with the dagger. Hot blood spattered on his hands, the cowled assailant fell away. The captain of the guard drove off the other attacker and, grasping Ralph by the arm, pulled him away.
The men-at-arms were already forming up according to the drill they had been taught. Some were not properly clothed, roused from their beds, but they had donned helmets and brought along shields and lances. Behind these, archers were forming up. Sergeants were yelling orders. An arrow whipped through the darkness and took one of the castle garrison in the face. The man dropped his shield and turned away, screaming in agony. The shield wall formed more tightly. Sir John Grasse appeared. Guards were despatched to secure entrances and doorways. The attackers hung back. Apart from the two who had made their lightning attack on the captain, the rest were uncertain. They had expected to find a sleepy garrison, seize the keep, perhaps take Sir John prisoner, but Ralph’s alarm, as well as their own fear and inexperience, made them hesitate. They lurked among the trees on the far side of the keep. The night air was rent by screams as sentries on the parapet walls shot into the trees, finding their targets. Sir John, wearing a ridiculous-looking tilting helm, lifted the visor and raised his sword.
‘Right, lads, advance!’
Ralph grasped the shield and lance dropped by the wounded man-at-arms. The garrison moved carefully across the green and round the keep. At Sir John’s order they stopped. A few attackers came forward. Sir John had had the foresight to have sconce torches thrown on the grass to provide some light. The archers behind the men-at-arms took aim, arrows whirred through the air and caught the intruders, sending them spinning, coughing and choking back into the darkness. Ralph knew the attack was over. It had been led by hotheads, they had counted on surprise and been thwarted. Now they were terrified of being cut off from the Salt Tower, their only means of escape. Nevertheless, Sir John moved cautiously. A horn sounded from the darkness and the intruders fled. Sir John would have ordered a full pursuit but Ralph grasped him by the arm.
