‘Don’t!’ he said. ‘Let them go. They’ll only fortify the Salt Tower and wreak havoc on our attack.’
Sir John agreed. The troops were ordered to pause and they stood, sweating, chests heaving, peering into the darkness. Adam appeared, sword belt clasped round him. Sir John told him to take a few archers forward, and they flitted into the trees. The occasional scream followed their departure.
‘The archers must be finishing off the wounded,’ Sir John growled. ‘It’s just as well and saves us a few hangings.’
Adam appeared, a smile on his face, the blade of his sword bloody.
‘Sir John, Master Ralph, they have gone. Fleeing across the heath back into Devil’s Spinney.’
The Constable told his men to stand at ease. Followed by Ralph and his archers, he crossed the overgrown orchard and garden. Here and there a corpse sprawled in a pool of spreading blood, eyes open, mouths gaping.
‘There are no wounded,’ Adam remarked. ‘It will teach them a lesson.’
Ralph hid a tremor of unease: killing when the blood was hot, in battle, sword against sword, he understood but this callous slaughter of injured men turned his stomach. Sir John, however, had no qualms. He turned one or two corpses over and roared at an archer to bring a torch. He then scrutinised the bodies.
‘Thanks be to God,’ he muttered. ‘They are not local men.’
‘But there must have been people from Maldon among them,’ Adam declared. ‘To lead them across the moat and down to…’
Sir John got up, took off his helmet and threw it on the ground. ‘It’s like wearing a chamber pot!’ he cursed. ‘Those men could be outlaws, or rebels who have moved south looking for a fight, stirring up the local people. Get Father Aylred,’ he called out to an archer. ‘And Vavasour. Rouse them now!’
They went into the Salt Tower. In the light of the sconce torch, Ralph saw bloodstains on the steps where the attackers had dragged away their wounded. In the room which contained the large door window lay the corpses of the two archers who had been on guard duty here. The shutters were open. Ralph grasped a torch and stared out into the darkness. He could see the makeshift bridge the attackers had thrown over the moat. Across the heathland the cold night wind stirred the grass, the silence broken only by the haunting call of some animal on the prowl.
He went to close the shutters and became aware of pain in his right hand. He had an ugly gash across his knuckles.
‘You should get that dressed.’ Sir John came forward. ‘Ask Theobald Vavasour to take a look.’
Adam accompanied him out of the Salt Tower. The physician and Father Aylred were already moving among the corpses.
‘It’s nothing,’ Ralph whispered. ‘I can dress it myself.’
‘Nonsense.’ Adam seized him by the arm. ‘Marisa can do it. She’s up anyway and she’ll want to know the news.’
Ravenscroft was now bustling. Women and children came out to see what had happened as Adam led Ralph across into Midnight Tower.
The altar still stood there, the chalice and paten on a chair, the altar cloths neatly piled.
‘What happened?’ Adam asked.
‘Oh, Father Aylred thinks the place is haunted.’
Ralph was more aware of how painful his hand had become.
‘He celebrated a Mass.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all. Adam, I am sorry, but my hand hurts.’
Ralph followed Adam up the steps.
Marisa was waiting in their chamber: a large, oval-shaped room, comfortably furnished. Cloths and tapestries hung on the walls. In the centre was a large four-poster bed with blue and gold fringed curtains neatly tied back, the bolsters white and crisp. Everything was neat and tidy. Two braziers stood in the centre of the room. Beneath their metal caps the charcoal spluttered and sparked on the fragrant herbs Marisa had sprinkled there. She was sitting in the window seat clutching a dagger.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ her husband laughed. ‘The attack is over.’
Marisa threw the dagger down and raced across the room, wrapping her arms round Adam’s neck. She forgot all modesty and kissed him full on the lips.
Adam gently extricated himself. ‘If it hadn’t been for Ralph the castle would have been overrun. His hand is cut.’
Marisa immediately tended to it, telling her husband to fill the water bowl from the lavarium. She made Ralph sit on the edge of the bed and cleaned the wound with a rag.
‘It’s not too deep,’ she said. ‘Adam, bring me some of the salve Theobald gave us. I don’t know what is in this.’ Marisa gently rubbed the grease on the cut, making it smart. ‘But it will keep the wound from festering.’ Helped by Adam, she took a piece of linen and bound the wound carefully.
Ralph felt self-conscious. This was the nearest he had been to any woman since Beatrice had died. He could smell the perfume Beatrice had worn and he remembered he had given it all to Marisa shortly after Beatrice’s death.
‘You should rest, Ralph.’
Ralph stared across the chamber. On a small table beneath the crucifix were other jars of unguents and creams. Marisa followed his gaze.
‘I am sorry, Ralph,’ she whispered. ‘They must bring back memories.’
‘No, no, I’m glad I gave them to you.’ He grinned at Adam. ‘You are a very lucky man.’
‘And you are a very sad one.’
Ralph shrugged. ‘But not for long.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I’ll be gone soon.’ Ralph lifted his bandaged hand. ‘And don’t take offence, Adam, but I’ll be going alone. Ravenscroft has too many memories. It’s like being pricked time and again by a dagger.’ He got to his feet.
‘And Brythnoth’s cross?’ Adam asked.
Ralph shrugged. ‘I’ll give you the manuscripts. You find it.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Cambridge or Oxford.’ Ralph thanked Marisa, bade them good night and left.
He found Father Aylred in the vestibule collecting the chalice, paten and altar cloths. The priest looked more composed though he was still white-faced with dark rings under his eyes.
‘A sad night, eh, Ralph? Such foolishness. So many souls sent unshriven into the darkness.’
‘How many were killed?’ Ralph asked.
‘Five of the garrison and eleven assailants. One was in the moat, apparently too wounded for his friends to carry. The poor man died like a dog.’ He saw the bandage on Ralph’s hand. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Just a cut, Father. Do you need any help?’
The priest shook his head. ‘No, there’ll not be much sleep tonight at Ravenscroft and these cannot stay here. You are going to leave, aren’t you, Ralph?’
‘Yes, Father, I am, as soon as I can. I think Sir John will release me from my indentures.’
‘It’s well that you go, Ralph. There’s terrible evil here.’
‘Who brought it, Father?’
‘I don’t know.’ The priest sat down on the bench, placing the altar cloths in his lap. ‘Ravenscroft, until recently, was a quiet, happy place.’ He waved his hand. ‘True, this place was supposed to be haunted. But in a castle as old as Ravenscroft I suppose there’ll always be unquiet spirits.’
‘So what happened here during Mass?’ Ralph asked curiously.
‘I don’t know. But I can hazard a guess. There’s human weakness and misery, but real malice, planned evil is something different. It calls up the Lords of Hell. That’s what I felt. Not just the unquiet and troubled souls which may still lurk in the shadows but a real malignant presence. I ask myself, what would bring that here?’
‘And what answer did you get?’
‘Like is attracted to like, Ralph. One of us in this castle, as you know, has become a killer. Such evil would attract the attention of Hell.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘What happened tonight is nothing to what might be planned.
