stand with them. Ralph was leaning over her body, shaking his head. He tried to clutch her but Father Aylred gently blocked him.
‘She’s dead, Ralph. God save her, she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.’
Theobald had his hand pressed against her neck then felt her wrist, searching for the blood pulse. Beatrice was filled with horror.
‘I am not dead!’ she called. ‘I’m here!’
Her words echoed strangely across the bailey.
‘I’m not dead!’ she cried. ‘I’m here! I love Ralph! We are going to be married!’
‘She must have fallen,’ Adam said. ‘She probably went up to the parapet walk to look for Ralph.’
Ralph had his face in his hands. ‘I went to my chamber,’ he murmured. ‘I had a May Day present for her.’ He took his hands away, fumbled in his pouch and brought out a small brooch carved in the shape of a griffin. It was silver and studded with tiny glass stones.
‘Oh, but it’s beautiful,’ Beatrice murmured. She stretched out her hand but her fingers couldn’t clutch the brooch. It was like a dream in which she watched herself walk, talk, eat and drink.
‘She must have stumbled on the parapet,’ Sir John said. ‘Poor child, no one could survive such a fall. Theobald, Father Aylred, Adam, let’s take her up to the chapel. You,’ he gestured at Beardsmore who stood a short way off, ‘did you see anything untoward?’
‘No, sir. We heard a cry and saw something fall, a blur against the night.’
‘We’ll let her lie before the altar in the chapel,’ Father Aylred agreed.
‘I’ll dress the corpse for burial,’ Lady Anne offered. ‘I’ll wash her poor body, dress her in one of my gowns.’
‘It’s summer.’ Father Aylred patted Ralph on the shoulder. ‘I’ll sing the Requiem Mass tomorrow. We have no choice, Ralph. She must be buried as soon as possible.’
Ralph wasn’t listening, he was in shock, his face pallid, his mouth open, a drool of saliva running down his chin. Marisa came and put her arm round his waist.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come to the kitchens, I’ll give you some malt wine.’
‘I want to…’
‘No, it’s best if you don’t, Ralph.’ Father Aylred was firm.
Beatrice could stand this no longer. She was dreaming! Yet how could she be? She could see them. When she wanted she could smell the midden, look up at the sky, feel the breeze, but it was as if she was divided from them by a wall of thick but lucidly clear glass. Whatever she did, whatever she said made no impact.
They were gently picking up her body on a makeshift bier, a cloth slung between two poles. Now she looked as if she was sleeping. Someone had closed her eyes. Beatrice gave a loud scream and sank to the cobbles. All she could think of was Ralph. All she wanted was to hold his hand and tell him how much she loved him, how she wanted to be his wife and they would live for ever. Now that was all gone. They were walking away as if she was no more.
‘Oh Jesus miserere!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Lord Jesus, Holy Mary! How can I be dead?’ The souls of the departed, weren’t they whisked off to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory? Isn’t that what Father Aylred had preached? Yet nothing had changed. She was in life but not of it.
Beatrice got to her feet and breathed in. She laughed. If she was dead why did she need air? I want to be warm, she thought, and became aware of heat, as if she was standing before the roaring fire in the taproom of the Golden Tabard. Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine! I must tell them.
Beatrice ran across the cobbles but her feet made no sound. She found she could move, as in a dream, and not stop for rest. A man on horseback rode out of the stables. She halted, terrified the horse was going to crash into her, but both horse and rider passed on. She felt nothing. Beatrice looked over her shoulder and again became aware of that strange bronze light as if everything was tainted with a copper tinge. The green had changed. A gallows stood where the blue cloth had been spread for their feast earlier in the day; from the rope hung a decomposing cadaver, neck awry, hands tied behind its back. Beatrice screamed. A knight came galloping across the cobbles. A terrible vision of armour and horseflesh. Beneath the conical nose guard, Beatrice glimpsed cruel eyes, a drooping moustache, twisted mouth. He wore chain mail and leggings, not like any knight or soldier Beatrice had ever seen. Other changes were taking place. Spheres of golden light moved backwards and forwards, silver discs sparkled, circling the castle bailey like bubbles sprung from warm soapy water. There was a table she hadn’t seen before. On it lay a white skeleton, its bones picked clean, the skull hanging awry. Dark shapes scurried around.
Beatrice felt frightened. If she was dead then she Lord Jesus would help her. The castle yard was the same yet it wasn’t. Shadows were moving in and out of doorways. She moved towards the steps of the keep then paused. A young man was walking towards her. Despite the night she could make out his features: round-faced, smooth-shaven, merry mouth and laughing eyes. He was dressed in an old-fashioned cote-hardie which fell to his knees, a war belt strapped round his waist. His hair was oily and combed back. He walked with a swagger, and as he passed he smiled and winked.
‘Be careful!’ he whispered then strode on.
Beatrice whirled round. The figure disappeared in the gathering darkness. So, she thought, some people can see me. She stared up at the parapet.
‘I didn’t fall,’ she murmured. She touched the side of her head. ‘I was struck.’
She jumped as a great mastiff, with fiery eyes and slavering jaws, came bounding up to her. She stood transfixed in terror as the beast leapt, only to pass through her, racing into the night. She hurried up towards the door of the keep, moving so fast she didn’t realise until it had happened that she had gone through the door without opening it. She was standing at the foot of the spiral staircase leading up to the chapel.
Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘I really am dead,’ she murmured.
She opened her mouth and gave the most hideous, heart-rending scream. She waited. Those in the chapel above must have heard her. Someone would come running down the steps. But they didn’t. Again she screamed like a soul in mortal agony.
‘Who are you?’
Beatrice whirled round. She gazed in dread at the gargoyle figure before her. He was tall, well over two yards high, with a bulbous, grotesque face, cheeks pitted and scarred, eyes thin and glittering under a mop of dirty red hair. A broad, leather belt circled his swollen stomach, and from it hung keys and a dagger. The high-heeled boots he wore were spurred.
‘I’m dreaming,’ she murmured, stepping back.
‘Ye not be dreaming!’ The man stood, head slightly cocked. ‘If ye can see Black Malkyn, then ye not be dreaming! Ye be dead!’ His hideous smile disappeared as a dreadful scream pierced the night.
‘What was that?’ Beatrice demanded.
‘That be Lady Johanna.’ His face became sad. ‘Like you, like me, one of the Incorporeals.’
And he was gone, walking through the wall, spurs clinking, heading towards Midnight Tower. Beatrice climbed the stairs. She could do this effortlessly; there was no need to stop to catch her breath. As she turned a corner, following the spiral staircase up, what looked like a monk in a dirty grey robe passed her. She glimpsed white, pinched features though he seemed unaware of her.
Beatrice entered the chapel. Her corpse now lay in a casket just within the door of the rood screen. Father Aylred was kneeling in prayers. There was no sign of the others. Beatrice approached her corpse. In the light of the flickering candles, the face looked pallid, the horrid gash vivid in the side of her head. Beatrice glanced up at the pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament. Surely, if she was dead, the good Lord Jesus would help.
She went towards the sanctuary steps, intending to grasp the pyx, but the spheres of light, those circles of fiery light which she’d glimpsed in the courtyard below, sprang up all around her. They came together, forming an impenetrable wall between her and the altar. She pressed against them. She felt warm and happy. She caught a beautiful fragrance like the most costly pefume. A sound of singing, children laughing. She wanted to go through this wall of light but she couldn’t. She stared at it and became aware of faces within the spheres of light. Children’s faces, small, beautifully formed, hair framing silver cheeks, eyes like sapphires. Again she pressed but the heat became so intense she had to stand back.
‘Go no further!’ A voice spoke from this wall of gold. ‘Go no further till your appointed time!’
Beatrice paused.
