‘Or, if you wish,’ the voice came as a whisper, ‘if you really want to, come towards the light.’
Beatrice took a step forward yet found she couldn’t go any further. Not because of any hindrance. She thought of Ralph, of her wedding day, of that walk along the lonely parapet and that dreadful blow to her head.
Spinning on her heel, Beatrice fled from the chapel, down the steps and out into the courtyard. She stopped there, agitated, troubled. She screamed, yet she knew in her heart of hearts that no one would hear her, no one could see her. Was this how it would be always? Locked here in this strange world for ever? Something caught her eye, a silver disc of light shimmered then disappeared.
Dark shapes thronged all about her. Thoughts came in rapid succession. She now had no problem with memories. Her mother and father had died when she was young but now she saw them clearly. Her mother’s kindly, plump face; her father, who had worked as a weaver, standing in the doorway of some house, a piece of fabric across his arms; the day she had met Ralph; people she had known as a child. It was as if she was alive in both the past and the present. Yet she wasn’t alive! She was here clothed in the attire she had put on this morning after she’d washed her hands and face. She could see the hem of her dress, the cuffs, the bracelets on her wrist but no one else could. She closed her eyes. Nothing but darkness! How long would such confusion last?
Beatrice was roused by a rattle of chains. A strange cavalcade was making its way through the gate, that terrible knight she had glimpsed earlier astride a great black warhorse. Its harness and saddle were of silver, edged with scarlet trimming. He was accompanied by a gaggle of riders dressed in animal pelts. They were drinking and cursing. Behind them a group of men, manacled and chained together, straggled across the castle yard which now seemed different. Buildings she was accustomed to had disappeared. The devilish cavalcade stopped. The knight dismounted. He issued orders in a tongue she did not understand. His voice was sharp and guttural. The prisoners were made to kneel and their wooden neck collars were removed. Beatrice watched in horror as the prisoners were forced down. The knight drew a great two-handed sword out of the scabbard hanging from his saddle horn. Beatrice screamed as he lifted the sword and, in one swift cut, decapitated a prisoner. He moved along the line like a gardener pruning flowers. Time and again that dreadful sword rose and fell. Heads bounced on to the cobbles, blood spouting. The cadavers stayed upright and then fell, jerking spasmodically.
‘Don’t!’ Beatrice screamed. ‘Oh, for the love of God, don’t!’
She ran across, intent on grasping the knight’s arm but again she clutched moonbeams. The knight kept cutting and slicing. The yard stank of the iron tang of blood. Beatrice looked up at the night sky.
‘What is this?’ she screamed. ‘I am dead and the living can’t see me! I am dead and those who have died can’t see me!’
Perhaps it was some dreadful nightmare. She ran up the steps leading to the parapet walk from which she had fallen. She reached the top. A soldier was standing on guard there. His dress was similar to that of the horrid spectre she had seen murdering the prisoners in the bailey below. She reached out but felt nothing. She clutched the crenellated battlements and stared over. The castle wall was bathed in a strange bronze light. Horror piled upon horror! Corpses were hanging in chains from the battlements. She ran along the parapet walk. The door to the tower was open. The young man she had glimpsed before was standing there smiling at her.
‘Go carefully!’ he warned.
Beatrice ignored him. She stood on the edge of the parapet and stared down. The hideous execution scene had disappeared. The yard was as she’d known it; the blue cloth was still spread over the grass. Adam and Marisa were standing by the keep door. They were joined by Father Aylred. A messenger left, spurring his horse towards the barbican. A wild thought seized Beatrice. She was dreaming and to prove it she would jump from the parapet and before she hit the ground she would wake up in her little cot bed above the taproom in the Golden Tabard. She would cry out. Aunt Catherine would come hurrying in to embrace her and tell her not to worry about horrid nightmares.
Beatrice felt the cold night air on her face. She spread her arms like a bird taking flight and launched herself into the darkness. She reached the cobbles. No pain, no flesh-juddering impact, no taste of blood spilling into her mouth, no last dying moments. It was as if she had taken a small step.
‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
She spun round. A young man stood there. He had blond hair, a smooth face, and was dressed exquisitely in a short cote-hardie, lined and trimmed with fur, parti-coloured hose and a rather exaggerated codpiece. On his feet were long pointed shoes, the toes curled back and fastened to garters below his knee. In one hand he carried a chaperon, and a brocaded dagger sheath hung from his silver belt. He was sniffing at a pomander, red in colour and decorated with gold and silver thread.
‘Who are you?’
The young man smiled. He was beautiful, like a courtier who had passed through Maldon on his way to Westminster some months ago. That visitor to the Golden Tabard had arrogant eyes and a petulant mouth. This young man was friendly, smiling, the lips open to reveal white, even teeth. He walked closer. She could smell the fragrance of his clothes. He offered her the pomander. She didn’t take it but caught a perfume like roses crushed in fresh water.
‘Who are you?’ she repeated. ‘Where am I? Can you please help me, sir?’ A silver disc shimmered on the edge of her vision.
‘You are Beatrice Arrowner. You died in a fall from the parapet wall.’
‘I know that!’ Beatrice snapped. ‘But what has happened? I saw a knight dark and hideous. He was here in the yard slaughtering men. A great mastiff hurled itself at me. Look!’ She pointed at the dark shapes flitting around her.
‘Just phantasms,’ the young man replied.
‘Who are you?’ she insisted.
‘Oh, quite petulant, aren’t we? Fiery-tempered Beatrice. My name, well, you can call me Crispin.’
‘Are you a ghost, Crispin?’
‘I am what you see, Beatrice. I am what you want me to be.’
Beatrice felt uneasy. Crispin was standing there like some beautiful Christ statue in church but the night around him seemed darker, denser; the silver disc had disappeared.
‘I did not die,’ she blurted, suddenly angry. ‘I was murdered!’
‘I know,’ said Crispin smoothly.
‘And do you also know who is responsible?’
He shook his head. ‘If I did, Beatrice, I’d tell you. So, what do you think of it, Beatrice, eh? Not yet eighteen summers old and snatched out of life. No Ralph, no wedding day, no warm embrace or sweet kisses.’
‘Where is Ralph?’ Beatrice asked.
Crispin pointed to the Lion Tower. ‘He’s in his chamber. He’s drunk deeply, Beatrice. He thinks wine will ease the pain, and perhaps it will. In time he will forget you. It could have been so different, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ Her voice came out as a snarl, so sharp, so hate-filled, even she was surprised.
‘And what about Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine? Those poor guardians who regarded you as their only child? Riven with grief, they are.’ Crispin sniffed at the pomander. ‘What a waste,’ he whispered. He glanced mice-eyed at her. ‘Do you want vengeance, Beatrice? I can help you.’ He stepped a little closer, his light-blue eyes full of kindness, red lips parted.
Impulsively Beatrice stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. She felt strange, on the one hand attracted to this beautiful young man, on the other, troubled by the hate his words stirred up in her.
‘I’ll give you another thought,’ Crispin whispered. ‘And listen to me now. Were you the real victim?’
‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.
‘Think about it. Just think.’ His words came in a hiss.
‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
She whirled round. The merry-faced man she had glimpsed earlier was sitting, cross-legged, on the blue cloth.
‘Come away, Beatrice,’ he murmured. ‘Ralph is crying.’
‘Oh, ignore him!’ Crispin retorted. ‘He’s a liar and a thief!’
Beatrice stepped back. She was being so selfish. Ralph was crying. She should comfort him. As she moved away, Crispin’s eyes turned hard.
