across the cemetery. She had played here as a child. Now it was full of forms and shapes. Piteous cries rang out like those of wild geese in autumn. Beatrice hurried on, fearful of being caught by the likes of Etheldreda.
She reached the high street, pleased to be in familiar surroundings. There was Thurston the weaver’s house, Walter the brewer’s and the Pot of Thyme, an alehouse of ill repute despite its name. Its shutters were thrown open, lights, song and chatter broke the darkness. Beatrice paused. She was unsure if she was seeing things as they were or other visions of the night. The door opened and Goodman Winthrop lurched out, swaying on his feet, one arm round a tavern wench, the other pushing down her dirty, low-cut bodice, fondling her breasts as he tried to kiss her. The wench shrieked with laughter and led him on. Goodman Winthrop’s belly was full of ale. If it hadn’t been for his companion, he would have fallen flat on his face. Beatrice watched them go up the street. The man was a fool. He was a tax collector yet he’d come unguarded into the village to sup among his enemies. Did he think that on May Day memories faded? Alarmed, Beatrice followed the swaying couple. Now and again they’d stop so Goodman Winthrop could steady himself.
‘Be careful, sir!’ Beatrice called.
The darkness around Goodman Winthrop was deeper than the night. She ran up behind him. Goodman was whispering obscenities into the wench’s ear, trying to persuade her to return with him to the castle. She was acting the reluctant maid. Beatrice felt both sad and responsible. Goodman Winthrop should have been invited to their feast. After all, he was a guest at Ravenscroft. He must have witnessed their celebrations as well as those in the town and become morose, letting wine and ill judgement get the better of his wit. They stopped beneath an apothecary’s sign.
‘Come back with me,’ Winthrop slurred.
The young woman giggled.
‘I have silver there,’ the tax collector rasped. ‘Silver that will delight your heart if you lift your petticoats.’
The young woman led him on. Beatrice followed, now seriously alarmed, her own troubles forgotten. They came to the mouth of an alleyway. The wench freed herself and stood back. Goodman turned, arms outstretched.
‘Come here!’ He swayed on his feet. ‘Come to Goodman!’
The two men who stepped out of the mouth of the alleyway were masked and cowled but the long blades they carried winked in the night. Beatrice screamed but it made no difference. Goodman’s assailants were upon him. He fell to his knees, a knife in his back, blood spurting out of his mouth. He was seized by his scrawny hair and his exposed throat slit from ear to ear. He collapsed on the muddy cobbles, coughing and spluttering on the blood pouring from his mouth. The wench and the two assassins fled into the blackness of the alleyway.
Beatrice crouched beside the corpse and stared in astonishment. Goodman was dead, his cadaver had stopped twitching. He lay, eyes open and then he was standing up, separate and distinct, the same as had happened to her. He patted his jerkin, his hand going to the dagger in his belt.
‘What is the matter?’ He saw Beatrice staring at him. He took a step forward. ‘What is the matter?’ he cried. ‘I lie there, yet I am here!’
Beatrice was frightened. She was aware of a terrible stench like that of a slaughterhouse. Goodman staggered towards her and then suddenly stopped, terrified. A dark shield had appeared beside him. Another to his left. One above his head. The shields clustered into a great dark opening, a yawning cave, and out of this poured armed and mailed men, their armour black, their surcoats trimmed blood-red. One of them glared at Beatrice. His helmet was empty, except for eyes which glowed like fiery charcoal. Goodman screamed as these strange apparitions seized him and dragged him into the black opening. Then they were gone. The street was silent and empty except for Goodman Winthrop’s corpse lying on the cobbles in an ever widening pool of blood.
Beatrice hurried on. She did not want to see or experience anything else. She passed a fleshers’ yard and, before she realised it, was in the herb garden behind the Golden Tabard. She walked through the wall into the deserted taproom. The tables and stools had been cleared away and the candles doused. Only a night-light, capped in the lantern horn, stood on the empty hearth. She heard the sound of weeping and went up the stairs to a small chamber which served as the parlour. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Robert were sitting in the window seat, arms round each other. Aunt Catherine’s sweet face was damp with tears. Uncle Robert, barely able to cope with his own grief, sat and patted her gently on the shoulder.
‘I want to go there.’ Aunt Catherine got to her feet. ‘We shouldn’t let her corpse lie cold and alone.’
‘It is the dead of night,’ Uncle Robert replied gently. ‘Beatrice would have understood. Her body is in good hands. Sir John Grasse will show her honour, and Father Aylred always praised her.’
‘I went up to her chamber,’ Aunt Catherine said, her voice catching. ‘I found a garland of flowers on her bed. She must have intended to wear it this morning but she was in such a hurry, so eager to see Ralph, so determined not to be late.’ Aunt Catherine put her face in her hands and sobbed. The sight of her generous- hearted aunt, loving as any mother, sitting there sobbing, her body shaking with grief, and Uncle Robert, ever practical, now not knowing what to do, was too much for Beatrice. She kissed each on the brow. ‘If I could I’d break through,’ she said from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’d tell you not to mourn, not to grieve.’ And she turned and went down the stairs, out across the moon-washed garden into the high street.
She wandered aimlessly, staring at the things she had taken for granted only a few hours earlier. At the end of the high street a light was burning in a rear window. This was Elizabeth Lockyer’s cottage, a good-hearted old woman who made simples and herb poultices for those who could not afford the fees of physicians, leeches or apothecaries. A few weeks earlier Elizabeth herself had fallen ill and her life was despaired of. Now Beatrice went into the cottage and up into the bed loft to see how she was.
Elizabeth Lockyer lay with her head back against a dirty bolster, her grey hair soaked in sweat. She was alone and undoubtedly at death’s door. Her skin was tight, eyelids fluttering, mouth open. She feebly stretched out a hand to reach for a cup of water but knocked it over. The water soaked the dirty horse blanket.
‘All alone,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, all alone.’
How often this old woman had gone out in the middle of the night to tend to a sick child or an expectant mother. Now she was dying in this shabby, ill-smelling bed loft without the comfort of even a priest. Beatrice crouched beside the thin straw bed. She tried to grasp the old woman’s vein-streaked hand and wipe her brow. Elizabeth opened her eyes, staring up at her, smiling.
‘Is it you, Beatrice? Beatrice Arrowner? I have had such strange dreams.’ The words came in a rasp. ‘You’re a fine girl,’ the old woman whispered. ‘Always generous. It’s good of you to come. Won’t you wait, just for a while?’
‘I am here,’ Beatrice replied, wondering if the old woman could hear her. She crouched, the silence broken only by mice scrabbling in the corner. The end came quickly. The death rattle in the old woman’s throat grew stronger, the breathing more rapid, then Elizabeth gave a great sigh and lay still.
Beatrice stared down at the corpse. Would the same thing happen as with Goodman Winthrop? She felt a blast of heat. One of the golden spheres she had seen in the castle chapel appeared out of the darkness. It spun, turning and twisting above the corpse, and grew larger. Elizabeth Lockyer’s spirit, looking the same as she did on her death bed, rose. The old woman was bewildered, dazed. As she stared in confusion, the sphere of light enveloped her. It was peopled by young men and women dressed in pale green and gold, laughing and talking. Beatrice watched fascinated. The young men and women spoke to Elizabeth. Beatrice could tell by the gestures of their hands, their smiles, the way their sapphire-blue eyes twinkled that they were reassuring her and offering her comfort.
Elizabeth grew less agitated; her back straightened, the lines and wrinkles disappeared from her face, and as the years receded her hair grew longer, rich and black. The old, threadbare gown was also transmuted as this alchemy took place. Beatrice called out. Elizabeth turned and smiled but one of the figures came between her and Beatrice. The golden sphere rose, growing smaller, full of blazing light before it abruptly disappeared. Beatrice, standing alone in a tawdry chamber above a raddled, sweat-soaked corpse, felt a profound sense of desolation. Why was this happening? Had she been condemned? But what had she done in life? What wrong had she committed? Even Father Aylred had chuckled in amusement when she had gone to be shriven. ‘Petty faults, Beatrice,’ he had murmured. ‘They make God laugh more than weep.’
Beatrice resisted the surge of fury which threatened to overtake her. She had never been prone to feel sorry for herself yet here she was, plucked from life by some foul assassin and cast adrift in this grey world. She was
