An hour later they clattered into the village. The high street was fairly deserted. Stalls and booths had not been set up. Peasants and cottagers were still making their way out to the fields. They stopped and looked surly-eyed at the mailed men from the castle. The Pot of Thyme was shuttered and closed. Beardsmore kicked at the door until a haggard-faced serving girl answered.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was surly.
Beardsmore shoved her aside and walked in. He dug into his pouch, took out Sir John’s writ and, finding a nail in one of the supporting posts, pushed the commission onto it.
‘Right!’ He started kicking away stools and tables. ‘Where’s the taverner?’
‘I’m here, Beardsmore.’ A small, grey-faced man with greasy black hair stepped out of the scullery behind the wine vats. He wiped dirty fingers on a leather apron and stood, legs apart, as if to show he was not frightened of this show of force. ‘What do you want?’
Beardsmore pointed to the commission.
‘I can’t read but I can see the seal.’ The taverner’s heavylidded glance moved to Ralph. ‘You’re here about Goodman Winthrop, aren’t you?’
‘You were always quick of wit, Master Taylis,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘Goodman Winthrop was a tax collector and the King’s official. He was found stabbed, his corpse left on the high
road.’ He pointed to the hour candle. ‘Before noon he will be buried in the castle cemetery.’
‘Quite a few deaths in the castle,’ The taverner remarked.
Ralph would have stepped forward but Beardsmore held him back.
‘What happens in the castle, Master Taylis, is none of your business. However, it is our business what happens in your tavern.’
‘Goodman Winthrop wasn’t killed here.’
‘He was seen drinking here. We also have it on good report that he left with a wench. I want to speak to her.’
‘I don’t know who she is. Some wandering whore who stopped in the village.’
‘If that’s the way you wish to dance, Master Taverner,’ Beardsmore snapped, ‘then dance you will!’
He drew his two-handed sword and walked towards the taverner who quickly stepped back. Ralph was too surprised to intervene. The sword came up in one great cutting arc and sliced down into the wooden wine vat. It splintered and cracked, its contents splashing out.
‘For the love of God!’ Taylis roared. His hand went to the knife beneath his apron.
One of the archers brought up his arbalest and released the bolt which whistled above the taverner’s head to bury itself deep in the plaster.
‘That’s good burgundy!’ Taylis bellowed. ‘It cost seven pounds!’
‘Before I’m finished it’s going to cost you more.’
‘You can’t!’
Beardsmore was already stepping forward, sword level, ready to strike at a second vat. ‘Goodman Winthrop,’ he declared, ‘was a royal official. He drank in this tavern. He left here with a wench. He was murdered. To refuse to help the Crown apprehend his assassins is treason.’ He spread his feet, balancing his sword. ‘When you are sent to Newgate in London to stand trial before the King’s Bench, Master
Taylis, who will care about your vats of wine? They’ll be Crown property anyway.’ The sword came up.
‘No!’ Taylis shrieked. ‘Eleanora!’
‘Eleanora? Never heard of her.’ Beardsmore raised his sword higher.
‘Stay there!’ Taylis ran back into the scullery.
They heard shouts and screams. Taylis came back grasping a young, greasy-haired slattern by the shoulder. She was dressed in a dark-brown smock which was two sizes too short for her and emphasised her swelling breasts and broad hips. One of the archers whistled provocatively. The girl turned and spat in Taylis’s face but the taverner forced her to her knees in front of Beardsmore. The sergeant-at-arms crouched down, jabbed his finger under her chin and lifted her head.
‘You’re a buxom wench, Eleanora. How would you like to visit the castle? There are dungeons beneath the moat, full of rats, they are. Worse than you’ll ever find at the Pot of Thyme.’ He grinned at the taverner. ‘Of course some of the lads here can keep you company but not for long. You’ll stand trial before Sir John Grasse. He will prove that you had a hand in Winthrop’s death. The least you can expect is to hang, which takes some time – the rope tightens round your neck like a cord round a sack, tighter and tighter until you’ve got no breath left.’
The girl’s face went slack with fear.
‘Then again,’ Beardsmore went on ‘you might have to face the full rigours of treason. If that happens, you could be hanged and then dismembered. No, no, I’m wrong.’ He teasingly tapped his head. ‘You’re a woman, you could burn.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Eleanora whimpered.
‘But you drank with him, yes?’
The girl nodded.
‘And you left the tavern with him?’
Again a nod.
‘And what happened then?’
‘He wanted me to go back to the castle that night. So I left him and ran back here.’
‘Is that true, Master Taverner?’
Taylis gazed back, bleak-eyed.
‘You see, Eleanora,’ said Beardsmore. ‘That’s what happens when you lie, particularly about treason. No one wants to get involved. Now, what I’ll do is arrest the whole tavern, everyone who was here that night, including Master Taylis. I’ll ask them all one question: did you come back.’
Taylis regained his wits. ‘Of course she did.’
‘And then what did she do?’ Beardsmore didn’t wait for an answer but got to his feet, dragging the girl with him. ‘Eleanora, I am placing you under arrest.’
The girl threw herself about but the archers seized her, handling her roughly. Ralph shouted that they were not to abuse her. The archers looked at Beardsmore who nodded.
‘Master Taylis, I shall return.’ Beardsmore raised his voice. ‘I do hope no one leaves. If I can’t find certain people because they’ve suddenly discovered they have business in Chelmsford or Colchester, I’ll know they are my suspects.’
They bundled Eleanora out of the tavern. One of the archers put her up on his horse. The cavalcade mounted and left, going back along the high street. Ralph felt sorry for the girl but knew that Beardsmore was correct. She had probably been the lure, a ploy to take Goodman Winthrop out into the dark to be killed, and the law would have its way.
He did not like what he saw as their horses trotted up the cobbled high street. Rumours were rife about how castles had been attacked elsewhere in Essex and Kent, royal officials wounded, even murdered. Ralph realised that Sir John Grasse had made a serious mistake: the people of Maldon were plotting rebellion. He could tell that from the hateful looks, the way women turned away, slamming doors and shutters. And as they left the village, a clod of earth narrowly missed Ralph’s head.
‘There’ll be trouble before long,’ said Beardsmore grimly.
Ralph pulled his horse back so as to protect Eleanora from the salacious jibes and pokes of the escorting archers. Once
they were clear of the town, Beardsmore reined in, dismounted and dragged Eleanora from the saddle. He cut her bonds and took her away from the rest, indicating that Ralph should join them. They walked along the trackway and stopped under sycamore tree.
‘Look, mistress,’ Beardsmore said kindly, ‘I no more wish to see you hang than I would my own sister.’
The tavern wench stared dourly back. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, pawing at her dusty skirt.
‘Not what you think,’ Beardsmore said drily. ‘But I can protect you. I do not want to see your pretty neck twisted. I want to arrest the nimble jacks who killed Goodman Winthrop. I’ll tell you what will really happen. You’ll be taken to the castle, Sir John will keep you until the royal commissioners arrive. Then the merry jig will begin. They won’t care about who you are or where you are from. They will regard you as a hungry mastiff would a piece of meat.’
Eleanora’s courage deserted her, her shoulder’s sagged and she muttered, ‘I can name them. And I can also tell you why.’
‘Why what?’ Beardsmore asked, glancing in puzzlement at Ralph.
‘I hate the castle,’ she replied.
Beardsmore was growing impatient. ‘Woman, what are you talking about?’
Ralph looked back down the trackway. The archers were laughing and talking among themselves. It was turning into a dull grey afternoon. The countryside lay quiet, even the birds had ceased their chirping. Up ahead he could see the towers and crenellated walls of Ravenscroft. He became distracted; his father had once told him how he could judge the date of a hedge by the number and different species of trees it contained. If that was the case, this must be the same hedge Cerdic had passed when he had fled from the battle at Blackwater. Ralph shook himself from his reverie.
‘I was sweet on Fulk,’ Eleanora was saying. ‘He’s the miller’s son.’
Beardsmore nodded. ‘He has disappeared, hasn’t he?’
‘It’s not that,’ Eleanora replied. She scratched at the sweat on her neck with blackened nails and glanced sideways at Ralph. ‘We saw murder, we did.’
Beardsmore grasped her by the shoulder. ‘What murder?’
‘The castle wench, Phoebe. We were in Devil’s Spinney.’ Eleanora now smiled slyly as if she sensed the tables were turned. ‘Me and Fulk, lying there in the long grass, hidden in the dusk. Fulk became afeared; he raised himself up. “Hush,” he whispered. “Someone’s coming!” I thought he was teasing but he grabbed me by the arms.’ She grinned. ‘I couldn’t get up because my shift was all awry so we lay and watched. A dark shape came through the trees. He was carrying a bundle, cords wrapped round it. He put the bundle down.’
‘How do you know it was a man?’ Beardsmore interrupted.
‘I don’t. Whoever it was was dressed like a monk, in a long robe and cowl. Fulk said the figure wore a mask. Anyway, the cords were cut, the bundle unrolled. Fulk whispered it was the corpse of a young woman.’
‘And then?’ Beardsmore asked, still gripping her shoulders.
‘Fulk said he wanted to see who it was. He went over to the edge of the spinney and watched this mysterious intruder go back towards the castle.’
‘Didn’t you think of raising the alarm?’ Ralph asked.
‘Why should we? Fulk was frightened that we’d get the blame.’
‘Did he see who it was?’
‘He thought he knew but he wasn’t certain and wouldn’t answer my questions. The following evening Fulk’s father came to the tavern. He said his son had left early for Ravenscroft and had not returned.’ Eleanora’s eyes became hard. ‘That’s why I hate the castle, and so do the townspeople. We heard about Phoebe, Fulk went to the castle and then he disappeared.’
‘I’ve heard enough.’ Beardsmore growled and, pushing the girl before him, they went back to their horses.
Ralph attended Sir John Grasse’s council meeting held that afternoon in the castle solar. Eleanora had been confined to one of the dungeons in Bowyer Tower with a guard placed outside. Sir John, his wife Lady Anne, Theobald Vavasour, Father Aylred, Adam and Marisa, Beardsmore and himself gathered round the wooden, oval table in the Constable’s private quarters. Lady Anne tried to lighten the atmosphere, serving goblets of chilled white wine and small trays of sweetmeats. They all listened as Beardsmore delivered his report. Before Sir John could respond, Father Aylred, agitated and anxious, sprang to his feet. He was unshaven, eyes red-rimmed; Ralph secretly wondered if the hideous events of the previous night had disturbed his wits.
‘I am a priest, Sir John, dedicated to the care of souls. I do believe something very wicked has entered this castle.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir John interrupted impatiently. ‘Of that we are certain. Phoebe’s death, the attack on Master Ralph, the disappearance of Fulk. The facts speak for themselves.’
‘No, no, I talk of other things,’ the priest said hurriedly. ‘Ralph and I have been to Midnight Tower.’
‘Ah, yes. You told me about that. The tower has always had an evil reputation.’
‘But the phantasms, the phenomena!’ the priest cried, rubbing the side of his face.
‘Father.’ Ralph got up, came round and gently eased him back into his chair. ‘The evil we face is of human origin,
and it is human wit and good counselling that will reveal the truth.’
The priest calmed down and Ralph returned to his chair.
‘Sir John, if I may speak?’
The Constable nodded.
‘We have had a number of strange occurrences here,’ Ralph began, ‘but logic and reason can untangle any mystery.’
The others stared owlishly at him, except Adam, who winked mischievously.
‘Ever the clerk, eh, Ralph?’
‘Yes, Adam, ever the clerk. We know Phoebe was alive last Monday afternoon. We have established that her corpse was found in Devil’s Spinney the following Tuesday, yes?’
They all agreed.
‘We know that the wench Eleanora and her young lover Fulk were in those woods when Phoebe’s corpse was taken there. Accordingly, Phoebe must have been killed some time late on Monday afternoon, here in the castle, her corpse was wrapped in a sheet, bound with cords and taken out to Devil’s Spinney by her assassin.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ Beardsmore cried. ‘I was on guard duty at the barbican. No one passed me carrying such a bundle: I would have seen it. We have both checked the postern gate. It has not been opened for years.’
‘Sir John,’ said Ralph, ‘is there a secret passageway out of this castle?’
The Constable shook his head. ‘If there was, Ralph, I’d know. And how can there be? The moat is deep, any passageway would have to go under it so it’s nigh impossible.’
‘Why?’ Marisa asked.
‘Because,’ Adam replied languidly, ‘the water would seep through any man-made structure and flood the tunnel.’
Ralph sipped his wine and took another piece of marchpane from the plate. ‘Nonetheless, what I have said is true. How the assassin left carrying the corpse must, for the time being,
remain a mystery.’ He pulled a face. ‘So, my next question is, what were we all doing that Monday afternoon?’
‘I was in my chamber,’ Theobald answered quickly. ‘I never left there, not till the bell rang for supper. I was studying the innards of a rat.’ There were cries of disgust. ‘I read in a treatise from Italy,’ he explained, ‘that the innards of a rat, dried and ground to powder, are a veritable cure for certain skin diseases.’
‘Did anyone visit you there?’ Sir John asked.
The physician shook his head.
‘No one would dare go there,’ Lady Anne said tartly. ‘Such smells and odours!’
The others also gave an account of themselves. Few could offer any witnesses except Adam who had been going through the list of stores in the castle with Marisa. ‘We were there all afternoon,’ he concluded.
‘And I can vouch for that,’ Sir John declared. ‘I heard your voice, and Marisa’s. As for myself, I dined here in the hall then I went for a sleep.’
‘Whilst I,’ Lady Anne pointed to the spinning wheel near the window seat, ‘read a little and worked on the wheel. You came over, Father. You asked if you could borrow some candlesticks for the altar.’
The priest picked at a stain on his robe. ‘True, I was in my chapel, cleaning the sacred vessels.’ He flailed his hands in despair. ‘Master Ralph, what is the use of all this?’
‘And you?’ Ralph asked the sergeant-at-arms.
‘I dined with Sir John,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘And then I did my guard duty. I stayed with the other lads in the barbican.’
Ralph ran his thumbnail round his lips. ‘Sir John, we do have one loose thread: Fulk the miller’s son. From what Eleanora has told us, Fulk may have recognised the person who carried Phoebe’s corpse into the spinney. He must have come to the castle and demanded to see someone.’
‘That could be very easily established. Wait there.’ Beardsmore hurriedly left the solar, clattering down the stairs.
Sir John took advantage of the break to order the wine cups to be refilled. He loudly speculated on what they should do with their new prisoner. ‘There is no doubt,’ he announced, eager to assert his authority, ‘that the tavern slattern had a hand in Goodman Winthrop’s death. But what can we do? Put her to the torture? We have enough discontent in Maldon.’
‘Keep her safe,’ Ralph replied. ‘Wait for the commissioners to arrive from London. Let them take responsibility.’
Sir John nodded. ‘Adam, when this is finished, go down to Maldon, tell the taverner Taylis that Eleanora will be kept safe and secure. We will not harm a hair on her head. I just wish this business was finished.’ He looked at Aylred. ‘Father, I regret my sharp words earlier. Perhaps you could say a Mass in Midnight Tower and give the place a blessing.’
The priest agreed.
Ralph was studying Theobald, who appeared agitated. Of all the people present, he was the most solitary and most secretive. Ralph glanced at Adam and Marisa sitting hand in hand. Marisa was staring adoringly at her husband. Ralph felt a tug at his heart and tried to curb his envy at their closeness. They heard footsteps and Beardsmore strode back into the chamber.
‘I’ve made inquiries among the guards.’ He shook his head. ‘So many people come in and out of the castle, Sir John. One guard thinks he may have seen Fulk coming here early on Tuesday morning but Phoebe’s corpse had yet to be discovered. No one was stopped or challenged.’
Sir John put his cup down. ‘We’ve done what we can.’
Ralph was angry and disappointed at the lack of new information the meeting had produced. ‘There’s an assassin in the castle.’ he said heatedly. ‘He or she killed without mercy. The assassin could well be in this chamber.’ He got to his feet, kicking the chair back. ‘I would warn you all to be most careful.’
He was halfway across the bailey when Beardsmore caught up with him.
‘Master Ralph, do you trust me?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘If the killer is in this castle then he or she must be someone in authority.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, clerk, look around. Can you imagine any of the archers or the men-at-arms, the cooks, the scullions, the servants taking such pains over the disposing of poor Phoebe’s corpse? She wasn’t killed in some kitchen fight or because an archer wanted to ruffle her skirts. She was killed for something else. Something she saw or heard. Whoever it was managed to find a secret way out with the corpse. Everyone at that meeting will go back to their chambers and start to think.’
‘And you don’t want the finger of suspicion pointed at you.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Beardsmore tightened his war belt. ‘I have to check certain matters. Meet me at the barbican within the hour.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away.
Ralph remembered Eleanora and crossed to Bowyer Tower. He opened the door and went down the steps. The dungeons consisted of three cells off a passageway built into the base of the tower. They were well-swept and clean, usually reserved for stores. Two archers now sat across the passage playing dice, a jug of ale and some beakers on the ground beside them. Pitch torches flickered in the darkness. From the middle cell came the sound of crooning.
‘She’s happy enough,’ one of the archers declared as Ralph squatted beside him. The fellow wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘More comfortable than we are.’
‘And you don’t trouble her?’
The archer shook his head. ‘Master Beardsmore was most insistent. She’s to be kept warm and plump for the royal commissioners.’
‘I would like to speak to her.’
The archer pocketed his dice, got to his feet and took a key from a hook in the wall. He opened the door and ushered Ralph in.
Eleanora was comfortable enough; the cell was clean, fresh grass had been cut and strewn on the floor. She had a cot bed with a bolster and blankets, a table, stool, a shelf for cups and jugs; even a small crucifix hung from one of the window bars high in the wall. The tavern wench was sitting in the corner, knees up, making a doll out of straw she had pulled from the mattress.
‘You are well, Mistress?’
‘I would prefer to be back at the Pot of Thyme, sitting on a customer’s knee and sharing a tankard of ale. But I’m well looked after. I’ve had bread, roast goose.’ She pointed to a jug on the table. ‘And some watery ale. The old priest came down to see me but he was more nervous than I am.’
‘Do you think Fulk saw Phoebe’s murderer?’
‘I think he did but Fulk was tight-lipped. I asked him but he just stared at me in that strange way of his. You know, out of the corner of his eye, just like his father does when he makes a profit with that golden thumb of his.’
‘So why do you think Fulk came back to the castle?’ Eleanora’s eyes shifted.
‘Why should he come back?’ Ralph persisted. He got up and moved towards her. ‘Did he tell you?’
Again a flicker of the eyes.
‘Come on, did he? Why should Fulk the miller’s son be interested in a murderer? He came here to extort money, didn’t he? He didn’t return, so you put it about in the Pot of Thyme tavern that he was on some innocent errand to the castle and didn’t come back.’
‘I will tell all,’ Eleanora declared defiantly, ‘when the King’s men come. I wish to be alone. Sir John Grasse promised I wouldn’t be troubled.’
Ralph left the dungeon. He walked up into the keep looking for Father Aylred but the chapel was empty. He stayed for a while, kneeling in the entrance to the rood screen, staring up at the cross.
‘I am not a prayerful man,’ he murmured. ‘In fact, I don’t
know what I am. But, Lord, I am very frightened. And I miss Beatrice.’
Ralph closed his eyes. In a week his whole life had been shattered, like the wine vat Beardsmore had sliced in the Pot of Thyme tavern. He made himself more comfortable, with his back to the rood screen, and stared up at the corbels on the roof. He noticed the gargoyle, a grinning jester with his fingers in his mouth. In his imagination the face became that of the killer, quietly mocking him from the shadows. Ralph looked away. He had been so engrossed in trying to find out who the killer was, how these deaths and attacks had occurred, he had not asked why the peaceable life of this castle had abruptly changed. True, there was unrest in the countryside but the attacks, apart from that on Phoebe, had been directed at him. Ralph wondered what Beatrice would have thought and said. She had a sharp mind. If only she was here, sitting next to him.
The sunlight was now streaming through the window, the dust motes dancing, and he wondered if they were angels. He felt warm and relaxed.
He heard a sound down the church and whirled round, peering through the rood screen, then he remembered locking and barring the door behind him. He got to his feet and stared round the little sanctuary. The cross on the altar was dazzling in the light of the sun. He felt alert but not distraught, as if he had woken from a refreshing sleep. He looked at the gleaming cross.
‘The treasure,’ he murmured. He knelt on the prie-dieu, eyes fixed on that cross. ‘The only thing anyone else would want is Brythnoth’s cross but I haven’t got it yet.’
He recalled the May Day celebrations, the castle officers assembled on the green. Ralph repressed a shiver and bowed his head. He had thought of this before, and now he was forced to accept it: his boasting had caused all this. Someone at that meal had decided to intervene, someone who had been following his search most closely. His chamber was often
unlocked, with manuscripts left on the table. Never once had he suspected that someone would take up the hunt with him.
Ralph broke out in a sweat. He had to face the truth. He was supposed to have been on the parapet walk. He was supposed to have died in Devil’s Spinney. And Phoebe? She had been a pert-faced, sharp-tongued wench with a nose for mischief and an ear for other people’s conversations. She must have seen or heard something and been brutally silenced. But how had her corpse been taken out of the castle? Ralph remembered Beardsmore, crossed himself and almost fled from the church. His mind was all a jumble as guilt pricked at his grief. He strode across the castle bailey. Beardsmore was waiting for him on the steps of the barbican guardhouse.