A haunt of murder ctomam-6 Page 15

  He paused beneath a tree, re-sheathed his dagger and wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘God help you, Ralph!’ he whispered. ‘You are a fool, for all your logic!’

  He had nearly fallen for one of the oldest tricks employed in the defence of a castle. Stone spiral staircases were dangerous at the best of times. On any other occasion he would have gone clattering down the steps. He would have tripped and the least he could have suffered was broken limbs; more probably he would have smashed his skull or snapped his neck. Someone had seen him go into the tower and immediately followed. It would be easy enough to take twine from an arbalest or bow and wrap it round those nails. Then it would only be a matter of waiting. He had had a lucky escape. Or was it luck? Was Beatrice here, guiding and protecting his every step? If the heel of his boot hadn’t slipped, if he hadn’t dropped the dagger… Ralph shivered at the thought. But who? Rage replaced his fear as he strode back towards the keep.

  Sir John and Adam were standing on the green, heads together. The captain of the guard hovered nearby. Torches, lashed to poles, had been thrust into the ground. The Constable looked expectantly at him.

  ‘Ralph, where have you been?’

  He bit back an angry reply. ‘Sir John, I’m more interested in where everybody else has been.’

  Adam looked puzzled. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Adam and I have been together since we saw you walk across the green,’ Sir John said brusquely.

  ‘Did you see anyone else go towards the Salt Tower?’

  ‘No.’ Adam shook his head. ‘Why, Ralph, what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Ralph sighed. ‘Look, Sir John, this castle is vulnerable, the Salt Tower is not securely guarded. That large window door should be bricked up.’

  ‘Ralph, Ralph, calm yourself. I know dreadful things are happening. Adam here says that you think we are in some danger. But from whom? How could a group of ragged-arsed peasants take a castle like this?’

  ‘What happens if there is a rebel army in the vicinity?’ Ralph replied heatedly. ‘Sir John, you fought the French. The men who throng the Pot of Thyme in Maldon are the sons of those who brought down the cream of French chivalry at Crecy and Poitiers.’

  ‘I’ve doubled the guards. I’ll see to the Salt Tower.’ Sir John looked towards the main gate. ‘I’ll be glad when the royal commissioners arrive. They’ll advise me.’ And he walked off, shaking his head.

  ‘He’s tired,’ Ralph said quietly. ‘He’s an old and rather frightened man.’

  ‘Be gentle in your judgements, Ralph,’ Adam replied. ‘Sir John is a warrior; he mounts his horse and charges the enemy. He’s not skilled in dealing with secret assassins and prowling outlaws.’ Adam took a step closer, his handsome face full of concern. ‘I don’t like this place, Ralph. Forget Brythnoth’s treasure. Let’s be away from it. We could pile our possessions on to a sumpter pony and be gone. Clerks like ourselves will always find comfortable benefices, good employment.’

  Ralph was about to reply when he heard his name being called. Father Aylred was beckoning him over.

  ‘I must go.’ And, making his apologies, Ralph hurried over to the priest.

  Father Aylred looked tired and anxious. He plucked at Ralph’s sleeve and took him into the tower, locking and bolting the door behind him.

  ‘All is ready,’ he said. ‘Sir John has cleared Midnight Tower of everyone.’

  Ralph gazed around. The vestibule had been transformed. All the sconce torches had been lit and burnt fiercely against the darkness. At the bottom of the steps a small altar had been set up, covered with a linen cloth. On this stood candles, a small metal cross, a wooden triptych, breviary, chalice and paten with two offertory cruets, one full of wine, the other of water. On a small stool lay the black and gold vestments for a Requiem Mass. On the wall above, a makeshift crucifix had been fixed.

  ‘We should begin now,’ Father Aylred said wearily. ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Are you well enough, Father? It can always wait. Do you think this is really necessary?’

  ‘The dead are close about us here,’ the priest replied hoarsely. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘They throng about. There’s wickedness, an evil which has to be purged, sins that cry out to be forgiven. The Mass for the dead will provide some light and hallow this dreadful place.’

  Ralph forgot his own misgivings and helped the priest dress. Then Father Aylred stood at the altar. He bowed and kissed the red cross painted in the centre of the altar cloth.

  ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti… I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, ‘to the God who gives joy to my youth.’

  Ralph was about to reply when another voice spoke, clear as a bell.

  ‘I will go unto the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth!’

  Both priest and clerk froze. The voice was not pleasant, mocking in its imitation.

  ‘We should leave this,’ Ralph urged.

  ‘That’s right, clerk, piss off!’ the voice snapped.

  Two of the candles went out.

  ‘Why don’t both of you just piss off and leave us alone? What good is this mummery!’

  Father Aylred calmly crossed himself again and began the Mass. This time there were no offensive remarks. Ralph nervously glanced up. The flames of the sconce torches had changed; they were no longer red and vigorous but weak with a bluish tinge. He noticed how cold it had grown and there was an offensive stench as if a cesspit had been opened. Father Aylred remained resolute. He opened the missal and quietly recited the collect, followed by the epistle. He was about to move the missal to the right side of the altar for the gospel when one of the sconce torches fell from its bracket, narrowly missing the altar, to clatter on to the floor.

  ‘Look, Ralph!’ the voice commanded. ‘Look up the stairwell!’

  He obeyed and sprang back in horror. The darkened stairwell had disappeared. He stood at the mouth of a heavily-wooded valley. He was sure a veritable army was hidden among the trees on either side. Along the floor of the valley a man leading a sumpter pony was coming towards him. At every step the bells sewn on his jerkin jingled; it was as if some madcap child had seized a cluster of handbells and was ringing them for the sheer malicious joy of shattering the silence.

  ‘Don’t look!’ Father Aylred whispered over his shoulder. ‘Ralph, the Gospel according to St Mark.’

  Ralph tore his eyes away and stared at the gold cross on the back of the priest’s chasuble. He forced himself to make the sign on his forehead, lips and heart, a symbolic gesture indicating that he was prepared to listen to and act on the gospel reading. The tower fell silent. Father Aylred finished the reading and moved to the offertory. The bread and wine were raised. Ralph, as if in a dream, got up to help him prepare the lavabo, where the priest washes his hands before the consecration.

  Aylred’s face was now soaked in sweat. ‘Remember the Mass, Ralph,’ he whispered. ‘Try not to let the darkness daunt you. Say the psalm with me.’

  ‘I will wash my hands among the innocent, I will encompass thine altar, Oh Lord, that I may hear the song of your praise and tell them all of your wondrous work.’

  ‘You stupid bastards!’

  Ralph was sure the voice was Beardsmore’s.

  ‘Ralph, you are a clerk! Tell this hedge-priest he’s just farting in the wind!’

  The door to the tower started to shake as if mailed men were trying to break through. The same sound came from the stairs behind as if a horde of marauders had broken in and were clattering down, swords at the ready. Aylred grasped Ralph’s wrists and kept him at the altar.

  ‘Stay here!’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me!’

  Ralph was too frightened to move. A cacophony of sound broke out. People shouting, crying, moaning, accompanied by pungent, acrid smells. Faces appeared on the walls as if the stonework was being sculpted by invisible hands. Somewhere a wolf howled. Ralph looked up. The wall opposite had disappeared. He wa
s in that valley again. The eerie figure was moving towards him. Two great mastiffs had appeared with eyes like hell’s fire, cruel teeth bared. Ralph felt something kick his ankle and stared down at the priest who held the Host in his hands.

  ‘Stay next to me, Ralph, and watch what I hold.’

  Ralph obeyed. The phenomena around him became more intense. Both men had to brace themselves against a rushing wind which seemed to come through the walls. Ralph felt as if he was on the prow of a ship heading into a storm. Shapes and shadows flitted round the altar. Father Aylred was quiet now, weak, but the sacred words were uttered. The bread and wine became the sacred Body of Christ. Everything fell silent. Father Aylred intoned the prayer for the dead, the solemn invocation that Christ and his angels would take all the souls of the faithful to a place of calm and peace. After that the disturbance faded. The sconce torches burnt more fiercely. But, just when Ralph thought they would be troubled no further, he felt as if doors were slamming shut around the altar, trapping them in a cage. Ralph was seized by a great terror as if some hideous horror from Hell was standing close by. A deep despair swept over him, a sense that all this was futile, a waste of time, and when the voice spoke, it seemed to come from the depths of his own heart.

  ‘What’s the use, Ralph? What is the bloody use of all this? Where’s Beatrice?’ A pause. ‘You know where she is! Wandering the snowy wastelands of Hell. Leave this priest to his mumblings.’

  ‘No, she isn’t!’ Father Aylred suddenly exclaimed. He turned his pallid, sweat-soaked face to Ralph. ‘My mother’s in Heaven,’ he gasped. ‘Isn’t she, Ralph?’

  The clerk opened his mouth.

  ‘I’ve wasted my life. I might as well whistle across the graveyard. It’s so futile.’

  ‘It’s not futile!’ Ralph found it difficult to speak. ‘It’s not futile at all, Father!’

  The priest looked as if he was going to leave the altar. He placed the Host down and stood, slightly swaying, as if he wanted to walk away but could not.

  ‘Take him away!’ the voice urged Ralph. ‘What he needs is a good cup of claret and a warm pair of tits!’

  ‘Let’s be away,’ Father Aylred hissed. ‘I say Mass and God doesn’t listen!’

  A chorus swelled up, demonic voices shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ The rattling on the stairs, an icy coldness. Ralph realised that Aylred had reached the doxology of the Mass. He stretched out and picked up the chalice and the sacred Host. They both felt hot to the touch.

  ‘Say the words!’ he whispered.

  Aylred swayed, face white, eyes dark pools of anguish.

  ‘Say the words!’ Ralph insisted.

  Aylred turned away to retch. He leaned against the wall, spluttering and coughing. He began to edge towards the door. Ralph seized him and brought him back. He thrust him against the altar, eyes on the Host and chalice, ignoring the nagging insistence of the voice within. Ralph grasped the chalice and Host.

  ‘Say the words!’

  ‘Per Ipsum, in Ipso, et cum Ipso. Through Him, in Him and with Him

  …’ intoned Father Aylred.

  Ralph lifted the Host above the chalice.

  ‘All honour and glory and power are yours, Oh Heavenly Father!’

  Ralph suddenly felt warm and relaxed. One, two then three spheres of light appeared as if from nowhere, like the brilliant flames of glowing beeswax candles. The sensation of being shut in disappeared. A warm fragrance rose up from the altar. Aylred sighed and continued with the Mass. The Our Father, the Kiss of Peace, the Communion; in the end all was peaceful. Ralph had to help Father Aylred to a stool.

  ‘What happened there?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t you feel it, Ralph?’

  ‘Are you well, Father?’

  ‘Can’t you feel it?’ the Franciscan repeated. ‘So warm, so peaceful.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘When I was younger and more handsome,’ Father Aylred smiled, ‘I was an exorcist. This is not the first time I’ve confronted demons.’

  ‘So you are not the hedge-priest you pretend to be?’

  The Franciscan blinked. ‘Once, Ralph, I lectured in the Halls of Oxford. I was arrogant, so full of myself I had no room for God. I was a demon-hunter. One day I was called to an exorcism, a young woman in Binsey. I didn’t prepare myself well. The exorcism went wrong and the young woman died.’ He glanced up. ‘But I’ve been doing penance ever since. I pray to St Thomas a Becket. You know how our order has a great devotion to him. I would love to go on pilgrimage to his shrine, Ralph, but I’m too weak, too frail. Each year I promise, each year I fail. One year I must.’ He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. ‘And if I don’t, Ralph?’

  ‘Oh, you will.’ Ralph smiled. ‘And I’ll go with you.’

  Father Aylred shook his head. ‘I learnt a secret tonight, Ralph. I’ll come through this. But, before Christmas, I am going to die. I must prepare for the long journey I have to make.’ He got up and began to divest, laying out the robes. He swayed on his feet but Ralph caught him.

  ‘Come on, Father. I’ll take you back to your chamber. We’ll share a cup of wine.’

  Chapter 3

  Beatrice had watched the soul-catching drama which unfolded in the stairwell of Midnight Tower. All the shades and phantasms she had glimpsed in Ravenscroft assembled there: Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, other shades and shapes and, standing near the door, the Minstrel Man.

  Beatrice felt as if all reality was on the verge of crumbling, like it had when she had fallen from the parapet. At times the tower disappeared and the altar stood in a snow-covered field fringed by dark, threatening forests or a red sandy waste where a hot wind blasted all forms of terrors around the altar.

  She could see that Father Aylred was weakening though Ralph stood his ground. Black Malkyn and Lady Johanna screamed. Other ghouls gathered, bathing the altar in their fetid breath, running up and down the steps in a clatter of feet and a rattle of weapons. All the time the Minstrel Man watched with hate-filled eyes as the priest celebrated the divine sacrifice. Beatrice found herself unable to help. She was torn between anxiety for Ralph and the sudden changes of vista and landscape. They were in the field again. Father Aylred was bracing himself against freezing gusts of wind. Mailed horsemen left the forest and charged, lances levelled, at both priest and clerk. Beatrice stared around. This was the Mass surely. Someone would help.

  The Minstrel Man appeared to be drawing closer. He seemed unaware of the other phantasms, eyes intent on the priest. Beatrice had never seen such malice, such a tangible hatred. She could almost stretch out and touch his desire to kill. As Father Aylred began the consecration, the Minstrel Man lifted his hands, talking in a gibberish tongue to the darkness around him. A silver disc of light appeared but then vanished. They were on a lake, the altar was in the centre, the water was frozen solid. Beatrice gazed in horror at the heads just above the ice, fastened tight, hair awry, mouths gaping, eyes staring. Then they were in that burning desert and all sorts of terrors seized her soul. Large feather-winged birds massed over the altar. Horsemen milled about on the far horizon. The earth cracked like a crust of bread and columns of fire appeared. Across the desert trooped a legion of the damned with sightless eyes and yawning mouths. Beside them carts rattled on iron-rimmed wheels. They bore makeshift scaffolds from which white-purplish cadavers danced in the final throes of death.

  Beatrice moaned. She wanted to move from here, to go into the darkness, seal her eyes against such hideous horrors. She saw the look on Ralph’s face, sensed his fear, the desperate sense of loneliness. Yet, also, his firm courage to continue. Now and again there were moments of peace: the tower disappeared and she glimpsed a hill with three crosses on top, soaring shapes against a setting sun, or Elizabeth Lockyer smiling at her. A group of children, happy and contented, unaware of the terrors, clustered together smiling up at the priest and Ralph as if fascinated by what they were doing.

  The Minstrel Man drew closer to
the altar. He was reciting a mocking echo of Father Aylred’s words. Beatrice recognised the issue at hand. The Minstrel Man had released hideous images but they were harmless enough. They could do little except weaken the resolve of the priest, make him give up and flee this place. He’d thereby acknowledge, by his lack of faith, the supremacy of this demon lord who’d swept up from Hell.

  Sheets of molten metal appeared as if from nowhere, screening off the altar, boxing both priest and clerk inside. They were transparent but gave off a power which repelled Beatrice. It seemed as if both Father Aylred and the man she loved had been trapped in some hideous cell fashioned by Hell. The reason was simple. Aylred’s faith was failing. Beatrice recalled her encounter with the Moon people on the road. She moved closer to the altar, willing the priest to continue but Father Aylred was unreceptive. He moved away, going towards the wall to retch and vomit. Beatrice turned her attention to Ralph, willing with all her soul that he stand his ground.

  The Minstrel Man drew closer. A look of triumph played on his lips. The other phantasms he had summoned up, the hideous, repellent shapes, appeared outside the cage he had formed.

  Again the tower disappeared. They were now in the hall of some castle. All around was a brooding darkness, broken only by flickering red candles. For the first time since her fall from the parapet, Beatrice experienced true terror, a soul-crushing sensation of despondency and despair.

  ‘Pray, Beatrice Arrowner!’ Brother Antony was kneeling beside her. She fell to her knees, hands clasped.

  ‘This is the Mass,’ she hissed. ‘The sacrifice of God’s own Son!’

  ‘Pray,’ Brother Antony repeated. ‘It depends on man’s faith.’

  She obeyed and, when she looked up, they were back in the vestibule of the Midnight Tower. Ralph was forcing the chalice into Father Aylred’s hands. The priest began the words of the solemn doxology. Abruptly there was a change. Other presences made themselves felt, expressed in columns of white-hot light grouped around the altar. The chalice was raised, it seemed to hover by itself in the air. The wine was bubbling to the top and from it shot fire, scarlet flames drenching the altar. Golden spheres appeared. The cage disappeared. The Minstrel Man, the leering faces of Crispin and Clothilde abruptly vanished. All that remained was a musty little stairwell and a sweat-soaked priest finishing the Mass.