He stopped on the brow of the hill and looked back, lips moving worldlessly. Beatrice stared at the cross. It was exquisitely carved with strange emblems and motifs and in the centre, above the gold crosspiece, a blood-red ruby glowed like a living flame. Cerdic took one last look at the fighting and ran down the hill towards the trackway into Maldon.
‘Come, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘let’s follow him.’
They hastened in pursuit, keeping the spectre of the long dead soldier in view.
‘Has this happened before?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Of course!’ Clothilde replied.
‘Then you must know where he hides it.’
Clothilde shook her head. ‘You will see. You will see.’
At last they reached Ravenscroft Castle. It looked so familiar, so ordinary. But Cerdic was running on as if the castle didn’t exist. He crossed the moat and disappeared into the barbican. They followed and found the castle bailey deserted apart from a sleepy-eyed pot boy who was letting the dogs out, and his sister, the goose girl, who was summoning her charges to take them on to the green. Beatrice forgot about the treasure and felt a deep sadness for the familiar scene.
‘You must remember, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘that what you have seen are the shapes and shades of former things. Cerdic left the battlefield and came to Ravenscroft. However, on the day he died, no castle stood here, only a brook which is now the moat, and a wooden palisade where Brythnoth camped before marching against the invaders.’ She shrugged. ‘Cerdic’s ghost comes here with the cross then disappears. So now you know, the treasure really exists. It lies somewhere near and Ralph could find it.’
The door to the keep flew open and Father Aylred came out. A silver and gold cloak hung from his shoulders and in his hands, covered by a white linen cloth, was the ciborium holding the Host. A boy from the castle carried a lighted candle before him.
‘It’s Father Aylred!’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘He must be taking the viaticum to a member of the garrison who is sick. Father Aylred!’ she called but the priest walked on.
‘I must go.’ Clothilde’s voice was now a deep rasp. ‘I cannot stay here!’
Beatrice looked round but her companion had disappeared. Beatrice walked to the Lion Tower. Perhaps she should go up and see Ralph.
‘Christ be with you, Mistress Arrowner.’
The young man she had seen earlier in the night, with his fresh, cheerful face and spiky hair, was standing on the cobbles behind her.
‘Tarry awhile.’ He held his hands out.
‘Why should I?’ Beatrice noticed a silver disc hovering between her and the young man, then it disappeared.
He walked towards her. In the early morning light she could see that his face was a weather-beaten ruddy brown and his eyes were light blue. He was now dressed in a leather, sleeveless jerkin over a white cambric shirt, leggings of brown wool pushed into soft leather boots, a black belt round his slim waist. He drew closer. She noticed how fine his teeth were, how clean and neat he was.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why do you keep warning me to be careful?’
‘My name is Brother Antony.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘That’s the name of my favourite saint, Antony of Padua, the Franciscan. Aunt Catherine has a small statue of him.’
Brother Antony laughed. ‘Would you like to walk with me?’
‘But who are you? Another relic of this castle?’
Antony’s face grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. What is really important, Beatrice, is who are you? It is important to realise that Ralph is still in great danger and so are you.’
‘But I am dead,’ she laughed. ‘I am beyond all pain and hurt.’
‘Death is not an end,’ Antony replied gravely. ‘It marks a new beginning. I have let you wander, now I must speak to you. I mean you well. I swear that on the wounds of Christ. Afterwards, it is up to you whether you heed my advice or not.’
‘Do you know who murdered me?’
Antony shook his head. ‘Only God knows that.’
‘Then why doesn’t God intervene?’
‘But God does, Beatrice. That’s why I’m here.’
‘How do I know that?’ she snapped, and as she spoke the castle yard changed again. Great gibbet posts rose up from the cobbles. They were about five yards high with three branches and from each bodies jerked and spluttered in their death spasms. The cruel knight was there again, seated on his black war horse, watching. Women carrying children screamed and begged for mercy but the knight and his henchmen mocked them. The victims were hustled up the ladders, nooses placed round their necks, the ladders turned and more bodies danced in the air.
‘Come away! Come away!’ Antony was beside her. He smelt of sweet grass and herbs.
‘What is all this?’ Beatrice whispered.
But Antony was leading her away, talking soothingly to her. Soon they were out of the castle, walking towards Devil’s Spinney. Halfway there he stopped and sat down on the grass, gesturing at Beatrice to join him. He grasped her hands as Ralph would, rubbing them between his, watching her intently.
‘I do not know who killed you, Beatrice. The assassin really intended to slay Ralph your beloved. I know that. You are truly dead, Beatrice Arrowner. There is no going back. No return to the life you have left.’
‘And is this Heaven or Hell?’ Beatrice asked bravely.
‘This is no place, Beatrice.’ He paused. ‘It’s like dusk, caught between night and day. Death is a journey, one that takes all eternity. If you die with your face towards God, you journey towards God and He is eternal.’
‘A journey?’ Beatrice queried.
Antony nodded. ‘An eternal journey, but you have not yet begun on it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t want to leave.’
‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice asked.
He held out his hands, fingers splayed. ‘You have intellect, love and will. The first can propose, the second can be your aim – or not, depending on yourself. The third, however, is most important. It is what determines your actions. Your will is what keeps you here. You have decided not to travel on. You have unfinished business.’
‘But what about Goodman Winthrop? He was collected by those terrors.’
‘He made his choice.’
‘Will he travel towards God?’
‘God will always call him, but if Goodman Winthrop lives his death like he lived his life, he will for all eternity refuse to hear the call and travel away from God, into his own self, his own love of wickedness. That’s why he was taken by the demons. They did not come from Hell, Beatrice, they came from within himself.’
‘And the poor beggar man?’
‘Ah.’ Antony smiled. ‘The Church teaches of Heaven and Hell and I have described both to you. The Church also teaches Purgatory where the soul is undecided. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I put that wrongly, the soul is not yet prepared for the journey.’
‘But that’s like me.’
‘No, your soul is ready but your will wants to delay because you have unfinished business which, I suspect, is connected with Master Ralph. That poor beggar man was collected by the wraiths of his mind and will, the sins and impurities he accummulated during life, for he was a beggar man by choice rather than by misfortune.’
‘And Elizabeth Lockyer?’
‘Ah. She was visited by the seraphims, beings of light. Elizabeth lived a good life, she died with her face towards God and God smiled on her. She wished to travel on and all the good she did in life has taken her forward.’
‘Seraphims? Wraiths? Demons? What about those others? Malkyn the torturer, Lady Johanna de Mandeville, the poor unfortunate who haunts the crossroads?’
‘They do not wish to travel on,’ Antony explained. ‘They are still locked in the pain and misery of their lives. Lady Johanna died a miserable death. God wishes to comfort her but she will not respond. Etheldreda, the young woman at the crossroads, is the same. She’s no sinner, just an unfortunate young woman who died when her wits were turned.’