‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘Ralph!’ His name came in a loud whisper.
The clerk felt the hair on his neck curl with fear. He scrambled to his feet, his hand going to the knife in his belt. He peered through the gloom. The trees were so close together, the brambles and gorse sprouted high. Were his wits wandering?
Ralph cursed the wine he had drunk; he felt unsteady on his feet, slightly sick. He should leave here. The castle was already in uproar. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse had been brought back on a cart. The tax collector’s clothing was drenched in blood from the gaping wounds to his back and throat. Sir John had muttered about rebels and miscreants, and loudly cursed the stupidity of the tax collector for wandering alone around the taverns and ale-houses of Maldon. He’d sent urgent messages to London; the barons of the Exchequer would not be pleased, commissioners and soldiers would be sent. Sir John Grasse would feel their wrath until the killers were brought to justice. Were these same assassins in Devil’s Spinney now? wondered Ralph. A jay flew up in a flurry of black and white feathers. He must not stand like a maudlin sot; his grief, like his hands and his feet, were now part of him and he would have to bear it.
Ralph picked up the wineskin and, whirling it round his head, threw it into the undergrowth. As he staggered back along the trackway leading out on to the heathland, he quietly cursed his foolishness. ‘You should be careful what you drink,’ Beatrice had always warned him. ‘You do not have a strong head for ale or wine.’
The clerk paused, closing his eyes against the hot tears which threatened.
‘If you were only here, Beatrice! If you were only here, I’d let you nag me until the end of time!’
He stumbled on. The spinney was quiet, even the birdsong had died. Ralph recalled the stories and legends about the place. Wasn’t it near here that little Phoebe had been found murdered? He hurried on. His foot caught on something and he crashed to the ground. He twisted over, and even as he did, the club caught him on the side of the head. Ralph did not lose consciousness though the pain was intense. He struggled to get up but a kick to the stomach winded him and he collapsed, his face scored by the pebbled trackway. He was dragged, his cloak being used like a rope, tightening round his neck. He couldn’t resist. He was aware of brambles and briars ripping his hose. A boot came off. He tried to struggle but couldn’t. He was pushed, his body rolled, then he felt the ground beneath him give way. Was he dreaming? Was he falling? He tried to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He kicked out with his legs but it was hard. He stared down and noticed green slime oozing over his thighs. He had been knocked on the head and dragged only a few yards to one of the treacherous mires, the small but deep marshes which peppered Devil’s Spinney. The shock brought him to his senses. He was sinking. He flailed about, screaming and yelling.
‘Ah, sweet Jesu miserere!’ he prayed.
He remembered that the more he struggled, the quicker he’d sink. He tried to calm his mind, allow his body to float. He managed to turn over but the movement took him down a little further. The thick green mud was now pulling at his body as if invisible hands at the bottom of the marsh were clutching at him.
Ralph tried to ignore the pain, stretching his arms out to grasp the branches of a bush growing near the mire. He flung himself forward but the bush seemed to have a life of its own. His fingers missed. The mire crept above his stomach. Ralph was consious of sounds, strange noises; the sky was turning an eerie bronze. He lunged again, his hand caught the bush.
‘Oh, please!’ he prayed. ‘Please, God, don’t break!’
The bush was old and tough, it took his weight. Slowly but surely, Ralph pulled himself towards it, ignoring the pain. Then he was beneath it, grasping the broad stem. He pulled himself out, almost grateful for the way the harsh branches cut and marked him. At least he was alive. The bush had saved his life. He crawled up through the undergrowth then rolled on his side and stared back. The mire was now peaceful again, the green surface unmarked, its treacherous depths hidden.
Ralph lay sobbing for a while before pulling himself to his feet. His whole body ached. He was missing one boot, the other was so muddy he took it off and threw it into the trees. He touched his still bleeding face and felt his head where the assailant had struck him. He staggered along the path and out on to the heathland.
Beardsmore saw him first. Before Ralph had reached the drawbridge, Sir John Grasse, Father Aylred and Theobald Vavasour, accompanied by soldiers, hastened out to meet him.
‘I was attacked,’ Ralph stammered. ‘I don’t know who. In Devil’s Spinney. I was thrown into the mire.’
Sir John shouted out orders. Father Aylred helped Ralph across the bailey. They placed him in the guestroom. Father Aylred talked to him as if he was a child, pulling off his muddy clothes. Theobald helped. They washed away the mud from the cuts and bruises. The physician pushed a cup between his lips.
‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Drink and then you will feel better.’
Ralph obeyed. He was aware of Adam coming into the room, Marisa behind him.
‘We heard what happened, Ralph. I was in the herb garden with Marisa.’
‘They tried to kill me,’ Ralph whispered. He felt his eyes grow heavy and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Later that day, as darkness fell, Ralph washed and dressed in new clothes, and joined the others in the great hall of the castle. He found the room more sombre than usual with its heavy hammer-beam roof and the axes, hauberks and shields nailed to the wall. The long trestle tables were bare, but glowing braziers kept the chill away and hunting dogs snouted among the rushes for scraps of food.
Sir John gathered everyone round the high table on the dais. Cold meats, bread, cheese and jugs of ale were served. The company included Sir John, his wife, the huge, burly sergeant-at-arms Stephen Beardsmore, Theobald Vavasour, Adam and Marisa, the captain of the watch and Ralph. Father Aylred hastened in and said grace; the food was distributed, the jugs circulated. Sir John, bowing to etiquette, allowed them to satisfy their hunger before tapping on the table with the hilt of his dagger.
‘We live in troublesome times,’ he began. ‘A castle wench, Phoebe, has been murdered, her corpse found in Devil’s Spinney. God rest her.’
His words were greeted with a chorus of assent.
‘And with Ralph we mourn the sad death of Beatrice,’ he continued, ‘but now we have other more pressing matters to consider. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse lies sheeted, ready for burial. He wasn’t the pleasantest of companions, a boor, a sot, but he was still a royal official. Last night he was stabbed to death in Maldon. We know he left a tavern with a wench. Master Beardsmore, you and Ralph will investigate that matter tomorrow.’
‘Which tavern?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.
‘The Pot of Thyme. I have no doubt that Winthrop’s murder is a symptom of the deep unrest caused by the poll tax. However, the King’s Council in London are obdurate. Archbishop Sudbury and Hailes the treasurer are determined that the Exchequer be filled and the poll tax will go ahead. I have sent urgent missives to London. God knows what will happen now.’
‘And the attack on our young clerk here,’ said Lady Anne. ‘Do you believe that is also linked to the tax?’
Sir John nodded, scratching his vein-streaked cheek.
Ralph put his piece of bread down. ‘I don’t think so. How did they know I was a member of the castle? And, even if they did, why should they attack me? I am not a tax collector.’
‘I agree.’ Beardsmore spoke up. The gruff sergeant-at-arms pushed his platter away. ‘True, rebels are active all through Kent and Essex but why should they attack Master Ralph the way they did? That’s not their manner. More an arrow from a tree or a knife in the back.’