His words chilled Ralph and created a sombre silence.
‘Do you know what you are saying?’ Sir John asked carefully.
‘Yes, I do.’ Beardsmore was firm. ‘Sir John, I am your sergeant-at-arms. My job is to defend this castle and those within it. Goodman Winthrop was undoubtedly killed by peasant rebels. Tomorrow we’ll go down and turn the Pot of Thyme on its head and see what muck spills out.’
Ralph smiled at Beardsmore’s bluntness. The gruff soldier usually kept his own counsel, but young Phoebe’s murder still haunted him.
‘You were sweet on Phoebe, weren’t you?’ The words were out before Ralph could think.
The sergeant-at-arms tugged at the laces on his boiled leather jerkin. ‘I was more than sweet on her, Master Ralph,’ he murmured, ‘and over the last few days I have been thinking.’
‘Then let us know what you have been thinking,’ said Lady Anne.
‘The night Phoebe was murdered,’ Beardsmore replied, ‘she wasn’t supposed to be going home. She had agreed to meet me near Midnight Tower. Now, Sir John, Phoebe was a good girl. Sometimes her wits were not as sharp as they should be but she had common sense.’ He paused to take a drink from his tankard.
Ralph felt a bond with this gruff soldier who had also lost a loved one yet hid his grief so well.
‘Phoebe never left this castle,’ Beardsmore went on. ‘She wasn’t stupid. Oh, some of the lads teased her but she could look after herself. She told me how Winthrop the tax collector had offered her a silver piece to lie with him.’ He clenched his fist. ‘I was going to have words with him.’ He blinked back the tears that filled his eyes. ‘In the gathering dusk she would never have gone to a place like Devil’s Spinney. I believe she was murdered in Ravenscroft and her body taken out there. Physician Vavasour, you examined Phoebe’s corpse. Had she been raped?’
Theobald, who had been pushing pieces of bread around on his trauncher, looked up like a frightened rabbit, eyes blinking, lips puckered.
‘No, she hadn’t. She had been beaten about the head before she was slain.’
Father Aylred frowned. ‘But why? If she wasn’t raped? She was poor, she had no silver or gold. Moreover, if she was murdered here, why didn’t anyone hear her cries? And you can’t just pick up a corpse and take it out across the drawbridge without being noticed.’
A murmur of assent greeted his words. Lady Anne, seated next to her husband, pushed her greying hair under the tight coif round her face. She nervously scratched her cheek and tapped the table with her fingers. ‘Thank God the servants are not here.’ She stared round the hall. ‘Only a few days ago we all celebrated May Day. Lent and winter were behind us. There was fresh meat from the fleshers’ yard, spring vegetables, herbs and flowers.’ She shivered. ‘But now it’s like the dead of winter. Master Beardsmore,’ her voice grew harsh, ‘you seem to be saying there’s a killer in this castle. Do you know anybody who would want to murder Phoebe?’
Before Beardsmore could reply, Father Aylred spoke up. ‘As you say, Master Beardsmore, Phoebe was a good girl, a merry wench. But we all know Phoebe was curious.’
‘I agree, Father.’ Beardsmore’s eyes fell away.
‘She was more than that,’ Lady Anne declared. ‘She liked listening at keyholes, spying on people.’
‘That’s right,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Last year on the feast of All Souls one of the kitchen wenches had a furious argument with her. She accused Phoebe of spying on her when she was in the stable with one of the grooms.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Theobald held up a bony finger. ‘I remember her doing that.’
‘Where are the groom and wench now?’ Ralph asked.
‘Gone,’ Beardsmore said thinly. ‘They left after the Epiphany. I sided with Phoebe, that’s how I first met her.’
Ralph’s attention was caught by shadows dancing on the wall. Darkness had fallen swiftly and seemed to be closing in around them, despite the cresset torches and candles. The killer was in this castle. He glanced at Father Aylred, telling him with his eyes to keep his own counsel.
‘What shall we do?’ Lady Anne asked.
Sir John looked at Adam. ‘You are our principal clerk. What do you advise?’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘I agree with what has been said. Goodman Winthrop’s death is the work of rebels. The attack on Ralph, however, was not the work of some peasant.’
‘Is it possible,’ asked Marisa, ‘that the rebels have an accomplice here in the castle?’
They all looked at the petite, usually quiet young woman.
‘After all,’ Marisa continued, spots of excitement high in her cheeks, ‘Ravenscroft defends the Blackwater estuary and the northern approaches to London. If the peasants are planning a revolt, they will want to seize it.’
‘And how vital was Phoebe to the defence of this castle?’ Lady Anne tried, and failed, to keep the sneer from her voice.
‘Don’t mock Marisa!’ Adam retorted heatedly. ‘What she says is possible.’
The atmosphere in the hall grew tense. Lady Anne, unused to such sharp reproofs, glared at her husband.
‘Both of you could be correct,’ Ralph intervened, eager to keep the peace. ‘It’s possible that the rebels do have supporters here among the garrison. What better way to weaken our defences than indiscriminate killings and attacks which provoke suspicion and bitter acrimony?’
Everybody seized on his explanation. Ravenscroft was a happy, amiable garrison. The castle had numerous spacious chambers which allowed people a degree of privacy, and relationships with the townspeople were usually cordial. Ralph was afraid this would soon change. Sir John smiled gratefully at him. He repeated his orders about Beardsmore and Ralph investigating Winthrop’s death and ordered guards to be doubled on the barbican.
‘From now on,’ he concluded, ‘the drawbridge will be winched up at dusk, the portcullis lowered. I want beacon lights on each rampart along the walls. No one is to enter between dusk and dawn without my permission. Now.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think enough has been said.’
The meeting broke up. Ralph, still feeling sore and shaken, walked out of the hall and sat on the steps. Adam and Marisa came and sat on either side of him. Ralph felt the warmth of their friendship.
‘You didn’t really mean that, did you, Ralph?’ Marisa clasped his left hand, rubbing it gently between hers.
‘Am I so easy to see through?’ Ralph asked with a smile.
‘You never were a good liar.’ Adam’s blue eyes twinkled in amusement. ‘What do you really think happened?’
‘I believe Phoebe was murdered here.’
‘But how was her corpse taken out?’ Marisa asked.
‘There’s the postern gate,’ Ralph pointed out.
‘But that’s been closed and locked for years.’
‘It can still be opened and there’s a small wooden bridge across the moat. Don’t forget, the postern gate lies at the rear of the castle. Sir John is a benevolent constable. He never puts guards along the ramparts unless he has to.’
‘But still,’ said Marisa, ‘that means someone had to carry a bloody corpse across the yard. And the hinge to the gate is so rusty it would scream like a ghost.’
‘Well, there’s one way to find out.’ Ralph got to his feet.
They left the inner bailey, passed the keep and went through the small orchard which stood in a corner of the castle. On the way, Adam lit a cresset torch. When they reached the postern gate, Ralph took one look and realised he was wrong. The gate was small and narrow, fashioned out of thick oak reinforced by metal bands and steel studs. Its two huge bolts were secure and the gate was padlocked in three places. From the rust on both the locks and the bolts, it would have been easier to knock a hole in the wall than to open the gate. Adam doused the pitch torch in a water butt, threw it down and beckoned Ralph and Marisa to follow him back into the trees.
‘What now, Ralph?’ he asked. ‘The castle has only two entrances, the barbican and the postern gate. You have examined the latter. It has not been opened for years.’
‘What about a cart or barrow?’ Marisa suggested. ‘Phoebe’s assassin could have hidden the corpse in one of them and covered it with a sheet.’
‘I doubt that,’ a voice called from the darkness.
Ralph started. Beardsmore came slipping like a shadow through the trees towards them.
‘I’m sorry to startle you.’ The soldier cradled his conical helmet in his arms. ‘I saw the torchlight and I wondered what was happening. I am not like Phoebe.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I examined the postern gate the morning after Phoebe’s murder. I also inquired about the keys of Sir John but he doesn’t even know where they are.’
‘Why are you so sure that the killer didn’t smuggle Phoebe’s corpse out in a cart or barrow?’ Adam asked, then shook his head. ‘Of course, on the night Phoebe was killed you were on duty.’
‘From three o’clock in the afternoon till nine,’ said Beardsmore
‘I played dice with the lads in the guardhouse a couple of times but I tell you this, sirs, no one left the castle that day. If they had, I would have already brought them in for questioning.’
‘And you are sure Phoebe never left?’ Ralph asked.
‘Not unless she could sprout wings and fly!’
Ralph studied the soldier closely. Beardsmore was actually much younger than he appeared at first glance. He had a thick, square face with close, deep-set eyes, and a jutting nose above a harsh mouth. He was clean-shaven, his hair closely cropped. Ralph recalled that he had served with Sir John both at sea and in Gascony.
Beardsmore put his helmet on. ‘Now, I’ve got duties to attend to.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away into the darkness.
‘Now, there’s a strange fellow,’ Adam said softly. ‘Notice how quietly he moves.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ralph asked.
‘He was on guard the night Phoebe died yet he has just assured us that she never left. But she must have done, one way or the other. How do we know he didn’t let Phoebe run out and offer to meet her in Devil’s Spinney? Maybe they argued, he became angry…’
Ralph looked at the thin sliver of moon visible through the branches. He felt cold and lonely. He missed Beatrice dreadfully. Yet there was something else now. A deep suspicion that she had not slipped but been murdered. Was his friend right? Was Beardsmore the killer?
As if she could read his thoughts, Marisa plucked at his sleeve. ‘He was also on guard duty the night Beatrice fell. Maybe she saw something.’
Ralph sucked in his lips. ‘And where was everybody when I was attacked in Devil’s Spinney?’ He glanced at Adam. ‘Beardsmore was the first to see me. Is that because he had just returned?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam replied. ‘Marisa and I were in the herb garden.’
‘You should take care.’ Marisa clasped his hand.
‘Oh, I will.’ But even as he uttered the words, Ralph knew he wasn’t as fearless as he sounded.