‘The forest of the damned,’ the yeoman whispered. ‘Sir Godfrey, how can we rest here?’
As if in answer, the trees thinned again to reveal a broad glade still lit by the dying rays of the sun. At the far end a small brook gurgled, the grass was green and high, lush fodder for their horses. Wild flowers coloured the ground: bogbean, primrose, field pansy, even some milkwort which, Sir Godfrey knew, shouldn’t be blooming for another month. It was a quiet, tranquil place which brought cries of appreciation from his companions.
Mine Host urged his horse forward. ‘We can sleep here.’
‘Yes, we can,’ Sir Godfrey agreed. He wished to impose order, drive away the terrors they had experienced since entering the copse. ‘Come on now!’ he called, clapping his hands.
Soon the glade was filled with noise and bustle. Sir Godfrey directed the pilgrims as if they were a troop of royal archers in enemy country. Horse lines were established. The yeoman took his sword and began to cut some of the grass. The miller, pardoner and summoner helped, piling the grass up. The horses were gathered and hobbled. The cook took a leather bucket and carried water along the horse line. Saddles were stacked, panniers, saddlebags arranged in a tidy heap. Fresh water was drawn from the brook for cooking and for washing. The glade was divided, one half for the women, the other for the men. Some of the men volunteered to stand watch.
The yeoman went out into the woods and, within the hour, he was back with three snared hares. The camp fire grew, providing light and warmth; a brand was taken and a smaller, cooking fire lit. The hares were quickly gutted, herbs picked and the glade was soon full of the savoury smells of cooking. Bread and wineskins were drawn from the common supplies, pewter and tin cups shared out. There were not enough traunchers to go round so some used great leaves or pieces of wood. The parson led the prayers, a hymn was sung and then the pilgrims sat in a circle round the fire eating the succulent roasted meat, their cups filled with ale or wine. Contentment flowed. The pilgrims relaxed, ignoring the tendrils of mist creeping through the trees into the clearing.
‘We shall make an early start tomorrow,’ Sir Godfrey announced. ‘This is a place worth visiting but in future perhaps we should keep to the main highway.’
A murmur of assent greeted his words, particularly from the more venerable of his companions.
‘It is an eerie place,’ the pardoner declared in a high-pitched voice, wiping his greasy fingers on his jerkin and staining the relics which hung on a string round his neck. The fellow didn’t care. He had tried to sell some of these tawdry objects but his companions had been unimpressed by his bags of so-called Papal Bulls, Indulgences, and various precious relics.
‘Yes,’ the summoner agreed, his mouth full of half-chewed meat. ‘Why is it haunted?’
The miller burped, grasped his bagpipes and blew a long blast, a ghoulish, bone-jarring sound which awakened their fears. He lowered the bagpipes. ‘Many years ago,’ he began, ‘when William the Norman came to England, the local fyrd-’
‘What’s that?’ asked the wife of Bath, picking at her teeth.
‘The local fighting men,’ the clerk of Oxford answered.
Sir Godfrey glanced at him in surprise. The clerk was usually as quiet as a mouse. He wore a threadbare jerkin, patched hose and scuffed boots, and his cloak had more rents in it than it had cloth but he was neat and clean. His black hair showed early signs of grey and his shaven face always looked slightly sad. He constantly narrowed his eyes as if his sight was poor. A valuable copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics accompanied him everywhere.
‘As I was saying,’ the miller drew himself up, ‘the local people rose in rebellion but the Normans crushed them with fire and sword. The survivors, men, women and children, sheltered here. Their leader went out with a cross to beg for mercy but according to the legends the Normans struck him down, charged into Demonhurst and butchered all the survivors here in this clearing.’ He paused and stared over his shoulder at the gathering night. ‘All butchered!’ he repeated in a dramatic whisper. ‘The grass was ankle-deep in blood. At night you can still hear their cries for pity, the terrible groans of the dying.’ He leaned forward, his face like that of a gargoyle in the dancing firelight: popping blue eyes and red, spade-like beard. ‘They say the corpses lie buried in this very glade, which is why the grass and flowers grow so lush.’
‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ quavered the prioress.
‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ the wife of Bath scoffed. ‘I’ve stayed in more frightening places!’
‘Do you think ghosts do exist?’ the friar asked. ‘I mean, Holy Mother Church preaches that when we die, we go to Heaven or Hell or wait in fiery torment in Purgatory.’
The pilgrims shifted and moved. The fire was bright, the sparks jumping up like souls escaping the very torment the friar had described.
‘Well, we know there are ghosts,’ the man of law declared importantly. ‘Does not Holy Scripture relate how the Apostles thought Christ was a ghost when he came walking to them across the water?’
‘True, true,’ the taverner agreed. ‘And some of the stories we have heard,’ he smiled across at the poor priest sitting next to his brother the ploughman, ‘have mentioned ghosts which are as real as the trees around us.’
‘I wonder what they are like,’ the reeve murmured. ‘I mean, look around you, good pilgrims. Night has crept in. Darkness covers the face of the earth. But the mist…’ An owl screeched and made them all jump. ‘Is it really mist or the souls of those who died here?’ The reeve nodded. ‘I do wonder what it is like to be a ghost.’
‘I can tell you,’ said the clerk of Oxford, staring into the fire as if lost in memories.
‘Now, there’s a tale!’ the miller exclaimed. ‘I don’t know about you, good sirs and ladies, but I am not yet ready for sleep. Will you tell us, sir?’ He looked at the clerk. ‘You know our custom? During the day a merry tale but at night one to chill the bones and freeze the blood.’
‘Yes! Yes!’ chorused the rest of the pilgrims. The clerk stared across at Sir Godfrey. ‘It is a tale of love and death and, yes, it may well chill the blood!’ He eased his legs. ‘And in this place I must tell you it and make my full confession.’
PART I
Chapter 1
Ravenscroft Castle stood on a small crag, a brooding, rocky presence not far from Blackwater River outside the town of Maldon in Essex. Ravenscroft had been built in an age when God and his saints slept, when Stephen and Mathilda waged relentless civil war. It was built for both defence and attack with a square donjon, or keep, soaring up to the sky, defended by a lofty curtain wall and rounded towers. A massive yawning barbican defended the gate which could only be approached over the drawbridge across a broad, stinking moat. Nevertheless, in the year of Our Lord 1381, Beatrice Arrowner, just past her seventeenth birthday, had no thoughts of war or strife. It was May Day, when all the townspeople of Maldon honoured the Blessed Virgin Mary, God’s pure candle who brought forth the light of the world.
Maypoles had been set up on various greens. Troubadours and troupes of travelling actors had arrived, and stalls and booths had been erected on the common land. Oxen, pig, hare and pheasant were being roasted over spits turned by sweaty, grimy-faced little boys who had been paid a penny to make sure the flesh didn’t char and to baste the succulent meat with herbs drenched in oil. Indeed, Maldon was full of the mouth-watering smell of roasting meat. The townspeople had put on their best raiment and, even though it was a work day tomorrow, ale and beer were being freely drunk and in the evening the wild dancing would begin. Beatrice, however, had decided to ignore all this. She had left her uncle and aunt, the owners of the Golden Tabard tavern which stood on the outskirts of Maldon, and gone up the dusty trackway to Ravenscroft. For Beatrice this was a splendid day; the sky seemed bluer, the grass greener, the bluebells more magnificent and the air rich with the sweet smells of early summer.