P. C. Doherty - A Haunt of Murder

Table of Contents

The Rose Demon
The Soul Slayer
The Haunting
Domina
The Song of the Gladiator
The Queen of the Night
The Cup of Ghosts

THE CANTERBURY TALES OF MYSTERY AND MURDER

An Ancient Evil:
Being the Knights Tale
A Tapestry of Murders:
Being the Man of Laws Tale
A Tournament of Murders:
Being the Franklins Tale
Ghostly Murders:
Being the Priests Tale
The Hangmans Hymn:
Being the Carpenters Tale

THE SORROWFUL MYSTERIES OF BROTHER ATHELSTAN

The Nightingale Gallery
The House of the Red Slayer
Murder Most Holy
The Anger of God
By Murders Bright Light
The House of Crows
The Assassins Riddle
The Devils Domain
The Field of Blood

HUGH CORBETT MEDIEVAL MYSTERIES

Satan in St Marys
Crown in Darkness
Spy in Chancery
The Angel of Death
The Prince of Darkness
Murder Wears a Cowl
The Assassin in the Greenwood
The Song of a Dark Angel
Satans Fire
The Devils Hunt
The Demon Archer
The Treason of the Ghosts
Corpse Candle

ANCIENT EGYPTIAN MYSTERIES

The Mask of Ra
The Horus Killings
The Anubis Slayings
The Slayers of Seth
The Poisoner of Ptah
The Assassins of Isis

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, Gods 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 didnt 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 workday 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.

Beatrice had raided the oak chests, taken flour and baked bread and pastries which were now in her wicker basket protected from the flies and heat by a damp linen cloth. Today she would have her own celebration. The Constable of the castle, Sir John Grasse, his wife Anne, Father Aylred the chaplain and Theobald Vavasour the physician were to join her and her beloved, the clerk Ralph Mortimer, for a meal on the castle green. Ralphs boon companion Adam and his wife Marisa had also been invited.

Beatrice tossed back her long, dark hair black as the night was how Ralph described it. Really she should wear a wimple or veil; Catherine, her aunt, was always lecturing her to do so but Beatrice defied her. Ralph wrote poems about her hair, and about her white skin and sea-grey eyes. Beatrice was in love. Ralph was dearer to her than life itself. Others wondered why, especially the bully-boys and swaggerers who thronged the taproom of the Golden Tabard. They would eye Ralph from head to toe and mutter under their breath about dusty, bare-arsed clerks but Ralph didnt mind. He was sweet-tempered in looks, sweet-tempered by nature; he had close-cropped, dark hair and rather short-sighted, green eyes. Beatrice had met him at a May Fair two years ago. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Robert, her official guardians since she was a child, had disapproved at first but Ralph had charmed them. He was courtly in his ways, always paying for whatever he ate and, now and again, bringing them small gifts a beeswax candle or a jar of honey from the castle beehives.

Beatrice suddenly started. Shed reached the castle drawbridge without even noticing it. The guard on duty was sleeping in the shadows, helmet off, spear resting against the wall. And why shouldnt he? True, the peasants in the shires had been threatening revolt and sedition but this was May Day and Sir John Grasse, an old soldier, was a kindly man, no real stickler for discipline. He knew when to bark and when to hold his peace. The Constable preferred to leave all military matters to Beardsmore, his burly sergeant-at-arms. And yet where was he? Still grieving for poor Phoebe? Who had murdered that unfortunate young woman?

Beatrice put such dark thoughts away and clattered across the drawbridge, her pattens beating a rhythm on its wooden boards. She went through the darkened gatehouse and up the winding path which led to the green before the great keep. Above her, the ravens which gave the castle its name swooped and dived against the blue sky. Somewhere on the grass near the moat a pheasant shrieked; finches, whod built their nests in the walls, warbled and squabbled, filling the late morning with their chatter. A packman passed her, his sumpter pony laden with goods, probably a traveller who had paid to sleep in the castle and would no doubt visit the fair before taking the dusty road north to other Essex towns.

Beatrice turned a corner and paused. The others were already gathered on the green. Lady Anne had laid out a blue broadcloth, with cushions and bolsters arranged as seats. A trestle table had been set up, pewter jugs and cups glinted in the sunlight. Traunchers and platters of bread, cold meat and sliced fruit were covered by white cloths against the marauding flies, attracted by the mounds of manure and ordure piled against the castle walls. Beatrice wrinkled her nose. The smell was not so sweet now. The moat was dank, its water brackish; as Ralph said, you could often smell Ravenscroft before you saw it.

Beatrice hid in the shadows and stared across. These were all her friends: Sir John Grasse, red, jowly face, clean-shaven, his white hair thinning, popping blue eyes and thick, sensuouslips. He had fought with the Black Princes retinue in France. His wife Anne sat beside him, one arm resting on the back of his chair. She was dressed in a honey-coloured smock, a rather ridiculous, over-blown white wimple around her greying hair. A sharp-featured, keen-eyed woman, slightly younger than her husband, Lady Anne could be a martinet; the garrison was more frightened of her than they were of Sir John. Beside her was Father Aylred in his brown Franciscan robe, head bald as a pigeons egg but, as he confessed, he made up for that with a luxurious black beard which fell down to his chest. He was a kindly man and a good priest. Next, Theobald Vavasour, leech and physician, whose grey matted hair reached to below his ears, framing a dusty, tired face. Whatever the weather, Theobald always complained of the cold; even now he wore his patched red cloak lined with ermine, of which he was so proud. He was a true scholar and even possessed a set of eye-glasses so he could examine his patients more closely. He was kindly enough; he distilled perfumes for her from wild flowers. Marisa, her friend, was always borrowing them. She and Adam had also arrived and sat with their backs to her. Adam was blond-haired, tall, thin as a beanpole with light-blue eyes, sharp-faced but ever ready to smile or burst into laughter. His wife Marisa, the Mouse as he nicknamed her, was dressed in her usual grey, her auburn hair carefully hidden by a white starched coif. Ralph always maintained that Marisa reminded him of a nun rather than a young woman in love.