Ralph forgot his own misgivings and helped the priest dress. Then Father Aylred stood at the altar. He bowed and kissed the red cross painted in the centre of the altar cloth.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
… I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, ‘to the God who gives joy to my youth.’
Ralph was about to reply when another voice spoke, clear as a bell.
‘I will go unto the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth!’
Both priest and clerk froze. The voice was not pleasant, mocking in its imitation.
‘We should leave this,’ Ralph urged.
‘That’s right, clerk, piss off!’ the voice snapped.
Two of the candles went out.
‘Why don’t both of you just piss off and leave us alone? What good is this mummery!’
Father Aylred calmly crossed himself again and began the Mass. This time there were no offensive remarks. Ralph nervously glanced up. The flames of the sconce torches had changed; they were no longer red and vigorous but weak with a bluish tinge. He noticed how cold it had grown and there was an offensive stench as if a cesspit had been opened. Father Aylred remained resolute. He opened the missal and quietly recited
the collect, followed by the epistle. He was about to move the missal to the right side of the altar for the gospel when one of the sconce torches fell from its bracket, narrowly missing the altar, to clatter on to the floor.
‘Look, Ralph!’ the voice commanded. ‘Look up the stairwell!’
He obeyed and sprang back in horror. The darkened stairwell had disappeared. He stood at the mouth of a heavily-wooded valley. He was sure a veritable army was hidden among the trees on either side. Along the floor of the valley a man leading a sumpter pony was coming towards him. At every step the bells sewn on his jerkin jingled; it was as if some madcap child had seized a cluster of handbells and was ringing them for the sheer malicious joy of shattering the silence.
‘Don’t look!’ Father Aylred whispered over his shoulder. ‘Ralph, the Gospel according to St Mark.’
Ralph tore his eyes away and stared at the gold cross on the back of the priest’s chasuble. He forced himself to make the sign on his forehead, lips and heart, a symbolic gesture indicating that he was prepared to listen to and act on the gospel reading. The tower fell silent. Father Aylred finished the reading and moved to the offertory. The bread and wine were raised. Ralph, as if in a dream, got up to help him prepare the lavabo, where the priest washes his hands before the consecration.
Aylred’s face was now soaked in sweat. ‘Remember the Mass, Ralph,’ he whispered. ‘Try not to let the darkness daunt you. Say the psalm with me.’
‘I will wash my hands among the innocent, I will encompass thine altar, Oh Lord, that I may hear the song of your praise and tell them all of your wondrous work.’
‘You stupid bastards!’
Ralph was sure the voice was Beardsmore’s.
‘Ralph, you are a clerk! Tell this hedge-priest he’s just farting in the wind!’
The door to the tower started to shake as if mailed men were
trying to break through. The same sound came from the stairs behind as if a horde of marauders had broken in and were clattering down, swords at the ready. Aylred grasped Ralph’s wrists and kept him at the altar.
‘Stay here!’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me!’
Ralph was too frightened to move. A cacophony of sound broke out. People shouting, crying, moaning, accompanied by pungent, acrid smells. Faces appeared on the walls as if the stonework was being sculpted by invisible hands. Somewhere a wolf howled. Ralph looked up. The wall opposite had disappeared. He was in that valley again. The eerie figure was moving towards him. Two great mastiffs had appeared with eyes like hell’s fire, cruel teeth bared. Ralph felt something kick his ankle and stared down at the priest who held the Host in his hands.
‘Stay next to me, Ralph, and watch what I hold.’
Ralph obeyed. The phenomena around him became more intense. Both men had to brace themselves against a rushing wind which seemed to come through the walls. Ralph felt as if he was on the prow of a ship heading into a storm. Shapes and shadows flitted round the altar. Father Aylred was quiet now, weak, but the sacred words were uttered. The bread and wine became the sacred Body of Christ. Everything fell silent. Father Aylred intoned the prayer for the dead, the solemn invocation that Christ and his angels would take all the souls of the faithful to a place of calm and peace. After that the disturbance faded. The sconce torches burnt more fiercely. But, just when Ralph thought they would be troubled no further, he felt as if doors were slamming shut around the altar, trapping them in a cage. Ralph was seized by a great terror as if some hideous horror from Hell was standing close by. A deep despair swept over him, a sense that all this was futile, a waste of time, and when the voice spoke, it seemed to come from the depths of his own heart.
‘What’s the use, Ralph? What is the bloody use of all
this? Where’s Beatrice?’ A pause. ‘You know where she is! Wandering the snowy wastelands of Hell. Leave this priest to his mumblings.’
‘No, she isn’t!’ Father Aylred suddenly exclaimed. He turned his pallid, sweat-soaked face to Ralph. ‘My mother’s in Heaven,’ he gasped. ‘Isn’t she, Ralph?’
The clerk opened his mouth.
‘I’ve wasted my life. I might as well whistle across the graveyard. It’s so futile.’
‘It’s not futile!’ Ralph found it difficult to speak. ‘It’s not futile at all, Father!’
The priest looked as if he was going to leave the altar. He placed the Host down and stood, slightly swaying, as if he wanted to walk away but could not.
‘Take him away!’ the voice urged Ralph. ‘What he needs is a good cup of claret and a warm pair of tits!’
‘Let’s be away,’ Father Aylred hissed. ‘I say Mass and God doesn’t listen!’
A chorus swelled up, demonic voices shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ The rattling on the stairs, an icy coldness. Ralph realised that Aylred had reached the doxology of the Mass. He stretched out and picked up the chalice and the sacred Host. They both felt hot to the touch.
‘Say the words!’ he whispered.
Aylred swayed, face white, eyes dark pools of anguish.
‘Say the words!’ Ralph insisted.
Aylred turned away to retch. He leaned against the wall, spluttering and coughing. He began to edge towards the door. Ralph seized him and brought him back. He thrust him against the altar, eyes on the Host and chalice, ignoring the nagging insistence of the voice within. Ralph grasped the chalice and Host.
‘Say the words!’
‘Per Ipsum, in Ipso, et cum Ipso.
Through Him, in Him and with Him …’ intoned Father Aylred.
Ralph lifted the Host above the chalice.
‘All honour and glory and power are yours, Oh Heavenly Father!’
Ralph suddenly felt warm and relaxed. One, two then three spheres of light appeared as if from nowhere, like the brilliant flames of glowing beeswax candles. The sensation of being shut in disappeared. A warm fragrance rose up from the altar. Aylred sighed and continued with the Mass. The Our Father, the Kiss of Peace, the Communion; in the end all was peaceful. Ralph had to help Father Aylred to a stool.
‘What happened there?’ he asked.
‘Can’t you feel it, Ralph?’
‘Are you well, Father?’
‘Can’t you feel it?’ the Franciscan repeated. ‘So warm, so peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘I can feel it.’
‘When I was younger and more handsome,’ Father Aylred smiled, ‘I was an exorcist. This is not the first time I’ve confronted demons.’
‘So you are not the hedge-priest you pretend to be?’
The Franciscan blinked. ‘Once, Ralph, I lectured in the Halls of Oxford. I was arrogant, so full of myself I had no room for God. I was a demon-hunter. One day I was called to an exorcism, a young woman in Binsey. I didn’t prepare myself well. The exorcism went wrong and the young woman died.’ He glanced up. ‘But I’ve been doing penance ever since. I pray to St Thomas à Becket. You know how our order has a great devotion to him. I would love to go on pilgrimage to his shrine, Ralph, but I’m too weak, too frail. Each year I promise, each year I fail. One year I must.’ He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. ‘And if I don’t, Ralph?’
‘Oh, you will.’ Ralph smiled. ‘And I’ll go with you.’
Father Aylred shook his head. ‘I learnt a secret tonight, Ralph. I’ll come through this. But, before Christmas, I am going to die. I must prepare for the long journey I have to
make.’ He got up and began to divest, laying out the robes. He swayed on his feet but Ralph caught him.
‘Come on, Father. I’ll take you back to your chamber. We’ll share a cup of wine.’
Beatrice had watched the soul-catching drama which unfolded in the stairwell of Midnight Tower. All the shades and phantasms she had glimpsed in Ravenscroft assembled there: Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, other shades and shapes and, standing near the door, the Minstrel Man.
Beatrice felt as if all reality was on the verge of crumbling, like it had when she had fallen from the parapet. At times the tower disappeared and the altar stood in a snow-covered field fringed by dark, threatening forests or a red sandy waste where a hot wind blasted all forms of terrors around the altar.
She could see that Father Aylred was weakening though Ralph stood his ground. Black Malkyn and Lady Johanna screamed. Other ghouls gathered, bathing the altar in their fetid breath, running up and down the steps in a clatter of feet and a rattle of weapons. All the time the Minstrel Man watched with hate-filled eyes as the priest celebrated the divine sacrifice. Beatrice found herself unable to help. She was torn between anxiety for Ralph and the sudden changes of vista and landscape. They were in the field again. Father Aylred was bracing himself against freezing gusts of wind. Mailed horsemen left the forest and charged, lances levelled, at both priest and clerk. Beatrice stared around. This was the Mass surely. Someone would help.
The Minstrel Man appeared to be drawing closer. He seemed unaware of the other phantasms, eyes intent on the priest. Beatrice had never seen such malice, such a tangible hatred.
She could almost stretch out and touch his desire to kill. As Father Aylred began the consecration, the Minstrel Man lifted his hands, talking in a gibberish tongue to the darkness around him. A silver disc of light appeared but then vanished. They were on a lake, the altar was in the centre, the water was frozen solid. Beatrice gazed in horror at the heads just above the ice, fastened tight, hair awry, mouths gaping, eyes staring. Then they were in that burning desert and all sorts of terrors seized her soul. Large feather-winged birds massed over the altar. Horsemen milled about on the far horizon. The earth cracked like a crust of bread and columns of fire appeared. Across the desert trooped a legion of the damned with sightless eyes and yawning mouths. Beside them carts rattled on iron-rimmed wheels. They bore makeshift scaffolds from which white-purplish cadavers danced in the final throes of death.
Beatrice moaned. She wanted to move from here, to go into the darkness, seal her eyes against such hideous horrors. She saw the look on Ralph’s face, sensed his fear, the desperate sense of loneliness. Yet, also, his firm courage to continue. Now and again there were moments of peace: the tower disappeared and she glimpsed a hill with three crosses on top, soaring shapes against a setting sun, or Elizabeth Lockyer smiling at her. A group of children, happy and contented, unaware of the terrors, clustered together smiling up at the priest and Ralph as if fascinated by what they were doing.
The Minstrel Man drew closer to the altar. He was reciting a mocking echo of Father Aylred’s words. Beatrice recognised the issue at hand. The Minstrel Man had released hideous images but they were harmless enough. They could do little except weaken the resolve of the priest, make him give up and flee this place. He’d thereby acknowledge, by his lack of faith, the supremacy of this demon lord who’d swept up from Hell.
Sheets of molten metal appeared as if from nowhere, screening off the altar, boxing both priest and clerk inside. They were
transparent but gave off a power which repelled Beatrice. It seemed as if both Father Aylred and the man she loved had been trapped in some hideous cell fashioned by Hell. The reason was simple. Aylred’s faith was failing. Beatrice recalled her encounter with the Moon people on the road. She moved closer to the altar, willing the priest to continue but Father Aylred was unreceptive. He moved away, going towards the wall to retch and vomit. Beatrice turned her attention to Ralph, willing with all her soul that he stand his ground.
The Minstrel Man drew closer. A look of triumph played on his lips. The other phantasms he had summoned up, the hideous, repellent shapes, appeared outside the cage he had formed.
Again the tower disappeared. They were now in the hall of some castle. All around was a brooding darkness, broken only by flickering red candles. For the first time since her fall from the parapet, Beatrice experienced true terror, a soul-crushing sensation of despondency and despair.
‘Pray, Beatrice Arrowner!’ Brother Antony was kneeling beside her. She fell to her knees, hands clasped.
‘This is the Mass,’ she hissed. ‘The sacrifice of God’s own Son!’
‘Pray,’ Brother Antony repeated. ‘It depends on man’s faith.’
She obeyed and, when she looked up, they were back in the vestibule of the Midnight Tower. Ralph was forcing the chalice into Father Aylred’s hands. The priest began the words of the solemn doxology. Abruptly there was a change. Other presences made themselves felt, expressed in columns of white-hot light grouped around the altar. The chalice was raised, it seemed to hover by itself in the air. The wine was bubbling to the top and from it shot fire, scarlet flames drenching the altar. Golden spheres appeared. The cage disappeared. The Minstrel Man, the leering faces of Crispin and Clothilde abruptly vanished. All that remained was a musty little stairwell and a sweat-soaked priest finishing the Mass.
‘It’s over.’ Brother Antony went up the stairs, smiling over his shoulder. ‘Soon, Beatrice, it will all be over.’
Beatrice watched Ralph consoling and comforting the old priest. She, too, acknowledged a change: that light, the fire she had seen from the chalice – she wanted to be with it. She was tired. The spiritual contest had drained her. She wanted to travel on. This world of shadows and fleeting shapes was unreal.
Ralph was now helping the priest towards the door. Beatrice glanced at the stairwell. If only Brother Antony had stayed.
Ralph took Father Aylred to his chamber. The castle was deserted apart from the sentries on the parapet walk and the occasional sleepy-eyed scullion taking up food or drink to those doing the night watch. At first Father Aylred kept his own counsel, as if his short speech after Mass had exhausted him. Ralph had his hand on the latch of his chamber when Father Aylred shook his head.
‘Take me downstairs, Ralph. Let me at least go to the chapel and give thanks.’
‘We’ve prayed enough,’ Ralph said lightly. ‘The good Lord will understand.’
‘I want to be there.’ The priest’s voice was almost petulant. ‘I should also go back and collect my robes.’
‘I will do that,’ Ralph reassured him. ‘But come, if you want to go to the chapel.’
He took the priest back down the steps. The chapel was in darkness. Ralph used a tinder to light some candles and the torches in both the sanctuary and nave. Father Aylred sat on a stool just inside the rood screen staring at the altar. Ralph sat on the other side; he felt tired, hungry and thirsty, but the priest needed both comfort and company. Ralph closed his eyes and said his own prayer for guidance. He began to doze so got up to stretch his legs. To keep himself awake he studied the wall paintings. On the left of the altar the artist had depicted the seven days of Creation. Each day had a Roman numeral,
and on each panel the artist had also portrayed a scene from Christ’s passion and death. Ralph stopped and studied the one beneath the Roman numeral V: the Old Testament scene didn’t concern him but the one from the Gospels caught his attention. Christ nailed to a tree, behind him a dark, threatening forest. Ralph felt his stomach pitch.
‘On an altar to your God and mine,’ he whispered. The fifth oak tree! But from the left or the right? Ralph clenched his hands in excitement. Tomorrow morning he would see which, he would find Brythnoth’s cross!
‘Ralph, could you take me up now?’ Aylred was staring sleepily at him.
‘Of course, Father.’
He extinguished the lights and helped the old priest up the spiral staircase. At the top, Father Aylred turned and shook his hand.
‘Thank you, Ralph. If you could just go back to Midnight Tower and collect my robes?’
Ralph went down the steps and out. The night sky was brilliant with stars, the breeze refreshing. He walked towards Midnight Tower but then decided against returning immediately to that place. He wanted to savour ordinary things: grass, trees, the smell of the earth. He was also haunted by memories of Beatrice. How they would walk out on a night like this and sit on the green or beneath one of the trees in the orchard. They’d talk and talk about the future. They often left it far too late and he would have to accompany her back to the barbican and down the road into Maldon. Ralph blinked away the tears. He was on the edge of the overgrown garden which led to the small orchard below the Salt Tower. The full realisation of what he had experienced during the Mass suddenly swept over him. There was a world other than his and it was only a step away. Beatrice was in that world.
Ralph stopped under one of the trees and sat down, his back against the trunk. In the poor light he could just make out the outlines of the Salt Tower and the overgrown grass
and gorse that fringed the door. He was distracted. In a way he couldn’t explain, the Mass had been a turning point. He had lost Beatrice. She would never return and he must leave Ravenscroft. So strong was his desire that he almost felt like going to his chamber and packing his possessions there and them. He’d seek an interview with Sir John Grasse and, at first light, he’d be gone. But the Constable would miss him, and such actions might provoke suspicions. Ralph chewed on his lip. Until the assassin was caught, he, like the others, lay under suspicion.
Ralph glanced up at the Salt Tower and then froze. He was sure he had seen it! A pinprick of light from one of the unshuttered windows, as if someone was on the stairwell carrying a torch or candle. Was the assassin there now? Was he preparing some fresh mischief? Ralph cursed. He had no war belt on, only a small dagger. He pulled it out and ran at a half-crouch. He quietly cursed as the briars caught his legs. He reached the door to the Salt Tower. It was unlocked. Surely Sir John had left a guard here. Hadn’t he seen two archers go across just before Mass?
Ralph pulled the door open and stepped inside, standing silently in the musty darkness. At first he thought his eyes had played some trick, his imagination running riot. He was about to leave when he heard the clink of metal and the hiss of voices. There were more than one in the Tower, he could almost feel them clustered further up the stairwell. He remembered Devil’s Spinney, those cloaked, cowled men with their bows and quivers. Ravenscroft was under attack! The rebels had stolen across the heathland and into the tower. The two archers must have been killed.
Ralph left the tower. Instead of running through the orchard, he kept to the line of the wall and almost tripped over the body of a guard. He crouched down. There had been two sentries on the parapet walk either side of the Salt Tower. This one was dead. Despite the darkness, some skilled archer had sent a yew shaft straight through his chest. Ralph delayed no longer but
sped back towards the keep, shouting and yelling. A soldier loomed out of the darkness. Ralph recognised the captain of the watch.
‘We are under attack!’ he screamed.
The captain of the guard ran back to where the alarm horn hung on a post in the bailey. He grasped it and blew. The horn was clogged. Ralph looked over his shoulder: a dark shape was slipping through the trees. The captain of the guard spat, cleared the horn and, this time, blew a long, wailing blast. Sentries from the parapet had already noticed something was amiss and were hastening down the steps. The captain of the guard ran and shoved Ralph aside. He fell to the grass. He heard the clash of swords – the intruders had already reached the castle green and the captain’s swift action had saved Ralph. He crawled away. His saviour was facing two opponents. Ralph drew his dagger and ran. He felt his head butt into a soft stomach as he lashed out with the dagger. Hot blood spattered on his hands, the cowled assailant fell away. The captain of the guard drove off the other attacker and, grasping Ralph by the arm, pulled him away.
The men-at-arms were already forming up according to the drill they had been taught. Some were not properly clothed, roused from their beds, but they had donned helmets and brought along shields and lances. Behind these, archers were forming up. Sergeants were yelling orders. An arrow whipped through the darkness and took one of the castle garrison in the face. The man dropped his shield and turned away, screaming in agony. The shield wall formed more tightly. Sir John Grasse appeared. Guards were despatched to secure entrances and doorways. The attackers hung back. Apart from the two who had made their lightning attack on the captain, the rest were uncertain. They had expected to find a sleepy garrison, seize the keep, perhaps take Sir John prisoner, but Ralph’s alarm, as well as their own fear and inexperience, made them hesitate. They lurked among the trees on the far side of the keep. The night air was rent by screams as sentries on the parapet walls
shot into the trees, finding their targets. Sir John, wearing a ridiculous-looking tilting helm, lifted the visor and raised his sword.
‘Right, lads, advance!’
Ralph grasped the shield and lance dropped by the wounded man-at-arms. The garrison moved carefully across the green and round the keep. At Sir John’s order they stopped. A few attackers came forward. Sir John had had the foresight to have sconce torches thrown on the grass to provide some light. The archers behind the men-at-arms took aim, arrows whirred through the air and caught the intruders, sending them spinning, coughing and choking back into the darkness. Ralph knew the attack was over. It had been led by hotheads, they had counted on surprise and been thwarted. Now they were terrified of being cut off from the Salt Tower, their only means of escape. Nevertheless, Sir John moved cautiously. A horn sounded from the darkness and the intruders fled. Sir John would have ordered a full pursuit but Ralph grasped him by the arm.