By P. C. Doherty
As evening units in, Chaucer’s weary pilgrims locate themselves in a Kent copse, rumored to be haunted. Huddling round the hearth, they convince the Clerk of Oxford to inform a ghostly story of affection and demise that may extra kick back their blood...
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Additional info for A Haunt of Murder
She should comfort him. As she moved away, Crispin’s eyes turned hard. ‘I’ll come back,’ she whispered. ‘I promise. ’ ‘Of course, Beatrice,’ he said and turned away. Beatrice was already in the tower hurrying up the spiral staircase, aware of the torches, the dancing shadows, of grotesque shapes, odious smells and macabre forms. She reached Ralph’s room and passed through the door into the small, circular chamber. Beatrice gave a deep sigh of grief. The room was so familiar, so full of loving memories: the rushes on the floor, green and supple; the little pots of herbs she had brought; the crucifix on the wall; the small triptych on the table next to the bed.
No pity in life, no mercy in death. ’ Beatrice could stand no more and fled like a shadow from Midnight Tower. Chapter 3 Beatrice found herself on the path leading from the barbican. The stars were bright above her, the silver moon slipped in and out of the clouds yet it wasn’t the usual blue-black of country nights. The heathland, Devil’s Spinney and the walls of Ravenscroft were bathed in that eerie bronze tinge, like light reflected in a brass pot. The silence, too, was strange, not the calm and peace of the countryside at night but more threatening, as if other phantasms lurked behind the curtain of night, ready to spring out.
Night is falling. ’ The miller turned in the saddle. He stared down the lane thronged with pilgrims jostling on their tired mounts. The taverner approached, confident that the knight would protect him from the miller’s fierce rages. ‘Sir Godfrey speaks the truth,’ he barked. ’ the miller spat back. ‘You wouldn’t know a firkin from a cask or a tit from a—’ Sir Godfrey’s sword slipped nearer his neck. The miller caught the reproving eye of the lady prioress seated on her palfrey, still clasping that bloody lap dog.
A Haunt of Murder by P. C. Doherty