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wild thought seized Beatrice. She was dreaming and to prove it she would jump from the parapet and before she hit the ground she would wake up in her little cot bed above the taproom in the Golden Tabard. She would cry out. Aunt Catherine would come hurrying in to embrace her and tell her not to worry about horrid nightmares.
    Beatrice felt the cold night air on her face. She spread her arms like a bird taking flight and launched herself into the darkness. She reached the cobbles. No pain, no flesh-juddering impact, no taste of blood spilling into her mouth, no last dying moments. It was as if she had taken a small step.
    ‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
    She spun round. A young man stood there. He had blond hair, a smooth face, and was dressed exquisitely in a short cote-hardie, lined and trimmed with fur, parti-coloured hose and a rather exaggerated codpiece. On his feet were long
pointed shoes, the toes curled back and fastened to garters below his knee. In one hand he carried a chaperon, and a brocaded dagger sheath hung from his silver belt. He was sniffing at a pomander, red in colour and decorated with gold and silver thread.
    ‘Who are you?’
    The young man smiled. He was beautiful, like a courtier who had passed through Maldon on his way to Westminster some months ago. That visitor to the Golden Tabard had arrogant eyes and a petulant mouth. This young man was friendly, smiling, the lips open to reveal white, even teeth. He walked closer. She could smell the fragrance of his clothes. He offered her the pomander. She didn’t take it but caught a perfume like roses crushed in fresh water.
    ‘Who are you?’ she repeated. ‘Where am I? Can you please help me, sir?’ A silver disc shimmered on the edge of her vision.
    ‘You are Beatrice Arrowner. You died in a fall from the parapet wall.’
    ‘I know that!’ Beatrice snapped. ‘But what has happened? I saw a knight dark and hideous. He was here in the yard slaughtering men. A great mastiff hurled itself at me. Look!’ She pointed at the dark shapes flitting around her.
    ‘Just phantasms,’ the young man replied.
    ‘Who are you?’ she insisted.
    ‘Oh, quite petulant, aren’t we? Fiery-tempered Beatrice. My name, well, you can call me Crispin.’
    ‘Are you a ghost, Crispin?’
    ‘I am what you see, Beatrice. I am what you want me to be.’
    Beatrice felt uneasy. Crispin was standing there like some beautiful Christ statue in church but the night around him seemed darker, denser; the silver disc had disappeared.
    ‘I did not die,’ she blurted, suddenly angry. ‘I was murdered !’
    ‘I know,’ said Crispin smoothly.

    ‘And do you also know who is responsible?’
    He shook his head. ‘If I did, Beatrice, I’d tell you. So, what do you think of it, Beatrice, eh? Not yet eighteen summers old and snatched out of life. No Ralph, no wedding day, no warm embrace or sweet kisses.’
    ‘Where is Ralph?’ Beatrice asked.
    Crispin pointed to the Lion Tower. ‘He’s in his chamber. He’s drunk deeply, Beatrice. He thinks wine will ease the pain, and perhaps it will. In time he will forget you. It could have been so different, couldn’t it?’
    ‘Yes!’ Her voice came out as a snarl, so sharp, so hate-filled, even she was surprised.
    ‘And what about Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine? Those poor guardians who regarded you as their only child? Riven with grief, they are.’ Crispin sniffed at the pomander. ‘What a waste,’ he whispered. He glanced mice-eyed at her. ‘Do you want vengeance, Beatrice? I can help you.’ He stepped a little closer, his light-blue eyes full of kindness, red lips parted.
    Impulsively Beatrice stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. She felt strange, on the one hand attracted to this beautiful young man, on the other, troubled by the hate his words stirred up in her.
    ‘I’ll give you another thought,’ Crispin whispered. ‘And listen to me now. Were you the real victim?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.
    ‘Think