Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘But there are no night-walkers in Melford, are there?’

Isabella swayed slightly side to side as if she was enjoying her riddle.

‘You’d be very surprised what walks the streets and lanes of Melford at night. Talk to Parson Grimstone. There’s more sin here, under the cover of darkness, than in your great city.’

Ranulf took a silver coin out of his purse and held it firmly between his fingers.

‘I gave one to your father but your sister had one, didn’t she? Is that why she left? Went out into the countryside? No, no,’ Ranulf smiled. He stroked her cheek with a gloved finger. ‘Johanna was a good girl but there’s not much money, is there? And the tinkers and the chapmen sell such pretty things: a ribbon, a brooch, a bracelet, perhaps a necklace of stones, all polished bright? So, are you going to tell me?’

Isabella looked at the coin and licked her lips.

‘My sister had no such coin.’

‘Then whom did she meet?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps an admirer, perhaps the Mummer’s Man.’

‘Mummer’s Man?’ Ranulf asked.

‘It’s someone I’ve heard of.’

‘You’re telling tales?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Isabella stared at the coin. ‘I met a travelling girl once. She claimed to have seen a Mummer’s Man. He had a mask over his face and his horse moved like a ghost along the lanes outside Melford.’

Ranulf recalled the lonely country trackways they had ridden along on their way to Melford. He felt a prick of fear at this hideous vision of a masked man riding a silent horse.

‘I tell you, sir,’ she clutched the front of Ranulf’s jerkin, ‘that’s all I know.’

‘Nothing else? This travelling girl?’

‘It was dusk. She couldn’t see much. I didn’t think much of her tale till after my sister’s death. I daren’t tell anyone; I was frightened of getting into trouble.’

Ranulf pressed the coin into her hands. ‘Then you’d best get back.’

She took the coin.

Ranulf grasped her wrist. ‘Don’t go out in the country lanes, and be careful of the Mummer’s Man!’

He released her and she ran off into the darkness.

‘What was all that about?’ Chanson came back leading the horses. ‘Ranulf, I’m tired and I’m cold. Despite what Samler gave us, my belly thinks my throat’s slit. My mouth is so dry it’s forgotten how to drink. Where’s Sir Hugh?’

‘Oh, old Master Long Face.’ Ranulf took the reins of his horse. ‘He’ll be riding round the dark lanes, high in the saddle, cowl pulled across his head. He’ll be thinking. He broods a lot, does Sir Hugh, turning things over and over in his mind like a water mill. Oh, he’ll come back and he’ll sit in his chamber staring out of the window, moody and quiet.’

‘Is he safe?’ Chanson asked. ‘I mean, the Lady Maeve told him to be careful.’

‘He was attacked in Oxford,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Took an arrow high in the chest but the King’s physicians healed him.’

‘Does he love the Lady Maeve? Is that what he is thinking about?’

They reached the end of the alleyway. Ranulf stared across at the poor unfortunate clasped in the stocks. The marketplace was empty, the rubbish had been cleared. Only the occasional flitting shadows: people walking towards the light of the Golden Fleece. Now and again a door slammed, the cry of a child, a dog yapping in its kennels, all the sounds of the night.

‘Sir Hugh is a man of great order,’ Ranulf declared. ‘You serve me, Chanson. Serve me well and, one day, you may become a clerk like I am.’

Chanson quietened the horse, stroking its muzzle.

‘Could I really become a clerk, Master Ranulf?’

‘Oh yes, there are clerks of the stables, powerful men they are, in charge of the King’s horses. Anyway, I am describing to you the way things are ordered. I am a clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, next up the rung is Baby Edward and Sir Hugh Corbett’s daughter, Eleanor.’

‘And after that?’ Chanson asked. ‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, then the King, then God.’ He grinned at Chanson. ‘And, right at the top, the Lady Maeve.’

Chanson looked narrow-eyed but the smile had gone from Ranulf’s lean face. In truth, the groom knew he wasn’t joking. Ranulf was frightened of no one, Chanson deeply admired him for that. A true bullyboy, Ranulf would swagger into a tavern, the girls would smile and Ranulf would take out his loaded dice and invite all comers. He was quick as a cat, slightly mocking of Sir Hugh. Ranulf, however, stood in dreadful awe of the Lady Maeve even though she was only small and her golden hair framed a face which reminded Chanson of a painting of an angel in the ancient church. Once in his cups Ranulf had confessed how Lady Maeve’s eyes frightened him.

‘Light blue they are,’ he’d slurred. ‘Quick and sharp, they miss nothing. Have you ever heard the phrase, “steel in velvet”?’ Ranulf had leant back. ‘That’s our Lady Maeve. I even think old Master Long Face is secretly frightened of her.’

Ranulf began to walk his horse across the cobbles.

‘And are you in love, Master Ranulf? I heard mention of a Lady Alicia. .?’

Ranulf turned swift as a striking snake, lips curled in a snarl. Chanson jumped so much even his horse was startled, throwing up its head.

‘Hush now! Hush now!’ Chanson soothed it but kept a wary eye on Ranulf, still glaring at him. ‘I am sorry. .’ Chanson muttered.

Ranulf relaxed. ‘Ah, it’s not your fault.’ He beckoned Chanson forward and put an arm round his shoulder. ‘I tell you this: I loved her and she left me. Gone to a nunnery, she has. Perhaps I’ll join her.’

Chanson stared open-mouthed. ‘I can’t imagine you in a wimple.’

Ranulf snorted with laughter and withdrew his arm.

‘No, no, Chanson, not a nunnery but into the Church. I’ve often thought of that. Can you imagine Archdeacon Ranulf, perhaps even Bishop Ranulf of Norwich?’

Chanson, who had seen these powerful prelates, repressed a smile. Ranulf-atte-Newgate, in gorgeous, flowing robes, wearing a mitre and carrying a crosier, processing slowly up the aisle of Westminster Abbey!

‘What was that girl talking to you about?’ he asked, changing the conversation.

They stopped at the trough to allow their horses to drink. Ranulf looked up at the sky, then once more at the smart front of the market square, its timbered buildings, lanterns and gleaming paintwork.

‘Old Master Long Face will want to know what we’ve been doing. So, what do we have here, Chanson? A fat, prosperous town, where everybody makes a good profit. Lords of the soil, like Sir Maurice and Tressilyian the justice. Merchants, farmers, millers, well-fed priests. Look at Master Samler: a thatcher who does a good trade. He’s not prosperous but, in a few years, he’ll be sending his sons to the schools in Ipswich.’ Ranulf paused. ‘During the day the markets are busy, trade is good. Silver and gold change hands, but where there’s wealth, corruption, rich and stinking, also flourishes. People have more time on their hands. A man lusts after his neighbour’s wife. Secret sins begin to fester like weeds amongst the corn. Rivalries break out, grudges are nursed. All strange sights and sounds appear.’

‘What do you mean?’ Chanson queried.

‘Take Samler’s family. Notice the girls, young, plump and well fed. Time is on their hands, not like things used to be when an entire family worked from morning to dusk. They filled their bellies on watery ale and crusts of bread and slept like hogs until the dawn. All has changed. Now, into this little paradise steps a demon, a man who likes to rape and kill.’

‘Are there such men?’ Chanson looked totally bemused. He was terrified of women and would bask in the smile of the ugliest, greasiest slattern.