Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

The curate closed his eyes. He should have been a monk. Bellen tried to clear his mind by chanting phrases from the Divine Office. He stared up into the darkness. Carvings gazed back: angels, demons, the faces of saints, even the carved representations of priests and curates who had served here before him. What should he do? Write to the Bishop? Make a full confession? Yet what proof did he possess? Or should he go in front of that sharp-eyed clerk? He was a royal emissary but also a man; he would understand.

Bellen heard the wind creak and rustle the twisted branches of the yew trees outside. Then a sound, like the click of a latch. But that was impossible! Surely he had closed the corpse door behind him? He sighed and got to his feet. He walked out of the chantry chapel and down the transept to the side door. The latch was still down. Shivering, feeling rather foolish, Bellen lifted this and pulled the door open. The cold night air rushed in. Outside God’s acre lay silent in the moonlight. He was about to close the door when he looked down and his freezing back prickled with fear. He could see the boot stains. Someone had come into this church, like a thief in the night, had stood in the shadows and watched him.

Sir Hugh Corbett reined in and stared across at the church. The lych-gate was closed, but in the moonlight he could make out the path, crosses, carvings and burial grounds. The grass and gorse were already glinting under a frost. Corbett felt tired and cold. An owl hooted deep in the cemetery. Corbett smiled. Next time he told a story to little Eleanor, he would remember this place with its shadows, dappled moonlight, the haunting silence and the ominous sound of a night bird. Corbett also felt hungry. He closed his eyes and thought of the parlour in Leighton Manor. He’d sit in his high-backed chair or on cushions before a great roaring fire, watching a poker heat red in the flames: he’d then pluck it out and warm posset cups for himself and Maeve. She would be singing softly under her breath, one of her sad Welsh songs. The logs would splutter and crackle, the flames leap higher. . Corbett opened his eyes.

‘Oh Lord,’ he prayed, ‘the wind is cold, the night is hard. I wish to God I were in my bed, my lover’s arms around me.’

Corbett laughed softly. Maeve would call him a troubadour. His horse snickered and, lifting a hoof, struck at the hard trackway. Corbett patted its neck.

‘There now! There now! Good lad!’ he soothed. ‘You’ve ridden hard and done fine work. It will be oats and a fresh bed of straw for you tonight.’

The bay threw its head back and whinnied as if it could already smell the tangy warmness of its stable at the Golden Fleece.

Corbett had left Sorrel and spent the greater part of the last hour riding the trackways and lanes around Melford. He wanted to take his bearings: on a number of occasions he had become lost.

‘It’s a maze,’ he muttered.

Melford was not like those ancient towns along the south coast, or the royal boroughs around the Medway, with their walls and gates. Melford had begun as a village, then spread as the wealth from its sheep increased. A murderer could slip easily in and out of such a town. At one time Corbett would be amongst cottages and houses, he’d then take a turning down a muddy lane and be out in open countryside. But at last he had a map in his mind and was already sifting possibilities. How and where the murderer had carried out his crimes was still impossible to deduce. Corbett could only form a vague hypothesis. Now he was intent on visiting Molkyn the miller’s widow. He wanted to proceed quickly. The longer he stayed in Melford, and the more time he gave people to reflect, the more they’d say what they wanted him to hear rather than the truth.

Corbett urged his horse forward, passed the church and, following the direction he had taken earlier, rode down a muddy lane. He entered the miller’s property and reined in before the mere glinting in the moonlight. Corbett could imagine the tray or platter bearing Molkyn’s severed head floating and bobbing on its glassy surface. He dismounted and led his horse round the mere. Above him the great mill soared, its canvas arms stretched out to the night. He glimpsed a light and went on up the lane towards the house. A dog came snarling out of the darkness. Corbett paused, stretching out his hand.

‘Now, now,’ he whispered. ‘No need for that.’

The dog barked again. A door opened and Corbett glimpsed a shadowy form holding a lantern.

‘Who’s there?’ came the challenge.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk! I would be grateful if you would call your dog off!’

A low whistle broke the darkness. The dog slunk away and Corbett went on. The man carrying the lantern was young, broad-faced, red-haired, pugnacious and aggressive. He was dressed in a cote-hardie which fell to his knees. Both that, and the leggings beneath, were dusty with flour.

‘What do you want?’

‘A civil welcome!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I carry the King’s commission.’

‘Ralph, Ralph,’ a woman’s voice called from the doorway. ‘Take our visitor’s horse.’ The voice was low and warm. ‘You’d best come in, Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, the night is freezing.’

The young man led off the horse. Corbett undid his sword belt and cloak and followed the woman into the warm, stone-flagged kitchen, a long, sweet-smelling room. The windows at the far end were shuttered, a fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the air was rich with the smell of baking from the ovens on either side of the fire. The woman who welcomed him was blonde-haired and slender, with a smiling, pleasant face. Behind her two other women sat at a table. One was undoubtedly Molkyn’s daughter. She had fair hair and a sweet face. The other had coarser features: a flat nose, podgy cheeks, a watchful, hostile gaze. Her grey hair was hidden under a dark blue veil, now slightly askew. She sat, the sleeves of her grey gown pulled back, a sharp pruning knife in her hands. She was helping cut up some vegetables. She dropped these in the pot on the table, her gaze never leaving Corbett’s face.

‘I am Ursula,’ the welcoming woman said.

‘The miller’s widow?’

Smiling-eyed, she studied Corbett intently. ‘Yes, I am the miller’s widow whilst you’re more handsome than they said.’

Corbett felt himself blush. The woman laughed deep in her throat. She must have seen Corbett’s surprise at the green gown she was wearing.

‘Widow’s weeds are for mourning, master clerk. Molkyn’s dead and buried so that’s the end of the matter. This is my stepdaughter, Margaret, and the lady staring so boldly at you is another widow, Lucy, Thorkle’s wife.’

Corbett felt uneasy. Here were three women who had lost their men. Two their husbands, the young one her father, but there were no funeral cloths against the wall. No purple drape covered the crucifix, chests or cupboards. The kitchen looked like one in the royal household, sparkling clean, scrubbed and washed.

‘I do not wish to intrude.’

‘You are not intruding.’ Ursula’s blue eyes remained steady. ‘We’ve all heard of your arrival. We’ve had King’s commissioners here ready to steal our corn but never a royal clerk. We are greatly honoured! We will be the talk of the parish. Come on now!’

Ursula led him by the elbow across to the chair at the far end of the table. She wouldn’t take no for an answer but served him freshly baked bread, pots of butter and honey and a pewter tankard of ale from a barrel in the far corner.

Her son Ralph returned. Corbett reckoned he must be about twenty summers old and had apparently taken over the running of the mill. He sat surly and ungracious on the bench, moodily sipping at the drink his mother poured. Thorkle’s widow and Margaret continued to slice the vegetables. Ursula sat on the bench to Corbett’s left.