Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘And your daughter, Mistress?’ Corbett asked. ‘She’s not upset?’

‘Ah!’ Ursula got to her feet, wiping her hands slowly on the breast of her taffeta gown. ‘If she’s upset, master clerk, it’s because you mentioned Widow Walmer. Didn’t you know she often acted as her maid?’ She laughed at Corbett’s surprise. ‘Well, not maid — don’t forget she was only a young girl of twelve — more as a companion. She often slept there, spent the evening, kept the good widow company.’

‘And the night Sir Roger supposedly murdered her?’

‘Well, the widow was expecting company, wasn’t she? Margaret was told to stay away, that’s all she knew and that’s all I can tell you.’

Corbett stared across at the fire. He’d learnt enough. He had picked up pieces which he must arrange in some form of order, but, perhaps, not tonight. He pushed back his stool, picked up his cloak and sword belt, thanked his hosts and went out into the yard.

The wind had picked up, whirling the branches, scattering the dry leaves. Clouds raced across the moonlit sky. Corbett dug his heels in, guiding his horse across the bridge and up the lane leading back to the church.

‘The devil’s night,’ Corbett whispered.

He recalled boyhood stories. His mother used to sit him on her knee and talk about the wild woodman, all tangled hair and glaring eyes, who supposedly lived in the forest, an arrow-shot from their farm. Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. Such stories! Every tree, every bush, hid a fantastical world of evil goblins, malignant forest people; dragons, griffins and man-sized hawks. He’d started telling the same to Baby Eleanor but always in a whisper. Maeve had clear ideas about such legends.

‘Uncle Morgan used to frighten me to death as a child!’

‘He still frightens me,’ Corbett had whispered.

Uncle Morgan had arrived years ago for a ‘short visit’ but settled down and didn’t show the slightest inclination to return to Wales. On a night like this, however, Corbett was glad Uncle Morgan was at Leighton.

Corbett was tightening the reins when the figure came whirling out of the darkness. A rustle in the undergrowth, a slithered footfall, Corbett glimpsed the club coming back, aiming for his leg. His horse whinnied and started. Corbett cursed, going back in the saddle, fingers searching for the hilt of his sword. Then his attacker had disappeared, quietly and mysteriously.

‘What on earth. .?’ Corbett pulled himself out of the saddle, patting his horse, talking to it reassuringly. The bay, however, refused to be quietened, going back on its hind legs, threatening to rear, shaking its head and expressing its annoyance in sharp whinnies. Corbett held on to the reins, talking softly as Chanson had taught him.

At last the animal calmed. Corbett allowed it to nuzzle his hands and face before remounting. Of all the attacks he had ever endured, that was the most surprising. A man on foot could really do little harm to a rider. The blow had been directed towards his leg; only sheer luck had saved both him and the horse from considerable pain. But why?

Corbett emerged from the woods and stared up at the moon-washed church. He breathed in deeply, quietening his mind, calming his temper. He’d had enough. He had been out in the dark too long! He urged his horse into a canter and was pleased to reach the square and the glowing warmth of the Golden Fleece. He went round the side of the tavern and gave his horse to an ostler.

‘I want him treated really well,’ Corbett ordered. ‘A good rub down. You have the blankets? Make sure he’s fed and watered.’

The sleepy-eyed boy promised he would. Corbett tossed him a penny, took off his sword belt, grasped his saddlebags and walked through the rear door and along the passageway into the bustling taproom: a welcome relief from the cold and darkness.

The taproom was busy, lit by lanterns and candles, and warmed by a roaring fire. The air was thick with the smell of candle grease and wood smoke. Somewhere a shepherd played a lilting tune on a lute. Corbett’s mouth watered at the spicy smell from the side of pork being tended on the spit by two red-faced boys crouched in the inglenook. They turned it slowly, basting it with herbs soaked in oil. Mastiffs lay before the hearth and slavered at such pleasant odours. Slatterns, their hands full of tankards of frothing ale, pushed their way through, slapping away the wandering fingers of chapmen and tinkers. Ranulf and Chanson were seated in the corner, surrounded by locals. Both of them looked well fed and relaxed. Ranulf sat like Herod amongst the innocents, those precious dice in his hand, inviting his ‘guests’ to lay a wager.

‘You’ve returned at last!’

Corbett glanced behind him. In a cooler, darker part of the taproom sat Blidscote and Burghesh. Burghesh was the same as ever, Blidscote looked bleary-eyed and red-nosed as if he had drunk too much, too fast. Burghesh waved Corbett over.

‘I recommend the quail pie and some of that pork.’

Matthew the taverner came bustling across. Corbett ordered food for himself and ale for his companions. He did not have to wait long. The taverner served the food personally: a broad, wooden platter with half a steaming pie, strips of crackling pork and vegetables diced and covered in a cheese sauce. Corbett took out his horn spoon and the small dagger kept in a sheath above his right boot. He ate quickly, hungrily, savouring every mouthful. He half listened to Blidscote and Burghesh’s chatter: about the change in the weather and the arrangements for All-Hallows celebrations.

‘A busy day, Sir Hugh?’ Burghesh asked once the clerk had finished eating. The old soldier toasted him with his tankard.

Corbett responded. Blidscote might be a toper but Burghesh’s broad face was friendly: clear grey eyes and smiling mouth. Corbett wondered how much this veteran of the King’s wars knew about Melford.

‘I’ll tell you this, Master Burghesh.’ Corbett wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘If the French ever invade, Melford will be a hard town to take. You’d have to surround it with a circle of steel.’

‘Ah, but the French will never come,’ Burghesh smiled. ‘That’s one of the joys of this place, Corbett. You can wander in and out.’ He lifted the tankard. ‘God knows there are enough people in this taproom who will keep an eye on what you do and where you go.’

‘But what about the chapmen and tinkers?’

Corbett pointed across to where a group of these sat with their trays carefully stacked on the floor beside them. One was busy feeding a pet squirrel, a small red ball of fur on his shoulder which prettily gnawed on the offered scraps. Now and again the squirrel would break off to chatter at the vicious-looking ferret held by another.

‘I mean,’ Corbett continued, ‘they can wander in and out when they like and not pay the market toll.’

‘They can try,’ Blidscote slurred. ‘But who’ll buy from them? They’ll only get reported, put in the stocks and banned for a year and a day. They are only too willing to come into the market square and pay the tax.’

‘And you are responsible for that?’ Corbett asked.

He studied the chief bailiff’s fat, sweaty face, weak chin, slobbery mouth and bleary eyes. Corbett recalled his conversation at the mill. Blidscote was a dangerous man: weak, boastful but, if threatened, dangerous in a sly, furtive way.

‘I’m chief bailiff,’ Blidscote replied. ‘I do my job well.’

Corbett sipped from his tankard. ‘And you were one of the first to see Widow Walmer’s corpse?’

‘Aye.’ The bailiff shook his head. ‘I’ll never forget that evening. I was here in the taproom, wasn’t I, Burghesh, with you and Repton the reeve?’