Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

Sorrel didn’t wait but fled down the hall. She reached the dais and stumbled. Sounds of pursuit echoed behind her but she was up through the solar door, slamming it shut and drawing across the bolts. She crumpled to a heap on the floor before it, aware of the pain throbbing through her. The left side of her neck was badly gashed, the palm of her hand lacerated, the small of her back ached as if she had been hit by a cudgel, whilst her arms weighed so heavy. She heard her assailant try to force the door but it held firm.

‘Go away, you whoreson!’ Sorrel screamed.

The thudding stopped, replaced by a scratching as if some wild animal was clawing with long nails. Sorrel got to her knees. Yes, that was what he was doing! Her assailant had drawn his dagger, seeking the crevice between the door and lintel to see if he could work loose the leather hinges. Sorrel gazed around; she’d dropped the crossbow. She ran over to the chest, pulled out the long stabbing Welsh dirk and grasped her cudgel. The scratching continued. Sorrel returned to the door and studied the hinges, thick wedges of leather. It would take some time to work those loose. She looked towards the window. She could try to escape. Perhaps if she reached the woods she could lose her attacker. She drew breath in and tiptoed across.

Pulling back the shutters, she stared to the left and right. She was about to draw her head in when she saw a dark shape stepping out through the large gap in the hall wall. Her attacker had studied the place carefully. She withdrew quickly, pulling the shutters closed, and brought down the bar. Sorrel stood, listening intently. The clawing had stopped. She heard a sound and started as the shutters rattled. He was now trying to get in through there. Sorrel ran across. The shutters were of heavy oak, their hinges strong but there was a gap where they met. She saw the dagger glide in. Her assailant was trying to lift the bar. She lashed out with the cudgel, the dagger withdrew.

Sorrel was now coated in sweat. What if the attacker laid siege, waiting for nightfall? Then she heard the shout, a loud hallo echoing through Beauchamp Place, followed by her name.

‘I am here!’ Sorrel screamed.

She sank down on a stool: her assailant appeared to have disappeared but Sorrel was so frightened she didn’t have the strength to rise. She sat in a half-daze, aware of the throbbing pain in her hand, the wrenching ache in her neck. Only after a while did she become aware of the hammering on the door. She picked up the cudgel and knife.

‘Who is it?’ she called weakly.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Sorrel, for heaven’s sake, what is the matter?’

Sorrel closed her eyes and tried to think. The voice sounded familiar, but was it a trick?

‘To the right,’ she said, ‘in the hall, there’s a large gap in the wall. Step out into the open.’

‘Sorrel, what is this nonsense?’

‘Step out!’ she ordered.

She heard a curse. Sorrel went to the shutters.

‘Come to the window!’ she shouted through the crack. ‘Just stand there!’

She heard the click of high-heeled riding boots. It must be the clerk. She narrowed her eyes and pressed her face against the gap in the shutters. Sir Hugh Corbett stood there, cloak thrown back, hand on the hilt of his sword. Sorrel drew up the bar and opened the shutters.

‘In God’s name!’ Corbett exclaimed.

He ran back into the hall even as Sorrel drew the bolts, threw open the door and almost collapsed into his arms. Corbett picked her up, took her across and, shouldering aside the curtains round the bed, laid her down gently on the faded blue and gold cover. He filled a bowl of water from a jug, dabbing at the cuts on her hand and side of her neck. She started to shiver so he pulled the coverlet up around her.

‘Who attacked you?’

She grasped his hand. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she pleaded. ‘He could slip by you.’

Corbett reassured her. Following directions, he went to the buttery, lit the brazier and, cursing and coughing at the smoke, wheeled it into the solar. He then heated some wine. By the time he had finished, Sorrel was sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘You would not make a good housewife,’ she smiled weakly, ‘but I thank you, Sir Hugh.’ She gulped the wine.

‘The attacker?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I don’t know. I was here by myself. I knew someone had entered Beauchamp Place. I was in the bailey. I heard a sound I didn’t recognise and fled in the wrong direction.’

She told her story in halting phrases, looking wild-eyed at Corbett.

‘How do I know it wasn’t you?’

‘Don’t be foolish.’ Corbett pulled a stool across. ‘I have served you mulled wine, not threatened you with a garrotte string!’

He went across and barred the shutters.

‘Bolt the door behind me,’ he ordered.

Corbett went out into the hallway. He could detect, in the dust on the dais and at the entrance to the hall, the signs of a struggle and pursuit. He went out to the gatehouse and stared across the makeshift bridge. Corbett looked over his shoulder where he had hobbled his horse. The attacker must have been on foot. He’d heard Corbett’s approach, let him come in and slipped over the bridge. The long grass and trees would hide him. He could be back in Melford by now.

Corbett rejoined Sorrel in the solar. She had recovered, a small jar on the table before her. She was carefully rubbing some paste into her hand and the side of her neck.

‘The juice of moss,’ she explained, ‘mixed with cobwebs and dried milk. It’s a sovereign remedy.’

Corbett thought of his own old wound in his chest. It had healed but occasionally, as now, the muscles and bone twinged in pain.

‘You are most fortunate.’

‘I saw you,’ Sorrel smiled, ‘when I took refuge in the room above the chapel. I glimpsed a rider coming down Falmer Lane. If you hadn’t come. . Did you find my crossbow?’

Corbett shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking for it. Did you see your attacker? Did you recognise anything about him?’

She shook her head. ‘Are you sure he has gone?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, he has gone all right, like the silent assassin he is. I wonder why he came here in the first place.’

‘Why did you?’

‘Well, there are two reasons, Mistress, just as I believe there are two murderers in Melford. Oh yes, we have two assassins. The first is the Jesses killer or Mummer’s Man, the ravisher and slayer of women. As you told me, he has been hunting these lanes and trackways like a weasel. Sometimes he attacks tinkers’ girls, women like yourself, wandering from the towns seeking a new life, work, a crust of bread and a penny. They are easy victims.’ Corbett paused to choose his words. ‘Now and again, however,’ he continued, ‘this killer can’t control his lust. Somehow he entices young women from the town out into the countryside where he rapes and garrottes them.’

‘And the second killer?’ she asked tersely.

‘Oh, the second one is not interested in rape or murder, but, strangely enough, justice. Someone who believes that the wrong man was hanged: that Sir Roger Chapeleys was innocent, that his trial was a mockery, a mere mummery. So now he — ’ Corbett paused, ‘or she — is waging a vengeful bloody campaign against those responsible. Tressilyian is attacked on his way into Melford. Deverell takes a crossbow bolt in his head. Thorkle’s brains are dashed out. Molkyn is decapitated. Strange, isn’t it,’ he mused, ‘how all three suffered wounds to the head? Now, two people,’ Corbett continued, ‘believe Chapeleys was innocent: Sir Roger, but he has now answered to God-’

‘And my man, Furrell.’

‘Yes, Sorrel, your man, Furrell.’