Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘You are thinking, clerk?’

‘I think,’ Corbett replied. ‘You watch. If the assassin struck once, he may well strike again.’

An hour later, another visitor arrived on the banks of the Swaile. Master Blidscote, chief bailiff of the town of Melford, was about to die but he did not know it. He had been summoned out to the great water meadow fringing the river. The local inhabitants called it ‘The Ferry’ but this had long disappeared, swept away in some storm. Blidscote obediently stood on the bank, staring into the reeds, the muddy water swirling amongst them. A desolate place, the silence only broken by the raucous cry of birds.

Blidscote felt as if his life had been taken over by a swiftly rushing river. The arrival of that royal clerk meant justice and vengeance. Blidscote was trapped. Over the years he had taken bribes, tapped his nose and winked and turned a blind eye to this or that. He’d only kept his position by being pliable to those in power and bullying those who weren’t. The scrawled message thrust under the door of his small house in Fardun Street had told him where to come. Blidscote felt nervous. He didn’t like the countryside — the green, cold fields, the trees, their branches black against a grey lowering sky. He had attended the Wheelwright funeral; that had only deepened his pessimism. He shouldn’t have come but what choice did he have? He had followed instructions and ensured the jury which tried Sir Roger would return a verdict of guilty. For such a crime Blidscote could hang. Even if he didn’t, he would be turned out of his living and what could he do then? Beg? Become the brunt of the petty cruelties of the townspeople? Many would seize the opportunity to settle grudges and redress grievances.

Blidscote wiped his lips and stared back up the hill. Was that a horseman? His belly curdled on the ale he had drunk so quickly. He whimpered with fright. The countryside brought back memories of his bullying, hectoring ways with the boys of the travelling people. Had someone seen his secret heinous sin? He glanced back at the river. He heard it again, the drumming of hoofs. Blidscote turned and moaned in horror. A black-garbed rider, cloak swirling, a figure from the Valleys of Hell, had stopped on the brow of the hill. He was having difficulty with his horse. Was it the clerk? Had that damnable Corbett brought him out here to be questioned? The rider urged his horse forward. The horse’s head was bobbing up and down, hoofs thundering, the rider’s cloak billowed round him. Blidscote remembered his childhood nightmares. Death was thundering towards him. Blidscote stood rooted to the spot. He wasn’t aware of the squelching mud beneath his battered boots, the strident cry of the birds, the slithering ghostly sound of the river. Only this rider from Hell, this living nightmare charging straight towards him.

Blidscote expected the rider to rein in but he didn’t. The bailiff moved to the right then the left, no escape. He staggered back. He was amongst the reeds now, the mud oozing up above his boots as he floundered about. The rider followed him in. Blidscote tried to seize the reins, only to receive a sharp vicious kick. Further and further the rider forced him back. Blidscote stared up at the face but the rider was hooded and cowled.

‘My old companion, Blidscote.’

The bailiff now was in mortal terror. He was on the edge of the reeds. He could feel the current of the river tugging at him. He tried to turn. The rider brought the club he wielded sharply down on the bailiff’s head. Blidscote fell, face forward, into the river. The cold dirty water filled his mouth and nose. The rider dismounted and, leaving his horse to find its own way back to the bank, dragged Blidscote’s body into the shallows. Going quickly along the bank, he brought heavy stones which he thrust down the jerkin and wrapped in the bailiff’s squirrel-lined cloak. He pushed the body out as he would a small skiff. The unconscious bailiff was taken out midstream. He floated for a while and then slowly sank beneath the surface. The rider waited. He stared around to ensure he was still alone and, mounting his horse, made his way back across the meadow.

The banquet at the Guildhall proved to be prestigious. Corbett and Ranulf, in their rather travel-stained clothes, felt out of place amongst the costly garbed burgesses and their wives. Sir Louis Tressilyian, in a cote-hardie of dark murrey, soft buskins on his feet, welcomed them at the top of the broad stairs. He escorted them into the main chamber. Corbett thought he was in a church, so many torches and candles had been lit. The windows were long, most of them filled with coloured glass. The table of honour was on a dais dominated by a gorgeous silver-cast salt cellar bearing the town’s arms. The royal charter, which had granted Melford its privileges, was in the centre of the room on a table covered with turkey cloth. The burgesses came up and were introduced: a dizzying array of names and faces. Corbett shook hands and, with Ranulf walking beside him, made his way to the table on the dais.

Sir Maurice arrived, dressed in a blue and gold gown over a white open-necked shirt. He introduced Alianor, Louis’s daughter, a small, pretty-faced young woman. She had blonde hair and light cornflower-blue eyes and was dressed exquisitely in a dark red gown and white wimple. She was much taken with Ranulf. Corbett had to stand on his companion’s toes, a harsh reminder that the young woman was almost betrothed to Sir Maurice. Ranulf whispered he would be on his best behaviour, except he intended to take some of the choicest pieces of food for Chanson: the groom, with the other servants, was left to his own devices below stairs.

Parson Grimstone and Burghesh also joined them on the dais. The priest intoned the grace, blessed the assembly and all took their seats. White wine and fish food were served first: lampreys in a special sauce; portions of tender carp with special relishes and spices. Toasts were made and speeches delivered. All emphasised the growing prosperity of Melford and how honoured they were by the presence of the King’s clerk. Sir Hugh sat bemused. This was such a contrast to the silence of the countryside or his own secluded chamber in the Golden Fleece.

Other dishes were served, to a blare of trumpets and shouts of approval: fried loach with roses and almonds; roast salmon in onion wine sauce; smoked pike; salad in pastry; pheasant in strawberry cream sauce. The hall shimmered with light as silver plates and trenchers, different cups and goblets were placed before the guests.

Corbett ate little and drank even less. He chose to ignore Ranulf’s stealthy theft of food as he listened to a plump burgess chatter like a magpie about the King’s taxes on wood and the need for better protection in the Narrow Seas. Corbett tried to appear so interested, his face ached. He would have liked to have excused himself but that would be insulting. So, he listened to the burgess but his mind wandered. He’d found the Book of the Dead a treasure house of information. He desperately needed to question Peterkin whilst he had been concerned by Ranulf’s failure to find Blidscote.

‘Do you think he’s safe?’ Ranulf had asked.

‘No I don’t,’ Corbett had replied as he’d finished his preparations before leaving for the Guildhall. ‘Like the poacher Furrell, Master Blidscote may never be seen again. .’

‘And the King’s war in Scotland, Sir Hugh?’ The burgess was now eager to prove himself an expert in military strategy. Corbett repressed a sigh; he listened to the good citizen’s carefully worded denunciation of the King’s war in the north, its disruption of trade and drain on the Exchequer.

Corbett was relieved when the burgess had to give up playing Hector as more dishes were served. The burgess was about to launch himself into a second sermon when Corbett heard the bell of St Edmund’s tolling; it echoed through the Guildhall, silencing the noise and chatter.