The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 5

They rode down the hill; the hedgerows and fields gave way to a small wood on either side. They stopped at the spot where Sir Louis had been ambushed. The signs were still there: the sapling which the justice had pushed off the road had apparently been cut down by an axe. Tressilyian found an arrow in the far ditch with its barn snapped off. The gravel on the trackway had been disturbed by the horse’s skittering, whilst Corbett could still see the tangle of undergrowth where Sir Louis had charged his assailant. The clerk drew his sword to clear away the briars and brambles and followed the same path.

‘I am sure he stood there,’ Sir Louis called out.

Corbett followed his direction: a thick ash tree where the undergrowth wasn’t so dense. He walked across and crouched down. No grass and the mud was soft from the previous day’s rain. Corbett could distinguish the prints of Sir Louis’s boot but then noticed the imprint of bare toes and a heel.

‘That’s strange!’ he called back. ‘Sir Louis, your assailant was bare-footed!’

‘Whatever, he was a will-o’-the-wisp!’ the justice replied.

Corbett looked up: a narrow trackway curved through the woods, muddy and slippery. He went back and looked at the arrow and recalled his days in the King’s armies in Wales. How the Welsh, with their long bows, used to fight bare-footed to keep a firmer grip on the soil.

‘What does it all mean, Corbett?’ Tressilyian asked.

‘I wish I knew.’ The clerk looked at the faint tendrils of mist curling amongst the trees. ‘But I’ve kept you long enough with my searches.’

‘What on earth is that?’

Tressilyian walked to the edge of the ditch. Corbett followed. A woman, cloaked and hooded, stood beneath the branches of an outstretched tree. He could make out her pale face, hair peeping from beneath a shabby hood.

‘Come forward!’ Corbett ordered. He gripped his sword tighter.

The woman stayed still.

‘Come forward! We mean you no harm!’

The woman seemed hesitant. Chapeleys grasped his horse’s reins and swung himself up in the saddle. The woman hesitated and walked forward: long, purposeful strides, sure-footed. She crossed the ditch and stood wiping the burrs from her patched, woollen gown; the linen undergarment hung shabby and frayed above battered leather boots. She wore a half-cloak, a coarse linen shawl beneath a broad and weather-beaten face — her nose slightly crooked, a pleasant, full mouth and wide, watchful eyes. Her black hair was streaked with grey at the front.

‘Who are you?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am Sorrel.’

‘Sorrel?’ Corbett laughed. ‘That’s the name of a herb.’

‘That’s what Furrell called me.’

Corbett heard an exclamation from Chapeleys.

‘Of course, you are Furrell the poacher’s woman!’

‘I was Furrell the countryman’s woman!’ she replied, deftly moving her hair from her face.

‘What are you doing wandering the woods?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Unarmed, unaccompanied?’

‘I am not unarmed, clerk. Oh yes, I know who you are.’ She smiled. ‘I have a staff. I have left it amongst the trees with my leather bag. Surely I would be safe with a royal justice, the handsome Sir Maurice and the fearsome King’s clerk? And, as for being unaccompanied, now who would hurt a poor beggar woman?’

‘I saw you earlier,’ Corbett declared, ‘in the copse at the top of the meadow where Devil’s Oak stands.’

‘And I saw you.’ Sorrel looked up at the sky and sighed. ‘So, it’s true what they say. You are a sharp-eyed clerk! Come to chase the devil from Melford, have you? By God and all His angels, he needs chasing!’

‘Watch your tongue!’ Tressilyian snapped.

‘My tongue and my manners are my own!’ Sorrel’s face took on a pugnacious look. ‘You are not in your court now, Sir Louis. Because of you, my man has disappeared, just because he told the truth!’

Corbett looked over his shoulder at Sir Louis, who just shrugged. This was no accident. Sorrel had followed them from Melford. She had even learnt a little about him.

‘Sir Louis, Sir Maurice!’ Corbett called out. ‘I have kept you long enough. I must return to Melford.’

‘You will be my guests?’ Sir Louis asked. ‘Tomorrow night a dinner at the Guildhall? You and your companions?’

Corbett agreed. He stood and watched both knights leave. The woman didn’t move.

‘You’d best get your bag and staff,’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’

The woman crossed the small ditch, hurried amongst the trees and came back, the leather bag slung over her shoulder, a stout walking cane in one hand. She also brought a cloak which she’d slung around her shoulders and clasped at the throat. She winked at Corbett.

‘I have two cloaks. This one’s stolen. It’s best not to let the royal justice know that.’

‘You want to speak to me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, clerk, I wish to speak to you.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Beauchamp ruins. Common pasture there. No one exactly knows who owns what so they can’t clear me out.’ She looked at Corbett’s magnificent bay gelding. ‘Can I ride your horse? Please. I always wanted to be a lady and ride high in the saddle.’

Corbett helped her up, shortening the stirrups, then grasped the reins.

‘Now, you won’t ride off,’ he joked, ‘and claim you found the horse wandering?’

Sorrel leant down and stroked Corbett’s cheek with her calloused hands.

‘You have a priest’s face, olive-skinned and smooth-shaven. You tie your hair back like a fighting man. Your eyes are sad but sharp. You remind me of a trapped falcon. Are you trapped, royal clerk?’

Corbett grinned.

‘That’s better.’ She smiled back. ‘You can be quite the lady’s man but you’d have scruples about that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know it was so easy to read my mind.’

‘Oh, I haven’t. However, when you sit in the inglenook at the Golden Fleece, it’s marvellous what you hear. Your reputation precedes you, Sir Hugh Corbett. The King’s man in peace and war. Are you the King’s man?’

Corbett recalled Edward’s face, harsh and lined, the cynical eyes, the way he talked to him but his eyes would shift to Ranulf as if the Clerk of the Green Wax was more his confidant: the man who, perhaps, would do things not covered by the law.

‘I try to be,’ Corbett replied. ‘But it’s getting dark, Mistress. I am cold, I am hungry and you have a tale to tell.’

He urged the horse forward, walking alongside. He glanced up. Sorrel was riding as if she was a lady, eyes half closed, humming under her breath.

‘You are comely enough,’ he said. ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Sorrel, that’s what Furrell called me. That’s what I am.’

‘And why do you wander the woods?’

‘I don’t wander, I am searching.’ Her voice was hard. ‘I am looking for Furrell’s grave.’

Corbett paused. ‘You are so sure he’s dead?’

She tapped her forehead and chest. ‘I truly am. I want to find his grave. I want to pray over his corpse. If I can discover his grave, perhaps I can unmask his killer. He was a good man. I was a wanderer. I met Furrell twelve years ago. We exchanged vows under a yew tree in the graveyard. We were man and wife, as close and as handfast as any couple blessed in church. Oh, he was merry. He could play a lute and dance a lively jig. He was the best hunter and woodsman. He could creep up on a rabbit, silent as a shadow. We never went hungry and we sold what we didn’t need.’

‘Poaching’s a dangerous pastime.’

‘Oh, the occasional deer or the lonely lamb that no one would miss. But who’s going to tell? The peasants we sold it to? Fresh meat in the pot for their children?’

‘And all that changed?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, it changed all right. The night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered.’

‘Who was she?’ Corbett asked.

‘She lived in the cottage on the far side of the town. A strange one: pretty as an angel, hair like ripe corn, eyes as blue as the sky. She always wore her gown that little bit too tight. Her face was painted, neck, wrists and fingers adorned with necklaces, bracelets and rings. No one knew where she came from. Geoffrey Walmer was a potter, a very good one. He sold as far afield as Ipswich. He was gone for a week and came back with her. You know how it is, clerk? A marriage between May and December? There is no fool like an old fool in love. Anyway, Geoffrey died and Cecily Walmer became a goodwoman, a widow. She looked even more attractive in widow’s weeds. The men clustered about her like bees round a honeypot.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘We understood each other. You know what she was, clerk? You’ve heard the story many a time. A prosperous tradesman goes to a big town. He makes a tidy profit, enters a tavern and meets some comely maid selling her favours. She’s only too quick to leave the horrors of the alleyways for a peaceful life and anything she wants.’

‘Are you talking from experience?’

‘Very sharp, clerk. Yes, I am but, enough of that. Now Goodwoman Walmer owned a cottage, a self-enclosed plot with chicken coops, dovecotes, piggeries and, in the fields around, juicy pheasants and partridges. Now, on the night she was murdered, Furrell went down there. Sometimes he would call in for a flagon of ale. He crept through the garden, saw the door open and Sir Roger Chapeleys leave. Now, thought Furrell, there’s a satisfied man. The manor lord climbed into his saddle like a man full of ale and pleasure. Goodwoman Walmer stood in the doorway. She leant against the lintel, arms crossed, her hair falling down to her shoulders. Furrell decided to ignore his ale and crept away.’

‘So, the widow was alive and well when Sir Roger left?’

‘Oh, yes. I don’t think Sir Roger killed those women. He was a lecher and a drunkard but he was good to me and Furrell. He knew we poached his lands but, at Christmas, he always sent us a chicken or a goose. I mean, why should Sir Roger, with all the slatterns and maids at his manor hall, go out and assault peasant wenches?’

‘He visited Goodwoman Walmer.’

‘Ay yes, but she was different,’ Sorrel laughed. ‘An accomplished courtesan. Sir Roger knew where he was fishing.’

‘Was he liked?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, he wasn’t, by either the priests or the townspeople. Sir Roger kept himself to himself, except one night in the tavern he called all priests liars and hypocrites, though he seemed to have a soft spot for Parson Grimstone.’

‘Yet that’s no reason why so many people should speak against him.’

‘I don’t know. Furrell said something strange. The day after Sir Roger was condemned, my man and I, we were having a meal in the ruins. Furrell got slightly drunk and abruptly declared the devil had come to Melford. “Why?” asks I. “Oh,” he replies, “to make those people say what they did.”

‘You mean the witnesses?’

‘Everything,’ she replied. ‘How a bracelet was found in Sir Roger’s house, belonging to one of the murdered women. How Deverell the carpenter was so sure he had seen Sir Roger fleeing from Goodwoman Walmer’s house.’

‘Fleeing?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s the way he put it. All furtive.’

‘But I understand from the records of the trial that they found Chapeleys’ dagger sheath there.’

‘Furrell didn’t believe Sir Roger had left it there. In fact, he said more to me.’

‘More?’ Corbett queried.

‘On the night Walmer was killed, Furrell saw Sir Roger leave but claimed at least three other men, on separate occasions, made their way down Gully Lane towards her house.’

‘Three?’ Corbett demanded. He stopped and stared up at her.

‘He repeated the same in court. According to him, Widow Walmer must have been very busy that night. Yet he was surely mistaken. Whatever she was in a former life, Cecily Walmer acted the role of a widow. If she had acted any differently in a place like Melford, the gossips’ tongues would have soon wagged.’

‘Your man Furrell said that in court?’

‘He swore on oath but no one believed him. They said he was drunk and everyone knew how kindly Sir Roger was towards him. They even claimed he had been bribed.’

Corbett closed his eyes and recalled the trial record: Furrell the poacher had defended Sir Roger.

‘What did your man mean about the devil making people lie? Are you saying they were bribed?’

‘Bribed? Threatened, what does it matter? A good man died.’

‘You should be careful,’ Corbett warned.

‘Oh, don’t worry, master clerk, I keep my mouth shut. I wander around as if I am fey in my wits, a still tongue in my mouth. Old Sorrel sees nothing, she knows nothing.’

‘But you believe Furrell’s been murdered and buried?’

‘I know Furrell has been murdered and buried. I intend to find his grave.’

‘After five years?’ Corbett queried.

‘All I know is that he went out one night and never came back. Melford, and the countryside around it, is crisscrossed by pathways, culverts, brambles, thickets, woods and marshes, but I pray. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray I’ll discover Furrell’s corpse.’

‘And Furrell was murdered because of what he said in court?’

‘Perhaps. As I have said, Furrell was a sly one, as stealthy as the night. Even with me, he could be tight-lipped, if he wasn’t drunk.’

‘So you think he saw something?’

‘I wager to God and His saints that he did, so he had to be silenced. After all, he is the only one who ever heard the Jesses killer.’

‘Ah yes.’ Corbett let the horse snuggle his hand. ‘I’ve heard that. What did Furrell actually see or hear?’

‘He was out poaching, not far from here. Night had fallen. He saw a shape and heard gasps, the tinkle of bells. Now Furrell was visiting one of his hiding places where he had concealed some venison. He didn’t want to be caught red-handed. He thought it was some local with his leman or one of the townspeople with a doxy. Remember, master clerk, Melford is a small town: its walls and pathways have eyes and ears. If you take a fancy to your wife’s maid, she’s best enjoyed out in the countryside. Then there’s the young with their love trysts and starlight meetings. Furrell scampered away. When Blidscote was asking questions, Furrell told him what he’d heard. Furrell always insisted that was a mistake. He regretted ever opening his mouth.’

‘But he did about Sir Roger Chapeleys?’

‘Ah, that was different. It was in a court, on oath in front of a royal justice. Furrell thought he’d be safe.’

‘And what else do you know? If you travel the woods and forests, you must see things others don’t. You followed me from Melford. You heard about my coming. You couldn’t wait to speak to me.’

‘I will speak to you, clerk, but I beg you never tell anyone what I say.’ Sorrel gazed back down the pathway.

‘Are you frightened of Tressilyian, of Chapeleys?’

‘No.’

She smiled down at him through the darkness.

‘I act my part well. They are great lords of the soil. They’ll think that you think as they do. Who would believe poor, mad Sorrel?’

She pulled at the reins of the horse and Corbett stopped. He was aware of how the darkness had closed in swiftly. They had left the wooded area. On either side, hedgerows, fields stretching away in the distance. The sky was starlit, a full moon white and strong.

‘Furrell would love such a night,’ she whispered. ‘Forget all the stories about the darkness. Furrell liked to know where he was.’

Corbett could sense the tension from this woman. She acted fey-witted, the relict of a poacher who had disappeared but she was a woman consumed with the need for justice, a desire for revenge.

‘Do you pray, Sorrel?’

‘I have a statue of the Virgin,’ she replied. ‘It’s made of wood, rather battered and chipped. Parson Grimstone gave it to me. Every night, every morning, I light a wax candle bought specially from the chandlers. I pray: “Dear Mother, you never lost your husband but I have.”

Corbett smiled at this makeshift prayer.

‘Am I your answer, Sorrel?’

She leant down and grasped his shoulder. In the moonlight Corbett could see how, when she was young, Sorrel must have been a lovely girl.

‘I want justice, clerk.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘Is that much to pray for? Can’t the good God in His Heaven give out a little justice to me, a poor widow woman? You are the answer to my prayer. When I saw you riding across the marketplace, I thought God Himself had come down to Melford.’

‘That’s blasphemy,’ Corbett teased.

‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. If you bring justice to poor Sorrel. If you can find out where my man lies. If those responsible can be dispatched to God’s tribunal then, every day, I will light a candle for you.’

Corbett repressed a shiver. He had sat in the King’s courts at Westminster. He had listened to petitions for redress. He had hunted the bloody-handed sons of Cain but never had he been faced with such passion: a deep desire for justice which sprang from the innermost soul.

‘You will help me?’ Sorrel asked.

‘Have you ever been in a maze, Mistress Sorrel? That’s where I am now. Melford’s a maze with little culverts, paths, shadowy corners. Shadows twist and turn. We have the deaths of these young women, Mistress Walmer, now Molkyn and Thorkle.’

‘I know nothing of those,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘God forgive me, master clerk: when I heard of their deaths my heart leapt. So it begins, I thought, God’s justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett demanded.

He stared up and caught the fierce look in her eyes. Was she a murderer? Corbett thought. Was her hunger for justice so great? Did she believe Thorkle and Molkyn were in some way responsible for the death of her husband?

‘I know what you are thinking, clerk,’ she murmured. ‘I said I was glad, not responsible.’

‘But why should they die?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is it possible someone else believes Sir Roger was innocent and is exacting vengeance?’

‘I don’t know. You really should have words with their widows. I am sure you’ll find them together. Molkyn and Thorkle’s wives are kinswomen, related by blood, though thinly.’

Sorrel slipped her feet from the stirrups and Corbett helped her down.

‘I have ridden enough.’

She thrust her hand into Corbett’s, rough but warm. Corbett wondered what the Lady Maeve would think of this: out in the dark countryside, walking hand-in-hand with this strange poacher woman.

‘Listen. I have three things to tell you, then I’ll be done,’ she declared. ‘First, I saw you at Devil’s Oak. You were looking at where Elizabeth’s corpse was found. Yes?’

Corbett agreed.

‘I glimpsed her,’ Sorrel continued. ‘Late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Elizabeth had a secret place in the copse of trees at the top of the meadow.’

‘A secret place?’

‘Oh, master clerk, you were a child once! You lived in a house with your parents, brothers, sisters, dog. You had a secret place. Elizabeth Wheelwright had one as do the other young men and women, places they can meet.’

‘So, you were the last to see her alive?’

‘Yes, and before you ask, Elizabeth was hurrying. I hid and watched her go by. You could tell from her face she was excited, pleased.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett confessed, ‘I am truly confused. All your sighting proves is that Elizabeth was probably killed somewhere between that copse of trees and Devil’s Oak. Her slayer cunningly hid all traces of his foul act. I can only deduce that her corpse was moved from the murder place to where it was found. So,’ he sighed, ‘I’d be wasting my time searching the ground. What else?’

‘In the last five years, six young women, including Goodwoman Walmer, have been raped and murdered around Melford. But they are not the only ones.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Remember, I wander the roads but so do others: Moon People, tinkers, chapmen, families looking for work. I get to know them well. They talk.’ She shrugged. ‘Two, three, of their womenfolk have disappeared.’

‘But that’s not unheard of,’ Corbett replied. ‘Their womenfolk often-’

‘No, no, listen to what I am saying,’ Sorrel interrupted. ‘Corpses have been found but I wonder how many other murders there have been. Was Elizabeth Wheelwright’s corpse meant to be discovered? Have you ever seen weasels hunt, master clerk? They have a store. They hide the flesh of their victims so they can come back and eat it later. This Jesses killer is like the weasel: he kills and hides, though sometimes he’s not fast enough. Question Blidscote, he collects the corpses.’

‘You don’t like our master bailiff?’

‘He’s corrupt and he’s stupid!’ She spat the words out. ‘He likes nothing better than holding forth in the taproom, telling his business and everyone else’s to anyone who will listen. Don’t forget, he organised the search of Sir Roger’s house.’

Corbett gripped her hand.

‘You are saying he was bribed to find that evidence?’

‘I thought you were sharp,’ she teased. ‘Why should Sir Roger kill a girl, steal her tawdry effects and keep them at his manor? You should think more clearly and act quickly. .’

Corbett caught the laughter in her voice.

‘. . otherwise Master Blidscote will join Thorkle and Molkyn. They will soon be lowering his fat corpse into the soil.’

‘And finally?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah, yes. The Mummer’s Man.’

‘The Mummer’s Man?’

Sorrel laughed deep in her throat. ‘Once, many years ago, I learnt a little Latin. Do you remember that line from the gospels, clerk, when Judas decided to betray Christ?’ She paused. ‘It reads something like, “Judas left and darkness fell.” Melford’s like that. Once darkness falls, all kinds of things happen. That’s the problem with people who live in towns. They think that if they can get out into the fields and woods they are alone, but they are not. I see things, some are comical, some are sad. Oh, not just the lusty swain wishing to swive the wench of his choice. Other things. Men like that young curate, Robert Bellen. Now he’s a strange one. I’ve caught him down near the river Swaile, kneeling naked in the mud, except for his loin cloth, bruising his back with a switch, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.’

‘That is fanciful.’

‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. Why should a young man, a priest of God, feel he has to punish himself like that?’

Corbett swallowed hard. He’d heard of such practices in monasteries and abbeys, the desire to flagellate, to punish oneself. Sometimes it was just an extreme form of mortification, in others a deep sense of guilt. Did not King Henry have himself whipped through Canterbury for the murder of Thomas a Becket?

‘Do you have dealings with Bellen?’ he asked.

‘Very little but I thought it was a tragic sight, master clerk. Why should a young priest wish to do that? What secret sins does he hide?’

‘Could he be the killer?’

‘All things are possible, Sir Hugh. He made little attempt to hide himself the day I saw him.’

‘And Parson Grimstone?’

‘A goodly man. He likes the trencher, his roast pork, his capon served in sauces and cups of claret, but I’ve heard no whisper of scandal about him. Sometimes short-tempered. He and the other one, Burghesh, they are inseparable, like two old women gossiping with each other.’

‘And the Mummer’s Man?’ Corbett asked.

‘It happened just before the killings began again. Furrell had mentioned something about a man with a mask riding a horse but that was years ago. I said he was drunk, deep in his cups. Anyway, the day was quiet, one of those beautiful times when the weather is changing. I was in Sheepcote Lane; it’s a narrow path across the fields. I was enjoying the sun, nestling behind an outcrop of rock when I heard a horse. Usually the place is deserted but I looked over and, just for a matter of heartbeats, I glimpsed this man dressed in a cloak. On his head he wore one of those mummer’s masks, the sort travelling actors use when they appear in a morality play. This one belonged to the player who takes the part of the devil, blood-red, twisted mouth, horns on either side. I was so shocked I immediately hid. He was past me in a trice. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Perhaps a young man playing a joke? There is so much revelry here. Then I recalled Furrell’s words: how one of the travellers he encountered, passing through, had seen something similar.’ She touched Corbett’s hand and pointed to a gap in the hedge leading into the water meadow. ‘I must go.’ She tapped her walking cane on the trackway. ‘If you wish, you can join me.’ She made a drinking gesture. ‘I have some very good wine. .’

Corbett stared into the darkness. ‘You saw Elizabeth Wheelwright going across the fields about Devil’s Oak?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you suspicious? Why didn’t you follow her?’

‘I saw no one else, master clerk. I do not belong to Melford. Few people like me but, in the main, I am tolerated. I don’t want to be accused of snooping or prying where I shouldn’t. I saw Elizabeth go into the copse. No one else was around, there was nothing suspicious, so I walked on.’

‘So, she must have met her killer? Why,’ Corbett insisted, ‘should a young woman come out into the lonely countryside to meet someone? How would she know where to go? I wager she could scarcely read.’

‘I don’t know, clerk, but if you come with me, I might enlighten you.’

Corbett gripped the reins of his horse. ‘It’s truly dark,’ he murmured.

‘You are not just referring to the night, are you, Corbett?’

‘No, I’m not.’ He shivered. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sorrel?’

‘I believe the dead walk and try to speak to us.’

‘I hope they speak to me,’ Corbett replied. ‘All those poor women so barbarously ravished and murdered. Surely it’s time their ghosts betrayed this killer.’