The Treason of the Ghosts

to the gallows.’ He clicked his tongue.
‘I felt a fool. I realised why Molkyn would sometimes leer at me or Deverell
scurry away like the rat he was. I knew the King would have to intervene. I
encouraged Sir Maurice to write those letters but I wondered what would happen
if they escaped justice. The rest, Sir Hugh, is as you’ve said. In my view I
carried out lawful execution: Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were the ones I held
responsible. I might not trap the true killer but I am a King’s justice:
perjury and bribery are capital offences. I learnt about all their habits:
Molkyn’s drinking, Thorkle in the threshing shed away from his hot-eyed wife
and furtive Deverell, with his Judas squint.’
    ‘And Blidscote?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Oh yes, our fat, corrupt bailiff. It was no
coincidence that Molkyn and Thorkle were selected. He was as guilty as they
were. I invited him to meet me near the river Swaile. I wanted to see his fat
face crease in terror. I didn’t want him scurrying away: his body, weighted
with rocks, still lies there.’ Tressilyian put the wine cup down on the floor.
‘I have no regrets, Corbett. None whatsoever.’
    ‘Why
didn’t you wait for me?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘To
be honest, Sir Hugh, I didn’t know how keen-witted you were. I didn’t want them
to escape with their lies. It was my court they had mocked, not yours. I
couldn’t see them escape. I am sorry about the lies but I wanted to muddy the
waters so as to have time to finish the task. Deverell in particular, was
difficult to hunt. Despite his protestations in court, he was not a man to go
wandering around at night.’ He shrugged. ‘What more can I say? What is there to
say?’
    Sir
Hugh rose and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Louis Tressilyian, I arrest you
in the name of the King for murder! You will be taken to London and lodged at a suitable place and, at
a time appointed by the Crown, tried for your life.’ Corbett held his gaze.
‘You expected this, didn’t you?’
    ‘I
had heard of you.’ Tressilyian smiled faintly. ‘As the days went on, I knew it
would only be a matter of time, but the real assassin...?’ He spat the words
out.
    ‘Oh,
he’ll be caught. The souls of those he murdered stand before God’s court and
demand justice.’
    ‘You
see yourself as one of the Children of the Light?’ Sir Louis taunted.
    ‘No,
sir, I don’t.’ Corbett fastened his sword belt around him. ‘But I work for
them. Ranulf, Chapeleys can stay with Sir Louis: he is to be lodged in one of
the tavern chambers. The door is to be locked and guarded by Chanson.’
    ‘I
won’t escape,’ Sir Louis declared. ‘You have my word. Nor will I do anything feckless.
You can suspect what my defence is going to be, Corbett? I am a royal judge.
Perjury and murder were committed in my court. I carried out the King’s
justice.’
    Corbett
paused at the door.
    ‘Not
even the King’s justice, Sir Louis, is above the law.’
    ‘Where
are you going?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘Why,
to the church. Join me there, Ranulf. I have a passion for bell ropes and how
they work.’
    Corbett
closed the door behind him and went down the stairs. The market square was now
busy, the noise raucous. Chapmen and apprentices roared their prices, enticing
customers with Bruges cloth, Spanish leather,
fruits brought in by the traders from London ,
jewellery and ornaments from Ipswich . The
relic-seller joined in the shouting, offering a sealed cup which he maintained contained
the last breath of St George. Corbett pushed his way through, knocking aside
hands and shaking his head as traders blocked his path, offering him a new
belt, riding boots or gilt spurs. At last he was free. Grasping the hilt of his
sword, he made his way up to the church. He paused at Elizabeth ’s grave and noticed the white rose laid on the freshly dug earth.
    ‘Help
me,’ Corbett whispered.
    He
walked through the coffin door. Candles were lit in the sanctuary but the place
was empty. Swirls of incense from the morning Mass curled and sweetened the
air. He went down to the belfry, opened the door and went in. For a while he
stood examining the heavy ropes and the weights placed on the end.
    ‘If
I knew who the patron saint of bell-ringers was,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I’d pray
to him.’
    He
took one bell rope, placed it deep into the sloping windowledge and walked back
into the church, closing the door behind him. He sat for a while and prayed. He
didn’t want to do anything