The Treason of the Ghosts

had
planned what had happened this evening.
    ‘You
find me amusing?’ the man asked dangerously.
    ‘No,
sir,’ Corbett replied wearily. ‘I do not find you amusing. You are the leader
of the Moon People, aren’t you?’
    ‘One of its clans.’
    ‘You
came here, not because you’re tired of waiting, but because you did not want me
in your encampment?’
    The
man’s eyes flickered.
    ‘You
don’t like court officials,’ Corbett continued, ‘because they stride amongst
your wagons like the Lord Almighty. They steal your goods, bully your men, harass your women. They take your horses and accuse you of
crimes you did not commit. They will only go away if you offer silver and gold.
Do you think I am like that, sir? I tell you, I’m not!’ Corbett undid his purse
and took out two silver coins. ‘You come here out of friendship to Sorrel. Go on, take these for your pains!’
    The
man took the coins.
    ‘You
are an ill-mannered lout!’ Sorrel exclaimed. ‘This clerk’s no Blidscote.’
    The
Moon man extended a hand. ‘My name is Branway. I’ve come to tell you
something.’
    Corbett
grasped his hand.
    ‘I’ll
tell you what I want, here under God’s sky. In that way you know I am telling
the truth. I belong to the Moon People. We travel from Cornwall to the old Roman wall in the north.
We have our carts and our ponies. We have coppersmiths, seamstresses,
carpenters and painters. We buy and sell and, yes, when our children go hungry,
we steal. We know the King’s kingdom better than he does. We arrived here two
days ago and we’ll be gone tomorrow morning.’
    ‘What
do you mean?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘We
have to use these roads,’ Branway explained, ‘and we can’t help passing by
Melford on our way to the coast. But you’ll find none of our women wandering
the lanes. Over the years some have disappeared.’
    Corbett
took a step closer. ‘You mean disappeared, not run away?’
    ‘Oh,
I know what you are thinking, clerk. We have taken into our care some of the
poor wenches who flee from your cities and towns. Our women do not run away.
It’s common talk amongst the Moon People how, over the years, six or seven of
our women have disappeared: in the main, young girls stupid enough to wander
out, intrigued by what the market holds. They left and never came back. We
searched but did not find. I’ve heard the same amongst other travelling people.
That’s all I can tell you.’
    ‘But
surely you’ve gone to the Guildhall?’
    Branway
threw his head back and laughed. ‘And get beaten for our pains! No, master
clerk, we just avoid Melford, whilst our women are kept within the encampment.’
    ‘And
have you seen anything amiss?’
    ‘I’ve
told you what I know: no more no less.’
    The
man nodded at Corbett, kissed Sorrel on each cheek and walked off into the
darkness.
    Corbett
watched him go.
    ‘I
must leave too. I thank you for what you’ve told me.’
    Corbett
nodded at Sorrel, bade her good night, collected his horse and crossed into the
water meadow. For a while he paused and looked up at the sky, reflecting on
what he’d learnt.
    ‘True,’
he whispered into the darkness, ‘this is a place of hideous murder!’



Chapter 7
     
     
    Walter
Blidscote was having nightmares. He wasn’t asleep but he wished to God he was.
After he had met that terrifying clerk in the crypt beneath St Edmund’s Church,
Blidscote had strode off wielding his staff of office.
He had walked quickly, pompously, with all the authority he could summon up.
Once away from prying eyes, he’d slumped beneath a sycamore tree and allowed
his fat body to tremble. Sweat had trickled down his back whilst his stomach
squeezed and winced so much he had to retreat deeper into the trees to relieve
himself.
    Blidscote
had been petrified.
    ‘I
am living in the Valley of Ghosts ,’ he’d
whispered, staring round. He believed he could see shapes amongst the trees. Or
was it just the branches in the curling mist? Blidscote felt he was being
haunted. He recalled the words of a preacher: how a man’s sins, like hungry
dogs, can pick up the scent and come howling down the passage of the years.
Blidscote’s mind trailed back. He couldn’t forget the day of Sir Roger’s execution:
Chapeleys standing on the cart, the noose round his neck. He’d protested his
innocence, shouting that one day he would have his vengeance.
    Blidscote
stared at his hands. Were they covered in blood? Or was it just dirt? He wiped
them on his hose