The Treason of the Ghosts

satisfy his hunger
on some bread and meat and go down to the Golden Fleece. He wanted company,
life and laughter, a roaring fire, the reassurance of his friends and fellow
men.
    Thorkle
walked to the far end of the barn and pulled across the doors, pushing the bolt
back. He stared up at the roof. It was well thatched, no leakages. He would
finish all the work tomorrow. He walked back and stopped. One of the lanterns
at the other door had been extinguished. Thorkle’s throat went dry. A cloaked
figure had stepped out of the darkness, a cowled hood over his head. What was
he hiding? The flailing stick? Thorkle drew his knife.
    ‘What
is it? Who are you?’
    ‘The winnower, separating the wheat from the chaff.’
    Thorkle
was sure he recognised the muffled voice.
    ‘What
is it you want?’ Thorkle edged closer.
    ‘Justice!’
    ‘Justice?’ Thorkle squeaked.
    He
stood frozen to the spot. The figure walked quickly forward. Thorkle was
confused. He tried to move but the assassin was faster. The flailing stick
swept back and its clubbed edge caught Thorkle on the side of the head, sending
him spinning to the ground. The pain was intense. Thorkle could already feel
the hot blood. He stared up: the flailing rod fell time and time again,
shattering Thorkle’s head till his brains spilled out.
     
    Elizabeth,
the wheelwright’s daughter, was frightened of the hobgoblins, sprites and all
other hideous dark shapes who dwelled in the shadows but, not today. She
dismissed such tales as fanciful, parents’ tricks to keep their children away
from lonely glades and desolate paths. Elizabeth was in love, or so she thought. She had come into Melford to spend her birthday
pennies but, of course, her real reason... well, she’d best not think of it.
Perhaps Old Mother Crauford was right, the air might
catch her dreams and waft them back to her father’s workshop or to Mother, busy
in the kitchen.
    Elizabeth paused at the end of the alleyway and glanced back. The market was still busy.
Adela had tried to question her but that was part of the game, wasn’t it? You
never told people your secret business. If a hidden admirer made his presence
known then why should she share it with the likes of Adela? She’d only go into
the Golden Fleece and tell everyone. More importantly, she wouldn’t have let Elizabeth go so quickly.
She’d demand to know why, how and who. Elizabeth smiled, pushed back her long hair and smoothed down her kirtle. How could she
tell someone like Adela? It would only provoke laughter. Elizabeth ’s smile faded. She wouldn’t say how
the message was delivered or, more importantly, who was responsible; that would
only arouse more curiosity.
    Elizabeth turned and ran on. She kept to the shadows. She knew which paths to use so no
one would see or accost her. After all, when she returned home, she certainly
didn’t want to be questioned. Elizabeth had grown up in Melford. She knew its every nook and cranny. She went by the
church and glimpsed Master Burghesh busy digging a grave in the cemetery. She
ran on. He wouldn’t have seen her. He was only interested in Parson Grimstone
and that gloomy church. Elizabeth paused to catch her breath. The church spire and the tombstones made her feel
slightly uncomfortable, evoking memories of poor Johanna, so barbarously killed
near Brackham Mere. Johanna had always been more adventurous: she often went
into the countryside, collecting flowers, or so she said. This was different.
Two people knew where she was going: the messenger and the sender.
    Elizabeth swung her hair and walked more purposefully. She crossed a ditch, slipped
through a hedge but paused for a while. She must be early. She had learnt the
time from the great capped hour candle in the marketplace so she should wait
awhile. She stared up at the sky. To have an admirer, a secret admirer who’d
paid to meet her! It was so good to be out under God’s sky, away from the busy
marketplace and the close, rather oppressive atmosphere of her family, with
Mother telling her to do this or that.
    Elizabeth stared at the copse which stood on the brow of the gently sloping hill. Did
adults know about love? All her father could talk about was Molkyn’s head and
Thorkle’s brains. Elizabeth had never liked either man, Molkyn particularly — and that poor daughter of
his, what was her name? Oh yes, Margaret, always so quiet and kept to herself.
Ah well... Elizabeth walked through the grass. She glanced to her right: in