The Treason of the Ghosts

is secretly frightened of her.’
    Ranulf
began to walk his horse across the cobbles.
    ‘And
are you in love, Master Ranulf? I heard mention of a Lady Alicia...?’
    Ranulf
turned swift as a striking snake, lips curled in a snarl. Chanson jumped so
much even his horse was startled, throwing up its head.
    ‘Hush
now! Hush now!’ Chanson soothed it but kept a wary eye on Ranulf, still glaring
at him. ‘I am sorry...’ Chanson muttered.
    Ranulf
relaxed. ‘Ah, it’s not your fault.’ He beckoned Chanson forward and put an arm
round his shoulder. ‘I tell you this: I loved her and she left me. Gone to a
nunnery, she has. Perhaps I’ll join her.’
    Chanson
stared open-mouthed. ‘I can’t imagine you in a wimple.’
    Ranulf
snorted with laughter and withdrew his arm.
    ‘No, no, Chanson, not a nunnery but into the Church. I’ve often thought of that. Can you imagine Archdeacon Ranulf, perhaps even
Bishop Ranulf of Norwich ?’
    Chanson,
who had seen these powerful prelates, repressed a smile. Ranulf-atte-Newgate,
in gorgeous, flowing robes, wearing a mitre and carrying a crosier, processing
slowly up the aisle of Westminster Abbey!
    ‘What
was that girl talking to you about?’ he asked, changing the conversation.
    They
stopped at the trough to allow their horses to drink. Ranulf looked up at the
sky, then once more at the smart front of the market square, its timbered
buildings, lanterns and gleaming paintwork.
    ‘Old
Master Long Face will want to know what we’ve been doing. So, what do we have
here, Chanson? A fat, prosperous town, where everybody makes
a good profit. Lords of the soil, like Sir Maurice and
Tressilyian the justice. Merchants, farmers, millers,
well-fed priests. Look at Master Samler: a thatcher who does a good
trade. He’s not prosperous but, in a few years, he’ll be sending his sons to
the schools in Ipswich .’ Ranulf paused.
‘During the day the markets are busy, trade is good. Silver and gold change
hands, but where there’s wealth, corruption, rich and stinking, also
flourishes. People have more time on their hands. A man lusts after his
neighbour’s wife. Secret sins begin to fester like weeds amongst the corn.
Rivalries break out, grudges are nursed. All strange sights and sounds appear.’
    ‘What
do you mean?’ Chanson queried.
    ‘Take
Samler’s family. Notice the girls, young, plump and well fed. Time is on their
hands, not like things used to be when an entire family worked from morning to
dusk. They filled their bellies on watery ale and crusts of bread and slept
like hogs until the dawn. All has changed. Now, into this little paradise steps
a demon, a man who likes to rape and kill.’
    ‘Are
there such men?’ Chanson looked totally bemused. He was terrified of women and
would bask in the smile of the ugliest, greasiest slattern.
    ‘Go
into London ,
Chanson, talk to the ladies of the night in Southwark. They’ll tell you about
men who like to beat and hurt them, sometimes quite badly, before they can take
them.’
    ‘You
mean like a stallion has to be quickened before he can mount a mare?’
    ‘I
couldn’t put it better myself,’ Ranulf said drily. ‘That’s what our killer is.
Melford’s an ideal place for him: no walls or gates; there must be at least
twenty or thirty lanes leading out to the countryside which surrounds the town
with lonely meadows, woods and copses. It’s so easy,’ Ranulf continued, ‘for
the killer to slip in and out.’
    ‘Even
on horseback?’
    ‘You
work with horses,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Tell me, Chanson, what if I wanted to dull
the sound of my horse’s hoofs?’
    ‘Sacking
or straw,’ the groom replied. He bent down and lifted his horse’s foreleg. ‘You
can’t take off the shoe — that will hurt the animal, make it lame. However, if
you took small sacks, filled them with hay or grass, then tied them over the hoofs like buskins, it would be fairly quiet. Why, has the
girl seen someone?’
    ‘What
she called the Mummer’s Man, masked, riding a horse.’
    ‘That
would be easy enough,’ Chanson confirmed. He climbed into the saddle and
gathered the reins. ‘If I put sacking on my horse’s hoofs, I could ride this
horse across the cobbles and you wouldn’t know I was there.’
    Ranulf
grinned up at him. ‘But pretend I’m a comely maid. If I met you, Chanson,
riding along a lane, wearing a mask, I’d run, flee for my life.’
    The
groom pulled a face and eased himself out of the saddle. ‘I hadn’t thought