The Treason of the Ghosts

Edmund ’s lay in darkness. Only a red
sanctuary lamp glowed, a small pool of light against the encroaching night. The
carved face of the crucified Christ stared down whilst those of His mother and St John gazed up in
anguish. The mist had seeped through crevices in the windows, under the door,
slipping like steam into the church, turning the paving stones ice-cold. Mice
scampered in the transept searching for morsels of food or pieces of candle
wax. No one was there to witness the anguish and agony of Curate Bellen as he
knelt on the prie-dieu in the chancery chapel. He had taken his robe off, his
hose, his boots. He knelt in the cold as an act of mortification. He gazed up
at the statue of the martyred King of East Anglia. Bellen’s hands were clenched
so tight his knuckles hurt. He prayed for protection, wisdom and forgiveness.
    ‘So
many sins,’ he murmured. Evil he’d never imagined! Ordained by the Bishop of
Norwich, Curate Robert Bellen was unused to the wickedness and wiles of this
world. He only coped by keeping his eyes firmly on the next. He, too, was sure
Satan had come to Melford, and wasn’t he as guilty as the rest?
    Bellen
sighed and, muttering under his breath, got to his feet. He took off his shift
and stretched out on the cold paving stones. Better this, he thought, than the
freezing shores by the lakes of Hell. What could he do except pray and atone?
The chill caught his hot body and he shivered, quivering as his mind fought
against the creeping discomfort. He clutched his Ave beads more tightly. He
would pray , do penance then penance again. Perhaps St
Edmund, patron of this church, would ask God to send an angel to comfort him.
But were there angels? Was God interested in him?
    The
curate closed his eyes. He should have been a monk. Bellen tried to clear his
mind by chanting phrases from the Divine Office. He stared up into the
darkness. Carvings gazed back: angels, demons, the faces of saints, even the
carved representations of priests and curates who had served here before him.
What should he do? Write to the Bishop? Make a full confession? Yet what proof
did he possess? Or should he go in front of that sharp-eyed clerk? He was a
royal emissary but also a man; he would understand.
    Bellen
heard the wind creak and rustle the twisted branches of the yew trees outside. Then a sound, like the click of a latch. But that was
impossible! Surely he had closed the corpse door behind him? He sighed and got
to his feet. He walked out of the chantry chapel and down the transept to the
side door. The latch was still down. Shivering, feeling rather foolish, Bellen
lifted this and pulled the door open. The cold night air rushed in. Outside
God’s acre lay silent in the moonlight. He was about to close the door when he
looked down and his freezing back prickled with fear. He could see the boot
stains. Someone had come into this church, like a thief in the night, had stood
in the shadows and watched him.
     
    Sir
Hugh Corbett reined in and stared across at the church. The lych-gate was
closed, but in the moonlight he could make out the path, crosses, carvings and
burial grounds. The grass and gorse were already glinting under a frost.
Corbett felt tired and cold. An owl hooted deep in the cemetery. Corbett
smiled. Next time he told a story to little Eleanor, he would remember this
place with its shadows, dappled moonlight, the haunting silence and the ominous
sound of a night bird. Corbett also felt hungry. He closed his eyes and thought
of the parlour in Leighton Manor. He’d sit in his high-backed chair or on
cushions before a great roaring fire, watching a poker heat red in the flames:
he’d then pluck it out and warm posset cups for himself and Maeve. She would be
singing softly under her breath, one of her sad Welsh songs. The logs would
splutter and crackle, the flames leap higher... Corbett opened his eyes.
    ‘Oh
Lord,’ he prayed, ‘the wind is cold, the night is hard. I wish to God I were in
my bed, my lover’s arms around me.’
    Corbett
laughed softly. Maeve would call him a troubadour. His horse snickered and,
lifting a hoof, struck at the hard trackway. Corbett patted its neck.
    ‘There now! There now! Good lad!’ he soothed. ‘You’ve ridden hard
and done fine work. It will be oats and a fresh bed of straw for you tonight.’
    The
bay threw its head back and whinnied as if it could already smell the tangy
warmness of its stable at the Golden Fleece.
    Corbett
had left Sorrel and