The Treason of the Ghosts

Baby Eleanor but always in a whisper. Maeve had clear ideas
about such legends.
    ‘Uncle
Morgan used to frighten me to death as a child!’
    ‘He
still frightens me,’ Corbett had whispered.
    Uncle
Morgan had arrived years ago for a ‘short visit’ but settled down and didn’t
show the slightest inclination to return to Wales . On a night like this,
however, Corbett was glad Uncle Morgan was at Leighton.
    Corbett
was tightening the reins when the figure came whirling out of the darkness. A
rustle in the undergrowth, a slithered footfall, Corbett glimpsed the club
coming back, aiming for his leg. His horse whinnied and started. Corbett
cursed, going back in the saddle, fingers searching for the hilt of his sword.
Then his attacker had disappeared, quietly and mysteriously.
    ‘What
on earth...?’ Corbett pulled himself out of the saddle, patting his horse,
talking to it reassuringly. The bay, however, refused to be quietened, going
back on its hind legs, threatening to rear, shaking its head and expressing its
annoyance in sharp whinnies. Corbett held on to the reins, talking softly as
Chanson had taught him.
    At
last the animal calmed. Corbett allowed it to nuzzle his hands and face before
remounting. Of all the attacks he had ever endured, that was the most
surprising. A man on foot could really do little harm to a rider. The blow had
been directed towards his leg; only sheer luck had saved both him and the horse
from considerable pain. But why?
    Corbett
emerged from the woods and stared up at the moon-washed church. He breathed in
deeply, quietening his mind, calming his temper. He’d had enough. He had been
out in the dark too long! He urged his horse into a canter and was pleased to
reach the square and the glowing warmth of the Golden Fleece. He went round the
side of the tavern and gave his horse to an ostler.
    ‘I
want him treated really well,’ Corbett ordered. ‘A good
rubdown. You have the blankets? Make sure he’s fed and watered.’
    The
sleepy-eyed boy promised he would. Corbett tossed him a penny, took off his
sword belt, grasped his saddlebags and walked through the rear door and along
the passageway into the bustling taproom: a welcome relief from the cold and
darkness.
    The
taproom was busy, lit by lanterns and candles, and warmed by a roaring fire.
The air was thick with the smell of candle grease and wood smoke. Somewhere a
shepherd played a lilting tune on a lute. Corbett’s mouth watered at the spicy
smell from the side of pork being tended on the spit by two red-faced boys
crouched in the inglenook. They turned it slowly, basting it with herbs soaked
in oil. Mastiffs lay before the hearth and slavered at such pleasant odours.
Slatterns, their hands full of tankards of frothing ale, pushed their way
through, slapping away the wandering fingers of chapmen and tinkers. Ranulf and
Chanson were seated in the corner, surrounded by locals. Both of them looked
well fed and relaxed. Ranulf sat like Herod amongst the innocents, those
precious dice in his hand, inviting his ‘guests’ to lay a wager.
    ‘You’ve
returned at last!’
    Corbett
glanced behind him. In a cooler, darker part of the taproom sat Blidscote and
Burghesh. Burghesh was the same as ever, Blidscote looked bleary-eyed and
red-nosed as if he had drunk too much, too fast. Burghesh waved Corbett over.
    ‘I
recommend the quail pie and some of that pork.’
    Matthew
the taverner came bustling across. Corbett ordered food for himself and ale for
his companions. He did not have to wait long. The taverner served the food
personally: a broad, wooden platter with half a steaming pie, strips of crackling pork and vegetables diced and covered in a cheese sauce.
Corbett took out his horn spoon and the small dagger kept in a sheath above his
right boot. He ate quickly, hungrily, savouring every mouthful. He half
listened to Blidscote and Burghesh’s chatter: about the change in the weather and
the arrangements for All-Hallows celebrations.
    ‘A busy day, Sir Hugh?’ Burghesh asked once the clerk had
finished eating. The old soldier toasted him with his tankard.
    Corbett
responded. Blidscote might be a toper but Burghesh’s broad face was friendly:
clear grey eyes and smiling mouth. Corbett wondered how much this veteran of
the King’s wars knew about Melford.
    ‘I’ll
tell you this, Master Burghesh.’ Corbett wiped his mouth on the back of his
hand. ‘If the French ever invade, Melford will be a hard town to take.