The Treason of the Ghosts

the lonely coastline of the Wash ? A formidable man,
the people whispered, of keen wit and sharp eye. If Corbett had his way, and he
had all the power to achieve it, someone would certainly hang.
    The
day was cloudy and cold but the crowds thronged around the stalls. Those in the
know kept a sharp eye on the broad oak door of the Golden Fleece tavern, where
the royal clerk would stay. He would probably arrive in Melford with a
trumpeter, a herald carrying the royal banner and a large retinue. Urchins had
been paid to keep a lookout on the roads outside the town.
    In
the meantime, there was trading and bartering to be done. Melford was a
prosperous place, and the increasing profits from the farming of wool were
making themselves felt at every hearth and home. Silver and gold were becoming
plentiful. The markets of Melford imported more and more goods from the great
cities of London , Bristol and even abroad! Vellum
and parchment, furs and silk, red leather from Cordova in Spain . Testers, blankets and
coverlets from the looms of Flanders and Hainault, not to mention statues, candlesticks and precious ornaments
from the gold- and silversmiths of London and, even occasionally, the great
craftsmen of Northern Italy.
    Walter
Blidscote, chief bailiff of the town, loved such busy market days. He made a
great play of imprisoning the vagrants, the drunkards and law-breakers in the
various stocks on the stand at the centre of the marketplace. This particular
day he proclaimed the pickpocket Peddlicott. Blidscote himself had caught the
felon trying to rifle a farmer’s basket the previous morning. Blidscote was
fat, sweat-soaked but very pompous. He drank so much it was a miracle he caught
anyone. Peddlicott, however, was dragged across the marketplace as if he was
guilty of high treason rather than petty theft. He was displayed on the stand
and, with great ceremony, the market horn being blown to attract everyone’s attention, Peddlicott’s hands and neck were tightly secured
in the clamps. Blidscote loudly proclaimed that they would remain so for the
next twenty-four hours. If the bailiff had had his way, he would have added
insult to injury by tying a bag of stale dog turds around the poor man’s neck.
Some bystanders cheered him on. Peddlicott shook his head and whined for mercy.
    Blidscote
was about to tie the bag tight when a woman’s voice, strong and clear, called
out, ‘You have no authority to do that!’
    Blidscote
turned, the bag still clutched in his greasy fingers. He recognised that voice
and narrowed his close-set eyes.
    ‘Ah,
it’s you, Sorrel.’
    He
glared at the strong, ruddy-faced, middle-aged woman who had shouldered her way
to the front of the crowd. She was dressed in stained brown and green, a sack
in one hand, a heavy cudgel in the other.
    ‘You
have no right to interfere in the town’s justice,’ Blidscote said severely.
‘Punishments are for me to mete out. And what do you have in that sack?’ he added
accusingly.
    ‘A
lot more than you have in your crotch!’ the woman retorted, drawing shouts of
laughter from the crowd.
    Blidscote
dropped the bag and climbed down from the stand.
    ‘What
do you have in the sack, woman? Been poaching again, have you?’
    Sorrel
threw back her cloak and lifted the cudgel warningly.
    ‘Don’t
touch me, Blidscote,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘You have no authority over me. I
don’t live in this town and I’ve done no wrong. Touch me and I’ll cry assault!’
    Blidscote
stepped back. He was wary of this woman, the common-law widow of Furrell the
poacher.
    ‘Been
busy, have you?’ he added spitefully. ‘Still wandering the woods and fields,
looking for your husband? He had more sense than to stay with a harridan like
you! He’s over the hills and miles away!’
    ‘Don’t
you talk of my man! ’ Sorrel snapped. ‘My man Furrell
is dead! One of these days I’ll find his corpse. If you were a good bailiff
you’d help me. But you are not, are you, Walter Blidscote? So keep your paws
off me!’
    Blidscote
made a rude gesture with the middle finger of one hand. He went to pick up the
bag of turds.
    ‘And
leave poor Peddlicott alone,’ Sorrel warned. ‘The punishment said nothing about
such humiliation. Loosen the stocks a little.’
    She
pointed at Peddlicott’s face, now a puce red. The bailiff was about to ignore
her.
    ‘It’s
true!’ someone shouted, now sorry for the pickpocket’s pain. ‘No mention was
made, master bailiff, of dog