The Treason of the Ghosts

the treason of the
ghosts. Old lies, deeply embedded, ancient sins quickened and
festering. We should be careful as we walk. Perhaps that’s the last time
I’ll journey around Melford under the cloak of darkness.’ He sat on the edge of
the bed. ‘It’s best if we sleep. The morning will come soon enough.’
    He
bade his companions good night and ushered them out.
    Ranulf
led Chanson back to their own chamber at the end of
the gallery overlooking the stable yard.
    ‘He’s
in a sombre mood,’ the groom declared as they settled for the night.
    ‘He’s
always in a sombre mood,’ Ranulf answered, sitting at the table, busily
lighting more candles.
    ‘Aren’t
you going to sleep?’
    ‘I
have a letter to write,’ Ranulf declared proudly.
    He
opened one of the panniers and took out a sheet of vellum and laid it on the
desk, then his portable writing-tray, quills, inkpot and pumice stone. Ranulf
heard Chanson’s chatter but he wasn’t listening. He wanted to write to Alicia
in that lonely convent in Wiltshire. This would be the sixth letter he had
written and still he’d received no reply. Each occasion Ranulf found it more
difficult. Was he writing because he missed her? Because he
truly loved her? Or because he rejoiced in his
new-found skills? He was now Master of the Cursive Script, the elegant
phrase: Ranulf had a passion for scholarship. One day he would be a senior
clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal.
    He
wrote the words: ‘My dearest Alicia,’ and then paused. Would he be a senior
clerk? He smiled at his secret ambition: to take Holy Orders! And why not? He was a King’s man, wasn’t he? Time and again,
old Edward at Westminster would take him aside, grasp him by the arm as if Ranulf was one of his boon
companions. The King would share his sorrows and troubles; flatter Ranulf with
praise and promises of things to come. It was the one part of Ranulf’s life he
never shared with Corbett. Yet, sometimes, more frequently now than ever,
Corbett would sit and stare at him. Was it mockery? Cynicism? Or sadness?
    Ranulf
sighed. He told Chanson to go to sleep and continued with his letter.
    In
his chamber Corbett lay on the bed, hands stretched out, staring up through the
darkness at the embroidered tester. The wind rattled the shutters. Distant
sounds of the tavern settling for the night drifted up. Images came and went:
Maeve dressing for bed; little Edward, plump and pink, snoring softly in the
cradle well away from window draughts; Uncle Morgan downstairs, busy baiting
the servants. Corbett let these images go. He was standing under the Devil’s
Oak in Falmer Lane .
He was watching a young woman slip through the meadow to that copse of trees at
the top of the hill. The Mummer’s Man or the Jesses killer would be waiting.
    ‘The bells!’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘It wasn’t jesses. The
Mummer’s Man wore a mask with bells on either side. So, who would do that? And
why?’
     
    Only
a few streets away, Ysabeau, wife of Deverell the carpenter, was also concerned about the hideous murders which had taken place out in the
countryside. She lay in bed staring into the darkness, straining her ears for
sounds from downstairs. Since Sir Roger’s trial, nothing had been the same!
Deverell, a surly man, had only grown more grim and withdrawn. He had never
discussed his evidence but, when asked, would repeat it by rote like a chanteuR telling a story. Had her husband told the truth? Why had he been so insistent
he had seen Sir Roger that night? She could never understand Deverell’s
unhappiness. He was a carpenter, a craftsman. He had done work as far as Ipswich . Merchants and burgesses visited his workshop.
Why was he always sad? What did he have to hide?
    Deverell
had come to Melford some seven years ago. A travelling journeyman, he possessed
skill with the hammer and chisel that had soon established him as a craftsman.
He was definitely learned. He could read and write and, at times, betrayed a knowledge of Latin and French. On one occasion, in his
cups, he had even discussed Parson Grimstone’s sermon on the body and blood of
Christ. He was a good husband, loyal, faithful and, even when drunk, he never
beat her. So why this great fear? And
why now?
    News
had swept through Melford of the arrival of the King’s clerk. Deverell had
grown pale and withdrawn. He had spent more and more time in his workshop. When
she brought him food and drink, Ysabeau found he had almost turned it into a