The Treason of the Ghosts

Peterkin’s
hands. The young man’s cheeks were bulging. Sorrel smiled. Sweetmeats! Her
smile faded. It jogged a memory. She had seen Peterkin feeding his face on many
occasions. Once, out in the countryside, she had come across the simpleton
carrying a small box of oranges, a rare fruit which cost a great deal. She’d
wondered then, and still did, how Peterkin could afford such a luxury. In fact,
he hadn’t been so stupid then but sharp-eyed and very defensive. He’d clutched
the box and scampered away. How could a witless wonder like him earn silver?
True, Melford was growing prosperous and Peterkin was used, especially by the
young gallants and swains, to carry messages to their loved ones.
    Out
of the corner of her eye, Sorrel glimpsed a man sneaking up the steps of the
cross, his hand snaking out to grasp her sack. She quickly brought the cudgel
down and slapped his fingers. Repton the reeve, his sour face suffused in
anger, backed away.
    ‘Don’t
touch what’s not yours!’ Sorrel declared.
    ‘I
heard about your words with the bailiff,’ Repton sneered, nursing his
fingertips. ‘Stealing again, Sorrel?’
    ‘No,
I haven’t been stealing. I am an honest woman, Master Repton. I tell the truth,
on oath or not!’
    The
sneer faded from Repton’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
    He
glanced quickly to the left and right. The reeve now regretted his action. He
had drunk two quarts of ale at the Golden Fleece and knew Adela the serving
wench was watching him from a casement window. He had seen the ‘poacher’s
wench’; as he called Sorrel, climb the steps to the market cross and loudly
boasted he’d find out what she carried in her sack. Now his fingers burnt and
the ale had turned sour at the back of his throat.
    ‘You
know what I mean,’ Sorrel continued evenly. ‘The night Widow Walmer was
murdered. My man Furrell told me what he saw.’
    Repton
made a rude sound with his lips. ‘I am not bandying words with you,’ he
sneered, and he swaggered away.
    Sorrel
opened the sack, looked inside and grinned. Three fat pheasants: she’d trapped
each of them, slit their throats and hung them up for a day. The taverner
Matthew Alliot, mine host of the Golden Fleece, would pay good silver for
these.
    ‘Here
they come!’ a man cried.
    Sorrel
clambered to her feet. Three horsemen had entered the marketplace just as the
church bell tolled for the midmorning Angelus. At first sight they didn’t look
like royal emissaries: no trumpeter, no herald, just men slouched in the
saddle, dark cloaks hitched about their shoulders, cowls pulled over their
heads, almost hiding their faces. Sorrel grasped the sack, and pushed and
shoved her way through the crowd and past the stalls. By the time she had
reached the entrance to the Golden Fleece, the three arrivals had dismounted,
and their horses were being led off by an ostler. Like men who had travelled
far, they were now loosening their cloaks, stretching to ease the cramp in the
small of their backs, thighs and legs. One of them was clearly a groom, smaller
than his two companions, dressed in a leather jacket like a soldier; a homely
face despite the cast in one eye. The tall, red-haired man with the lithe
figure of a street fighter must be Ranulf-atte-Newgate.
    Sorrel
smiled as she shifted her gaze to Sir Hugh Corbett. Just as tall as his
red-haired companion, Corbett was darkfaced, his black hair, streaked with
grey, tied at the back. His clothes were of good quality: the jerkin, a white
shirt underneath, and hose of dyed blue wool; his high-heeled boots were the
best Spanish leather. Corbett carried his cloak over one arm and was busily
undoing his sword belt. He was looking up at the Golden Fleece as if memorising
every detail before turning to glance across the marketplace. Sorrel liked to
compare men to animals or birds. Yes, she thought, you are a greyhound, dark
and swift like an arrow, a hunter of souls. Or a falcon? Yes, a bird of prey which soared high, gliding and moving, its eyes always
watchful before the killing swoop. Sorrel felt a thrill of pleasure. This man
would pursue matters to the bitter end. He was no pompous royal official,
dressed in a gaily coloured tabard, proclaiming his every step to the tune of
tambour and trumpet. A stealthy man, Sorrel concluded, who would come like a
thief in the night and few would know the day or the hour.
    Sorrel
watched as the arrivals swept into the Golden Fleece, then followed close
behind. She was