The Treason of the Ghosts

storeroom
above. Furrell used to call this his lookout post. Sorrel darted inside,
slammed the battered door and leant against it, heart racing, panting for breath.
She tried to calm herself, wiping the sweat from the palms of her hands as she
listened for any sound of pursuit. She waited for the footfall, the door being
tried but nothing happened.
    She
crossed to a window and looked out over the countryside in the direction of
Melford. Her eye caught movement, a rider coming down Falmer Lane , but who was it? She left the
crumbling windowsill and returned to the door, listening carefully. After a
while she relaxed, cursing her own stupidity. She gingerly opened the door and
went down the steps. She could see no trace of any pursuer. The chapel was
empty. She grasped the crossbow more firmly as she reached the bottom step and
entered the cobbled yard. No one. She sped across the
hall.
    Sorrel
didn’t fully understand what happened next. One moment she was hurrying
forward, the next a shadow moved from her right. The attacker had been hiding
behind a buttress, waiting for her to return. She glimpsed the white cord going
over her head and instinctively brought her hand up to prevent the garrotte
string being lashed tightly round her throat. The harsh cord dug into her hand.
Sorrel tried to go forward but the attacker was pulling her back. She realised
she must go with him, lessen the tension in the garrotte string, and with her
one free hand she lashed out behind her. The string was now cutting her hand,
the pain intense. Sorrel thought she couldn’t breathe, then realised it was her
own terror rather than any constriction round her throat. Backwards and
forwards she swayed. All Sorrel was aware of were hurried gasps, a knee
pressing into the small of her back. Sorrel, using all her strength, pushed
backwards, driving her assailant into the corner of the buttress. At the same
time she brought her free hand up, clawing at his arm. The garrotte string was
loosened. Sorrel was free. She lurched forward and glanced over her shoulder:
her assailant had slumped against the wall, bruising both shoulders and the
back of his head. He was dressed like one of those wandering friars, a dark cloak
and hood with a cloth mask over his face.
    Sorrel
didn’t wait but fled down the hall. She reached the dais and stumbled. Sounds
of pursuit echoed behind her but she was up through the solar door, slamming it
shut and drawing across the bolts. She crumpled to a heap on the floor before
it, aware of the pain throbbing through her. The left side of her neck was
badly gashed, the palm of her hand lacerated, the small of her back ached as if
she had been hit by a cudgel, whilst her arms weighed so heavy. She heard her
assailant try to force the door but it held firm.
    ‘Go
away, you whoreson!’ Sorrel screamed.
    The
thudding stopped, replaced by a scratching as if some wild animal was clawing
with long nails. Sorrel got to her knees. Yes, that was what he was doing! Her
assailant had drawn his dagger, seeking the crevice between the door and lintel
to see if he could work loose the leather hinges. Sorrel gazed around; she’d
dropped the crossbow. She ran over to the chest, pulled out the long stabbing
Welsh dirk and grasped her cudgel. The scratching continued. Sorrel returned to
the door and studied the hinges, thick wedges of leather. It would take some
time to work those loose. She looked towards the window. She could try to
escape. Perhaps if she reached the woods she could lose her attacker. She drew
breath in and tiptoed across.
    Pulling
back the shutters, she stared to the left and right. She was about to draw her
head in when she saw a dark shape stepping out through the large gap in the
hall wall. Her attacker had studied the place carefully. She withdrew quickly,
pulling the shutters closed, and brought down the bar. Sorrel stood, listening
intently. The clawing had stopped. She heard a sound and started as the
shutters rattled. He was now trying to get in through there. Sorrel ran across.
The shutters were of heavy oak, their hinges strong but there was a gap where
they met. She saw the dagger glide in. Her assailant was trying to lift the
bar. She lashed out with the cudgel, the dagger withdrew.
    Sorrel
was now coated in sweat. What if the attacker laid siege, waiting for
nightfall? Then she heard the shout, a loud hallo echoing through Beauchamp Place ,
followed by her name.
    ‘I
am here!’ Sorrel screamed.
    She
sank down