The Treason of the Ghosts

been
killed. Two assassins were busy in Melford but what was the solution? He’d go
to the banquet tonight but tomorrow...? If only Ranulf could trace Blidscote.
The bailiff had last been seen at Deverell’s house, but as Corbett set out for Beauchamp Place ,
Ranulf had reported him missing. Corbett scratched his chin. But what good
would such questioning do? He felt a little guilty. It was easy to interrogate
the likes of Sorrel, but Blidscote? The bailiff would scarcely confess he’d
perjured himself and convened a corrupt jury. And what about
the two priests? If Corbett questioned them and really pressed matters,
they would protest about their rights under Canon Law. The English Crown was
ever conscious of Thomas a Becket’s martyrdom and the Church’s resolute defence
of the rights of priests. Perhaps Burghesh could be persuaded?
    ‘No,
no,’ Corbett whispered. ‘He’d never betray his friends.’
    He
felt Sorrel beside him.
    ‘You
are becoming like me,’ she smiled, ‘talking to yourself. We could make a good
countryman out of you, royal clerk.’
    ‘I
doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you but,
for the moment, it escapes me.’
    They
walked across the bridge, their clatter shattering the silence. Corbett stared
down at the filth-strewn moat. Sorrel let go of his hand and went before him.
She reached the end and suddenly tripped, sprawling into the grass. Corbett’s
horse shied, going up on its hind legs. For a few seconds Corbett wondered if
both of them would plunge into the moat but the horse was well trained. Sorrel
stood up, nursing her ankle.
    ‘That
whoreson murderer!’ she shrieked.
    Corbett’s
horse trembled.
    ‘Quiet,’
the clerk soothed.
    He
stood for a while until the horse calmed down.
    Sorrel
took a knife out of her bag and cut something at the end of the bridge.
    ‘It’s
safe!’ she called.
    Corbett
led his horse across and allowed it to graze.
    ‘An
old poacher’s trick,’ Sorrel declared, holding up the strong twine.
    Corbett
knelt beside her: because of the undergrowth on either side of the bridge, this
place couldn’t be seen from the old manor house.
    ‘An old poacher’s trick,’ he confirmed, ‘and quite a deadly one. The
twine is strong and taut.’
    ‘Was
it meant for me?’ Sorrel asked.
    ‘No,’
Corbett replied. ‘You were attacked, I came in to Beauchamp Place ,
the assassin slipped by me across the moat. He expected me to follow in full
pursuit. And,’ he smiled thinly, ‘years ago I might have done.’ He pointed back
to the empty gatehouse. ‘I would have come charging through there and across
the bridge: my horse would have tripped and I would have been thrown, wounded,
even killed. The assassin was protecting himself whilst also hoping I’d suffer
some hideous accident.’
    Sorrel,
limping, got to her feet. Corbett grasped her by the arm.
    ‘Come,
my lady, you’ll enter Melford like a princess, led by the King’s own clerk.’
    Sorrel
allowed him to help her up. Corbett grasped the reins and they made their way
back across the meadow.
    Who
could the killer be? Despite the loneliness, Melford was only a short distance.
Corbett studied the land and recalled Sorrel’s words: the assassin could creep
stealthily along the lanes or hedgerows. He could reach Beauchamp Place without breaking cover.
Corbett strode on.
    ‘You
are thinking, clerk?’
    ‘I
think,’ Corbett replied. ‘You watch. If the assassin struck once, he may well
strike again.’

 

Chapter 15
     
     
    An hour
later, another visitor arrived on the banks of the Swaile. Master Blidscote,
chief bailiff of the town of Melford ,
was about to die but he did not know it. He had been summoned out to the great
water meadow fringing the river. The local inhabitants called it ‘The Ferry’
but this had long disappeared, swept away in some storm. Blidscote obediently
stood on the bank, staring into the reeds, the muddy water swirling amongst
them. A desolate place, the silence only broken by the
raucous cry of birds.
    Blidscote
felt as if his life had been taken over by a swiftly rushing river. The arrival
of that royal clerk meant justice and vengeance. Blidscote was trapped. Over
the years he had taken bribes, tapped his nose and winked and turned a blind
eye to this or that. He’d only kept his position by being pliable to those in
power and bullying those who weren’t. The scrawled message thrust under the
door of his small house in Fardun