The Treason of the Ghosts

Street had told him where to come. Blidscote felt
nervous. He didn’t like the countryside — the green, cold fields, the trees,
their branches black against a grey lowering sky. He had attended the
Wheelwright funeral; that had only deepened his pessimism. He shouldn’t have
come but what choice did he have? He had followed instructions and ensured the
jury which tried Sir Roger would return a verdict of guilty. For such a crime
Blidscote could hang. Even if he didn’t, he would be turned out of his living
and what could he do then? Beg? Become the brunt of the petty cruelties of the
townspeople? Many would seize the opportunity to settle grudges and redress
grievances.
    Blidscote
wiped his lips and stared back up the hill. Was that a horseman? His belly
curdled on the ale he had drunk so quickly. He whimpered with fright. The
countryside brought back memories of his bullying, hectoring ways with the boys
of the travelling people. Had someone seen his secret heinous sin? He glanced
back at the river. He heard it again, the drumming of hoofs. Blidscote turned
and moaned in horror. A black-garbed rider, cloak swirling, a figure from the
Valleys of Hell, had stopped on the brow of the hill. He was having difficulty
with his horse. Was it the clerk? Had that damnable Corbett brought him out
here to be questioned? The rider urged his horse forward. The horse’s head was
bobbing up and down, hoofs thundering, the rider’s cloak billowed round him.
Blidscote remembered his childhood nightmares. Death was thundering towards
him. Blidscote stood rooted to the spot. He wasn’t aware of the squelching mud
beneath his battered boots, the strident cry of the birds, the slithering ghostly sound of the river. Only this rider from
Hell, this living nightmare charging straight towards him.
    Blidscote
expected the rider to rein in but he didn’t. The bailiff moved to the right
then the left, no escape. He staggered back. He was amongst the reeds now, the
mud oozing up above his boots as he floundered about. The rider followed him
in. Blidscote tried to seize the reins, only to receive a sharp vicious kick.
Further and further the rider forced him back. Blidscote stared up at the face
but the rider was hooded and cowled.
    ‘My old companion, Blidscote.’
    The
bailiff now was in mortal terror. He was on the edge of the reeds. He could
feel the current of the river tugging at him. He tried to turn. The rider
brought the club he wielded sharply down on the bailiff’s head. Blidscote fell, face forward, into the river. The cold dirty water
filled his mouth and nose. The rider dismounted and, leaving his horse to find
its own way back to the bank, dragged Blidscote’s body
into the shallows. Going quickly along the bank, he brought heavy stones which
he thrust down the jerkin and wrapped in the bailiff’s squirrel-lined cloak. He
pushed the body out as he would a small s kiff . The unconscious bailiff
was taken out mid-stream. He floated for a while and then slowly sank beneath
the surface. The rider waited. He stared around to ensure he was still alone
and, mounting his horse, made his way back across the meadow.
     
    ★ ★ ★
     
    The
banquet at the Guildhall proved to be prestigious. Corbett and Ranulf, in their
rather travel-stained clothes, felt out of place amongst the costly garbed
burgesses and their wives. Sir Louis Tressilyian, in a cote-hardie of dark
murrey, soft buskins on his feet, welcomed them at the top of the broad stairs.
He escorted them into the main chamber. Corbett thought he was in a church, so
many torches and candles had been lit. The windows were long, most of them
filled with coloured glass. The table of honour was on a dais dominated by a
gorgeous silver-cast salt cellar bearing the town’s arms. The royal charter,
which had granted Melford its privileges, was in the centre of the room on a
table covered with turkey cloth. The burgesses came up and were introduced: a
dizzying array of names and faces. Corbett shook hands and, with Ranulf walking
beside him, made his way to the table on the dais.
    Sir
Maurice arrived, dressed in a blue and gold gown over a white open-necked
shirt. He introduced Alianor, Louis’s daughter, a small, pretty-faced young
woman. She had blonde hair and light cornflower-blue eyes and was dressed
exquisitely in a dark red gown and white wimple. She was much taken with
Ranulf. Corbett had to stand on his companion’s toes, a harsh reminder that the
young woman was