Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

Corbett undid his wallet and took out the royal warrant displaying the King’s Seal. He was wary of this young man whose resentment was so tangible. He was acting the role of the busy, tired miller but his surly looks were as much a threat as his dog which had come snarling out of the darkness.

  ‘I’m also busy,’ Corbett said softly. ‘The King is busy. You, sir, will sit here, or anywhere I choose, to answer my questions.’

  ‘We do not wish to give offence.’ Ursula played with the tendrils of her blonde hair. ‘But, Sir Hugh, you come here and ask about a jury which sat five years ago. They only returned the verdict. Sir Louis Tressilyian passed sentence.’

  ‘I will ask him in due time,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Five years is a long time, but a few days a mere heartbeat, eh? Your husband Molkyn was a good miller, rich and prosperous?’ He gestured round the kitchen. ‘What do you have in the house? A parlour, store-rooms, a writing office and bedchambers above stairs?’

  ‘Aye, and a bed as soft as a feather down.’

  ‘And were you lying there,’ Corbett asked, ‘the night your husband was so barbarously killed?’

  ‘Molkyn liked his ale,’ came the tart reply. ‘On a Saturday afternoon, he closed the mill down. In spring and summer he played quoits or would go jousting on the Swaile, a little hunting with the dog or cockfighting down at the pit behind the Golden Fleece.’

  ‘And in autumn and winter?’

  ‘He’d take a small barrel of ale, sit in the mill amongst his wealth and, quite honestly, sir, drink himself into such a stupor he’d piss himself.’

  Corbett flinched at the coarseness.

  ‘And God help any man, Sir Hugh, who disturbed his pleasure. That included me, his son and his daughter.’

  ‘I never went there.’ Margaret looked up, eyes blazing in her thin, white face. ‘I never went there. You know that, Mother.’

  ‘Hush now!’

  For the first time since they had met Ursula seemed disconcerted, begging Lucy and Ralph with her eyes to assist with Margaret.

  ‘Why didn’t you go there?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come on, girl!’

  ‘I am not a girl.’ Margaret made no attempt to hide her hate. ‘I am a young woman. My courses have already started. I don’t like the mill.’ She paused briefly. ‘I’ve never liked the mill! Those grinding stones, the scampering of the mice, and that mere - even in summer it looks dank.’

  ‘My daughter is still upset,’ Ursula intervened quickly.

  Corbett nearly replied she was the only one that was, but bit back the reply.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘we have Molkyn relaxing after his labours on a Saturday afternoon with a firkin of ale. Surely you became worried when he didn’t stagger into bed?’

  ‘Why should I object?’ Ursula smiled. ‘He stank like a pig and snored like a hog.’

  ‘Surely you’d send someone across to the mill to see all was well?’

  ‘He had a bed there. Why should I ask him to soil clean sheets?’

  ‘Did this drinking become worse after Sir Roger’s execution?’

  ‘No. For a while Molkyn seemed happy, if that was possible, that Sir Roger was gone.’

  Just for a moment the woman blinked quickly, a slight quiver to the mouth. Corbett went cold. It was the way Ursula had pronounced Sir Roger’s name - not harshly, not dismissing him as a great killer. Corbett decided to change tack.

  ‘Mistress, did you ever meet Sir Roger?’

  The laughter disappeared from her eyes.

  ‘Did you?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘I - ’ she glanced quickly at Ralph - ‘I saw him sometimes in church.’ She shook her head. ‘Now and again in the town. He was someone I knew by sight.’

  Again a lie, Corbett thought. More pieces of the puzzle; at least, he was making sense of it. Ursula was a hot-eyed woman, well favoured and comely. No wonder Sir Roger had been dispatched to the gallows. How many other men in Melford had he cuckolded, planting pairs of horns on their heads? A charming, sweet-tongued knight, Sir Roger could ride round the town and pay courtesy to any lady of his choice. They would be flattered. Perhaps open to seduction. Was that why Molkyn had decided on the verdict? Revenge against both Sir Roger and his wife who had cuckolded him?

  Ursula got up and, without asking, took Corbett’s tankard and refilled it. She came back and in one look Corbett knew he had the truth. Despite her petty errand, the blush still tinged her cheeks.

  ‘Who empanelled the jury?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Ask Blidscote,’ Lucy sneered. ‘Isn’t that the task of the chief bailiff?’

  ‘But he doesn’t choose them,’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘According to the law, it’s supposed to be done by lot.’

  ‘Is it now?’ Lucy asked sardonically. ‘All I know is that they gathered in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. The names of those on the electoral roll were inscribed on pieces of parchment. Twelve were drawn out. Molkyn and Thorkle first. Surely,’ Lucy added sweetly, ‘such a system cannot be corrupted?’

  Ralph put his head in his hands and quietly snorted with laughter. Lucy was openly mocking Corbett.

  Time and again the royal council had issued denunciations of the empanelling of juries, and their corrupt management. Such practices were a constant theme of strident petitions by the Commons. Corbett scratched the sweat on his neck. He certainly looked forward to his meeting with Sir Louis Tressilyian the following evening.

  ‘So, Molkyn was killed, his head sheared off and placed on a tray, which was pushed out on to the mere? He was a strong man?’

  ‘He was drunk as a sot.’ Ralph got to his feet. ‘Are you a numbskull, master clerk?’

  Corbett gazed at him steadily.

  ‘The mill is some distance away. The dog only barks if someone approaches the house. I’ll take you there if you want.’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘So, what do you think happened?’

  ‘Molkyn was lying like a pig on his bed,’ Ralph explained. ‘Sometime in the early hours the killer walked up the steps and entered the mill. He carried a sword, an axe, a cleaver. He sliced off my father’s head,’ he pointed to Lucy, ‘as she slices an onion. One swift blow. The head was put on a tray, the body thrust up into a chair, a tankard between his hands. The killer left. As he does, he takes the tray with Molkyn’s head on it and sends it floating across the mere. That’s where poor Peterkin later found it.’ The young man, hands on the table, pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘God forgive me, master clerk. I know what you are thinking. We do not grieve. Do you know why? Because we are not hypocrites! Molkyn was an oaf, quick with his fists or his cudgel. As for enemies, go down to Melford, knock on each door, particularly the bakers’. They’ll tell you about Molkyn’s false weights and measures, the dust and chalk he added to the flour. The way he short-changed farmers and fixed his prices. He wouldn’t give a cup of water to a dying man. I am pleased he’s dead. As far as I am concerned he can rot in Hell!’

  The young man stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Does he speak for you all?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes he does,’ Margaret replied swiftly and incisively. ‘He certainly speaks for me.’ She glared defiantly at her mother.

  ‘And you, Mistress?’

  Ursula ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘Margaret,’ she commanded, ‘leave those, go upstairs! Make sure the warming pans are ready!’

  The girl was about to refuse.

  ‘I said go!’

  The young woman threw the knife down and flounced out as angrily as her brother.

  ‘They are not my children,’ Ursula explained.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress?’

  ‘I am Molkyn’s second wife.’

  ‘His first wife died in childbirth?’

  Lucy stifled a laugh. Corbett refused to look in her direction.

  ‘She fell.’ Ursula pointed to the stairs. ‘An unfortunate accident.’

  ‘Do you know, Mistress, I am tired.’ Corbett sipped from the tankar
d. ‘Of lies, of hidden laughter, of shadow games as if we are children. She didn’t fall, did she? There is a suspicion that she was pushed. Is that what you are saying?’

  ‘Molkyn was free with his fists. His first wife fell, bruised her face and broke her neck. Molkyn claimed he was working at the mill when it happened.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t. He was a bully: he would have done the same to me. I fought back. I told him that I would stand on the market cross and proclaim what he really was and - I’ll be honest - if he ever hit me, one night I’d slip across to that mill and slit his drunken throat. But,’ she tossed back her hair, ‘before you ask, I didn’t. Molkyn may have been a big man but he had the mind and belly of a greedy child. Of course, I don’t grieve for him. As for bed sport,’ she hid a giggle behind her hand, ‘I’d have a better game with that whey-faced curate of Parson Grimstone’s.’

  ‘And is that the view of Thorkle’s widow?’ Corbett asked.

  Lucy sliced a vegetable, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

  ‘If Molkyn was a roaring dog,’ she replied, ‘Thorkle was a mouse of a man. And, as for his death, come down to my farm, master clerk. Or even better, ask young Ralph. He was in my house when Thorkle was killed, sitting in the kitchen, talking to me and my children. I don’t know why Thorkle died. Like a little mouse he kept his mouth shut. He always was in fear of Molkyn.’

  ‘And your daughter, Mistress?’ Corbett asked. ‘She’s not upset?’

  ‘Ah!’ Ursula got to her feet, wiping her hands slowly on the breast of her taffeta gown. ‘If she’s upset, master clerk, it’s because you mentioned Widow Walmer. Didn’t you know she often acted as her maid?’ She laughed at Corbett’s surprise. ‘Well, not maid - don’t forget she was only a young girl of twelve - more as a companion. She often slept there, spent the evening, kept the good widow company.’

  ‘And the night Sir Roger supposedly murdered her?’

  ‘Well, the widow was expecting company, wasn’t she? Margaret was told to stay away, that’s all she knew and that’s all I can tell you.’

  Corbett stared across at the fire. He’d learnt enough. He had picked up pieces which he must arrange in some form of order, but, perhaps, not tonight. He pushed back his stool, picked up his cloak and sword belt, thanked his hosts and went out into the yard.

  Chapter 9

  The wind had picked up, whirling the branches, scattering the dry leaves. Clouds raced across the moonlit sky. Corbett dug his heels in, guiding his horse across the bridge and up the lane leading back to the church.

  ‘The devil’s night,’ Corbett whispered.

  He recalled boyhood stories. His mother used to sit him on her knee and talk about the wild woodman, all tangled hair and glaring eyes, who supposedly lived in the forest, an arrow-shot from their farm. Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. Such stories! Every tree, every bush, hid a fantastical world of evil goblins, malignant forest people; dragons, griffins and man-sized hawks. He’d started telling the same to Baby Eleanor but always in a whisper. Maeve had clear ideas about such legends.

  ‘Uncle Morgan used to frighten me to death as a child!’

  ‘He still frightens me,’ Corbett had whispered.

  Uncle Morgan had arrived years ago for a ‘short visit’ but settled down and didn’t show the slightest inclination to return to Wales. On a night like this, however, Corbett was glad Uncle Morgan was at Leighton.

  Corbett was tightening the reins when the figure came whirling out of the darkness. A rustle in the undergrowth, a slithered footfall, Corbett glimpsed the club coming back, aiming for his leg. His horse whinnied and started. Corbett cursed, going back in the saddle, fingers searching for the hilt of his sword. Then his attacker had disappeared, quietly and mysteriously.

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ Corbett pulled himself out of the saddle, patting his horse, talking to it reassuringly. The bay, however, refused to be quietened, going back on its hind legs, threatening to rear, shaking its head and expressing its annoyance in sharp whinnies. Corbett held on to the reins, talking softly as Chanson had taught him.

  At last the animal calmed. Corbett allowed it to nuzzle his hands and face before remounting. Of all the attacks he had ever endured, that was the most surprising. A man on foot could really do little harm to a rider. The blow had been directed towards his leg; only sheer luck had saved both him and the horse from considerable pain. But why?

  Corbett emerged from the woods and stared up at the moon-washed church. He breathed in deeply, quietening his mind, calming his temper. He’d had enough. He had been out in the dark too long! He urged his horse into a canter and was pleased to reach the square and the glowing warmth of the Golden Fleece. He went round the side of the tavern and gave his horse to an ostler.

  ‘I want him treated really well,’ Corbett ordered. ‘A good rub down. You have the blankets? Make sure he’s fed and watered.’

  The sleepy-eyed boy promised he would. Corbett tossed him a penny, took off his sword belt, grasped his saddlebags and walked through the rear door and along the passageway into the bustling taproom: a welcome relief from the cold and darkness.

  The taproom was busy, lit by lanterns and candles, and warmed by a roaring fire. The air was thick with the smell of candle grease and wood smoke. Somewhere a shepherd played a lilting tune on a lute. Corbett’s mouth watered at the spicy smell from the side of pork being tended on the spit by two red-faced boys crouched in the inglenook. They turned it slowly, basting it with herbs soaked in oil. Mastiffs lay before the hearth and slavered at such pleasant odours. Slatterns, their hands full of tankards of frothing ale, pushed their way through, slapping away the wandering fingers of chapmen and tinkers. Ranulf and Chanson were seated in the corner, surrounded by locals. Both of them looked well fed and relaxed. Ranulf sat like Herod amongst the innocents, those precious dice in his hand, inviting his ‘guests’ to lay a wager.

  ‘You’ve returned at last!’

  Corbett glanced behind him. In a cooler, darker part of the taproom sat Blidscote and Burghesh. Burghesh was the same as ever, Blidscote looked bleary-eyed and red-nosed as if he had drunk too much, too fast. Burghesh waved Corbett over.

  ‘I recommend the quail pie and some of that pork.’

  Matthew the taverner came bustling across. Corbett ordered food for himself and ale for his companions. He did not have to wait long. The taverner served the food personally: a broad, wooden platter with half a steaming pie, strips of crackling pork and vegetables diced and covered in a cheese sauce. Corbett took out his horn spoon and the small dagger kept in a sheath above his right boot. He ate quickly, hungrily, savouring every mouthful. He half listened to Blidscote and Burghesh’s chatter: about the change in the weather and the arrangements for All-Hallows celebrations.

  ‘A busy day, Sir Hugh?’ Burghesh asked once the clerk had finished eating. The old soldier toasted him with his tankard.

  Corbett responded. Blidscote might be a toper but Burghesh’s broad face was friendly: clear grey eyes and smiling mouth. Corbett wondered how much this veteran of the King’s wars knew about Melford.

  ‘I’ll tell you this, Master Burghesh.’ Corbett wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘If the French ever invade, Melford will be a hard town to take. You’d have to surround it with a circle of steel.’

  ‘Ah, but the French will never come,’ Burghesh smiled. ‘That’s one of the joys of this place, Corbett. You can wander in and out.’ He lifted the tankard. ‘God knows there are enough people in this taproom who will keep an eye on what you do and where you go.’

  ‘But what about the chapmen and tinkers?’

  Corbett pointed across to where a group of these sat with their trays carefully stacked on the floor beside them. One was busy feeding a pet squirrel, a small red ball of fur on his shoulder which prettily gnawed on the offered scraps. Now and again the squirrel would break off to chatter at the vicious-looking ferret held by an
other.

  ‘I mean,’ Corbett continued, ‘they can wander in and out when they like and not pay the market toll.’

  ‘They can try,’ Blidscote slurred. ‘But who’ll buy from them? They’ll only get reported, put in the stocks and banned for a year and a day. They are only too willing to come into the market square and pay the tax.’

  ‘And you are responsible for that?’ Corbett asked.

  He studied the chief bailiff’s fat, sweaty face, weak chin, slobbery mouth and bleary eyes. Corbett recalled his conversation at the mill. Blidscote was a dangerous man: weak, boastful but, if threatened, dangerous in a sly, furtive way.

  ‘I’m chief bailiff,’ Blidscote replied. ‘I do my job well.’

  Corbett sipped from his tankard. ‘And you were one of the first to see Widow Walmer’s corpse?’

  ‘Aye.’ The bailiff shook his head. ‘I’ll never forget that evening. I was here in the taproom, wasn’t I, Burghesh, with you and Repton the reeve?’

  ‘Tell me exactly,’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Burghesh offered. ‘Do you remember, Blidscote, we gathered here early? There was you, me, Matthew the taverner and Repton.’

  ‘Who’s this Repton?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘He’s over there.’

  Corbett followed his direction.

  ‘The fellow with the lank hair, thin as a beanpole. A widower, he had lustful thoughts about Widow Walmer - wanted to marry her, he did.’

  Repton was tall, thin, angular; a sallow, bitter face, lank brown hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a dark green cote-hardie. A choleric man, he was deep in heated discussion with his fellows.

  ‘Anyway,’ Blidscote continued, ‘Repton was talking about visiting Widow Walmer. “Ah,” says Matthew the taverner, “Sir Roger Chapeleys is fishing in that pond tonight.”

  ‘And how did Matthew know that?’ Corbett demanded, though he suspected the answer.

  ‘Why, Sir Roger had been here earlier in the day and said as much in his cups!’ Burghesh took up the story again. ‘Anyway, Repton was all a-sulk, muttering to himself for some time. He wanted to go and see her. The reeve had been acting strangely all evening. He went out and then came back.’