by Paul Doherty
Sorrel reached the market cross and sat on the high step, the sack between her feet. Most people knew Sorrel and her past. How her man had tried to help the convicted Sir Roger Chapeleys, only to disappear some years ago. Sorrel had become a common sight, roaming the countryside around the town. If anyone ever stopped and questioned her, they received the same reply: ‘I’m looking for my poor husband’s corpse.’
For some strange reason Sorrel truly believed Furrell had been murdered and his mangled remains buried secretly without a blessing or a prayer. She was a sturdy woman and, despite the disappearance of the occasional rabbit or pheasant, honest in her own way. People, apart from the likes of Blidscote, left her alone.
Sorrel hid her excitement, her heart beating fast, her throat constricted. This was her day of salvation. This was the day she had prayed for before that little battered statue of the Virgin Mary which she kept in her chamber in the ruins of Beauchamp Place. Justice would be done, the King’s authority would be felt. This Sir Hugh Corbett would help resolve the mystery and find her husband’s corpse. In her wanderings Sorrel encountered tinkers and travelling chapmen, the Moon People, all the travellers of the road. She’d met some who knew about this royal clerk.
‘Like a greyhound he is,’ one reported. ‘Black and lean. He hunts down the King’s quarry. He can’t be bought or sold.’
Sorrel had longed for this moment. She wanted to catch the eye of the royal clerk, perhaps seek an audience. She glanced towards the entrance of the Golden Fleece. No sign yet. On the corner of a nearby alleyway she glimpsed the shuffling figure of Old Mother Crauford, grasping the arm of Peterkin the simpleton. A strange pair, Sorrel reflected. Old Mother Crauford was as old as the hills and, like any aged one, a true Jeremiah, full of the woes and wickedness of her time. On many occasions Sorrel had tried to draw her into conversation, especially about Furrell. Old Mother Crauford would hint at things, macabre memories, how Melford was always a place of murder, but she wouldn’t elaborate any further. Instead she became tight-lipped, sly-eyed and would shuffle away.
Sorrel couldn’t blame her for her reticence. The young ones of the town whispered how the old hag was a witch. Is that why she kept Peterkin close to her? For protection? Or just companionship? Sorrel wondered if they were blood kin. She studied the pair carefully. Old Mother Crauford was berating Peterkin, wagging her bony finger in his face. Was she still annoyed at how the simpleton had interrupted Sunday Mass? Or was it something else? She noticed the old woman had taken something from 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 mid-morning 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 dark-faced, 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 disappointed. She had expected to find the visitors in the taproom but all three had disappeared. Taverner Matthew must have taken them up to their chambers immediately.
Sorrel moved across, past the tables and stools, to a small window seat. A chapman, sitting at a nearby table, was feeding morsels to his pet ferret. Sorrel interrupted this; the ferret, nose twitching, jumped down from the table and sped across to the sack. The man pulled at the string, then yelped as a rat sped out from beneath the wainscoting and scuttled across to the rear door, the ferret in pursuit. For a while chaos and confusion reigned. The tinker jumped to his feet and threatened Sorrel with his fist. She banged the table with her cudgel until he backed off.
‘Well, well, well!’ Adela, the saucy-eyed tavern wench, came sauntering over, her luxurious hair piled back. Her smock was deliberately too tight for her fulsome figure, the top laces of her bodice carelessly undone. ‘Have you come to see the taverner?’ She tapped the sack with her sandalled foot. ‘He and Blidscote are upstairs with the high and mighty ones.’ Adela wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her wrist. ‘Come to seek out poachers they have, Sorrel . . .’
‘Is that correct, Adela?’ came the cool reply. ‘Then I’ll tell them what I’ve seen down at Hamden Mere . . .’
Ad
ela’s face coloured and she sauntered off, hips swaying.
A short while later the taverner came downstairs, shouting at the potboys to take refreshment to his guests. Sorrel leant back and closed her eyes. The tinker had now regained his ferret and moved to a different table. This corner of the taproom was quiet. Sorrel relished the breeze coming in from the herb garden; the smells from the buttery were especially fragrant. What was the taverner cooking? Roasted capons, fat and succulent, venison, tender and juicy to the bite, and simmering in an onion sauce? She heard a sound and opened her eyes. Taverner Matthew stood over her, a frothing tankard in one hand, a platter of bread and meat in the other. He put these down on the table and allowed two silver coins to slip beneath the platter.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘Three pheasants,’ Sorrel replied. ‘And I’ll bring two free, next time, if you allow me upstairs to see the royal clerk?’
The taverner sighed and sat down on a stool.
‘I would if I could, Sorrel,’ he replied kindly, ‘but they are tired and busy. They say they have to wash, change and break their fasts. Corbett is already sending out messages: there’s to be a meeting up at the church.’
‘What will he do, this Hugh Corbett?’ Sorrel asked. ‘Find the truth, master taverner?’
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t speak much; the red-haired one is his mouthpiece. Corbett’s courteous but a man of few words. The first thing he asked me was to describe what happened the night Widow Walmer was killed and what I knew about the other murders.’ He blew his lips out. ‘What can I tell him? Adela knew young Elizabeth, and the night Widow Walmer’s corpse was found, men from the tavern hurried to her cottage.’
‘And Molkyn and Thorkle?’
‘Now, there’s a mystery.’ The taverner wiped his hands on his blood-stained apron.
‘Both were on the jury, master taverner.’
‘Yes, so they were. Others are now frightened. I’ve even heard whispers that Sir Roger was innocent.’
‘Of course he was,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘My man said he was.’
The taverner tapped her gently on the hand and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I’ve heard that song before, Sorrel. I’ve got business to do.’
He returned to the kitchen and Sorrel greedily drank from the tankard. A potboy came over and, without a word, took the sack. Sorrel drained the tankard and stared across the taproom. Should she try to see the clerk? She shook her head and sighed. No, it would be best if she met him on her own ground. Anyway, she had things to show him, the Moon People to meet. She fought back the tears. Surely he would help her find poor Furrell? Perhaps prove that he’d told the truth and might even have been believed, if the others . . .? Sorrel stared up at the smoke-blackened beam from which flitches of ham and bacon hung to be cured. She would love to show Corbett the bones, the strange things she had seen in her wanderings, such as that eerie Mummer’s Man with his grotesque devil’s mask and silent horse. But would he believe her? They had laughed at Furrell. And why? Because of the likes of Deverell the carpenter.
Sorrel pocketed the coins and grasped her stick. She noticed the chapman had left his cloak in the corner and recalled his curses. She surreptitiously picked the cloak up, and left by the rear door. She stopped to smell the herbs, relishing the tangy scents of the mint and thyme. She went out through the lych-gate, back into the high street and along to the alleyways which led down to Deverell the carpenter’s workshop at the back of his house. The gate was closed so she knocked with her stick.
‘Who is it?’ a voice called.
So, you are frightened, Sorrel thought, detecting a note of tension.
‘I have news, Master Deverell. It’s Sorrel!’
‘The poacher’s woman?’ The reply was sharp and harsh.
‘Yes, the poacher’s woman.’
Sorrel paused. She was sure she’d heard a whisper, as if Deverell was telling someone to keep quiet. She walked around but there was no other entrance. She returned to knock at the high wooden gate.
‘Go away!’ the voice called. ‘I am busy!’
‘What are you frightened of, Deverell?’ Sorrel taunted.
She went round to the front of the house and stepped into the porchway. She noticed the Judas squint on her right. Deverell must be frightened to be checking on everyone who came here. She pounded on the door but there was no answer so she went back to the gate and knocked again. This time Deverell pulled the bolts back and swung it open. He was a tall, thickset man with a sallow, sharp-boned face, thin-lipped and anxious-eyed. His sparse black hair was covered in dust and he was nursing a cut on his right hand.
‘I can treat that for you,’ Sorrel offered.
‘What do you want?’ Deverell sucked at the bloody cut.
‘I’ve seen the royal clerk.’
‘And?’
‘I thought you would be interested. We can discuss it here in the street or I can shout out what I know.’
Deverell sighed and beckoned her in. He led her across a cobbled yard; stacks of timber lay about. Sorrel noticed how, near the back fence, the wood had been piled high but then dragged away as if Deverell was anxious lest an intruder climb the fence and use the wood to ease the drop into the yard. He led her into his workshop, a long dark shed containing a work bench, stacks of wood, racks of hammers and chisels. He gestured at a stool but kept looking over his shoulder.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sorrel asked. ‘Are you alone?’
‘My wife’s in the market,’ the carpenter replied. ‘You call yourself keen and sharp-eyed, Sorrel. You know I have no maid or servant.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about!’ Sorrel exclaimed, though that was a lie. She knew little about Deverell’s private life but she was intrigued. Deverell was a good carpenter, a master craftsman. Even Furrell had praised his work.
‘Why does a wealthy man like you have no apprentice, maid or servant?’ she demanded.
‘That’s the way I like it.’
‘Why? What are you hiding?’
‘I like my privacy.’ Deverell sat on the corner of the table as if he wanted to block her view. ‘Now, what’s really your business? Why have you come here bothering me?’
‘I have seen the clerk, master carpenter! Sharp-eyed he is, with close-set lips. He’s going to start asking questions . . .’
‘Then I’ll give him the same answer I did on oath in court. On the night Widow Walmer was killed, I saw Sir Roger Chapeleys fleeing along Gully Lane. He looked stricken and worried.’
‘You have got such sharp eyes at night?’
‘It was a clear evening. You can tell from the way a man rides, how he wears his cloak, if there’s something wrong.’
‘And what were you doing out there that night?’ Sorrel taunted.
‘I was bringing some wood into my workshop.’
‘I thought you had timber delivered?’
Deverell struggled to control his temper. ‘I am a carpenter and the King’s loyal subject,’ he replied. ‘If I want to go out to look for a certain type of wood, then that’s my business.’
‘And that’s when you saw Sir Roger? Furrell claimed you couldn’t possibly have seen him, stricken, fleeing along Gully Lane.’
‘Well, he’s not here to contradict me, is he?’
‘No, but Furrell gave his testimony in court as well. He claimed to have seen Sir Roger that night, and he looked anything but stricken!’
‘Pshaw!’ The carpenter waved his hand. ‘I thought you had something to tell me.’
‘I have. The clerk is going to ask the same questions. Where were you standing? How did you see Sir Roger? What were you really doing that night?’ Sorrel leant forward. ‘And why should you, who loves to keep a distance between himself and his fellow man, bustle forward so busily to swear away another’s life?’
‘Sir Roger murdered Widow Walmer.’ Deverell stood up. ‘He killed those other women. Don’t forget, poacher woman, there was more evidence, whilst the jury, not
I, found him guilty.’
‘Aye,’ she replied. ‘A jury led by Molkyn and Thorkle, and you know what’s happened to them. I have seen the squint hole,’ she continued, gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder. ‘And the bolted gate.’
Her attention was distracted by Deverell’s hands as he pointed towards the door. They were stained, covered in wood dust but she noticed how fine and long the fingers were.
‘That’s my business. Now, Mistress, you should be gone.’
‘Do you sleep well at night?’ she taunted. ‘Or do you have nightmares about Molkyn’s head floating across the mere?’
Deverell grasped her by the arm. ‘I think you’d better go.’
Sorrel shook him off. She walked back across the cobbles. The gate was still open and she slipped through. She turned to make some parting remark but Deverell closed the gate behind her, pushing home the bolts.
The carpenter listened to the woman’s retreating footsteps, sighed and crossed himself. He went round the yard checking all was well, and felt his hair prickle on the nape of his neck. He really should be more careful. Had his other mysterious visitor gone as silently as he’d arrived?
A low whistle came from the workshop. Deverell walked hurriedly back. He sat on the stool and stared further down the room towards the shadowy recess. His heart beat quicker and he swallowed hard. He should lock everything more securely; he’d been trapped so easily. Was his mysterious visitor still there? His heart jumped as the cowled, hooded figure stepped out of the recess and stood, hands up the sleeves of his voluminous gown. Deverell chewed his lip. He had been busy here, sawing a piece of wood and, when he’d looked up, a man dressed like one of those wandering friars was standing in his workshop, though this one wore a mask as well as hood and cowl. As soon as he spoke, Deverell recognised the voice he’d heard five years ago. Yet, what could he do? How could he protest?
‘You heard what was said?’ Deverell tried to break the ominous silence. ‘That busybody—’
