Free Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts by Paul Doherty

which stood on the corner of an alleyway. A three-storeyed building, black-timbered, its plaster washed a light pink, the tavern had windows of mullioned glass that gleamed in the light of the lanterns slung on hooks along the beam spanning the ground floor. ‘Taverner Alliot serves you well?’
    ‘He keeps a fine house,’ Corbett replied. ‘Matthew Alliot lives high on the hog.’
    ‘Aye, he does that,’ Chapeleys replied sourly.
    ‘He was a witness at your father’s trial, wasn’t he?’
    Corbett edged his horse forward. They were now on the edge of the square. Chapeleys reined in, still staring back at the tavern. Corbett noticed how the noise and bustle of the market, the cries of traders had faded as they entered the square. Oh, there was the usual bustle and shouting, the cries of chapmen, ‘What do you lack? What do you lack?’ Dogs and children darted in and out. Apprentices, still sharp-eyed for customers, swaggered about but Corbett felt as if many of them were watching. Was it the presence of a King’s clerk and a royal judge?
    ‘Sir Hugh?’ Tressilyian leant over and gently touched Corbett on the shoulder. ‘I can read your thoughts, master clerk, and, perhaps answer them. The townspeople realise you are here because of the murders. It’s trade as usual but people are worried.’
    ‘And can you read Sir Maurice’s mind?’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? Taverner Alliot was a witness against your father?’
    ‘Yes, yes, he was.’ Chapeleys broke free from his reverie. ‘On the night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered, my father went to the Golden Fleece to slake his thirst. According to Alliot, my father said he was going to the goodwoman’s cottage.’
    ‘But that’s not a lie, is it?’ Corbett asked.
    He swore as a dog came yapping at his horse’s hoofs.
    ‘No, it’s not.’ Sir Maurice gathered the reins in his hand. ‘Oh, never mind. Let’s go on, the light is fading.’
    They went down a narrow lane, out along the back streets, past the garden plots, piggeries and outside stables of the cottagers’ houses. They turned right up a cobbled track and reached the crossroads, a slight rise providing a good view of the surrounding countryside. A little of this was plough land but most of it meadows, dotted with sheep. Small copses and lines of hedgerow broke the greenery. To Corbett’s left, the beginning of a great forest which stretched north. He shaded his eyes and caught a glimpse of the river Swaile.
    ‘Prosperous land,’ he murmured. ‘Well cleared and watered. It makes me homesick.’
    He wondered what Maeve was doing at their Manor of Leighton. Would she be in the kitchen doing business with the steward and bailiffs, checking their accounts, planning what they were doing tomorrow? Eleanor would be tottering around whilst Uncle Morgan would be leaning over the crib-cradle tickling Baby Edward. Or, if Maeve wasn’t looking, trying to pick him up and play with him once again.
    ‘I hate this place!’
    Corbett started. Sir Maurice had moved ahead and was staring up at the great gallows post, its three stark branches black against the evening sky. Corbett had studied a map of Melford. Of course, this was the spot where Sir Roger had been executed. The scaffold was immense, its main post sunk deep into the earth and strengthened by mortar. Sir Louis was also staring up, as if fascinated by the sharp hooks at the edge of each outstretched beam. Sir Maurice crossed himself and sat for a while, head bowed. The cold breeze caught their cloaks, tugging at their hoods.
    ‘It was here?’ Corbett asked. ‘Were you present?’
    ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Tressilyian whispered back. ‘He was only a lad. His servants kept him at the manor, Thockton Hall.’
    Corbett was about to continue his questioning when Sir Maurice cursed and jumped down from his horse. He walked over to the scaffold. Corbett glimpsed a piece of parchment fluttering on a nail just above the base of the beam.