Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts Read Free

Thorkle in the shriving pew and heard his confession. Sin did come back to haunt you. It was so different when he and the rest quaffed ale at the Golden Fleece. They’d feasted in the special rooms provided for the jury before trooping importantly back across the cobbles into the Guildhall. It had been the height of summer: the sun strong and vibrant, the grass growing long and juicy, promising a rich bountiful harvest! Such memories decided Thorkle. He would go across to his house, satisfy his hunger on some bread and meat and go down to the Golden Fleece. He wanted company, life and laughter, a roaring fire, the reassurance of his friends and fellow men.
    Thorkle walked to the far end of the barn and pulled across the doors, pushing the bolt back. He stared up at the roof. It was well thatched, no leakages. He would finish all the work tomorrow. He walked back and stopped. One of the lanterns at the other door had been extinguished. Thorkle’s throat went dry. A cloaked figure had stepped out of the darkness, a cowled hood over his head. What was he hiding? The flailing stick? Thorkle drew his knife.
    ‘What is it? Who are you?’
    ‘The winnower, separating the wheat from the chaff.’
    Thorkle was sure he recognised the muffled voice.
    ‘What is it you want?’ Thorkle edged closer.
    ‘Justice!’
    ‘Justice?’ Thorkle squeaked.
    He stood frozen to the spot. The figure walked quickly forward. Thorkle was confused. He tried to move but the assassin was faster. The flailing stick swept back and its clubbed edge caught Thorkle on the side of the head, sending him spinning to the ground. The pain was intense. Thorkle could already feel the hot blood. He stared up: the flailing rod fell time and time again, shattering Thorkle’s head till his brains spilled out.
    Elizabeth, the wheelwright’s daughter, was frightened of the hobgoblins, sprites and all other hideous dark shapes who dwelled in the shadows but, not today. She dismissed such tales as fanciful, parents’ tricks to keep their children away from lonely glades and desolate paths. Elizabeth was in love, or so she thought. She had come into Melford to spend her birthday pennies but, of course, her real reason . . . well, she’d best not think of it. Perhaps Old Mother Crauford was right, the air might catch her dreams and waft them back to her father’s workshop or to Mother, busy in the kitchen.
    Elizabeth paused at the end of the alleyway and glanced back. The market was still busy. Adela had tried to question her but that was part of the game, wasn’t it? You never told people your secret business. If a hidden admirer made his presence known then why should she share it with the likes of Adela? She’d only go into the Golden Fleece and tell everyone. More importantly, she wouldn’t have let Elizabeth go so quickly. She’d demand to know why, how and who. Elizabeth smiled, pushed back her long hair and smoothed down her kirtle. How could she tell someone like Adela? It would only provoke laughter. Elizabeth’s smile faded. She wouldn’t say how the message was delivered or, more importantly, who was responsible; that would only arouse more curiosity.
    Elizabeth turned and ran on. She kept to the shadows. She knew which paths to use so no one would see or accost her. After all, when she returned home, she certainly didn’t want to be questioned. Elizabeth had grown up in Melford. She knew its every nook and cranny. She went by the church and glimpsed Master Burghesh busy digging a grave in the cemetery. She ran on. He wouldn’t have seen her. He was only interested in Parson Grimstone and that gloomy church. Elizabeth paused to catch her breath. The church spire and the tombstones made her feel slightly uncomfortable, evoking memories of poor Johanna, so barbarously killed near Brackham Mere. Johanna had always been more adventurous: she often went into the countryside, collecting flowers, or so she said. This was different. Two people knew where