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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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full of ale they take the law into their own hands.'
Catchpole hurried off. Gurney rose, stretched and looked at Corbett.
'Well, Hugh, a bloody day's business.'
'Aye, and it won't end well.' Corbett pursed his lips and looked down at the door of the church. Your tenants, he thought, want justice and blood.
'Are you going back to the manor, Hugh?'
'Perhaps in a while. The day is drawing on. I would like to see more of the countryside before darkness falls.'
Corbett excused himself and, accompanied by a taciturn Ranulf and Maltote, collected the horses idly grazing in a small paddock behind the priest's house. They rode back through the village. Corbett, going ahead, stared around at the white-washed, thatched cottages, each standing in its own little plot of land. A prosperous, thriving place, he thought. Nevertheless, he felt the heavy hand of violent death. The place was deserted. The women were indoors with their children, the men in the tavern opposite the village green with its now ice-covered pond.
Some of the villagers standing at the door caught sight of Corbett and shouted greetings. Corbett raised a gloved hand in reply. He saw Robert the reeve leave his house, a freshly painted, half-timbered building, and wondered about the reeve's newly found wealth. Further along was the baker's house, with its small, gaudily painted sign depicting three white manchet loaves on a silver platter. Corbett would have stopped, but the house was shuttered and closed, as if the young girl's death had reminded the baker of his own tragedy. Corbett rode on out of the village, taking the path towards the cliff edge.
The darkness was drawing in and the mist seethed above the angry waves sweeping in at low tide. The haunting cry of sea birds sounded above the low, moaning wind. Corbett sensed the desolation of the moors. He recalled legends of the place. Someone at Swaffham had called the wind the Dark Angel and told Corbett how this part of Norfolk had once been ruled by an ancient tribe which had rebelled against the Romans and drenched the land in blood. Corbett almost jumped as Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
'Master,' he began cautiously, glimpsing Corbett's close-set face. 'Maltote and I were wondering how long we are to stay here?'
Corbett smiled. 'How long is a piece of rope, Ranulf?'
Ranulf changed tack. 'The villagers have already made up their minds who killed that girl. Sir Simon is right – if Gilbert falls into their hands they will kill him.'
Corbett pulled on his reins and stared at Ranulf. 'Do you know Master Joseph?'
Ranulf scratched the stubble on his chin. 'I've been thinking about that. He certainly recognized me and I think I recognized him.'
'From where?'
'I don't know. I can't remember.'
'What do you make of the Pastoureaux?' Corbett asked.
'Cranks and tricksters.' Ranulf grinned. 'My old mother told me to beware of religion. It attracts few saints and many, many rogues.'
'You think the Pastoureaux are rogues?'
'I think we should talk to the young men and women of their community.'
Corbett nodded. 'When we have finished here, you and Maltote will take my compliments and condolences to Master Joseph. See if you can talk with the community.'
Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Master, I'm cold and I'm hungry!'
'Aye, and when you return there'll be a warm meal and a good bed and you and Maltote can play dice.' He held up an admonitory finger. 'But not with Sir Simon's servants.'
Ranulf blinked innocently at him.
'I mean that,' Corbett insisted. 'And you aren't to gull them into buying the medicines you try to sell whenever we come into the countryside, the strange concoctions and elixirs handed down to you from the ancient Egyptians.'
Ranulf swallowed hard and stared guiltily at Maltote. How did old Master Long Face know about his little leather bag and the remedies he was always ready to sell to the gullible?
'Now,' – Corbett urged his horse forward – 'let's look at the gallows.'
They rode along
Catchpole hurried off. Gurney rose, stretched and looked at Corbett.
'Well, Hugh, a bloody day's business.'
'Aye, and it won't end well.' Corbett pursed his lips and looked down at the door of the church. Your tenants, he thought, want justice and blood.
'Are you going back to the manor, Hugh?'
'Perhaps in a while. The day is drawing on. I would like to see more of the countryside before darkness falls.'
Corbett excused himself and, accompanied by a taciturn Ranulf and Maltote, collected the horses idly grazing in a small paddock behind the priest's house. They rode back through the village. Corbett, going ahead, stared around at the white-washed, thatched cottages, each standing in its own little plot of land. A prosperous, thriving place, he thought. Nevertheless, he felt the heavy hand of violent death. The place was deserted. The women were indoors with their children, the men in the tavern opposite the village green with its now ice-covered pond.
Some of the villagers standing at the door caught sight of Corbett and shouted greetings. Corbett raised a gloved hand in reply. He saw Robert the reeve leave his house, a freshly painted, half-timbered building, and wondered about the reeve's newly found wealth. Further along was the baker's house, with its small, gaudily painted sign depicting three white manchet loaves on a silver platter. Corbett would have stopped, but the house was shuttered and closed, as if the young girl's death had reminded the baker of his own tragedy. Corbett rode on out of the village, taking the path towards the cliff edge.
The darkness was drawing in and the mist seethed above the angry waves sweeping in at low tide. The haunting cry of sea birds sounded above the low, moaning wind. Corbett sensed the desolation of the moors. He recalled legends of the place. Someone at Swaffham had called the wind the Dark Angel and told Corbett how this part of Norfolk had once been ruled by an ancient tribe which had rebelled against the Romans and drenched the land in blood. Corbett almost jumped as Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
'Master,' he began cautiously, glimpsing Corbett's close-set face. 'Maltote and I were wondering how long we are to stay here?'
Corbett smiled. 'How long is a piece of rope, Ranulf?'
Ranulf changed tack. 'The villagers have already made up their minds who killed that girl. Sir Simon is right – if Gilbert falls into their hands they will kill him.'
Corbett pulled on his reins and stared at Ranulf. 'Do you know Master Joseph?'
Ranulf scratched the stubble on his chin. 'I've been thinking about that. He certainly recognized me and I think I recognized him.'
'From where?'
'I don't know. I can't remember.'
'What do you make of the Pastoureaux?' Corbett asked.
'Cranks and tricksters.' Ranulf grinned. 'My old mother told me to beware of religion. It attracts few saints and many, many rogues.'
'You think the Pastoureaux are rogues?'
'I think we should talk to the young men and women of their community.'
Corbett nodded. 'When we have finished here, you and Maltote will take my compliments and condolences to Master Joseph. See if you can talk with the community.'
Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Master, I'm cold and I'm hungry!'
'Aye, and when you return there'll be a warm meal and a good bed and you and Maltote can play dice.' He held up an admonitory finger. 'But not with Sir Simon's servants.'
Ranulf blinked innocently at him.
'I mean that,' Corbett insisted. 'And you aren't to gull them into buying the medicines you try to sell whenever we come into the countryside, the strange concoctions and elixirs handed down to you from the ancient Egyptians.'
Ranulf swallowed hard and stared guiltily at Maltote. How did old Master Long Face know about his little leather bag and the remedies he was always ready to sell to the gullible?
'Now,' – Corbett urged his horse forward – 'let's look at the gallows.'
They rode along
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