Read Online The Treason of the Ghosts by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online

from
beneath a leather awning.
    ‘What’s
that?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh,
it’s my work,’ Burghesh replied. ‘Sir Hugh, I may be a soldier but, in the wild
and wanton days of my youth, I became apprenticed to a stonemason. Indeed, I
signed my articles as a craftsman. Then the King’s wars came.’ He shrugged.
‘Fighting and drinking seemed more glorious than cutting stone. I do a lot of
work round here. I am building a new graveyard cross for Parson Grimstone.’
    ‘It’s
quite a busy place.’ The parson spoke up. ‘Perhaps not on a cold October day
but we have small markets and fairs as well as our ale-tasting ceremonies. It’s
a place where the parish like to meet.’
    Corbett
agreed absent-mindedly. He stared up at the soaring hill tower, its red slate
roof and pebble-dashed sides.
    ‘A
well-kept church, Parson Grimstone,’ he remarked.
    ‘ Aye, and my father loved it,’ Sir Maurice said. ‘It’s a
pity, Parson Grimstone.’ The young knight bit his lip.
    ‘What’s
a pity?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘My
father had a triptych specially done and placed in a side chapel.’
    ‘And
why is that a pity?’
    Parson
Grimstone sighed noisily. ‘The triptych was kept on a wall. After Sir Roger was
executed, someone took it down and burnt it, here in the graveyard.’ The parson
pushed his hands up his sleeves. ‘I’m freezing cold, Sir Hugh. Are you finished
here?’
    ‘For
the moment,’ the clerk murmured. ‘The lych-gate is on the far side, yes?’
    And,
not waiting for an answer, Corbett, lost in his own thoughts, walked away. He
stopped and turned.
    ‘I
thank you for coming. Sir Louis, I am sorry about the attack. You said it was
in Falmer Lane ,
the same place where poor Elizabeth was found? I wonder if we could ride back there? ’
    ‘I’ll
also come,’ Sir Maurice offered.
    Corbett
and Ranulf said goodbye to the rest and walked back to the lych-gate where Sir
Hugh’s groom, Chanson, shrouded in his cloak, held their horses. The groom’s
white face was a picture of misery, the sly cast in his eye even more
pronounced.
    ‘Sir
Hugh, I am freezing.’
    ‘You
should have sung,’ Ranulf teased. ‘That would have brought everybody hurrying
back.’ He patted the young groom on the shoulder. ‘The King’s
business.’ He added mockingly, ‘ We are all
freezing, Chanson.’
    ‘I
have given the horses a good rub down,’ Chanson muttered.
    Corbett
half listened. Chanson hated waiting almost as much as Corbett hated his
singing. Chanson wasn’t his real name. He’d joined Corbett’s service as
Baldock. Ranulf, as a joke, had rechristened him ‘Chanson’, a mockery of his
appalling voice. Ever since, the groom had insisted that Chanson would be his
new name and refused to answer to anything else. A fine groom with a talent for
talking to horses, Chanson was also a good knife-thrower, a skill he used to
win prizes at local fairs.
    ‘Can
we go back to the tavern, Master? My toes are frozen; my balls are freezing!’
    Corbett
gathered the reins and swung himself into the saddle. He watched whilst
Tressilyian, his hand on Sir Maurice’s shoulder, walked further down the lane
to collect their horses.
    ‘Ranulf,’
he ordered, ‘take Chanson and warm him up in some alehouse.’
    ‘And
then go snooping, Master?’
    Corbett
pulled the cowl over his head and narrowed his
    eyes .
    ‘Yes,
I want you to snoop. Find out as much as you can.’
    He
lifted his head and watched the others leave the church, Blidscote, the fat
bailiff; the two priests and Burghesh.
    ‘What
are you thinking, Master?’
    ‘I
don’t know, Ranulf. The pot’s beginning to bubble. Perhaps this is a beautiful
place on a summer’s day but now...?’
    A
sound behind him made him turn. An old woman was coming up the lane, resting
heavily on a stick. She approached, back bowed, head down. Corbett thought she
was about to pass them but she stopped and stared up, pushing away wisps of
dirty grey hair from her wizened face. She munched on