Read Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts for Free Online

of Melford think of you? A master craftsman! Perhaps one day they will elect you to the council or allow you to carry one of their stupid banners in their processions. It’s a small price to pay.’
    ‘I’ll do it,’ Deverell agreed.
    ‘Good! Come, come, man,’ the voice continued. ‘Who can recall where you were five years ago on a certain night? That’s the attraction of a man like you, Deverell! You keep yourself to yourself, well away from the taproom of the Golden Fleece. You could be on the other side of the moon and no one would know.’
    Deverell felt a spurt of anger. ‘How do you know about me?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, it’s obvious, carpenter: the way you walk, the way you talk. A man who keeps to himself. You have a lot to hide.’
    ‘Who are you?’ Deverell snarled.
    He would have got to his feet but the self-proclaimed friar took a step back and his hands fell from his sleeves. Deverell glimpsed a long dagger.
    ‘Don’t lose your temper,’ the visitor warned. ‘That would be no use, my brother. Silence is your best protection. Now, I have your word on that? The same story as before?’
    ‘You have my word.’
    ‘Good.’ The friar pointed to the gate. ‘Go and draw the bolts and I’ll be gone.’
    The carpenter obeyed. He swung the gate open and returned to the workshop.
    ‘Go into your house, then come and bolt the gate behind me.’
    Deverell obeyed. He stepped into a small storeroom which adjoined the buttery. He heard his gate creak and went back. The workshop was deserted and so was the yard. He hurried to the gate and stepped into the alleyway but it was busy, thronged with people. Deverell searched but he could see no friar and, thanks be to God, no Sorrel either.
    Deverell stepped back into the yard. He bolted the gate and leant against it. His body was coated with sweat. He found his legs wouldn’t stop trembling. He slid down to the cobbles, arms across his chest, trying to control his panic. He closed his eyes. All he could see was Sir Roger Chapeleys standing in the execution cart, being taken down from the church, along the rutted track towards the gibbet.
    ‘ O miserere nobis Jesus ,’ he whispered.
    When he opened his eyes, Deverell noticed the cut on his hand had stopped bleeding. He spread his fingers out like a priest giving a blessing.
    ‘ Pax vobiscum ,’ he whispered to the ghosts of his former life thronging about him. ‘Peace be with you.’
    Deverell got to his feet and, still shaking, returned to his house. He entered the clean, scrubbed kitchen and, grabbing a cup, broached the small barrel of Bordeaux a grateful customer had given him. He filled the cup to its brim and sat at the kitchen table, drinking greedily. He hadn’t witnessed Sir Roger’s execution but others had described his death throes, how the body had jerked and dangled at the end of the rope. Why? Deverell asked himself. Why was it so necessary for that man to die? He heard a rattle on the front door. He drained the cup, hid it beneath a cloth and went along the passageway. He peered through the squint hole. Ysabeau, his wife, stared bold-eyed back.
    ‘For the love of God and all his angels!’ she exclaimed. ‘Deverell, this is my house. Open the door!’
    He turned the key in the lock and pulled back the bolts. His wife came in. He took her basket from her and put it on the floor.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ She peered at him. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’
    ‘It’s the coffin,’ he lied. ‘The one I made for the young girl, the wheelwright’s daughter. It still upsets me.’
    ‘Well, her soul’s gone to her Maker,’ his wife replied. ‘And you’ve heard the news?’ she continued. ‘The clerk’s arrived!’
    ‘Aye, I know he has,’ Deverell almost shouted. ‘He’ll be asking his bloody questions!’
    ‘Hush, man,’ his wife soothed. ‘Everyone knows you told the truth.’
    ‘What’s he doing?’ Deverell asked.
    ‘I’ve heard from Adela, the clerk has