‘But she was killed out in the open countryside,’ Ranulf insisted. ‘Down near Brackham Mere.’
‘I have told you what I know, sir,’ Samler retorted. ‘One afternoon she was sent on an errand to the marketplace and never returned.’
‘Will you catch him, sir?’ Isabella Samler called out.
‘Oh, we’ll catch him,’ Ranulf replied. ‘My master is like a hawk: sharp-eyed and swift. He’ll float above Melford and, no matter where the killer hides, be it the thickest bramble bush or the longest grass — ’ Ranulf got to his feet gesturing with his hand. Isabella watched him — ‘he’ll swoop, wings back, talons out, and he’ll clutch your sister’s killer in his tight claws.’
‘You are only saying that.’
‘No, Mistress, I am promising it.’
Ranulf undid his purse and put a silver coin on the table. The thatcher made to refuse.
‘No, no, take it,’ Ranulf urged. He patted Chanson on the shoulder. ‘For you, your family.’
He walked to the door, gathered up his cloak and sword belt, then looked round. Ranulf felt a tug at his heart. They looked now like a group of rabbits fascinated by a stoat.
‘I mean you well, I really do. But you have nothing to say, eh? Nothing more to tell me about Johanna’s death?’ He glanced quickly at Isabella.
‘She was a comely lass.’ The thatcher’s wife spoke up.
Ranulf put his hand on the latch and turned. ‘And she had no love swain?’
‘No,’ Isabella answered quickly. ‘Only those she laughed about.’
‘And a secret place?’ Ranulf urged. ‘Everyone has a secret place.’
‘The same as Elizabeth Wheelwright’s,’ Isabella blurted out. ‘They used to visit the copse on the hill overlooking Devil’s Oak. It’s not really secret.’
‘Could you show me the way?’
‘It’s dark,’ Samler replied.
‘No, no,’ Ranulf smiled. ‘I meant if Isabella could show us the lane back to the Golden Fleece.’
Samler’s daughter needed no second urging but grabbed her cloak from a peg on the wall. Ranulf made his good nights, as did Chanson, his mouth still full of food. They collected their horses. The lane was dark and muddy. Isabella walked ahead of them.
‘Just keep going straight on,’ she explained when they reached the end of the lane. She pointed to an alleyway. ‘That leads to the market square.’
Ranulf indicated that Chanson walk on.
‘You’d best go back then.’
Isabella watched Chanson lead the horses away. She drew closer and stared up at this strange, green-eyed clerk. Isabella Samler had lived a sheltered life. She’d never met a man like this before: tall, slim, smelling of horse, leather and fragrant soap. His white chemise was undone at the neck, allowing the glint of a silver chain, his sword-tip slapped against his boot. She felt frightened yet excited. He was dangerous. If his master was a hawk then so was he.
‘Will you really catch him?’
Ranulf chucked her under the chin. ‘If you tell me what you should, then it will be sooner rather than later.’
Isabella, in a mixture of fear and flirtation, moved a little closer.
‘Did your sister confide in you? Do you know why she went, whom she was meeting?’
‘We often lay awake in our bed loft. We’d frighten ourselves with stories about night-walkers.’
‘But there are no night-walkers in Melford, are there?’
Isabella swayed slightly side to side as if she was enjoying her riddle.
‘You’d be very surprised what walks the streets and lanes of Melford at night. Talk to Parson Grimstone. There’s more sin here, under the cover of darkness, than in your great city.’
Ranulf took a silver coin out of his purse and held it firmly between his fingers.
‘I gave one to your father but your sister had one, didn’t she? Is that why she left? Went out into the countryside? No, no,’ Ranulf smiled. He stroked her cheek with a gloved finger. ‘Johanna was a good girl but there’s not much money, is there? And the tinkers and the chapmen sell such pretty things: a ribbon, a brooch, a bracelet, perhaps a necklace of stones, all polished bright? So, are you going to tell me?’
Isabella looked at the coin and licked her lips.
‘My sister had no such coin.’
‘Then whom did she meet?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps an admirer, perhaps the Mummer’s Man.’
‘Mummer’s Man?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It’s someone I’ve heard of.’
‘You’re telling tales?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Isabella stared at the coin. ‘I met a travelling girl once. She claimed to have seen a Mummer’s Man. He had a mask over his face and his horse moved like a ghost along the lanes outside Melford.’
Ranulf recalled the lonely country trackways they had ridden along on their way to Melford. He felt a prick of fear at this hideous vision of a masked man riding a silent horse.
‘I tell you, sir,’ she clutched the front of Ranulf’s jerkin, ‘that’s all I know.’
‘Nothing else? This travelling girl?’
‘It was dusk. She couldn’t see much. I didn’t think much of her tale till after my sister’s death. I daren’t tell anyone; I was frightened of getting into trouble.’
Ranulf pressed the coin into her hands. ‘Then you’d best get back.’
She took the coin.
Ranulf grasped her wrist. ‘Don’t go out in the country lanes, and be careful of the Mummer’s Man!’
He released her and she ran off into the darkness.
‘What was all that about?’ Chanson came back leading the horses. ‘Ranulf, I’m tired and I’m cold. Despite what Samler gave us, my belly thinks my throat’s slit. My mouth is so dry it’s forgotten how to drink. Where’s Sir Hugh?’
‘Oh, old Master Long Face.’ Ranulf took the reins of his horse. ‘He’ll be riding round the dark lanes, high in the saddle, cowl pulled across his head. He’ll be thinking. He broods a lot, does Sir Hugh, turning things over and over in his mind like a water mill. Oh, he’ll come back and he’ll sit in his chamber staring out of the window, moody and quiet.’
‘Is he safe?’ Chanson asked. ‘I mean, the Lady Maeve told him to be careful.’
‘He was attacked in Oxford,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Took an arrow high in the chest but the King’s physicians healed him.’
‘Does he love the Lady Maeve? Is that what he is thinking about?’
They reached the end of the alleyway. Ranulf stared across at the poor unfortunate clasped in the stocks. The marketplace was empty, the rubbish had been cleared. Only the occasional flitting shadows: people walking towards the light of the Golden Fleece. Now and again a door slammed, the cry of a child, a dog yapping in its kennels, all the sounds of the night.
‘Sir Hugh is a man of great order,’ Ranulf declared. ‘You serve me, Chanson. Serve me well and, one day, you may become a clerk like I am.’
Chanson quietened the horse, stroking its muzzle.
‘Could I really become a clerk, Master Ranulf?’
‘Oh yes, there are clerks of the stables, powerful men they are, in charge of the King’s horses. Anyway, I am describing to you the way things are ordered. I am a clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, next up the rung is Baby Edward and Sir Hugh Corbett’s daughter, Eleanor.’
‘And after that?’ Chanson asked. ‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, then the King, then God.’ He grinned at Chanson. ‘And, right at the top, the Lady Maeve.’
Chanson looked narrow-eyed but the smile had gone from Ranulf’s lean face. In truth, the groom knew he wasn’t joking. Ranulf was frightened of no one, Chanson deeply admired him for that. A true bullyboy, Ranulf would swagger into a tavern, the girls would smile and Ranulf would take out his loaded dice and invite all comers. He was quick as a cat, slightly mocking of Sir Hugh. Ranulf, however, stood in dreadful awe of the Lady Maeve even though she was only small and her golden hair framed a face which reminded Chanson of a painting of an angel in the ancient church. Once in his cups Ranulf had confessed how Lady Maeve’s eyes frightened him.
‘Light blue they are,’ he’d slurred. ‘Quick and sharp, they miss nothing. Have you ever heard the phrase, “steel in velvet”?’ Ranulf had leant back. ‘That’s our Lady Maeve. I even think old Master Long Face is secretly frightened of her.’