Ranulf began to walk his horse across the cobbles.
‘And are you in love, Master Ranulf? I heard mention of a Lady Alicia. .?’
Ranulf turned swift as a striking snake, lips curled in a snarl. Chanson jumped so much even his horse was startled, throwing up its head.
‘Hush now! Hush now!’ Chanson soothed it but kept a wary eye on Ranulf, still glaring at him. ‘I am sorry. .’ Chanson muttered.
Ranulf relaxed. ‘Ah, it’s not your fault.’ He beckoned Chanson forward and put an arm round his shoulder. ‘I tell you this: I loved her and she left me. Gone to a nunnery, she has. Perhaps I’ll join her.’
Chanson stared open-mouthed. ‘I can’t imagine you in a wimple.’
Ranulf snorted with laughter and withdrew his arm.
‘No, no, Chanson, not a nunnery but into the Church. I’ve often thought of that. Can you imagine Archdeacon Ranulf, perhaps even Bishop Ranulf of Norwich?’
Chanson, who had seen these powerful prelates, repressed a smile. Ranulf-atte-Newgate, in gorgeous, flowing robes, wearing a mitre and carrying a crosier, processing slowly up the aisle of Westminster Abbey!
‘What was that girl talking to you about?’ he asked, changing the conversation.
They stopped at the trough to allow their horses to drink. Ranulf looked up at the sky, then once more at the smart front of the market square, its timbered buildings, lanterns and gleaming paintwork.
‘Old Master Long Face will want to know what we’ve been doing. So, what do we have here, Chanson? A fat, prosperous town, where everybody makes a good profit. Lords of the soil, like Sir Maurice and Tressilyian the justice. Merchants, farmers, millers, well-fed priests. Look at Master Samler: a thatcher who does a good trade. He’s not prosperous but, in a few years, he’ll be sending his sons to the schools in Ipswich.’ Ranulf paused. ‘During the day the markets are busy, trade is good. Silver and gold change hands, but where there’s wealth, corruption, rich and stinking, also flourishes. People have more time on their hands. A man lusts after his neighbour’s wife. Secret sins begin to fester like weeds amongst the corn. Rivalries break out, grudges are nursed. All strange sights and sounds appear.’
‘What do you mean?’ Chanson queried.
‘Take Samler’s family. Notice the girls, young, plump and well fed. Time is on their hands, not like things used to be when an entire family worked from morning to dusk. They filled their bellies on watery ale and crusts of bread and slept like hogs until the dawn. All has changed. Now, into this little paradise steps a demon, a man who likes to rape and kill.’
‘Are there such men?’ Chanson looked totally bemused. He was terrified of women and would bask in the smile of the ugliest, greasiest slattern.
‘Go into London, Chanson, talk to the ladies of the night in Southwark. They’ll tell you about men who like to beat and hurt them, sometimes quite badly, before they can take them.’
‘You mean like a stallion has to be quickened before he can mount a mare?’
‘I couldn’t put it better myself,’ Ranulf said drily. ‘That’s what our killer is. Melford’s an ideal place for him: no walls or gates; there must be at least twenty or thirty lanes leading out to the countryside which surrounds the town with lonely meadows, woods and copses. It’s so easy,’ Ranulf continued, ‘for the killer to slip in and out.’
‘Even on horseback?’
‘You work with horses,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Tell me, Chanson, what if I wanted to dull the sound of my horse’s hoofs?’
‘Sacking or straw,’ the groom replied. He bent down and lifted his horse’s foreleg. ‘You can’t take off the shoe — that will hurt the animal, make it lame. However, if you took small sacks, filled them with hay or grass, then tied them over the hoofs like buskins, it would be fairly quiet. Why, has the girl seen someone?’
‘What she called the Mummer’s Man, masked, riding a horse.’
‘That would be easy enough,’ Chanson confirmed. He climbed into the saddle and gathered the reins. ‘If I put sacking on my horse’s hoofs, I could ride this horse across the cobbles and you wouldn’t know I was there.’
Ranulf grinned up at him. ‘But pretend I’m a comely maid. If I met you, Chanson, riding along a lane, wearing a mask, I’d run, flee for my life.’
The groom pulled a face and eased himself out of the saddle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘In fact,’ Ranulf quipped, ‘mask or not, any country wench would take one look at you and flee for her life.’
‘I can’t help my eye.’ Chanson coloured. ‘It’s the way I was born!’
‘I was only joking.’ Ranulf patted him on the shoulder. ‘But think, Chanson. You’re the horseman. I’ll tell you what.’ Ranulf pointed across to the Golden Fleece. ‘You solve the riddle and I’ll buy you the juiciest pie and a tankard which froths and glitters as if it is full of angel mead.’
Chanson wetted his lips. ‘You’ll keep your word?’
Ranulf lifted his left hand. ‘As your horse has a tail.’
Chanson climbed back into the saddle, gathered the reins and stared hungrily around. Then, digging his heels in gently, he rode to where Peddlicott the pickpocket dozed quietly in the stocks. The groom dismounted, took the water bottle off the horn of his saddle and held it to the grateful man’s lips.
‘Listen,’ he said, opening his wallet. He took out a piece of dried meat and gave it to the astonished pickpocket to gnaw on. ‘Give me the name of a tavern wench.’ He gestured at the Golden Fleece.
‘Try Matthew’s daughter, Adela. She’s buxom enough.’
Chanson thanked him, left his horse and walked back to Ranulf.
‘So, you say I am ugly, Master Ranulf?’
‘Well, not in so many words,’ Ranulf laughed, ‘but I’ve seen prettier gargoyles.’
‘A tankard, a pie and a silver piece,’ Chanson threatened.
‘For what?’
‘That I can bring a comely wench out from the tavern.’
‘But they already know you,’ Ranulf retorted.
‘No, they don’t. They have seen only you, Lord High-and-Mighty, and Sir Hugh Corbett.’
‘Wager accepted.’
‘On second thoughts,’ Chanson came back, ‘two silver pieces.’
Ranulf shrugged in agreement. Chanson, full of righteous anger, disappeared through the doorway of the Golden Fleece. Ranulf, ignoring Peddlicott’s cry for more salty bacon and a dish of water, stood bemused. Chanson knew everything about horses but his fear of the fairer sex made him quite hopeless with women and they were as frightened of him.
‘I know what he’s going to do,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘He’s going to sing. They’ll hear a few notes and that tavern will empty as if the rushes have caught alight.’
He was about to walk across and have words with Peddlicott when, to his amazement, the tavern door swung open: out sauntered Chanson holding a young, red-haired woman by the hand. They walked across the cobbles like a love swain and his doxy. The girl had a pretty, cheeky face, snub nose and an insolent mouth. She looked at Ranulf from head to toe.
‘Well, yes, I know you. What’s this?’ She let go of Chanson’s hand and rubbed her arms. ‘It’s cold, I’ve got jobs to do. You promised me a piece of silver.’
Ranulf looked at Chanson’s triumphant smile, sighed, opened his wallet and handed across a piece. The wench grabbed it, giggled and fled back to the tavern.
‘And the other piece?’ Chanson demanded. ‘I’m also tired of standing here.’
Ranulf reluctantly tossed it across.
‘You should thank yourself,’ Chanson smiled. ‘Remember what you told me about the girl Johanna? No country wench can resist a piece of silver.’
‘What did you do?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘I went into the tavern and called Adela. She sauntered over, pert as a robin. “You’re Adela?” I asked. “Why?” she replied. “There’s someone out there who wants to give you a silver piece.” ’ Chanson shrugged. ‘She almost pushed me out of the door.’