The banquet at the Guildhall proved to be prestigious. Corbett and Ranulf, in their rather travel-stained clothes, felt out of place amongst the costly garbed burgesses and their wives. Sir Louis Tressilyian, in a cote-hardie of dark murrey, soft buskins on his feet, welcomed them at the top of the broad stairs. He escorted them into the main chamber. Corbett thought he was in a church, so many torches and candles had been lit. The windows were long, most of them filled with coloured glass. The table of honour was on a dais dominated by a gorgeous silver-cast salt cellar bearing the town’s arms. The royal charter, which had granted Melford its privileges, was in the centre of the room on a table covered with turkey cloth. The burgesses came up and were introduced: a dizzying array of names and faces. Corbett shook hands and, with Ranulf walking beside him, made his way to the table on the dais.
Sir Maurice arrived, dressed in a blue and gold gown over a white open-necked shirt. He introduced Alianor, Louis’s daughter, a small, pretty-faced young woman. She had blonde hair and light cornflower-blue eyes and was dressed exquisitely in a dark red gown and white wimple. She was much taken with Ranulf. Corbett had to stand on his companion’s toes, a harsh reminder that the young woman was almost betrothed to Sir Maurice. Ranulf whispered he would be on his best behaviour, except he intended to take some of the choicest pieces of food for Chanson: the groom, with the other servants, was left to his own devices below stairs.
Parson Grimstone and Burghesh also joined them on the dais. The priest intoned the grace, blessed the assembly and all took their seats. White wine and fish food were served first: lampreys in a special sauce; portions of tender carp with special relishes and spices. Toasts were made and speeches delivered. All emphasised the growing prosperity of Melford and how honoured they were by the presence of the King’s clerk. Sir Hugh sat bemused. This was such a contrast to the silence of the countryside or his own secluded chamber in the Golden Fleece.
Other dishes were served, to a blare of trumpets and shouts of approvaclass="underline" fried loach with roses and almonds; roast salmon in onion wine sauce; smoked pike; salad in pastry; pheasant in strawberry cream sauce. The hall shimmered with light as silver plates and trenchers, different cups and goblets were placed before the guests.
Corbett ate little and drank even less. He chose to ignore Ranulf’s stealthy theft of food as he listened to a plump burgess chatter like a magpie about the King’s taxes on wood and the need for better protection in the Narrow Seas. Corbett tried to appear so interested, his face ached. He would have liked to have excused himself but that would be insulting. So, he listened to the burgess but his mind wandered. He’d found the Book of the Dead a treasure house of information. He desperately needed to question Peterkin whilst he had been concerned by Ranulf’s failure to find Blidscote.
‘Do you think he’s safe?’ Ranulf had asked.
‘No I don’t,’ Corbett had replied as he’d finished his preparations before leaving for the Guildhall. ‘Like the poacher Furrell, Master Blidscote may never be seen again. .’
‘And the King’s war in Scotland, Sir Hugh?’ The burgess was now eager to prove himself an expert in military strategy. Corbett repressed a sigh; he listened to the good citizen’s carefully worded denunciation of the King’s war in the north, its disruption of trade and drain on the Exchequer.
Corbett was relieved when the burgess had to give up playing Hector as more dishes were served. The burgess was about to launch himself into a second sermon when Corbett heard the bell of St Edmund’s tolling; it echoed through the Guildhall, silencing the noise and chatter.
‘It’s the tocsin,’ the burgess murmured. ‘In God’s name, what’s happened now?’ He glared down the table at Parson Grimstone.
The good priest was already deep in his cups. He tried to stagger to his feet but Burghesh gently pulled him down.
‘I will go,’ he declared. ‘Something’s wrong at the church, but I am sure it’s nothing.’ And, dangling a set of keys, he hurried out.
His departure was followed by dark scowls and muttered conversations. Corbett repressed a smile. He had seen the same thing happen in many a prosperous town. The burgesses grew wealthy, they no longer were in awe of the priest or his church whilst Parson Grimstone was, perhaps, not the man they would have chosen to be their pastor. These wealthy burgesses would eventually build their own church, create a separate parish. They would lavishly adorn their new house of prayer, using it to emphasise their own power and dignity. Corbett grasped his wine cup and listened to the burgess’s ill-concealed attack on the King’s military ambitions.
‘He should capture Wallace, hang him and then negotiate. If there is peace in the north it will create new markets. .’
The bells of St Edmund’s tolled again, just for a short while. The assembled merchants simply grinned at each other. The festivities continued unabated, as did the warlike burgess, who now delivered a long speech against the Scottish rebels.
‘Aye.’ Ranulf stopped his thieving to intervene. ‘But catching the Scottish rebel is like trying to trap moonbeams in a jug. Everyone says it can be done but no one knows how to do it.’
Corbett winked at Ranulf in grateful appreciation. Ranulf continued his teasing for a while. Corbett was about to intervene when the door was flung open. Burghesh entered, shouldering the liveried servant aside.
‘Sir Hugh!’ he shouted. ‘You’d best come!’
Corbett made a sign for Ranulf to follow. Burghesh hurried up and whispered at Sir Louis to look after Parson Grimstone. He led the two clerks down the stairs, not saying anything until they were out in the cold night air.
‘It’s Curate Robert,’ he whispered. ‘He’s hanged himself.’
They hastened across the marketplace and through the dark entrance of the church. Burghesh grasped a spluttering sconce torch just inside the porch and led them into the bell tower. In the poor light the curate’s corpse, swaying slightly on the end of a bell rope, sent the shadows dancing.
‘I didn’t cut him down. I came in, lit the torch and. .’
Corbett ordered Ranulf to bring candles from the sanctuary. These were hurriedly lit to reveal the full garish scene. Curate Robert dressed in his gown and sandals, hung, hands down, neck twisted. His face was pallid, mouth open, tongue slightly out, eyes staring in a look of horror. Corbett went up the steps and pulled the swaying body towards him. The knot had been expertly tied behind the curate’s left ear.
Using his dagger, Corbett prised the knot loose. Ranulf and Burghesh took the corpse and laid it out on the cold flagstones outside the bell tower. Corbett grasped a torch and moved further up the steps. The tower was dark and freezing. He heard the squeak of rats, their scampering feet further up the darkness. He looked into a large window embrasure and, going back down, carefully examined the other three bell ropes. Each had a heavy weight tied to the bottom to keep it secure. The one Bellen had used had its weight removed. Corbett found this behind the door of the tower.
‘Master!’
Corbett went out. Ranulf handed him a piece of parchment.
‘This was up the cuff of his gown.’
Corbett undid the piece of crumpled parchment. ‘It’s a quotation from the Psalms,’ he remarked. ‘ “I have sinned and my sins are always before me.”
He went and knelt over the corpse, made the sign of the cross and said a quick prayer.