Blidscote was about to tie the bag tight when a woman’s voice, strong and clear, called out, ‘You have no authority to do that!’
Blidscote turned, the bag still clutched in his greasy fingers. He recognised that voice and narrowed his close-set eyes.
‘Ah, it’s you, Sorrel.’
He glared at the strong, ruddy-faced, middle-aged woman who had shouldered her way to the front of the crowd. She was dressed in stained brown and green, a sack in one hand, a heavy cudgel in the other.
‘You have no right to interfere in the town’s justice,’ Blidscote said severely. ‘Punishments are for me to mete out. And what do you have in that sack?’ he added accusingly.
‘A lot more than you have in your crotch!’ the woman retorted, drawing shouts of laughter from the crowd.
Blidscote dropped the bag and climbed down from the stand.
‘What do you have in the sack, woman? Been poaching again, have you?’
Sorrel threw back her cloak and lifted the cudgel warningly.
‘Don’t touch me, Blidscote,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘You have no authority over me. I don’t live in this town and I’ve done no wrong. Touch me and I’ll cry assault!’
Blidscote stepped back. He was wary of this woman, the common-law widow of Furrell the poacher.
‘Been busy, have you?’ he added spitefully. ‘Still wandering the woods and fields, looking for your husband? He had more sense than to stay with a harridan like you! He’s over the hills and miles away!’
‘Don’t you talk of my man!’ Sorrel snapped. ‘My man Furrell is dead! One of these days I’ll find his corpse. If you were a good bailiff you’d help me. But you are not, are you, Walter Blidscote? So keep your paws off me!’
Blidscote made a rude gesture with the middle finger of one hand. He went to pick up the bag of turds.
‘And leave poor Peddlicott alone,’ Sorrel warned. ‘The punishment said nothing about such humiliation. Loosen the stocks a little.’
She pointed at Peddlicott’s face, now a puce red. The bailiff was about to ignore her.
‘It’s true!’ someone shouted, now sorry for the pickpocket’s pain. ‘No mention was made, master bailiff, of dog turds and, if he dies, when a King’s clerk is in the town. .’
Blidscote searched the crowd carefully. He recognised that voice. Master Adam Burghesh, a former soldier, companion to Parson Grimstone, shouldered his way to the front.
‘Why, Master Burghesh.’ Blidscote became more cringing.
‘Mistress Sorrel is right,’ Burghesh added. ‘There’s no need for such humiliation.’
Others began to voice their support. Blidscote kicked the bag of ordure away. He climbed back on the stand and loosened the clamp round Peddlicott’s neck and wrists. Burghesh had a few words with Mistress Sorrel; the crowd, their interest now dulled, drifted away.
‘Just one moment!’ Blidscote called out.
Sorrel turned. Blidscote climbed down and thrust his face close to hers. She flinched at the stale beer on his breath.
‘One of these days, Mistress, I’ll catch you at your poaching. I’ll put you in the stocks and tighten the clamps very hard around that coarse neck of yours.’
‘And one day,’ Sorrel taunted, ‘you may catch moonbeams in a jar and sell them in Melford, Master Blidscote. Why not join me in the countryside?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you’ll come down to Beauchamp Place. I’ll tell you about what I see as I roam the fields, woods and lonely copses. It’s wonderful what Furrell and I learnt over the years. Do you like going out to the countryside, Master Blidscote? Chasing young tinker boys?’
Blidscote visibly paled and stepped back.
‘I. . I don’t know what you are. .’
‘I do,’ she smiled and, not waiting for an answer, pushed a path through the crowd. She shooed away the apprentices who tried to catch her by the cuff, with their shouts of, ‘What do you lack, Mistress? What do you lack?’
Sorrel reached the market cross and sat on the high step, the sack between her feet. Most people knew Sorrel and her past. How her man had tried to help the convicted Sir Roger Chapeleys, only to disappear some years ago. Sorrel had become a common sight, roaming the countryside around the town. If anyone ever stopped and questioned her, they received the same reply: ‘I’m looking for my poor husband’s corpse.’
For some strange reason Sorrel truly believed Furrell had been murdered and his mangled remains buried secretly without a blessing or a prayer. She was a sturdy woman and, despite the disappearance of the occasional rabbit or pheasant, honest in her own way. People, apart from the likes of Blidscote, left her alone.
Sorrel hid her excitement, her heart beating fast, her throat constricted. This was her day of salvation. This was the day she had prayed for before that little battered statue of the Virgin Mary which she kept in her chamber in the ruins of Beauchamp Place. Justice would be done, the King’s authority would be felt. This Sir Hugh Corbett would help resolve the mystery and find her husband’s corpse. In her wanderings Sorrel encountered tinkers and travelling chapmen, the Moon People, all the travellers of the road. She’d met some who knew about this royal clerk.
‘Like a greyhound he is,’ one reported. ‘Black and lean. He hunts down the King’s quarry. He can’t be bought or sold.’
Sorrel had longed for this moment. She wanted to catch the eye of the royal clerk, perhaps seek an audience. She glanced towards the entrance of the Golden Fleece. No sign yet. On the corner of a nearby alleyway she glimpsed the shuffling figure of Old Mother Crauford, grasping the arm of Peterkin the simpleton. A strange pair, Sorrel reflected. Old Mother Crauford was as old as the hills and, like any aged one, a true Jeremiah, full of the woes and wickedness of her time. On many occasions Sorrel had tried to draw her into conversation, especially about Furrell. Old Mother Crauford would hint at things, macabre memories, how Melford was always a place of murder, but she wouldn’t elaborate any further. Instead she became tight-lipped, sly-eyed and would shuffle away.
Sorrel couldn’t blame her for her reticence. The young ones of the town whispered how the old hag was a witch. Is that why she kept Peterkin close to her? For protection? Or just companionship? Sorrel wondered if they were blood kin. She studied the pair carefully. Old Mother Crauford was berating Peterkin, wagging her bony finger in his face. Was she still annoyed at how the simpleton had interrupted Sunday Mass? Or was it something else? She noticed the old woman had taken something from Peterkin’s hands. The young man’s cheeks were bulging. Sorrel smiled. Sweetmeats! Her smile faded. It jogged a memory. She had seen Peterkin feeding his face on many occasions. Once, out in the countryside, she had come across the simpleton carrying a small box of oranges, a rare fruit which cost a great deal. She’d wondered then, and still did, how Peterkin could afford such a luxury. In fact, he hadn’t been so stupid then but sharp-eyed and very defensive. He’d clutched the box and scampered away. How could a witless wonder like him earn silver? True, Melford was growing prosperous and Peterkin was used, especially by the young gallants and swains, to carry messages to their loved ones.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sorrel glimpsed a man sneaking up the steps of the cross, his hand snaking out to grasp her sack. She quickly brought the cudgel down and slapped his fingers. Repton the reeve, his sour face suffused in anger, backed away.
‘Don’t touch what’s not yours!’ Sorrel declared.
‘I heard about your words with the bailiff,’ Repton sneered, nursing his fingertips. ‘Stealing again, Sorrel?’
‘No, I haven’t been stealing. I am an honest woman, Master Repton. I tell the truth, on oath or not!’
The sneer faded from Repton’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
He glanced quickly to the left and right. The reeve now regretted his action. He had drunk two quarts of ale at the Golden Fleece and knew Adela the serving wench was watching him from a casement window. He had seen the ‘poacher’s wench’, as he called Sorrel, climb the steps to the market cross and loudly boasted he’d find out what she carried in her sack. Now his fingers burnt and the ale had turned sour at the back of his throat.