‘You know what I mean,’ Sorrel continued evenly. ‘The night Widow Walmer was murdered. My man Furrell told me what he saw.’
Repton made a rude sound with his lips. ‘I am not bandying words with you,’ he sneered, and he swaggered away.
Sorrel opened the sack, looked inside and grinned. Three fat pheasants: she’d trapped each of them, slit their throats and hung them up for a day. The taverner Matthew Alliot, mine host of the Golden Fleece, would pay good silver for these.
‘Here they come!’ a man cried.
Sorrel clambered to her feet. Three horsemen had entered the marketplace just as the church bell tolled for the mid-morning Angelus. At first sight they didn’t look like royal emissaries: no trumpeter, no herald, just men slouched in the saddle, dark cloaks hitched about their shoulders, cowls pulled over their heads, almost hiding their faces. Sorrel grasped the sack, and pushed and shoved her way through the crowd and past the stalls. By the time she had reached the entrance to the Golden Fleece, the three arrivals had dismounted, and their horses were being led off by an ostler. Like men who had travelled far, they were now loosening their cloaks, stretching to ease the cramp in the small of their backs, thighs and legs. One of them was clearly a groom, smaller than his two companions, dressed in a leather jacket like a soldier; a homely face despite the cast in one eye. The tall, red-haired man with the lithe figure of a street fighter must be Ranulf-atte-Newgate.
Sorrel smiled as she shifted her gaze to Sir Hugh Corbett. Just as tall as his red-haired companion, Corbett was dark-faced, his black hair, streaked with grey, tied at the back. His clothes were of good quality: the jerkin, a white shirt underneath, and hose of dyed blue wool; his high-heeled boots were the best Spanish leather. Corbett carried his cloak over one arm and was busily undoing his sword belt. He was looking up at the Golden Fleece as if memorising every detail before turning to glance across the marketplace. Sorrel liked to compare men to animals or birds. Yes, she thought, you are a greyhound, dark and swift like an arrow, a hunter of souls. Or a falcon? Yes, a bird of prey which soared high, gliding and moving, its eyes always watchful before the killing swoop. Sorrel felt a thrill of pleasure. This man would pursue matters to the bitter end. He was no pompous royal official, dressed in a gaily coloured tabard, proclaiming his every step to the tune of tambour and trumpet. A stealthy man, Sorrel concluded, who would come like a thief in the night and few would know the day or the hour.
Sorrel watched as the arrivals swept into the Golden Fleece, then followed close behind. She was disappointed. She had expected to find the visitors in the taproom but all three had disappeared. Taverner Matthew must have taken them up to their chambers immediately.
Sorrel moved across, past the tables and stools, to a small window seat. A chapman, sitting at a nearby table, was feeding morsels to his pet ferret. Sorrel interrupted this; the ferret, nose twitching, jumped down from the table and sped across to the sack. The man pulled at the string, then yelped as a rat sped out from beneath the wainscoting and scuttled across to the rear door, the ferret in pursuit. For a while chaos and confusion reigned. The tinker jumped to his feet and threatened Sorrel with his fist. She banged the table with her cudgel until he backed off.
‘Well, well, well!’ Adela, the saucy-eyed tavern wench, came sauntering over, her luxurious hair piled back. Her smock was deliberately too tight for her fulsome figure, the top laces of her bodice carelessly undone. ‘Have you come to see the taverner?’ She tapped the sack with her sandalled foot. ‘He and Blidscote are upstairs with the high and mighty ones.’ Adela wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her wrist. ‘Come to seek out poachers they have, Sorrel. .’
‘Is that correct, Adela?’ came the cool reply. ‘Then I’ll tell them what I’ve seen down at Hamden Mere. .’
Adela’s face coloured and she sauntered off, hips swaying.
A short while later the taverner came downstairs, shouting at the potboys to take refreshment to his guests. Sorrel leant back and closed her eyes. The tinker had now regained his ferret and moved to a different table. This corner of the taproom was quiet. Sorrel relished the breeze coming in from the herb garden; the smells from the buttery were especially fragrant. What was the taverner cooking? Roasted capons, fat and succulent, venison, tender and juicy to the bite, and simmering in an onion sauce? She heard a sound and opened her eyes. Taverner Matthew stood over her, a frothing tankard in one hand, a platter of bread and meat in the other. He put these down on the table and allowed two silver coins to slip beneath the platter.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘Three pheasants,’ Sorrel replied. ‘And I’ll bring two free, next time, if you allow me upstairs to see the royal clerk?’
The taverner sighed and sat down on a stool.
‘I would if I could, Sorrel,’ he replied kindly, ‘but they are tired and busy. They say they have to wash, change and break their fasts. Corbett is already sending out messages: there’s to be a meeting up at the church.’
‘What will he do, this Hugh Corbett?’ Sorrel asked. ‘Find the truth, master taverner?’
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t speak much; the red-haired one is his mouthpiece. Corbett’s courteous but a man of few words. The first thing he asked me was to describe what happened the night Widow Walmer was killed and what I knew about the other murders.’ He blew his lips out. ‘What can I tell him? Adela knew young Elizabeth, and the night Widow Walmer’s corpse was found, men from the tavern hurried to her cottage.’
‘And Molkyn and Thorkle?’
‘Now, there’s a mystery.’ The taverner wiped his hands on his blood-stained apron.
‘Both were on the jury, master taverner.’
‘Yes, so they were. Others are now frightened. I’ve even heard whispers that Sir Roger was innocent.’
‘Of course he was,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘My man said he was.’
The taverner tapped her gently on the hand and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I’ve heard that song before, Sorrel. I’ve got business to do.’
He returned to the kitchen and Sorrel greedily drank from the tankard. A potboy came over and, without a word, took the sack. Sorrel drained the tankard and stared across the taproom. Should she try to see the clerk? She shook her head and sighed. No, it would be best if she met him on her own ground. Anyway, she had things to show him, the Moon People to meet. She fought back the tears. Surely he would help her find poor Furrell? Perhaps prove that he’d told the truth and might even have been believed, if the others. .? Sorrel stared up at the smoke-blackened beam from which flitches of ham and bacon hung to be cured. She would love to show Corbett the bones, the strange things she had seen in her wanderings, such as that eerie Mummer’s Man with his grotesque devil’s mask and silent horse. But would he believe her? They had laughed at Furrell. And why? Because of the likes of Deverell the carpenter.
Sorrel pocketed the coins and grasped her stick. She noticed the chapman had left his cloak in the corner and recalled his curses. She surreptitiously picked the cloak up, and left by the rear door. She stopped to smell the herbs, relishing the tangy scents of the mint and thyme. She went out through the lych-gate, back into the high street and along to the alleyways which led down to Deverell the carpenter’s workshop at the back of his house. The gate was closed so she knocked with her stick.
‘Who is it?’ a voice called.
So, you are frightened, Sorrel thought, detecting a note of tension.
‘I have news, Master Deverell. It’s Sorrel!’