New Blood From Old Bones (10 page)

‘And how does the Queen reply to the King's argument that their marriage was invalid?' he asked.

‘Her Grace's defence never wavers. She told the tribunal, on oath, that she never had conjugal relations with Prince Arthur, and that she was a virgin at the time of her marriage to King Henry. She challenged the King to deny that, but he would not answer.'

‘No, for he knows it to be true, as I and many others have always believed. I recall,' said Justice Throssell, ‘that I was a young lawyer at Westminster at the time of the marriage of Prince Arthur, the Prince of Wales, to the Princess Katherine of Aragon. I saw them both.

‘The bride was just sixteen years old, small for her age, but of a pleasing appearance. We had all expected her to be dark, being Spanish, and her fairness surprised us – but then, she has English Plantagenet blood in her veins. Prince Arthur was a year younger, and half a head shorter still – he was puny, a child in appearance. He had always been frail and sickly, quite unlike his younger brother Prince Henry. No one who saw them, as I did, ever believed that their marriage had been consummated. There was sadness, but no surprise, when Arthur died not five months later.'

‘And that,' said Will ‘was, what, nearly thirty year ago? I heard tell of it when I was in London last year, at the time of the tribunal. Courtiers who had been in attendance on the night of that marriage gave evidence at the tribunal on behalf of the King. They tried to prove that Katherine could not have been a virgin when she married King Henry.

‘One of them swore that Prince Arthur had called from the marriage bed for ale, early next morning, saying he was dry for he had been in the midst of Spain that night. But if the prince did indeed say so, was it any more than the boast of a weakling boy? I think the King's conscience need no more trouble him on that account than it has done these twenty years past.'

‘My opinion chimes with yours, Will,' agreed his godfather. ‘The King may cite his conscience as reason for divorce, but here's the truth on't: he is a lusty gentleman, and the Queen – his elder by six years – is now past child-bearing. To get a male heir he must needs marry a younger woman, and he's already made his choice.'

The old gentleman paused, shaking his head with regret. ‘That it should be Nan Bullen' – he pronounced the name Boleyn in the Norfolk way – ‘a girl born at Blickling in this county, who has betrayed her mistress the Queen and thrust herself into his favour … But there' – he shook his head again – ‘she had example from her elder sister Mary, who was the King's whore before her.'

‘True,' said Will. ‘But there's a difference. The King merely dallied with Mary Boleyn, as he did earlier with Bessie Blount who bore his bastard son, Henry Fitzroy. He's deeply enamoured of Anne Boleyn, and has been so these four years.'

‘I heard it said that she did not let him have his way with her,' conceded Lawrence Throssell somewhat grudgingly. ‘She could not do so, and keep his favour, unless he loved her. But does she hold him off still?'

Will laughed. ‘I am not in her confidence, godfather, nor that of King Henry! It's rumoured that she allows him many liberties – but it would be a rash man who enquired more closely. Anne Boleyn is a clever young woman, bold and strong-willed, and she intends to be Queen. She behaves so at court already, and is kissed openly by the King despite Queen Katherine's presence.'

Justice Throssell exclaimed his disapproval at some length. ‘She must be a great beauty, to captivate him in this way,' he concluded.

‘Not so,' said Will. ‘Her mouth is too large and her eyes are too black, for she's as dark-hued as our Spanish Queen is fair. And yet …'

He paused for a moment. The image that had come fleetingly into his mind was not that of Anne Boleyn but of Sibbel Bostock, wife to the prior's bailiff, an older woman but of similar appearance.

‘Yet it is said that she captivates the King with the brilliance of her eyes and the liveliness of her spirit. He seems bewitched by her, and can deny her nothing.'

Lawrence Throssell's brow had creased with anxiety. ‘Then how will this great matter be resolved? These are not private troubles. Here is a contest between the supreme spiritual authority of Rome, and the governance of this realm. What is to happen, if the Pope will not grant King Henry a divorce?'

Will stopped in his walk, and turned to look at his godfather. ‘The King is known to be terrible in his anger,' he said soberly.

‘When his patience is exhausted, I think he will let no one – not

even His Holiness the Pope – stand in his way.'

Anxious for further discussion, Lawrence Throssell tried to persuade his godson to linger. But Will was eager to return to the castle and see his daughter again.

There was none of the usual farmstead noise and bustle within the castle walls for most of the servants had gone to enjoy the holiday. As soon as he rode through the gatehouse he spied Betsy's little white-capped head bobbing about on the far side of the herb garden, but she did not notice his arrival. Dismounting, he walked towards her and took her – without intention – by surprise. One of the many cats, harboured in the castle against vermin, came loping out from behind an overgrown lavender bush and Betsy ran laughing after it.

Glad to see her happiness, Will bent and held out his hands to catch her. But the child was so dismayed by the reappearance of the tall stranger who was said to be her father that she stopped in mid-run, as though caught in wrong-doing. And there for a moment she remained frozen, her eyes big with alarm, her mouth silently open, her small hands splayed like starfish.

Trying to put her at her ease, he went down on his haunches to match her height. But the nearness of his face alarmed Betsy more, and she herself promptly squatted, her gown crumpled on the ground, her head low, one plump finger absorbedly making lines in the dust.

‘'Tis allowed to laugh and run,' he assured her. ‘I like to see you do it. Your Aunt Meg,' he added, in some desperation to obtain a response, ‘always laughed and ran when
she
was a girl.'

Betsy responded immediately. She said nothing, but raised her head and looked at him in total disbelief, clearly convinced that her aunt could never have been a child.

Perplexed, Will cast about for some topic of mutual interest. His eye fell on one of the cats, a battle-scarred black hunter now dozing in retirement under a bush of marjoram.

‘There's an old friend of mine,' he said. ‘I called him Jasper. Is that his name still?'

Betsy nodded. Emboldened by the stranger's acquaintance with the animal, she rose to her feet. ‘Jasper will scratch if you touch him,' she said, evidently passing on a warning she had been given.

‘So he will, for he's now old and disagreeable. But what of that pretty grey-striped Cyprus cat – who is she?'

His daughter beamed, her pink-cheeked face now confidently on a level with his. ‘Tabitha,' she said.

‘A most suitable name,' Will agreed. Then, ‘Aha! What young vagabond have we here?'

He reached out and scooped up a passing kitten, its fur the colour of apricots, and held it up on the palm of his hand. The little creature, its round eyes still a pale blue, peered at him apprehensively.

‘Now I have you, sirrah!' Will made his voice gruff. ‘Tell me your name at once, and what business you have in this parish, or I'll report you to the constable!'

Her shyness quite forgotten, Betsy stood chuckling at her father's knee. ‘'Tis Watkin,' she said. ‘He's not a vagabond, he lives here! He'll be a mouser when he's grown.'

‘
When he's grown
, hey? A fine excuse for idleness!' said Will sternly. He addressed his captive again: ‘The constable will charge you, sirrah, with being a sturdy beggar, for though you are able-bodied you make no attempt to earn. The magistrate will have you set in the stocks for it, there to remain for three days and nights on a diet of bread and water. What say you to that?'

The kitten mewed a protest. Betsy, beside herself with laughter, hugged her father's knee. But their pastime was interrupted by a hurried and anxious Dame Meg Morston.

‘There you are, Will! Go to your nurse, child.'

He nodded confirmation to his daughter. ‘Go, Betsy,' he said, pouring the kitten off his hand into her arms. Then he stood up with a grimace, for his wounded leg had stiffened while he crouched.

‘What is it, Meg?'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' scolded his sister. ‘One of the servants is back from the town, with news that the body you found is that of a Castleacre man! Is it – is it the prior's bailiff?'

Her eyes were apprehensive, and Will sought to reassure her. There would be time enough for anxiety if Ned Pye were to return without having found the man.

He put his hands on her shoulders and rallied her with a small shake. ‘Come, Meg! When did you ever believe the rumours that Castleacre folk call “news”? In truth, the body from the river is beyond recognition. He could have travelled here from anywhere. He'll be buried unknown, when Justice Throssell is assured that every man of this parish can be accounted for. As for Walter Bostock, his wife tells me that he's over at Bromholm priory for the Michaelmas reckoning.'

Relief smoothed Meg's forehead. ‘Thank God – I truly feared that Gilbert's madness had driven him to murder. Oh, but he's in a difficult humour, Will. He said no word at dinner, save to snarl because most of the servants were absent. Now he's gone up to the old keep, where he'll sometimes brood among the ruins for hours on end.'

‘I'll go and speak with him,' said her brother, though remembering Gib's stoked-up outburst of anger the night before, he was privately doubtful of doing any good.

‘No, leave him,' urged Meg. ‘I fear he will turn to violence.'

‘Better that he should turn it on me, then.'

‘Well, go to him if you must. But keep Ned Pye somewhere near,' she cautioned, ‘for your own safety.'

‘Ned's up to mischief elsewhere,' said Will, concealing his servant's destination from her. ‘There's too little scope for his talents in Castleacre, and I sent him away for a few days. But have no fear – I'll deal with Gib if need be.'

‘No doubt you will!' Her voice teased him, but clearly she meant it when she added, ‘If you're not back for supper I'll send men to find you, armed with cudgels.'

The lower ward of the castle, where the house and farmstead were, was already in evening shadow. But the old keep stood high on the upper ward, an earthwork behind the house, and its ruined walls – as uneven as rotten teeth – caught the last rays of the sun.

When they were boys, Will and Gib had spent many warlike hours up there, fighting the barons'wars over again. As the elder, Gib had always claimed the right to be first holder of the keep, and that had suited Will, the more active and inventive of the two. Between them, they had demolished whole armies of imaginary archers and knights as they fought for possession of the keep. But every battle had ended in fierce single combat among the ruins, and both of them bore faded scars to remind them of their rivalry.

The earthwork of the upper ward stood as high as the chimneys of the house, and its sides were as steep as the roof. It was overgrown with birch trees, now in yellowing leaf, and bushes glistening with berries, except where a wide scar ran straight from top to bottom. This was where the stones that had been taken from the old keep in Will's grandfather's day had been slid down to the lower ward for the building of the house. The process had gouged away the thin soil, making the scar as white and in places as steep as Dover cliff, for wind and weather had worn it to bare, slippery chalk.

Climbing this cliff was one of the challenges Will had enjoyed in his youth. He had known better, though, than to take such an exposed route when his brother was holding the keep, for that would have been to invite defeat. Instead, he had found several different ways up through the maze of goat paths that traversed the scrub, so that he could always take Gilbert by surprise.

Since then, the goats had been banished to the outer ditch of the castle, and the scrub had grown and tangled beyond recognition. Gilbert had no doubt made a winding path up to the keep, but it was not immediately obvious and Will did not intend to skulk about in search of it. On this delicate errand – wanting to hear what Gib would say about the murder, but without antagonising him – he preferred to make an open approach. And besides, he relished the challenge of climbing the mound again.

Casting off his cap and doublet he stood, as in youth, in shirt and hose and surveyed the chalk scar. Then, he had always begun the climb simply by taking a run at it. He was tempted now to ignore his years and wounds and take a run at it again – but that, he was forced to acknowledge, would almost certainly result in an early, ignominious downward slide. Better to be thrifty with his breath and scramble all the way, using embedded flintstones to give him a grip or a toe-hold where the chalk was steepest.

At first the climb went well, for his hands and feet instinctively sought their old lodging places. Even so, he soon became aware that it was more taxing than he remembered, and he was obliged to pause for breath halfway. The dry weather had loosened the surface, and as he progressed he had been sending down trickles of chalk and small flints. When he resumed the climb, he became aware that chalk and flints were beginning to slide down from another source – this time upon him, from above.

Very soon the slide became a shower. He had to stop and fling up an arm to protect his eyes. The small flints were becoming larger and sharper-edged, and when one of them caught him a dizzying crack on the side of the head he knew that this was no accident. The debris was not merely falling, but being kicked down on him. Once again, his brother was intending to do battle.