New Blood From Old Bones (15 page)

Outside the prior's lodging, departing guests of high rank – a nobleman and his lady, by the richness of their garments and accoutrements, and the number of their attendants – had just mounted their horses and were taking their final leave. The sub-prior motioned to Will to wait, and they stood back with deference while the prior, uncowled and white-haired, raised his hand in a farewell blessing.

Will remembered Prior Nicholas as a large man with a commanding presence, proud but not haughty. Much of his time in earlier years had been spent in travel on affairs of the Order, and occasionally – because of his family connections – in the service of the Crown. But advancing age had confined him to Castleacre, where he delighted in entertaining guests. These were chiefly the high-born and wealthy, who could be expected to increase the priory's endowments, but he also sought the company of anyone who could bring him news of church and state.

‘Ah, Father Arnold,' he said, pausing as he made his way back to his lodgings on the arm of one of his household attendants. His black habit, in contrast with the sub-prior's, was made of the finest cloth expertly tailored, and his priest's cross was heavy with gold.

The prior's greeting had been civil, but no more; the deep bow over folded hands that the sub-prior made in return was a formal acknowledgement of obedience. There was, it seemed, no amity between the two monks.

Since Will last saw the prior his long Plantagenet face had drooped into heavy jowls that were reddened with good living. His nose was still narrow as an eagle's, but his eyesight was evidently poor. Glancing at Will, he failed either to recognise him or to notice his dishevelled appearance.

‘Is this a guest of your own, Father Arnold?' he continued, the remembered boom of the lordly voice now somewhat muted. ‘A rare event, indeed.'

The sub-prior lifted his head to answer, tightening his thin lips. ‘This is Master Will Ackland, Father Prior,' he said reluctantly.

‘Richard Ackland's son?' Interested at once, Prior Nicholas extended his ringed hand, and Will approached and made a reverence.

‘Good, very good! You are welcome here, Will Ackland,' the prior announced, displeasing the sub-prior still further. ‘Your godfather told me, when last I saw him, that you were on your way home from your travels.'

As boys, Will's father and godfather had learned their Latin at the priory in the company, among others, of Nicholas de la Pole. He had later been sent away to Eton College. But when eventually he returned to Castleacre as prior, he had renewed acquaintance with his early schoolfellows.

‘You were lately in Rome, so Lawrence Throssell told me!' The prior sounded both envious and eager. ‘He shall bring you to dinner with me before you return to London, for I must hear all.'

Will thanked him, and he turned at once to the sub-prior. ‘And as you are acquainted with Master Will, Father Arnold,' he said graciously, ‘you must join us.'

The sub-prior said nothing, but his bow conveyed stiff displeasure.

‘Oh, fear not, fear not,' said Prior Nicholas, with what sounded like an outburst of pent-up irritation. ‘I shall not require you to eat. Mortify your own flesh if you will – but do not spoil my pleasure in offering my guests good food and wine, in return for congenial company.'

By the time Will had squelched through the town to the farrier's, collected his horse and ridden it back to the castle, his clothes were beginning to dry on him. His doublet was still on his saddle, where he had left it while he searched the river. With his thoughts on nothing but the likelihood of his brother's involvement with the murder, he rode through the gatehouse in stained and crumpled shirt and hose, and still-sodden boots.

He was taken by surprise to find that all was bustle and importance within the castle yard. As at the prior's lodging, departing guests were being bidden farewell. Meg, with Alice beside her, stood outside the door as they mounted their horses to wish them Godspeed.

The castle guests, a man and a young woman, had none of the trappings of nobility. Even so, they were evidently persons of some consequence. They were dressed in riding clothes that befitted a rank higher than that of gentleman, they had fine horses, and they were accompanied by two grooms and a servant.

‘Master Will – Master Will!' hissed old Jacob excitedly from where he stood within the gatehouse, treading from foot to foot in his anxiety to be of service, but with nothing to do. One of the grooms was bending to offer his linked hands to his master as a step up to the saddle, while the other held a horse at the mounting block so that his young mistress could settle herself side-saddle and arrange her gown.

‘'Tis Sir Ralph Corbyn!' continued Jacob, taking Will's reins in shaking hands as he dismounted. ‘He's been here a good hour – thinking to see you, or so I hear. Master Ackland's been away all day, no one knows where, and Mistress Meg is displeased by your absence …'

Will himself was displeased that he had missed an hour of his visitor's company. Sir Ralph, a knight whose family had long held lands at Oxmead, to the south of Swaffham, was a member of Parliament for the county of Norfolk. He was an old friend of Lawrence Throssell, who had taken his godson with him to Oxmead on several occasions in the past.

Will strode to greet the knight as he eased himself into his saddle. ‘Your pardon for my absence, Sir Ralph,' he said, inclining his head as a mark of respect. ‘Had I known you were here …'

‘Ha, Will! Well met,' said Sir Ralph, dismissing the apology. ‘I am glad to see you back in England,' he added, bending down to offer his hand. He was some ten years younger than Justice Throssell: a wiry man of medium build with a close-clipped greying beard, fierce springy eyebrows and a sharp pair of eyes.

‘I called on Lawrence Throssell on my way home from Lynn, and he told me you were here. You must give me the latest news from Westminster, Will, for Parliament has not sat these nine months. Come to dinner at Oxmead – tomorrow!'

‘Gladly, sir,' said Will. But then a woman's voice intervened, young but pleasantly low.

‘Not tomorrow, father, for we are bidden to dinner at Cressingham. The day after …?'

‘Ha, I had forgot Cressingham. What good fortune, to have a daughter to remind me!' Sir Ralph turned in his saddle and beckoned her to ride forward. ‘You remember Julian, my youngest child? No doubt you'll find her grown since last you saw her.'

Will recalled her as a plump, high-spirited girl – agreeable in appearance, at twelve years old, but no more – whom he had teased and chased in the Oxmead garden. But the slender young woman now nearing twenty, who sat her horse with an easy grace as she approached, had grown in beauty. He made to doff his cap, and discovered to his chagrin that he had lost it somewhere by or in the river. Bowing instead, he glanced down at himself and saw with dismay that his appearance was little better than a vagabond's.

Julian Corbyn was dressed as became her creamy-pale skin, in a green velvet riding cloak. She wore a hooped head-dress, set well back from her forehead in the French fashion that Anne Boleyn had introduced to the Court, so that her hair was revealed at the front instead of being hidden in the English way under a close cap and a gabled hood. Her features were delicately formed, and her hair and eyes were the bright brown of sweet chestnuts newly emerged from their green husks.

Silenced by admiration, and vexed by his own poor showing, Will could only bow again and say, ‘Mistress Julian.'

‘Master Will,' she returned with grave acknowledgement, though her lips twitched with a smile too near amusement for his comfort.

‘On Sunday, then, Will,' said Sir Ralph, clearly anxious to be on his way. ‘Ride over to Oxmead directly after Mass. We have matters of great importance to discuss – though no doubt,' he added indulgently, ‘my daughter will vex you with questions about the dress and manners of France and Italy.'

‘I shall indeed,' said Julian. ‘What other subject could be of interest to me?'

She spoke demurely, as a good daughter should, but there was a wilful light in her eye. ‘I must ask Master Will about the appearance of gentlemen, especially,' she added, ‘for I hear that in France and Italy they dress very fine…'

She gave Will a smile at his own expense, and rode out through the gatehouse. He stood staring after her, so dazed that he hardly heard his sister's exasperated cry: ‘
William Ackland!
Where have you
been?
'

Meg questioned him all the way back to the house, though Will would only say that he had been tickling trout at the river.

‘
In
the river, more like!' They had entered the hall, and she ceased her scolding long enough to order the servants to pull off his sodden boots and bring him hot water and towels.

‘No – bring me a flagon of ale first!' Will instructed them. He was in an excellent humour, and gave an affectionate greeting to Alice who had re-entered the hall before them. She was now sitting at the table, where she was sorting a strew of herbs. The air of the great room was sharp with chervil, onion, tarragon and fennel, mingled with the smoke of burning logs.

Alice looked up at Will, her features plain and pale in comparison with Meg's, and gave him a small, rare smile. Ever since their attendance at Mass on St Matthew's day, when he had lent her his arm, she had been less shy with him. And no doubt Gilbert's absence for the whole day had made her feel more at ease.

A servant brought ale, and Will took it and stood with his back to the great fireplace, knee-deep in slumbering dogs. His spirits unaccountably high, his aching leg forgotten, his clothes steaming in the warmth, he raised the flagon and drank deep.

But Meg had still not finished her complaints. Though she sat down with Alice and resumed the sorting of the herbs, for her hands could never rest, she delivered herself of her opinion.

‘Your conduct is not fitting for a grown man, Will Ackland – let alone one who's a gentleman, and very near a barrister. I spent two hours or more, as we sat in my parlour with the Corbyns awaiting your return, praising you for your knowledge and the statecraft you'd learned on your travels. I hoped Sir Ralph would look on you favourably, and give you some advantage at Westminster when you're called to the Bar. But then you come home as tattered and soaked as a vagabond after a rainstorm! What must he have thought of you?'

‘You need have no fear of that,' Will assured her. ‘Sir Ralph is too wise to judge a man by a trivial disarray in his appearance.' Then he grinned at her. ‘But I thank you for what you said of me, Meg, for he's invited me to dinner on Sunday.'

She stopped in her task, a great bunch of thyme, ready for drying, in her hands and a look of relief on her face. ‘Aah …' she said, on a long breath. ‘Then I'm very glad for you.'

‘And I,' said Alice. ‘Mistress Julian Corbyn,' she added artlessly, with all the authority of someone who had once travelled as far as Swaffham, ‘is more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen …'

He affected indifference. The women glanced at each other, endeavouring not to laugh.

‘Even if her father failed to notice your appearance,' said Meg, ‘Mistress Julian did not. From what we saw, you pleased her not at all.'

‘Ha!' said Will with confidence. ‘No matter, for I'll dress finer than any man in Norfolk on Sunday!' He stepped over the tangle of dogs and cats and began to strut about the hall, flagon in hand, reviewing in his mind's eye the peacock clothes he had bought on his travels.

‘I shall wear my blue-embroidered shirt, and my French doublet of murrey-red with the sleeves slashed to show the pink lining. And the dark – no, the paler of the blue hose. And the boots of Florentine leather, and my feathered cap of black Italian velvet.'

‘Shall you, indeed?' said Meg dryly. ‘And where, pray, do you keep all this finery?'

‘Why, in my travelling chest—'

Will stopped abruptly, his confidence foundering. He slapped his head with the heel of his hand. ‘Mass,' he groaned, ‘I had forgot! I left the chest at Gray's Inn. All I have here is what I stand in …'

‘Not so. You have what you brought for saints'days and Sundays.'

‘That's not good enough for Oxmead!'

‘But surely' – Meg pretended to be puzzled, but her eyes mocked him – ‘Sir Ralph will not judge you by your appearance? Did you not say just now that he's too wise for that?'

Will scowled, temporarily silenced. His sister turned to Alice. ‘I do believe,' she said, ‘that William plans to go a-wooing …'

‘That I do not!' he protested, but they only teased him the more. He slammed down his flagon, stalked out to the screens passage, and shouted for a servant. He missed Ned Pye, who always seemed able to conjure up whatever was needed, however unpromising the circumstances. Ned would have ensured that he went to Oxmead well dressed – and would have given him a companion's support into the bargain.

There was so much raucous laughter from the direction of the kitchens that Will had to shout a second time before the gangling boy, Lambert, came at a run. Needing help to remove his boots, Will sat on the heavy bench against the wall of the passage and anchored himself to it while the boy tugged.

‘Is the cook drunk again?' Will asked with resignation.

‘He is but merry, sir,' panted Lambert, taking a fresh grip. He had long outgrown his clothes, and his shirt-sleeves and hose came nowhere near his raw-boned wrists and ankles.

‘And what's the cause of such merriment?'

Lambert kept his head down as he wrestled with the first soaked boot, staggering back as it came off, boot-hose and all. Recovering his balance he seized immediately on the second. The noise from the kitchens increased, and Will repeated his question.

‘Why, nothing … A – a bawdy jest, sir,' Lambert mumbled as he heaved away. His long narrow chin was downy with an unshaven first beard, and splotched with pimples. His eyes were reddened, as were those of all the servants who worked in the smoky kitchens. But there was a great unease in them, and Will knew that there was something he was trying to hide.