New Blood From Old Bones (19 page)

Despondent, muddied, yesterday's bruises evident on his pale cheeks, Gilbert nodded his thanks. Will glanced down at his own dishevelment and let out a great chuckle.

‘By the Mass, Gib, we'll be in trouble when Meg sees us! Let's meet her wrath together, for I dare not face her alone!'

‘Stand forward, Gilbert Ackland!'

For a moment Will feared that his brother would refuse to comply. The two of them, as presentable as a vexed and anxious Meg had been able to make them in a hurry, stood at one end of the great oak table in Justice Throssell's hall, where they had been ushered by the sturdiest of his servants. The justice himself, stern under his skull cap, had just entered from the parlour to take his seat at the far end of the table. It was his steward, acting as his clerk, who gave the command, and Gib drew a fierce breath and clenched his fists in impotent fury at being summoned by a servant.

Thankful at least that the constable was not there to witness Gib's humiliation, and perhaps to gloat over his own escape from justice, Will gave his brother a nudge. With great reluctance, Gib took a step forward.

The justice of the peace looked up severely, giving no sign that he knew either of them. ‘Gilbert Ackland,' he said, his piping voice surprisingly strong, ‘you are charged with a grievous felony, in that you did murder Walter Bostock, bailiff to the prior of Castleacre. How say you to the charge? Are you guilty or not guilty?'

Gilbert squared his great shoulders. ‘I am not guilty, sir!'

A log shifted on the hearth, sending up a crackle of sparks. Everyone present watched in a tense silence as the justice's clerk wrote down the plea in his careful, cramped hand, his quill scratching on the parchment.

‘Then I commit you for trial,' continued the justice, ‘at the next Quarter Sessions in Bishop's Lynn. Is there any man here who will stand surety for you until that time?'

‘I will, sir. William Ackland,' he added, to make it clear that he was not presuming upon his relationship with Justice Throssell, nor yet his long acquaintance with his godfather's steward. He stated the sum he could pay, the justice agreed, and he went forward – not without misgiving – to sign away his life's savings on the strength of his uncertain-tempered brother's oath.

Then the justice solemnly ordered Gilbert to remain within the parish at all times, and within his castle walls from dusk to dawn. He would be allowed to leave the castle in order to attend Mass on saints'days and Sundays, and to walk or ride once a day round his own fields. But he was forbidden to go on any other man's land, or to enter any inn, alehouse, shop or private dwelling, on pain of immediate imprisonment.

‘Do you understand these conditions?'

Gilbert's tension was near-mutinous, but he forced himself to mutter, ‘Aye, sir.'

‘Very well. The court is risen.'

The steward held open the door that led to the parlour, and Master Justice Throssell trotted out with immeasurable dignity. Avoiding each other's eyes, the brothers turned to leave. The justice's other servants shuffled awkwardly out of the way, uncertain of their role now that the court proceedings were over. But the steward, a neat, precisely clean-shaven man, dropped his clerk's formality and came hurrying back down the hall to escort his master's godson to the front door.

‘Master Will …' he said, with evident sympathy for his predicament.

‘Robert …' acknowledged Will. He lingered, while Gib went out to the street where Ned was waiting with their horses. ‘I expected to see the constable here, ready and willing to clap my brother into gaol.'

‘Justice Throssell sent to inform him of the hearing, sir. But the constable – knowing that you'd agreed to stand surety and his presence would not be needed – begged to be excused. It seems he's injured, after being thrown by his horse.'

Will was immediately interested. ‘Thrown, was he? Is he badly hurt?'

‘That I don't know, sir,' said the steward, who had been schooled in diplomacy by his master. But he allowed his eyebrows to rise eloquently. ‘From all accounts he's expected to survive.'

Hopeful that the constable's so-called accident had happened at the same time as Gilbert's, Will hurried outside to join his brother. There he found that a noisy crowd – Castleacre's usual spectators, the very young and the old, the idle, the simple, and the women who always carried their spindles with them so that they might earn as they stood gossiping – had gathered by the well on the opposite side of Northgate. From their disappointed mutterings, it seemed that they had hoped to enjoy the sight of Gilbert Ackland being dragged off to the town gaol.

Ned had kept Gilbert as far from them as possible by bringing the horses close to Justice Throssell's door, and placing his own mount nearest to the crowd. Gilbert himself, still unmounted, was incoherent with rage and humiliation.

‘Go home,' Will advised him. ‘I'll stay and speak to them, for we cannot be whispered about and pointed at every time we pass through the town.'

His brother was unsure of himself after enduring the indignities of the magistrate's court. ‘Do I go alone?' he mumbled.

‘Why not?' said Will. ‘I'm not your gaoler. You've given me your oath, and keeping it is a matter for your own conscience. Mount up and go, or your dinner will be ruined.'

Gilbert hastened away, and Ned manoeuvred his horse so as to dissuade the crowd from running after him. Will mounted his own horse and approached them with an easy smile, knowing that they had not assembled out of any particular hostility towards Gilbert. They had been drawn, as always, by the excitement of a happening; any happening. There was no malice in their hope that it might lead eventually to a hanging.

‘Friends!' Will addressed the gaping, upturned faces. There was some hooting in response, but no real disrespect for none had reason to dislike him. ‘You deserve to be told the truth of what has happened. Walter Bostock has indeed been murdered.' He was forced to pause by a swelling murmur of satisfaction that the rumour had been right, and a cheer or two from the disaffected. ‘And whoever did the foul deed must be found.

‘My brother Gilbert has just appeared before the justice of the peace
of his own free will
. True, he has in the past been heard to utter threats against the prior's bailiff' – jeers, laughter, and cries of
hang him!
Will raised his voice – ‘but can there be any man among us who has never made an alehouse threat? Gilbert Ackland has pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder.'

Will paused to allow them time to vent their ribald disbelief. It occurred to him that one or other of them might be aware of something that would lead him to the murderer, and he wondered for a moment whether to offer a few groats for the information. But Castleacre folk could be endlessly inventive if they thought it would be to their advantage, and it would be wiser not to tempt them.

His horse, confronted by the noisy crowd, was stirring restlessly. He reined it in and raised his voice again. ‘Hear me out! For my brother has sworn a sacred and binding oath by the Holy Cross of Bromholm that he is innocent of this charge.'

The noise abated instantly, as he had known it would, for there was no one who did not respect that oath. Indeed, there was a muted murmur of
Aye, aye
.

‘I am standing surety for my brother,' Will continued, ‘and I do it gladly. Though I have urgent business in London, I shall remain here until the Quarter Sessions, if need be. My intention is to discover the real murderer before then. In the meantime, friends' – he looked down at them with a wry affection – ‘since you have known me all my life, I hope you will still greet me when we meet, for I do not expect to stay in Castleacre long!'

Will and his servant sat in the parlour of the Woolpack inn, where the other customers were travellers rather than townsfolk.

‘I thought you'd forgotten our dinner,' complained Ned, drawing his knife from his belt and attacking a lukewarm mutton pie. ‘I was near to eating my horse – except that the poor old nag would be too tough … What do we do next, Master Will?'

‘We give our attention to Thomas Gosnold the constable. As a tenant of the priory, he has as much reason as my brother to hate the bailiff. And then, there are other pointers to his possible guilt.

‘First, he told me he had no complaint against the bailiff. But we've both heard from townsfolk that he has spoken ill of him. Secondly' – Will paused to chip some cinders out of the piecrust before attempting a bite – ‘when I went with Justice Throssell to view the corpse, the constable was over-anxious to declare the man a vagabond and to have him buried unknown. True, he might merely have wished to save himself trouble. But the injuries he's said to have will strengthen the case against him, if – as we think – the murderer was Sibbel Bostock's lover.'

‘One of'em,' said Ned, lowering his pot of ale.

‘Aye, one of'em. It's beyond belief that both Gilbert and the constable should have been thrown from their horses on the same day. If it seems likely that they fought each other, I'll confront Gib and find out more.'

‘Ah – so we ride to Southacre after dinner, to discover what the constable's injuries are?'

‘Not “we”. You must go without me, for I'm known there.'

‘Good – I'll do better on my own!' grinned Ned, relishing the prospect. ‘I'll present myself at the kitchen door with a tray of ribbons, and tease the information out of the women servants …'

‘Do as you will, as long as you arouse no suspicion.' Will pushed aside his half-empty trencher and wiped his knife clean with bread. ‘And while you're at Southacre, I'll find out more about the shirt the bailiff's corpse was wearing.'

Will rode to the northern side of the churchyard and collected the scrap of shirt that he had concealed in a chink of the wall. Stained as it was, there was no mistaking the fine quality of the linen, and the delicacy of the sewing. And the reason he had saved that particular scrap from the neck of the shirt was that a letter
N
was elaborately embroidered on it.

It seemed that the message he had given the crowd outside the justice's house had already spread, for he was greeted in the usual friendly way as he rode across the market place. The priory bell was ringing to signal the ending of the monks' early afternoon service of Nones as he cantered along Priorygate, but it ceased as he turned in through the gatehouse. Giving the porter a nod, he dismounted and tied his horse's reins to a tree behind the building. Then, instead of taking the wide path that led down to the great west front of the priory church and the prior's lodging, he struck off instead to the east, along the way used by day-servants and beggars.

This way led first to the almonry, from where the daily dole was distributed, and then to the pilgrims'lodgings. It continued past the lay folk's cemetery, round the east end of the church and the monks'cemetery, and on past the infirmary to the domestic buildings of the priory.

The morning's rainclouds had blown over, and the lay-brethren who worked at the laundry were busy on the drying green, spreading the last of the day's wet linen on racks to take advantage of the wind. The laundress herself, alone in her yard now that the great washing troughs had been emptied, rested on a bench in a sheltered corner, her large red hands in her lap, her legs stretched out wide under her old gown.

Doll Harbutt looked weary. Her linen cap was awry, her plait of greying hair had tumbled down on one shoulder, her skirts were soaked with washing water. But it was not only weariness that had overtaken her. She seemed subdued, very different from the vigorous woman with the lecherous laugh who had offered to strip him on his previous visit.

Will gave her good day. Startled, open-mouthed, she raised one brawny red arm and clutched her bosom in surprise.

‘Master Will Ackland – I had not thought to see you here again!' A wave of colour mounted her throat, only to be lost in the everyday crimson of her face. She half-rose to her feet. ‘Had I recognised you yesterday, sir,' she apologised, ‘I would not ha'spoken so … But there,' she added with a touch of her former spirit, ‘'tis not every day a young gentleman walks into my yard, soaked to the skin and bold as you please!'

Will laughed. ‘I took no offence, as you see, for I've come again to ask your advice.' He sat down on the bench beside her and handed her the scrap of linen. ‘This was part of an old garment – do you know who it belonged to, Mistress Harbutt?'

‘Old indeed.' She grimaced, holding it at arm's length, either to keep it from her nose or to see it more clearly with weakening eyes. Then, ‘Aye,' she announced, ‘that I do! I cannot read, but that letter stands for Nicholas. 'Tis from a shirt that once belonged to my lord prior. His linen is always of the finest, and always marked so.'

‘What happens to the prior's linen, after it's no longer fit for his own wearing? Does it go to the almonry for distribution to the poor?'

‘I faith it does not!' The laundress was indignant. ‘My lord prior's garments are too good for them!' She hesitated, then gave Will a defensive sideways glance. ‘What with all the important guests, and the household linen and church linen – not to mention all the monks changing their shirts and drawers in honour of St Matthew's Day, even though they'd been worn little more than a month – my work is never-ending. Can you wonder if garments sometimes get lost in the wash?'

‘I shouldn't wonder at all,' Will assured her, straight-faced. ‘You work hard for the priory, Mistress Harbutt, and are entitled to some perquisites – as is your husband.'

She was shocked. ‘My George is but a poor herdsman – I would never let him wear what my lord prior has worn! No, sir: I allow the best garments to go to none below the rank of yeoman. I have an arrangement with all the tenants' wives – excepting Master Ackland's, of course,' she added hastily.