New Blood From Old Bones (23 page)

‘Why, in the bailiff's own stable, snug as you please! Sibbel Bostock said it had been found and brought back by one of the lay-brothers.'

‘Brought back when?'

‘Yesterday, she said, soon after you'd been to tell her of her husband's murder. But she was lying. The bailiff's horse is the only one in the stable, and there's more than a day's worth of recent dung on the straw.'

‘Good!' said Will with satisfaction. ‘Then Mistress Bostock has lied to us throughout, for I learned this morning that she and her husband had little regard for each other. The bailiff's aunt told me that Sibbel had never thought Walter Bostock good enough for her. She wanted to have servants, like a proper yeoman's wife, and it vexed her that he would not allow it. For his part, Walter was angry with her because she had borne him no children, and was undutiful towards him. Knowing this, we have reason enough to go and talk to her again.'

Will was about to re-mount when it occurred to him that Ned might have compromised the coming encounter.

‘When you visited her this morning, did you by any chance sample her elderberry wine?'

Ned hesitated. Reluctant as he was to lose his amorous reputation, this was not an occasion for boasting. ‘In truth,' he admitted, ‘she made me no offer.'

‘That's just as well,' said his master, ‘for we have some stern questions to put to the bailiff's widow.'

Sibbel Bostock showed no surprise when Will and Ned Pye rode up to her door. It was almost as though she expected them. She seemed subdued, in both manner and appearance. Her hair was hidden by her linen cap, her feet were shod, her skirts concealed her ankles. She held her eyes modestly low and said little, beyond ordering the dogs to be quiet; but she made no pretence to a widow's grief.

Will did not pay her the courtesy of dismounting.

‘Mistress Bostock,' he said. ‘My brother Gilbert Ackland is accused of the murder of your husband. He has sworn by the Holy Cross of Bromholm that he is innocent. I am here to clear his name by discovering the real murderer.'

Sibbel Bostock glanced up at him warily, her wide eyes a brilliant black against the sunburned hue of her skin. She raised one hand towards her magnificent throat. She was, Will observed, almost as handsome as he remembered; but with Julian's delicate fresh beauty still in his eyes, Sibbel's now seemed coarse.

‘Then indeed, sir,' she protested, ‘you have wasted your journey, for I cannot help you.'

‘I think you can. By living out here, with no neighbours to pry, you have been able to fornicate without fear of being reported to the archdeacon. No, you need not deny it. My brother has admitted to being one of your lovers, and I think Thomas Gosnold is another. No doubt you have others – and I believe it was one of them who murdered your husband. Who was it, Mistress Bostock? Someone from within the priory precinct?'

Sibbel Bostock's cheeks burned crimson. ‘I have no lover within the precinct!' she protested.

‘A would-be lover, then. An ardent admirer. Tell me, which of the lay-brothers was it who returned the bailiff's horse?'

‘I do not know. They all wear the same garments – I cannot tell one from t'other.'

‘What else was returned to you? What of the Bromholm rent rolls that the bailiff would have been carrying when he set out?'

‘I know nothing of them. The saddle-bags were brought back empty, save for the few needments my husband took with him. The horse was his own, and was rightfully returned to me because it is now mine. I have naught to do with the priory.'

‘No?' Will raised his eyebrows. ‘But you look to it for protection, I have no doubt?'

Sibbel Bostock lowered her eyes. She would say nothing more, but the flush of blood that suffused the column of her throat was eloquence enough.

The bailiff and all other day-workers were answerable to the cellarer of the priory. He was a monk second only in importance (or so he believed) to the prior himself, for he had charge of all temporal matters: lands, properties, leases, rents, wages, mills, workshops, granaries and provisioning.

Brother Walstan had been cellarer for some ten years, and had become increasingly tetchy under the burden of his responsibilities. The room where he worked was near the almonry, and accessible to the priory's tenants, but there were few who would willingly interrupt him.

Will was saved from his anger by the fact that Brother Walstan, a man with a long nose and a quick, harsh voice, had known and respected his father. Even so, walled in as he was by three centuries of cobwebbed account books, and with his tonsured head bent over page after page of figures, the monk was reluctant to waste time. He nodded an acknowledgement when Will commiserated over the priory's loss of the bailiff, and frowned when he heard that Gilbert Ackland had been charged with the murder. But when Will explained that he was endeavouring to clear his brother's name, the cellarer began to drum his fingers on the table.

‘The charge is a grievous matter for your family,' he agreed. ‘But what has it to do with me?'

‘By your leave,' said Will, ‘I need to know if the bailiff took the rent rolls with him when he set out for Bromholm?'

‘Certainly.' But then the cellarer stilled his fingers. ‘In truth I was angry, believing he was wasting his journey, for the rent rolls were returned to me later that same day. I thought the bailiff had carelessly dropped the saddle bag containing them, and had ridden on without it. But as we now know, he was dead before he left Castleacre.'

‘What of his horse? Was that found at the same time?'

The cellarer shook his head impatiently. ‘Walter Bostock's horse is no concern of mine. It is one of the very few items within this precinct for which I am not responsible.'

He took up his quill with a dismissive flourish, but Will persisted.

‘Who was it who found the rent rolls and returned them to you?'

Brother Walstan sighed, his irritation ill-concealed.

‘It was Jankin Kett, the simpleton who was put in the priory's care by your father. He burst in here just before Vespers on St Matthew's Eve, carrying a saddle-bag and mumbling that he'd found it near the river. He pulled out the Bromholm rent rolls, dropped them on this table, and ran away with the bag.'

‘He said nothing more?'

‘Nothing. He has since drowned, as no doubt you know. And the dead, I am glad to say, are not my responsibility either.'

The cellarer dipped his pen in the ink with an air of satisfaction. Almost as an afterthought, he crossed himself and added a hasty
God have mercy on his soul
, before bending again over his account books.

Will joined Ned Pye, who was waiting with the horses, and they had a swift discussion before parting. Ned fastened the reins to a post and strolled off to the stables in search of idle conversation. Will took the servants'path round the east end of the priory church, and fetched up once again in the laundress's yard.

Today, after the busyness that had followed St Matthew's feast, there was no sign of linen, wet or dry. Doll Harbutt was alone, and in good spirits. Queen of her kingdom, she sat at ease in the late afternoon sun refreshing herself from a foaming pot.

She greeted her visitor with eager surprise, awed by the quality of the clothes he was wearing. ‘Why, 'tis Master Will again! Shall you join me in a drink of beer, sir – the priory's finest brew?'

‘Gladly, Mistress Harbutt. Though I must not come here so often, or we shall be the talk of the precinct.'

Doll gave a great guffaw, but the crimson of her face deepened with pleasure and her broad hips swayed from side to side as she went into the laundry-house to fetch another pot. Will drank to her health, enjoying the flavour of hops as a change from hopless ale. Then he made to seat himself companionably on the edge of an empty washing-trough, but she hastily dusted a place for him on a bench out of consideration for his finery.

The week had been an eventful one at the priory, he commented, what with the feast, and Jankin Kett's death, and the news that it was the bailiff who had been murdered.

The laundress shrugged. ‘In truth I never liked the man. There's none I know who'll mourn him, Mistress Bostock included. But I'll not believe,' she added fiercely – less, Will thought, from conviction than from a desire to assure him of her support – ‘that your brother, Master Ackland, would ha'murdered him.'

‘What makes you think Mistress Bostock does not mourn her husband?' Will asked.

‘Why, because Walter Bostock beat her sorely. Knowing they had no servant, and seeking work for my youngest daughter, I sent her to their house early this summer to offer her services. But she heard the bailiff chastising his wife, and took to her heels for fear o' being beaten too.'

Doll Harbutt grimaced. ‘Well, there,' she added. ‘The common law allows a husband to chastise his wife. Some men are quicker to take advantage of it than others, and some are heavier-handed. But there's various ways a wife can have her revenge …'

‘I don't doubt it,' Will agreed, with a lugubrious air that hid his eagerness for more information. ‘Tell me, are you well acquainted with Mistress Bostock?'

‘Not I! She takes pride in being the bailiff's wife, and holds herself aloof. I did hope at first that she might become a good customer o'mine. She sought me out, on the recommendation of the miller's wife, and I let her have one of the prior's shirts at a very reasonable price. But I think she had too high an opinion of herself, for she never came again.'

‘Mistress Bostock is a handsome woman,' said Will. ‘To those who have a liking for a dark complexion,' he added dismissively, for the laundress had sniffed her distaste. ‘No doubt she has many admirers?'

‘Ha!' said Doll Harbutt. ‘Men will always make fools of themselves, hankering for what they can't have. I've seen many a burning glance being cast in her direction when she appears in the precinct – and not only by the lay-brethren.'

Will gave her a swift look, and she chuckled indulgently. ‘Well, well – a monk is but a man, when all's said and done. Keeping the vow of chastity must often be a struggle. Who shall blame them if their thoughts are no purer than any other man‘s, eh, Master Will? But I'd best say no more on that subject!'

Knowing her to be a loyal servant of the priory, Will would not press her. ‘How does Mistress Bostock conduct herself within the precinct?' he asked.

‘Very seemly, to my knowledge. I've never heard of her giving an encouraging word or smile to any man. Excepting Jankin Kett, may God ha'mercy on his poor troubled soul.'

‘Jankin?'

‘Aye. It seems that Mistress Bostock had some business at the almonry, a month or so ago, and as she left she met Jankin face-to-face. He stood gawping at her, and she gave him a smile – out o'charity, what else? But Jankin, poor fool, found himself in love.'

Doll Harbutt paused to pour beer thirstily down her throat, and then wiped her mouth with her brawny forearm.

‘After that, it seems, he began to go looking for her. The next I knew of it, the bailiff came rampaging after Jankin, saying he'd been spying on his wife. He chased him round these buildings – such a hue-and-cry you've never heard – caught him just over there, on the drying green, and gave him as good a whipping as I've ever seen. Aye, the poor mooncalf.'

Subdued, Doll wiped a single tear from her eye and comforted herself with another gulp of beer. Will was suddenly hopeful on his brother's behalf, but uneasy on his old friend's.

‘Jankin was hobbling when I followed him through your yard t'other day,' he said. ‘He was wearing a pair of riding boots that were too small for him. Do you know how he came by them, Mistress Harbutt?'

‘They were too good to be his own, for sure. I'd never seen him in them before. They were well worn, but made of good leather – as I have cause to know, for I pulled them off him when I laid out his body. It was a tussle to get them off, but there: it caused him no pain.'

‘Could you not have cut them off?' said Will, regretting that such indignity had been visited on his friend's corpse.

‘
Cut
them off, sir?' Doll Harbutt was astonished by the suggestion. ‘What, ruin a yeoman pair of boots, with years of wear still left in them? Indeed not! I shall take them home – they'll fit one or other of my sons, give or take a pinch.'

Will drained his pot and stood up. ‘Would you lend me the boots for an hour, Mistress Harbutt? I'd like to know how Jankin came by them. The cobbler in the market place once told me that a wrinkled boot is like a face, he can always put a name to its owner.'

‘Borrow them and welcome, sir.' Doll fetched them from her laundry-house, and Will put a final question.

‘When I was chasing Jankin, all the other servants were shouting
Hog
at him.' Doll had shouted it herself, as he remembered, but he would not remind her of it. ‘Why was that, do you suppose?'

‘Because'a drank pig's blood,' she answered promptly. ‘Not every day, you understand, nor yet every month. But once or twice a year, when he heard the squealing and knew the blood would be foaming hot, he'd steal into the slaughter-house with a jug.

‘Not that Jankin was the only one to drink it,' she added fairly. ‘I've known slaughter-men who made their breakfast of it. But Jankin always tried to hide what he was doing. He wouldn't stand there and drink it down like a man, but sneaked off to sup it in private. That was why folk shouted at him, to let him know we knew.'

‘Can you recall when he drank it last?' asked Will.

‘Why yes – a day or two afore he died. A lot of hogs were being slaughtered then, as well as other beasts, on account of the number of guests and pilgrims to be fed. It must ha'been the squealing that tempted him, poor simpleton.'

The bell had begun to ring for Vespers from the great tower overhead, insistent in its calling. Will mouthed his thanks, dropped a silver groat into his empty beer pot and strode off, dead man's boots in hand, in search of Ned Pye.