New Blood From Old Bones (7 page)

IN YOUTHFUL YEERES I WAS BEREFT OF BRETH.
THE DEVINE POWER, OF ME DID SO DEVISE
THAT I IN GRAVE SHOULD LIE A LINGERING

SLEEPE
TILL SOUND OF TRUMP DOE SUMMON ME TO

RISE

Will felt a thickening in his throat. To see the facts engraved on cold metal was to re-live his anguish.
That Anne should have been bereft of breath at the age of twenty – and on the eighteenth of May, the sweet o'the year
…

But that was four years ago, and much had happened since then. He swallowed, dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and slowly got to his feet. Then he lit a candle, said a prayer for the repose of her soul, and went outside to join his waiting godfather.

Lawrence Throssell took his arm for a moment. ‘Is the memorial well done?' he asked, looking anxiously up at him.

Will cleared his throat, and gave the older man the reassurance he sought. ‘I thank you, yes – it is well done.'

They walked round the tower of the church and came to the south side. Here in the sun, with the noise and colour of the market place before them, Will lifted his head and breathed more easily.

‘Tell me,' enquired his godfather, spying up at him shrewdly, ‘have you any thought of marrying again?'

‘No, I have not!'

‘Come – you are too young a man to forgo it.'

Will paused. ‘I do not deny some dalliance, in France and Italy,' he said. ‘But as for marriage – I could not marry where I cannot love, and I cannot love except with heart and mind, as it was with Anne.'

‘Well, well.' Lawrence Throssell smiled benevolently. ‘I have married thrice, and loved all three women in good measure. I would have you know, son-in-law, that when you desire to marry again, you will have my blessing. And now we will say no more on ‘t.'

The church bell had already rung the noonday hour and there was no sign of the constable. They returned to the northern side of the church, where the low, stone-built mortuary stood among the grave-mounds, shadowed by a great yew tree.

In the far corner of the churchyard a new grave was in process of being dug. No one was in sight, but earth was being heaved up by the spadeful as though some great mole was working in the depths. And from the depths, between heavings, came a cheerful whistling.

‘Are you there, master sexton?' called Justice Throssell.

There was a scrambling from below and presently an earthy countenance, as hairy as a mole's, peered at them over the mound of excavated soil.

‘Good morrow, sirs!' cried Hob Pulfer merrily. An empty flagon, lying on the grass beside his mattock and cast-off jerkin, no doubt accounted for his good humour.

‘A fine day to be out in the air! Eh, master?' he added, addressing a skull he had brought up with him from the grave, and then tossing it to one side for reburial. Other bones he had left half-embedded in the soil, for the churchyard had been well used over the centuries and there was no ground that had not already been occupied more than once.

‘Are you come to see the murdered corse, sir?' he asked Justice Throssell. He grinned, his stump-toothed mouth as dark as the grave he was digging. ‘I warrant you'll find him a mystery!'

‘You do not know him?'

‘Nay! And nor would his own mother. Not only was he stabbed, sir, he was beaten about the head. But I know
this
about him –' The sexton tapped his nose with one earth-caked finger. ‘Whoever killed him,' he said, nodding sagely, ‘wanted him well dead.'

The sexton's son, another Hob, as squat as his father and almost as hairy, came hurrying round the church tower from the direction of the market place. He was carrying a filled flagon, which he tried to hide behind his back as soon as he saw Justice Throssell.

‘Give you good day, sirs,' he mumbled. And to his father: ‘The constable's now coming.'

‘Then we are required to attend the corse,' said the sexton importantly. ‘Lend me a hand out of here, boy – and do not spill the ale, for I have need of a draught of it. Master Justice Throssell knows full well that grave-digging's a thirsty business.'

Will and his godfather were already on their way towards the mortuary, whose narrow window-slit revealed the flickering light of a candle.

‘I shall have the corpse brought outside,' the justice was saying. ‘Nothing will be served by our peering at it by candlelight. I must convince myself of the constable's belief that it's a stranger's.'

‘Is John Perry still constable?' asked Will.

‘He died of the pox last year. Thomas Gosnold of Southacre had already served as juryman, and I gave him the appointment. Such a substantial yeoman farmer will not be likely to take bribes, nor perjure himself, for fear of God and the honour of his descendants. And if public order is threatened, Thomas has servants of his own to quell unrest.'

‘A substantial man indeed,' Will agreed. ‘Thomas Gosnold has by far the biggest acreage of any of the priory's tenants. His flock of sheep is five times the size of my brother's.'

‘True – and there's the rub. He's always occupied about his farm, and an unpaid office is burdensome. Thomas is as honest a constable as I have known, and yet he will do no more than he has to. It will suit him well if the murdered man is a stranger, for then there is naught we can do but give him a Christian burial.'

A heavy horseman had come cantering up to the northern gate of the churchyard. Dismounting hurriedly, and flinging his reins to one of the boys who had run behind in the hope of earning a penny, Thomas Gosnold strode between the graves to join the justice of the peace.

‘Your pardon for my lateness, sir,' he cried as he approached, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his workaday jerkin to emphasise his haste. He was some ten years older than Will, every inch as tall but as solid as a barn door, with bristling reddish hair and beard, and small blue eyes in a heavy, florid face.

‘And Master Will Ackland!' he continued with guarded courtesy. ‘I am glad to see you safe home from your travels – but I had not thought to see you here, sir.'

Will held out his hand in greeting. ‘I do but keep company with my godfather, master constable,' he said.

‘Aye … but—'

Justice Throssell intervened, an edge of sharpness in his voice. ‘I have bidden my godson to dinner,' he said, ‘and we are already late. Shall we proceed? Have the sexton bring the corpse into daylight, master constable, so that we may view it more clearly.'

‘No need for that, sir! The dead man was naught but a vagabond. Candlelight will show you he's beyond recognition.'

Justice Throssell, half the constable's size, looked up at him sternly. ‘
Outside
, if you please.'

‘Sir –' The constable still hesitated. He glanced from one to the other.

‘I fear the corpse will quite destroy your appetites. 'Tis my duty to show it to you, Master Justice Throssell – but Master Will has no need to endure the sight.'

‘
Endure
it? I have been a soldier,' Will reminded him, impatient on his godfather's behalf, ‘and have seen many a bloody corpse on the battlefield. And caused some of the deaths, too. Have done, master constable, and proceed as Justice Throssell bade you.'

Frowning, Thomas Gosnold clamped his lips and beckoned to the sexton and his son. The three of them entered the mortuary and presently emerged, the two Hobs hefting between them a humped board covered by a piece of coarse woollen cloth that would later serve as a shroud. The constable followed carrying a pair of trestles. There was some muttering from all three of them as they endeavoured to set the trestles squarely on the uneven ground, and the weighted board on the trestles, but at last it was precariously achieved.

The constable plucked up one corner of the cloth. ‘'Tis as I warned you, sirs,' he said, almost with relish. And then he threw back enough of it to reveal the head of the corpse.

The noonday sun, mellow as it was, lit up an injury as violent as any Will had seen. The murderer had used some heavy object to batter his victim's face, and as the constable had told them it was beyond recognition.

The sight was not a bloody one, for the corpse had long been immersed in the river and all the blood had drained. What was left, mingled with silt and strands of water-weed, was a pulp of grey-white flesh, splintered bone and smashed teeth, together with a single fearsomely displaced eyeball. The whole was topped by a ragged slime of hair.

Justice Throssell drew in his breath sharply, and they all crossed themselves. Then, his high voice steady, he told the sexton to remove the cloth entirely.

The man was of short-to-middling height and sparely built, and the few sodden garments that clung about his body seemed to be too large for him. His feet were bare, and he wore only a shirt and a pair of hose, both ragged. Now that the corpse was uncovered, flies were beginning to buzz about and gather on it.

‘Have you not had the body stripped, master constable?' said Justice Throssell.

‘Nay, sir – for fear o'the pox.'

‘But the sexton told me the man had been stabbed. How did you know that, Hob Pulfer?'

Taken aback, the sexton opened and closed his hair-fringed mouth, then opened it again. ‘Why, sir – the constable told me!'

Thomas Gosnold shot him a frown. ‘I did but turn back the vagabond's shirt, sir.'

‘And found no disease? Then be so good, master sexton, you and your son, as to strip the corpse completely. Vagabond or no, he's a Christian soul and must be accounted for as best we can. If we're able to tell nothing from his face, we may do so from his body.'

Will stood silent, watching as the lolling corpse was bared to their view. The most notable feature was on the hairless chest, a gaping white mouth where a knife thrust had penetrated. It was near to the heart, though perhaps not near enough to have killed him immediately.

He appeared to be a man of forty or fifty, with no noteworthy scars or blemishes to distinguish him. One thing, though, was clear to Will. He said nothing, out of courtesy to his godfather, for he did not want to usurp the older man's authority. But Justice Throssell, for all his shortness of sight, had made the same observation.

‘This is no vagabond, master constable! He has no sores, nor signs of rough living, and he was well fed. Did you not notice that when you saw his wound?'

Thomas Gosnold made haste to justify himself. ‘'Twas dusk, sir, before I had time to view the corpse. The rags seemed proof that he was a vagabond.'

‘Not proof enough, as you can see. What say you now, concerning the rags?'

‘Why, sir –' The constable hesitated, his eyes bulging with the effort of thought. Then his brow lightened. ‘Why, he was a penitent on pilgrimage! His sins were so grievous to God that he dressed in rags and walked barefoot as part of his penance. There's many such on the road. And murder is done easily enough, as we all know – a jostling, a harsh word, then tempers flare and knives are out.

‘Aye' – the constable warmed to his imagining – ‘there you have it, sir! The man was a penitent, come from a distance on pilgrimage and set upon by some vagabond at the ford. The knife wound did not kill him, and so he was battered to death. We cannot know who he is. Let us ask the priest to give him a Christian burial, and have done.'

Justice Throssell fingered the grey wisp of his beard. ‘What do you say, Master Will Ackland?'

‘Shall we see t'other side of the corpse, sir?' suggested Will. ‘We may learn something more from that.'

At a nod from the justice the two Hobs turned the corpse over, retrieving the limbs as they flopped awry. And immediately there was a stirring of interest, and of some alarm, for what was now revealed was a large splash of roughened crimson skin on the man's left buttock.

‘Save us, Holy Mother of God,' cried the sexton, crossing himself as did his son. ‘'A's been touched by the Devil!'

‘Not so,' Will said quickly. ‘There was a companion of mine in the wars, who died of his wounds. He had just such a hidden birthmark, known to none until his body was stripped for burial. And he was as good a Christian man as any I've known, and died as godly a death. There's naught to fear – as Master Justice Throssell and the constable will tell you.'

The constable had looked uneasy, as though he would gladly have crossed himself too, but he had taken his cue from the justice. Now he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘Aye, aye,' he agreed.

‘Indeed. And now we have some means of recognition after all,' said Justice Throssell with satisfaction. ‘Not public recognition, I grant you – but enough for a wife's proof, if her husband is missing.'

‘He could have walked fifty mile or more!' protested the constable. ‘We cannot search Norfolk and Suffolk for missing husbands!'

‘Nor do I suggest it. But we cannot bury the corpse unknown, master constable, until we are sure he is not from this parish.'

The justice turned to Hob the elder. ‘Now, master sexton. You are the expert here, for you have been burying our corpses these twenty years and more. How long has this man been dead?'

Hob puffed out his chest, well pleased with the recognition of his craft. ‘Aye, sir,' he beamed, showing the brown stumps of his teeth. ‘Sexton for twenty-three year, and 'prentice to my father afore that, as young Hob is to me. Now, as to this corse …'

He moved importantly round the trestle, waving away the flies, prodding and sniffing at the body, and nodding his head wisely. ‘'Tis a matter of how long a's been in the water, for water will hasten the bloating. Now, some corses I have buried—'

‘Your judgement, if you please,' interrupted Justice Throssell.

‘Aye, well, sir –' Knowing better than to vex him by any further delay the sexton pronounced, ticking off the time on his earthy fingers: ‘Three days, by my reckoning. A'did not die today – nor yesterday when the corse was found – but the day afore that.'