‘The priory …’ he snarled, thumping the table with his fist. ‘God’s death, the Acklands were once landlords of this valley. Now we are mere tenants of a religious house!’
Will tried to calm him.
‘Gib, it has been thus these two hundred years and more,’ he said, reaching for the dish of walnuts. ‘Our family has never had money since, save for our grandfather’s marriage to the widow who paid for the building of this house. Our late father, God rest his soul, paid his tithe and his rent as you do – but without complaint, as I remember.’
‘He loved the priory, that is why,’ snapped Gilbert. ‘I do not.’
‘Our upbringing was different,’ Will reminded him. ‘We were not educated by the monks, as he was. He loved the priory for its great processions, and the sound of plainchant.’
‘And for the sight of its great treasures, the gold and the silver and the jewels! Our father loved the priory better than he loved his children. He thought it right,’ said Gilbert between clenched teeth, ‘that the rents and tithes we sweat to pay should be used to beautify the priory church. Aye, and to build the prior a fine new lodging, too! Body of God’ – he swept aside the dish with the remains of the mutton pie and sent it clanging to the floor, where the meat was seized upon by the dogs – ‘how it angers me!’
Will split open a green walnut with his knife, and began to prise out the twisted kernel with long fingers that were soon stained by the juice.
‘From what I’ve heard on my travels,’ he said evenly, ‘religious houses oppress their tenants no more than any other great landlord. Would you rather your payments were used to build a nobleman’s palace, and to adorn the ladies of his family?’
Gilbert did not answer, but stabbed moodily at a wooden trencher with the sharp point of his knife.
‘As for Prior Nicholas himself,’ Will went on, ‘our father always spoke of him as a just landlord. What has changed him, since you became tenant here?’
‘It’s naught to do with the prior,’ said Gilbert scornfully. ‘He is too lordly to concern himself with such matters. My enemy is the whole priory – and their bailiff who collects the rent and tithe.’
Will was surprised. ‘I remember the prior’s bailiff as a jovial man. He would visit the castle once a year to assess us for the tithe, but all he did was to sit in the buttery drinking ale and talking of old times. Whatever my father sent to the priory as tithe, that he accepted.’
‘Ha! That was the old bailiff, who had respect for the Ackland name. There has been a new bailiff these three years, Walter Bostock. He exacts from me every last grain of corn he considers due. Aye, and he enjoys doing it!’
Gilbert pushed himself up from the table and strode about the room mouthing his rage, his face in the flickering light as grotesque as any gargoyle’s.
‘I see Walter Bostock everywhere, not only riding round the land but within the castle itself. I am a freeholder, here within these walls, and the landlord’s bailiff has no right to enter my gates. But Bostock comes to pry in my barns by right of collecting tithe, and I cannot deny him. He watches and counts and makes a note of all I produce. He knows every strip of corn, every field of hay, every horse, beast, sheep, hog and fowl. He knows of every creature born, every ounce of honey made by the bees, every jugful of milk and ale. Nothing escapes him.
‘And then there are death payments. Walter Bostock came here ten days ago and threatened me with the law. He said he had seen in an old account book that we had made no payment on my father’s death. He demanded it there and then: not only my best beast, to go to the priory which is my landlord, but also my second best beast, to go to the priory which steals what is due to the parish church!’
Gilbert came back to the table in a rush, eyes gleaming through his tangle of hair and beard.
‘Now do you understand me, brother?’ he hissed. ‘God’s blood, how could any man endure what I have suffered from the prior’s bailiff!’
And saying so, he snatched up his knife and plunged it deep in the cheese, up to the hilt.
Chapter Four
The sky next morning was a sharper blue, for the wind lay with its feet towards the morning. An overnight breath of frost had put a chill in the bright air, and all of Castleacre – the castle, the town, the priory – was sprinkled with the first falling of yellow leaves.
It was the feast day of St Matthew and the bells of all the churches filled the valley with their ringing. Every parishioner had an obligation to attend Mass at the parish church on saints’days and Sundays, and Will accompanied Meg and poor Alice, with their servants. Gilbert, risking his absence being reported by the churchwardens to the archdeacon, had ridden out early, no one knew where. As for Ned Pye, he had scant regard for the church and belonged to no parish. Short of sleep after a night of activity in the town, he had returned to his straw pallet and pulled his blanket over his ears to muffle the noise of the bells.
Alice walked slowly, and the nave was already crowded with parishioners by the time they arrived, the infirm on the benches by the wall and everyone else standing. In comparison with the priory church, the parish church was small and poorly endowed, but even so the interior blazed with candlelit colour. All of it – the roof timbers, the great crucifix above the rood screen between chancel and nave, the sculpted stone, the plastered walls, the carved ends of the benches – was brightly painted, not only with religious subjects but with every part of God’s Creation, in a lively confusion of birds and beasts and flowers and stars.
There were saints by the score: large and small, fashioned in stone and wood, painted singly or depicted in vivid scenes from their lives. Every parishioner was intent on lighting a candle and praying to one or other of them, as well as lighting a candle in honour of St Matthew.
Alice wanted, with good reason, to address her prayers to Our Lady. Will and Meg escorted their sister-in-law to the alabaster statue and stood close to protect her from the crush. The statue glittered with the many golden and jewelled offerings that had been made over the centuries, some of them by the Ackland family, most recently by Alice herself. Despite her past disappointments, and her fears for the child she carried, she remained steadfast in her devotion. Her face as she prayed shone with the fervour of her belief that through Our Lady’s intercession, the child might yet be born alive.
Will was doubtful of such a miracle. But as he took Alice’s arm and made a way through the crowds so that she could reach a bench, he reflected that she was still a young woman – unlike King Henry’s Queen – and there was every hope that she would bear a living child in the future. Sorry as he was for his sister-in-law, his private prayers while the priest celebrated the Mass beyond the rood screen were not for her, but for his dead wife Anne.
He returned to the castle in a mood of sadness and remorse, and was not disposed to be indulgent with Ned Pye. Finding his servant still snoring, Will tipped him off his pallet on to the floor and threw a pan of cold water over his head.
‘Hell’s jaws!’ spluttered Ned, aggrieved. He sat up and spat out a mouthful of water. ‘I’m wet as a herring.’
‘Pickled as, more like. Shave yourself, and put on a clean shirt, for my godfather is expecting us to call on him.’
When Ned was fit to be seen, they walked together – Will for the second time that morning – along the cobbles of Castlegate. This was the oldest street in the town, where the weavers lived. Its tall narrow houses, built of timbers infilled with wattle and daub, and thatched with reed from the riverside, were huddled so close that they seemed to prop each other up.
On any other weekday the women would have been spinning within their open doors, and the street would have been loud with the repeated clack-clack of shuttles thrown across looms. But the church enjoined the laity to observe each feast day, after Mass, as a holy day during which they did no work, and most of them needed no second bidding.
Will’s intention had been to introduce his servant to the townsfolk they met as they walked along Cas
tlegate. But Ned had always been a useful man on their travels, making it his immediate business wherever they rested to find out who was who and what was what, and it seemed from his various greetings that he had been introducing himself already.
‘How now, my liking?’ he called up to the daughter of a house who leaned from an overhanging window as they passed. ‘Shall we meet in the market place?’ She favoured him with a smile and a twirling of her long hair through her fingers, but before anything more could be said she was pulled sternly away by her mother, who glared down at him and slammed the shutter to.
‘One of your conquests from last night?’ asked Will.
‘Never clapped eyes on her’til this moment,’ said Ned cheerfully. ‘But it’s useful to have a few spare strings to my bow.’
‘Ah – you’re reconciled to a stay in Castleacre, then?’
‘That I am not! Half a day will exhaust its poor pleasures, and those I would gladly forgo. Give me the word, Master Will, and I’ll be packed and saddled for London before you can pull on your riding boots.’
‘Not so fast. There’s disquiet in my family, and I must attend to that first. You know of it, no doubt?’
‘I know your brother is at the root of it,’ said Ned bluntly. ‘All the servants, indoors and out, go in fear of him.’
‘And what do they say is the cause of his anger?’
‘Why, everything to do with the priory. Most of all the prior’s bailiff.’
‘So I learned from Gilbert himself. Saddle the horses directly after dinner, Ned. We’ll go in search of the bailiff, and see for ourselves whether he’s more unreasonable than my brother.’
Castleacre was now a-buzz with happy anticipation. The two men followed a rising hubbub until they reached the middle of the town, where the market place sloped down from the parish church. Most of the shops fronted this place, as did the Woolpack inn and several alehouses with which Ned seemed already familiar. Early in the day as it was, all of them were busy.
The pilgrims were still at their devotions in the priory church, but holiday-makers from throughout the valley had come crowding to Castleacre, intent on enjoying themselves. In the market place, hucksters were crying their wares and jugglers competed to provide entertainment, trying to keep in the air whatever they could seize – apples, onions, turnips, eggs – from the baskets of wondering countryfolk. An ape on the end of a chain leaped gibbering on folk’s shoulders, causing shrieks and laughter. Children and dogs dodged about. Outlandishly costumed players gestured and shouted, one musician turned a hurdy-gurdy while others blew mightily on horns and bag-pipes, bawdy songs were sung and dances were danced. And as Will pushed a way through the crowds he came again upon the mangy bear, standing upright in its chains to perform a sad shuffle. He gave it a nod of acknowledgement, at the same time tossing a few pence into the cap of the bearward’s boy for the valour of his unheard piping.
With Ned lagging, for he had interests of his own, Will made for Northgate. This street left the market place at its highest point, beside the church tower, and very soon narrowed to become the continuation of the Peddars’Way. It led on towards the sea coast, from where it was said the old Romans had crossed the Wash by ferry on their way to Lincoln.
For all its shortness, Northgate was a street of importance. To one side, behind the church, stood the ancient timber-and-flint gildhall. On the opposite side of the street were the almshouses, and the grammar school where Will and Gib had been sent to learn Latin. And in this street stood the finest house in the town, that of Will’s godfather, an old friend of his late father.
Lawrence Throssell was a man of law, having practised as a barrister at Westminster and Norwich. Three times a widower, and now nearing sixty, he had finally returned to Castleacre to undertake the office of a justice of the peace, and to enjoy his garden.
Will was deeply indebted to his godfather. Lawrence Throssell had provided funds to enable him to follow in his own footsteps, and Will felt rightly abashed that he had abandoned his lengthy studies a year before their completion to chase off to the wars.
There was, though, a greater cause for Will’s unease as he neared his godfather’s house. It was not merely his studies that he had left to go to war, but his new wife. When he married Anne, she was Lawrence Throssell’s only surviving child. Now, he expected a justly harsh reception from her childless father.
‘Is my chin still bleeding where I nicked it with my knife when I shaved?’ Will demanded of his servant, voicing trivialities to conceal his anxiety. ‘Are you sure my coat is clean?’
‘Have done, Master Will,’ said Ned Pye, giving his shoulder a clap that served both to convey encouragement and to remove some dust he had omitted to brush off. ‘You’ll pass muster. I’ll see you safe inside, and after that I have business of my own to attend to. If you need me afore dinner, you’ll find me at the sign of the Green Man.’
They had come to the house built by Lawrence Throssell’s father, who had made his fortune in the cloth trade in the reign of King Henry VII. The house was built of timbers infilled with brick, the same size as the Acklands’ but much finer in construction and detail, with two chimney stacks on the tiled roof, each stack supporting a cluster of chimneys, and each chimney differently built in a twisting pattern of bricks. Its garden was at the back, and its many-paned windows looked out directly on Northgate street.
Preparing himself for the difficult meeting with Anne’s father, Will drew a deep breath before knocking on the heavy door. It was opened by a serving man, who made way immediately for a small, upright gentleman with a wisp of grey beard, wearing a skull cap and a long gown of fine worsted cloth.
‘Godfather –’ said Will, making him the reverence that was his due.
‘William,’ returned Lawrence Throssell, standing on tip-toe to embrace his godson. His voice was small and his movements bird-like in their quickness. ‘I thank God you are safe home.’
His welcome held warmth, but at a distance. He did not smile wholeheartedly until he turned to Will’s servant. ‘And you, sirrah – you must be Ned Pye who saved my godson’s life! Come, let me greet you.’
Ned came forward, red-faced, wiping his hands down the back of his jerkin.
‘’Twas no more than any good servant would have done,’ he mumbled, enveloping the small hand Justice Throssell held out to him. ‘In truth, Master Will was as valiant a soldier as any on the battlefield, and I am proud to serve him.’ Then he leaned forward and added in a loud whisper, ‘But I dare not tell him so, or he would dock my wages.’
Lawrence Throssell gave a chirrup of a laugh. ‘I see you are as big a knave as he wrote to tell me. Take this for my thanks, Ned Pye,’ he added, handing him a well-filled purse, ‘And God keep you.’
Ned’s eyes rounded as he felt the weight of the purse. ‘I thank you, sir! And I would have you know that your town of Castleacre is as fine as any I have seen in England. Aye, and in Europe, too! I was saying so to Master Will only this morning …’ And with a great grin at both of them he strode off jauntily towards the market place.
His godfather’s embrace had not reassured Will, for the old gentleman was too courteous to show displeasure in front of a servant. Despite his seeming fragility, Lawrence Throssell was stern in judgement. The matter between them would have to be resolved. It could not be ignored, on either side, in a pretence of forgetting.
But the presence throughout the house of the justice’s own servants, peering round doorways to bob and smile sadly at the husband of their late young mistress Anne, hindered private conversation. As they went through the oak-panelled hall, Will could do no more than make enquiry after his godfather’s health.
‘I hope I see you well, sir?’
‘Tolerably well, I thank God, though the east wind that blows up the valley vexes my bones.’
‘Ah yes,’ Will offered a sympathetic pleasantry: ‘The lazy Norfolk wind, that never troubles to go round but blows straight through you. My grandfather used to compla
in of it.’
They had entered the parlour at the back of the house, and a servant followed bringing wine. He was about to pour it, but Lawrence Throssell dismissed him and left the wine unpoured. Still standing he turned, straight-faced, to Will. The room was warm, with a flickering log in the hearth and sunlight coming through the windows, but a distinct coolness lay between them.
‘Sir,’ said Will, pulling off his cap and gripping it in his fingers. He felt as uneasy as when he had come here, with nothing but his eventual prospects as a lawyer to commend him, to ask Anne’s father for her hand in marriage. The fine room, with its linenfold panelling round the walls, and the entwined initials of Lawrence Throssell’s parents carved among foliage on the bressumer above the deep chimney place, was sadly familiar. ‘I beg you to hear what I have to say.’
Stiffly straight, his hands clasped, Master Justice Throssell prepared to listen – as he would to any defendant brought before him. Though he was smaller than his godson by a head, there was no doubting his authority.
‘Well, William Ackland?’
‘Sir –’ repeated Will, his voice firm but deeply sincere. ‘I caused you much grief by leaving your daughter – my wife – to go to the wars. Truly, I know not how to ask your forgiveness. But I beg you to believe this: it was not for want of love for Anne that I left, nor for want of love for you that I failed to return before now. And though my grief for her untimely death cannot outweigh a loving father’s, yet it has caused me more pain than you could ever wish on me.’
Lawrence Throssell’s eyes had clouded. His first words were low with sadness. ‘I never wished pain on you, Will.’
Then his eyes cleared to a piercing blue and his voice grew stern. ‘But I was angry with you. Many a carefree student leaves his books to go to the wars, and that I could forgive. But for a new-married man to leave his wife when she was with child – that was the work of a common rogue!’
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