Ned stood up and brushed the dust of Castleacre off the seat of his hose. ‘Amen to that,’ he said fervently.
An uneasy quiet hung over the yard. Even the geese and the dunghill roosters seemed subdued as Gilbert Ackland, morose as a captive bear, prowled within the confines of his castle walls.
Will approached his brother in the orchard, careful not to give the impression that he was cornering him. For his part, Gib knew better than to receive his benefactor with a snarl; but his bitterness towards the rest of the world was undisguised. Only the news of the constable’s black eye seemed to give him any satisfaction.
Will guessed that his brother had kept his liaison with Sibbel Bostock a secret for fear of the long reach of church law. Had word of it got to the churchwardens’ears, he would have been summoned before the archdeacon’s court and either heavily fined or sentenced to imprisonment for adultery. But that was now of small significance. Finding himself in danger of being hanged for murder, Gib was at last prepared to answer his brother’s questions, though he did so with resentment.
Yes, he had fought with Thomas Gosnold yesterday – and Sibbel Bostock had been the cause.
It was at Michaelmas the previous year that he had first accepted her invitation to taste her elderberry wine. Since then, he had visited her whenever her husband was away on priory business.
‘That must have given you a double satisfaction,’ suggested Will. ‘Not only did you enjoy Mistress Bostock, but you cuckolded your enemy the bailiff into the bargain.’
‘Aye – it pleased me well at first. Then I began to suspect that I had a rival. Sibbel denied it … but I’ve been in torment these past few months. Then, yesterday –’
Gilbert snatched a ripe apple from a tree and hurled it viciously against the castle wall, where it splattered on impact.
‘I found Thomas Gosnold with her! By God – if I’d already murdered the bailiff I would ha’killed the constable too.’
Will tried to give his brother some consolation. ‘I doubt that you and the constable were the only men to enjoy her favours, Gib. Mistress Bostock offers a taste of her elderberry wine to any man who’s to her liking. And if we’re to discover the murderer, we must know every one of them. Do you have reason to suspect anyone else?’
Gilbert swelled with rage. The priory bell had begun to ring for the early evening service of Vespers, but he had no difficulty in making himself heard above its sound.
‘God’s blood – haven’t I already pointed you to the murderer? Thomas Gosnold had reason enough to want to rid himself of the bailiff. Aye, and he had opportunity, too. And the authority to escape justice by claiming the body was unknown. Have the constable arrested, and let me go free!’
Will gave him a few moments to calm himself. ‘So that you can return to Sibbel Bostock’s arms?’ he suggested, not unkindly.
Gilbert’s outburst had abated. He turned his great head towards his brother, his eyes wretched amid the tangle of his hair and beard.
‘I’God’s name,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘I love the wench … She bewitches me. I cannot leave her be …’
Recalling the lustrous black-eyed charms of Sibbel Bostock, Will had no difficulty in understanding. It seemed to him that his brother was as much in thrall to her as King Henry was to Anne Boleyn, a woman made in a similar mould. And how it would end, for man, monarch or mistresses, he could not begin to guess.
Chapter Ninteen
At supper, Will told the family of the death of Jankin Kett, though not of his ill-treatment nor of the likelihood that others had played a part in his drowning. Meg was sad for a time, less perhaps for Jankin himself than for their vanished childhood of which he had been a part. Even Gib muttered a God ha’mercy. And by the time Will had finished explaining to them that Jankin’s death had been an accident, he had almost come to believe it himself.
He slept lightly and was up and about by Sunday cock-crow, eager for the meeting with Julian Corbyn that the day would bring. Ned Pye was eager too, heartened by the prospect of returning to London as soon as he could find the bailiff’s murderer. He went whistling about his duties, cleaning his master’s boots until they shone, sharpening Will’s knife to a fine edge for shaving, and fetching a second basin of hot water without too much grumbling.
The whole valley was blanketed by September mist as the Ackland household set out to join the rest of the parish at Mass. Too weary to make the journey, Alice remained at home with her rosary; but Gilbert went with them, wanting to escape the confines of the castle and no doubt hopeful of catching sight of Sibbel Bostock. As for Ned Pye, he rode off on his own, intent on taking advantage of the mist and the Mass by exploring Southacre while the constable and his household were in church.
Afterwards, Will changed from his Sunday clothes into his finery. As he came down from the stair-turret to re-enter the hall he found that every female in the castle had gathered to take a look at him, the older women servants murmuring approval, the younger ones blushing and giggling in answer to his raillery.
Agnes had brought Betsy to see her father, but his fine appearance made her shy again. She peeped out at him from a doorway, and hesitated when he called to her. ‘Come, sweet Betsy,’ he coaxed, bending down with his hands outstretched, but she would only laugh and run away.
His sister and Alice were waiting for him in the hall: not in order to admire him, Meg pointed out firmly, nor yet to receive his thanks, but simply to ensure that he was fit to be seen at Oxmead.
‘I despair of you, William Ackland …’ She sighed as she looked him over. ‘You’d be almost presentable, if it weren’t for that great bruise on your cheek. It passes belief that a man of your learning should choose to brawl with your brother! A Cambridge Master of Arts, indeed … I cannot imagine what Sir Ralph will think of you.’
‘He’ll think me a lucky fellow, to have a sister so careful of my welfare,’ he teased her. ‘And have no fear about the bruise – I’ll wear my new cap over one eye, so the feather will hide it.’
‘Have done,’ said Meg crossly. ‘And listen to me, for I have more care for your welfare than you realise.’
She put one hand on Will’s arm and walked with him to the door of the hall.
‘Mistress Julian,’ she said as they went, ‘is as beautiful a maiden as you’ll find – and a match for you in spirit. But do not lose your heart to her, Will. She is not for you.’
He began to protest that he had no thought of it, but his sister cut him short. ‘When Sir Ralph was here, he told me of the good marriages he had secured for all three of his older daughters. He has no son-in-law without wealth, nor below the rank of knight. As for Julian, he dotes on her. He would never allow his beloved youngest child to marry a penniless gentleman. And besides—’
‘What else?’ said Will ungraciously, thinking that Master Justice Throssell had not been so censorious when he’d asked for the hand of his daughter. But then, the justice was his godfather, and no doubt regarded him with indulgence.
‘Sir Ralph,’ Meg warned, ‘already has a marriage in mind for Julian – to the second son of his near neighbour, Lord Stradsett.’ She gave her brother’s arm a consolatory squeeze. ‘I’m sure he made a point of telling me this because he thinks well of you. He does not want you to go to Oxmead under any misapprehension.’
Numbed by disappointment, he made no reply. They had reached the open front door, and his horse stood groomed and ready in the yard. Old Jacob led it forward, and Meg gave her brother an encouraging smile as he prepared to mount.
‘I know you’ll make a good impression on Sir Ralph. And, Will –’
‘What now?’ he glowered.
‘As you go through Swaffham, be so good as to buy me a lemon if you can find one – there’ve been none to be had in Castleacre all summer.’
Will left the castle in a towering ill-humour, urging his mount across the bridge and through the town at a pace that sent people and livestock scattering.
It irked him tha
t everyone in the household assumed that he was going to Oxmead in the hope of wooing Julian Corbyn; and it irked him even more that they were right. But what he had just heard from Meg had thrown him into confusion. Though his head understood only too well, his pride rejected his understanding.
He thundered across the ford and south on the Peddars’Way. It was good to be riding out again, after spending so long at Castleacre, and the activity soon began to restore his spirits. So did the sun: it had sucked up the early mist, and the September light was now as golden-warm as honey … or as the remembered glow in Julian’s eyes. Dismissing Meg’s warning, he rode on with fresh hope.
He eased his horse’s pace as the road climbed Bartholomew’s Hills, and made amends for his haste through the town by acknowledging other travellers along the Way. At the crossroads, the long-dead corpse dangling from the gibbet gave him a moment’s apprehensiveness on Gilbert’s behalf. But, crossing himself as he passed it, he felt confident of establishing his brother’s innocence. There was good reason to believe that the constable had murdered the bailiff, and it was reassuring to know that Ned Pye was even now searching for proof of Thomas Gosnold’s guilt.
Before long he reached Swaffham, a market town bigger than Castleacre, with an arguably finer parish church but with neither castle nor priory to give it importance, let alone a shrine to bring pilgrims and prosperity. He found the lemon Meg wanted, though in truth it was a poor wizened thing and not worth the price. Then he sought out the draper’s shop that Sibbel Bostock had told him of, and revealed to the bailiff’s aunt that her nephew was dead.
The aunt, a busy old widow with a sharp tongue, was neither grieved by Walter Bostock’s death nor unduly surprised to hear that he had been murdered. He’d always been a man who made enemies, she said. And he was miserly with his money – why, he’d never spent so much as a groat in her shop …
Will took the hint and, at the cost of sufficient sky-blue cloth to make Betsy a cloak, he learned something more about the bailiff and his wife. Then he rode on, as far to the south of Swaffham as Castleacre was to the north, and so came to Oxmead.
The village, in flatter land than Castleacre, well wooded and near a slower river, consisted of little more than the church and rectory, a few farmsteads and a huddle of cottages. All the land hereabouts, and more elsewhere, had belonged to the Corbyns for generations. Sir Ralph’s father had chosen the site fifty years ago for the building of a great square red brick house, and as Will rode towards it he could see the battlemented turrets of its gate-tower rising high above the intervening trees.
Though the gatetower was fortified, and approached by a bridge over the moat that surrounded the whole building, these apparent defences were nothing more than symbols of prosperity and pride. The waters were shallow, casting delicate reflections on the walls that rose directly from them; the mullioned windows were large so as to let in the light. For all its warlike pretence, Oxmead Hall was a mansion built in and for times of peace.
Eager to set eyes on Julian again, Will dismounted under the gatetower, left his horse with a groom and walked through to the great open court that stood square in the centre of the house. His host, Sir Ralph, emerged from the main doorway on the opposite side of the court and came forward to meet him, spare, trimly bearded and formidably sharp-eyed.
‘A word with you, Will, before we go in,’ he said when they had exchanged greetings. ‘It concerns my daughter.’
‘Sir?’ said Will stiffly, thinking that Sir Ralph meant to warn him off in person. But it seemed that it was not Julian’s future marriage that her father had in mind.
‘She has known you since she was a child,’ said Sir Ralph as they paced the court together, ‘and I believe she has hopes of you as an ally. She speaks demurely of wanting to discuss foreign modes of dress with you, but she does not deceive me.
‘Whenever I am absent from Oxmead – and in winter, when the dampness cannot be borne – Julian accompanies her mother, my lady wife, to Norwich. They stay with her brother, Alderman Mancroft, and his wife. But there are dangerous ideas abroad in Norwich, heresies imported from the Low Countries, and I fear my daughter may have caught the infection. These notions must be uprooted from her mind, Will, and I rely on you to help me. I have already informed her of her folly. Before you leave here, I want you to take her aside and persuade her of it.’
‘I am at your service, sir,’ said Will solemnly, concealing his pleasure at being given her father’s permission to speak to Julian in private. The approach of a party of horsemen prevented any further conversation. At their head as they clattered across the bridge rode an elderly man with a flowing grey beard, a nobleman by his dress, followed by attendants and grooms.
‘Ah, my good friend and neighbour Lord Stradsett!’ said Sir Ralph with satisfaction. ‘He’s hampered by deafness but he likes to have company about him – and to remind me of his interest in Julian on his son’s behalf. No need for you to attempt to speak to him. You’ll find that nods and smiles will serve you well.’
Sir Ralph and Lady Corbyn were known throughout the county as good hosts, and there were always guests at their table. On this occasion, besides Lord Stradsett and Will, there were also Alderman Augustine Mancroft, a portly, dignified man, and his taller, thinner wife, on a reciprocal visit from Norwich. The youthful household chaplain, Father Woodiss, was present too, but he was largely disregarded.
Will was instantly aware of Julian as he entered the great galleried hall in the wake of Lord Stradsett; and she, he believed, of him. But as was proper he paid his first courtesies to Lady Corbyn, a comfortably rounded woman, so secure in her rank that she was still content to wear the outmoded gable hood.
Mistress Mancroft, her long-faced sister-in-law, was spikily conscious that she and her husband had no standing in the county of Norfolk. But she compensated for this by wearing more fashionable clothing than her husband’s sister, including the new French hood that Julian also wore. As Will soon discovered, Mistress Mancroft never tired of pointing out that in Norwich, the largest city in the kingdom after London, her husband was one of the leading citizens by virtue of his wealth as a merchant, his importance as an alderman, and the fact that he had twice been mayor.
Will released himself from their company as soon as he could, and sought out Julian. She greeted him with a lively grace, the bright brown hair that was spread over the shoulders of her blue gown delighting his eye; but her attentions were principally confined to Lord Stradsett, leaving Will downcast. His spirits did not lift until after the horns had sounded for dinner, when Julian chose to walk beside him as they went through to the smaller hall.
‘Your appearance is much finer than when I saw you last,’ she told him with a smile. ‘The purple of that bruise on your cheek goes well with your doublet … Tell me, is fist-fighting one of your usual pastimes?’
‘Only when I argue with my brother,’ he said lightly. ‘You should see his bruises.’
‘Worse?’
‘Much worse.’
They laughed, acknowledging pleasure in each other’s company, and then were separated. Sir Ralph took the centre of the long table, with Lord Stradsett and Lady Corbyn on one side of him and Will and the chaplain on the other. Julian sat opposite her father, with her uncle and aunt on either side. Men servants bustled about the hall, offering each diner a silver basin of water and a towel. The household dogs prowled round in hopeful uncertainty, with the exception of one small hound that sat alert on Lady Corbyn’s lap, confident of being fed with the choicest morsels from the many dishes that crowded the table.
Before the dinner was served, Sir Ralph called on his chaplain to say grace. Father Woodiss, who had effaced himself until now, made the most of this opportunity to be heard and gave a blessing in such lengthy Latin that Sir Ralph cut short the flow with a firm Amen.
Julian immediately addressed Lady Corbyn, with apparent innocence. ‘Do you not regret – as I do, mother – that the chaplain’s eloquence is wasted on
those of us who have no Latin? After all, you named me for Dame Julian the anchoress of Norwich, who wrote all her prayers in English. And that was more than a hundred years ago.’
‘Have done,’ said Lady Corbyn uncomfortably, but Julian’s parade of innocence continued.
‘Across the North Sea, as I’ve heard, there are some who not only use prayer books but even read the Bible in their own tongue! Can that possibly be true, Master Will?’ she said, turning to him.
Her lively brown eyes had mischief in them. But he knew from what her father had said that her intent was serious, and so he made a diplomatic answer. ‘They do things differently in foreign countries, Mistress Julian.’
Sir Ralph slammed his palm on the table. ‘Those you speak of deny the authority of the church. They are heretics, in any language!’ he said fiercely. ‘I forbid you to make mention of them. Especially in front of my Lord Stradsett,’ he added, disregarding the fact that his lordship was about to embark on a partridge, succulently roasted with garlic, onions and pears, and had no notion of what had been said.
‘You know full well, daughter,’ Sir Ralph continued formidably, wagging his finger at her, ‘that the word of God has been handed down in Latin, and is interpreted for us by the church. It always has been so, and always will be, and there’s an end on’t. Now be silent.’ He raised his voice at the servants: ‘Wine for my lord, I say! Bring us more wine!’
Soundly rebuked, Julian sat with her head lowered, eating little. Will, gazing at the glowing colour of her hair, hoped to offer her the support of a smile, but she would not lift her eyes. She appeared outwardly obedient, taking no further part in the conversation, but a rebellious patch of red burned on either cheek.
Lady Corbyn diverted attention from her daughter by pressing her guests to taste other dishes. As the partridges and capons on the table were replaced by venison and roast ribs of beef, conversation turned from harvest, rents and taxes to the never-ending problem of beggars and vagabonds. But soon, as at every other table in the country, they began to discuss King Henry’s proposed divorce.
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