Their sympathies lay, as did those of most people throughout the land, with the wronged Queen. Their anger toward Mistress Anne Boleyn was all the stronger because she was Norfolk-born, and they spoke censoriously of her as Nan Bullen. Mistress Mancroft described her as ‘a brazen hussy’; the alderman as ‘the King’s whore’. They appealed to Will, who had been in London most recently, for the latest news of her, and he told them on good authority that she now had her own apartments near the King’s at Hampton Court, and was always referred to as ‘the Lady Anne’.
‘“Lady” indeed!’ protested Lady Corbyn, her feathers ruffled.
‘But at least,’ said Sir Ralph, ‘she helped to bring down Cardinal Wolsey. We should be grateful to her for that.’
There was immediate agreement, for no one present had a good word to say for Thomas Wolsey. He had risen from humble origins (‘His father was nothing more than a butcher of Ipswich!’ sniffed Mistress Mancroft) to become the most powerful of the King’s subjects, not only Lord Chancellor but also a Cardinal of the church, and the Pope’s representative in England.
The grumbles against him were many. The Cardinal was an unchaste priest, with a concubine and at least one child. The Cardinal had strengthened the power of the church in this country, to the disadvantage of men of honest endeavour. The Cardinal was corrupt, taking bribes in return for favours, and making use of the revenues of the church to become the richest man in the land. The Cardinal had lived in great splendour, and had more courtiers about him than the King.
‘But for all that,’ pointed out Sir Ralph, ‘it was the King’s favour – and latterly Anne Boleyn’s – that kept him so high. He gave King Henry the great new palace he’d built at Hampton Court in the hope of retaining that favour; but to no avail. When it was withdrawn, he was bound to fall.’
Lord Stradsett, who had himself been at Court in his younger days, had been straining to follow the conversation with a hand cupped to his ear.
‘A man cannot serve two masters,’ he pronounced, in a booming voice that made his beard-hair flutter. ‘When Wolsey sat in judgement last year on the matter of the King’s divorce, he was acting for both Pope and King. He could not please both. He failed to obtain the divorce, and so the King stripped him of office.’
‘And of all his other palaces, lands and goods,’ said Alderman Mancroft with satisfaction. ‘With all that wealth to replace what he lost by the last French war, the King should have no need to raise our taxes!’
‘It should keep him in funds – and his mistress in jewellery – for a year or two at least,’ agreed Sir Ralph dryly. ‘I heard that she and the King were taken by boat, in disguise, to Wolsey’s fine new house by the Thames near Westminster, so that they might gloat over the treasures it contained.’
Lady Corbyn clucked with disapproval. ‘But what has happened to the Cardinal since his fall?’ she asked.
‘He was imprisoned, for exercising the power of the Pope in the King’s realm.’
‘But where imprisoned? In the Tower of London?’ asked Mistress Mancroft with unbecoming eagerness, for she knew that few emerged from that dread place.
‘No, no –’ said Sir Ralph. ‘At least, not yet.’
‘But he will be executed?’ his sister-in-law persisted.
He shrugged. ‘If the King wills it. Though I hear Wolsey’s ill, and may not live to reach the Tower.’
‘Ah me,’ sighed Lady Corbyn, not with sympathy for Thomas Wolsey but in fearful wonder at the workings of Church and State. ‘That anyone so great – and standing so high in the King’s favour – should fall so far …’
Lord Stradsett tugged his beard. ‘I would not be a courtier in these uneasy times, for all the riches in Christendom. In King Harry’s younger days, we always guarded our tongues on pain of dismissal. But now, I hear, they have a new watchword: ‘The anger of the Prince means death.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Your father’s hospitality is too generous,’ said Will as he and Julian escaped from the house into the sunlight. ‘I thought dinner would never be done …’
‘And such gloom in their conversation! But at least he has granted me leave to talk to you before you go. Oh, Will – I am happy to have you here at Oxmead again.’
Freed from her father’s observation she laughed, plucked up the front of her skirts and ran lightly across the brick bridge that spanned the moat. Will stood for a moment under the shadow of the gatetower, watching her; barely conscious of the green smell of the water as it lapped against the walls, but piercingly aware of the swirl of Julian’s russet hair against her throat as she turned, smiling, to look back at him.
He hurried after her, quickening his pace to a run as she crossed the mown grass beyond the bridge and entered the gardens, where he had used to chase her years ago. This time, though, she was not hiding but waiting for him. Her lightheartedness had been replaced by a solemn air.
‘I have something to tell you that no one else must hear. Promise me that whatever we speak of shall be our secret?’
‘Does it concern your betrothal?’ he asked warily.
Julian was indignant. ‘No – I am not betrothed! If you thought me attentive to his lordship before dinner, that was only to deceive my father. Francis Stradsett is a nincompoop. I’d sooner enter a nunnery than have him as a husband.’
Will’s hopes burgeoned as they walked together through gardens smelling warmly of box and sweet-briar and sun-ripe apples. But, dazzled as he was by her nearness, he had wit enough to conceal his pleasure.
‘Then I hope your father does not take you at your word,’ he teased her, ‘for I think you’d like the life of a nun even less.’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘No matter. What I want to ask, Will, is whether you ever saw Mistress Anne Boleyn when you were in London?’
‘Only at a distance.’ He began to speak of the appearance of the King’s mistress, but Julian cut him short.
‘Everyone here condemns her out of hand. But in Norwich, there are some who speak in her favour. She is a learned lady, I believe?’
Forewarned by her father, Will was guarded. ‘Anne Boleyn is clever, certainly. She was trained at the French court, and speaks and reads their language.’
‘I’ve heard that she often reads the Bible in French. She has a French translation, imported to this country for her own use.’
‘Has she? I have no knowledge of that.’
Julian turned on him with a passionate impatience. ‘But surely you know why it is in French? It has to be in a foreign language, because English translations of the Bible are banned in this country.’
‘So I’ve always understood,’ he said patiently.
‘Well, then – when Anne Boleyn becomes Queen, she will persuade the King to allow us to read the Bible in English!’
Will thought it desirable, but unlikely. ‘Perhaps …’ he said.
Her bright brown eyes sparked with irritation. ‘Oh, you’ve grown so cautious! Surely you cannot agree with such a ban?’
He would not make a direct answer, for fear of giving her encouragement. ‘When did you become interested in such matters?’
‘Last winter, when I stayed with my uncle in Norwich.’ Julian hesitated. ‘There is a young man –’ she began, and then turned abruptly away to hide the blush that was staining her cheeks.
Will felt a sudden stab of discomfort, entering sharp as a knife between his ribs. He suspected what it might be; but he refused to admit to jealousy, even to himself.
‘What of him?’ he asked with a show of indifference.
Julian explained, all in a rush, that the young man had been destined for the church. But finding himself at odds with the church’s authority, and needing to make his way in the world, he had lived for a time at Alderman Mancroft’s house while he learned the spice trade. They had, she admitted, sometimes talked together.
She said it with great seriousness, and Will was instantly alarmed. He knew that Alderman Mancroft, a merchant groc
er, imported Eastern spices from the great depot at the port of Antwerp. And it was through Antwerp that many of the forbidden books – including Tyndale’s New Testament in English, printed of necessity in Germany – were smuggled into England.
‘Does this young man travel to and from Antwerp?’ he demanded. ‘Has he brought back any English Bibles – or any books written in English against the church?’
Hot-cheeked again, though for a different reason, Julian raised her head and stared at him defiantly. ‘I shall not say.’
Will was angry now. Not with Julian, in her ardent innocence, but with this pernicious young man – Edmund she called him – who had burdened her with his beliefs.
As Will knew, there were men in London and at Cambridge – as well, no doubt, as others scattered throughout the country – who sought these books. But the church would come down with great severity upon any who bought, sold, read, possessed or copied them. Those who did so were careful to keep their activities a secret from all except ‘known men’.
This wretched Edmund was a fool, and a dangerous one, to have disclosed his mind to Julian. Where else besides her father’s house had she given hints of her beliefs? Who else besides his guests had heard her? The church, like the King, had informers everywhere. If she did not hold her tongue she was at risk of being questioned by the archdeacon’s officers, and they would not take I shall not say for an answer.
As for Edmund himself, a traveller to and from Antwerp, no doubt he was already being watched. When the time was ripe he would be seized, and charged with heresy. And surely Julian knew what would happen then? The books in his possession would be burned, and he himself might well be burned with them.
But Edmund’s likely fate was a matter for him alone. Will’s sole concern was for Julian. Fierce in his anxiety for her, he seized her by the shoulders.
‘You must never again say anything against the authority of the church! You risk too much by doing so. As for that young man, he’s already in great danger. He was wrong to take you into his confidence, and you must have nothing more to do with him. Do you understand?’
Julian pulled angrily away.
‘Let me go! What right have you to tell me what to do?’
Then her expression changed, from anger to realisation and from realisation to contempt.
‘Oh – but you’ve come as my father’s lackey, haven’t you? That was why he invited you here, to try to talk me out of my beliefs! But you cannot – and I will never abandon Edmund. So go your ways, Will Ackland, and do not return to Oxmead, for I have no wish to see you ever again.’
Chapter Twenty One
Half-blinded by the smart of humiliation and anger, Will thundered away from Oxmead and did not pause until he reached Swaffham market place. Then he slowed his horse to a walking pace and began to gather his wits.
He had no need, he told himself, to fear for Julian’s safety. She was young and foolishly wilful, but she had her father to protect her. As for her evident attachment to that wretch Edmund – but no, he would not dwell on it. He would put her out of his mind, and dismiss his desire for her as an episode of Michaelmas madness.
(If only she were not so well endowed with grace and beauty … If only she had not stood so fragrantly close when she confided in him … If only he had not grasped her slim shoulders, and felt their warmth under his hands …)
Will urged his horse on, and forced his thoughts towards Castleacre.
There was still his brother’s innocence to be established. Had Ned, he wondered, been able to find the proof they needed of the constable’s involvement in the bailiff’s murder? If so, the constable would be charged, all suspicion would be lifted from Gilbert, and Will would no longer be required to stand surety for him.
The prospect was invigorating. It would remove the burden of anxiety from the whole family, and Will himself would be free to resume his own life. He looked forward to setting off with Ned for London, where there were interests and friendships to be renewed at Gray’s Inn. And he recalled that when he and his fellow law students tired of their books, a short ride across the fields would take them to the village of Islington, where there were always red-cheeked country wenches eager for dalliance.
(But what of that, when Julian was so wondrously fair?)
He crested Bartholomew’s Hills and saw the familiar shallow valley of the Nar lying before him, dominated by the great tower of the priory. As he skirted the gibbet he saw that Ned was waiting for him further ahead, opposite the Walsingham turn. It was his servant’s mare (in truth an ageing creature) that Will recognised first, grazing placidly beside the hedgerow. Ned himself was seated on the grass, his back against a tree, exchanging greetings and jests with travellers on the Peddars’Way.
‘Ha, Master Will!’ Ned jumped up, smirking from ear to ear. ‘What news from Oxmead?’
‘None that I’ll share with you, Jackanapes,’ retorted Will as he dismounted. ‘What of Southacre, though? Did you find the bailiff’s horse in the constable’s stables?’
Ned pulled a glum face. ‘No, I did not. Nor did I find the Bromholm rent rolls. I looked through all the saddle-bags in the harness room, but they were empty. In truth, there’s nothing at Southacre to connect the constable with the bailiff’s murder.’
Will’s hopes of an early solution to the mystery slid down into his boots. He had been sure of the constable’s guilt – as sure, no doubt, as the constable had been of Gilbert’s. If both were innocent, then who had done the deed?
Ned embarked on a tale of how he had spent the day, wearing himself out – not to mention his poor old mare – by visiting every stable in and near Castleacre in search of the bailiff’s horse. But Will observed a grin hovering on either side of his mouth, and cut him short.
‘Then you have discovered it? Where?’
‘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.
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