‘But you lied. I have that on the authority of young Dickson himself. He tells me that you gave him no order for a cap, nor indeed for anything else, for you have never set foot inside his shop. What say you to that, Madam?’
Sibbel Bostock’s head drooped. Her rich dark hair swung forward, half-concealing her flushed cheeks. The piglet fell squealing from her slackened arm. ‘Indeed, sir …’ she faltered.
‘Indeed, Mistress Bostock. You lied to me then, just as you have lied to us at every encounter, to hide your knowledge that your husband had been murdered. But I have reason to believe that you not only knew of the deed, you were privy it.’
‘No, sir!’ Sibbel Bostock raised her head and shook it in denial, her hair swinging about her throat, her eyes flashing. ‘I knew nothing of it until – until—’
Swift as bird to change course, she turned back from vehemence to meekness. Faltering, she twisted long strands of her hair in her fingers. Her bearing was anxious, her tone humble, but Will was aware that her eyes watched him with calculation from beneath modestly lowered lids.
‘In truth, sir,’ she confessed, low-voiced, ‘I did lie when I told you I was unaware of my husband’s death, and I am deeply sorry for it. But my only intent was to protect Jankin Kett. The poor fool doted on me. My husband whipped him savagely for it, and Jankin took his revenge.
‘He came to me on St Matthew’s Eve, bringing back the bailiff’s horse and saddle-bags. At first he would not say what had happened, but when I pressed him he admitted he had knifed my husband and left his body in the river. My only thought then, sir, was to save the poor fool from hanging.’
Will interrupted her. ‘Your only thought, Mistress Bostock? If your first concern was not for your dead husband, but for his murderer, then I think you intended his death.’
‘It was not so!’ Sibbel Bostock moved closer to Will. His horse shifted its hooves and tossed its head, but she caught at his stirrup leather and raised her great dark eyes to his.
‘Oh, sir, I cannot grieve for my husband,’ she said in a throaty murmur. ‘He used me ill, sir, very ill – as you would know if you saw the marks on my body. Yet I never asked Jankin to kill him, I swear it. That was the poor fool’s own doing. I told him only that the corpse must not be recognised, or he would be suspect throughout the precinct. I gave him some of my husband’s clothes, which I first slashed into rags, and told him to dress the corpse in them and to destroy the features with a heavy stone. And that is all I know of the bailiff’s death.’
‘I think not,’ said Will grimly. ‘What of the Bromholm rent rolls that your husband carried with him? You told me not an hour ago that you knew nothing of them, yet Jankin returned them to the cellarer. Someone must have instructed him in that, for he would not have had the wit to do so of his own accord. Then later, when I began my enquiries, someone arranged for Jankin himself to be drowned. Who was that someone, Mistress Bostock? You, I do believe.’
His horse stamped with impatience, but Sibbel Bostock changed her grip from his stirrup to his boot and clung to it, gazing up at him with eyes that were darkly desirous. ‘No, sir!’ she murmured, her voice breaking. ‘Oh, you would not think me guilty, if you only knew how ill-used I have been … Dismount, I beg you, and let me give you proof of my innocence.’
Her nearness and shamelessness disturbed him. He could not tell whether to believe her or not, but her lustrous eyes were captivating. He swallowed, understanding how it was that Gib and the constable and poor Jankin had all been in thrall to her, for he himself was near to being bewitched.
And then he remembered Julian Corbyn, and the thought of her fresh young beauty filled him with distaste for Sibbel Bostock’s charms. But he did not draw away from the bailiff’s widow, for he saw how he might turn her wiles against her in his search for the truth.
‘Very well,’ he said stemly, glad that Ned Pye was not there to see him dismount and follow Mistress Bostock towards her house. But he took good care not to cross the threshold.
Chapter Twenty Three
It was still too soon for Will to reveal to his family the extent of what he knew, let alone what he guessed, but as soon as he returned to the castle he said enough to put them all in good heart. The rest of it – the truth of the whole matter – he intended to discover when he went next day to the priory.
Supper was a far more cheerful meal than usual, Gilbert even going so far as to give his brother an affable nod before embarking with enthusiasm on yet another hot mutton pie. But for Will himself, conversation was difficult.
Meg and Alice, knowing nothing of his abrupt departure from Oxmead, were agog to hear about his visit – and most particularly about Mistress Julian Corbyn. What had she worn, they wanted to know? What had she said to him? Had she approved of his finery, was she betrothed to Lord Stradsett’s son or no, had she spoken to Will in private; what had she said?
He parried all their questions as lightly as possible, but with a downcast heart. Since his return from Oxmead, the urgency of clearing his brother’s name had enabled him for the most part to put Julian from his mind. But now, the teasings of Meg and Alice had reopened the parting wound that Julian had given him.
He left their company as soon as he could do so without displeasing his sister. Pacing about the darkened castle yard – to the accompaniment of firelit boisterousness from the kitchen quarters, where Ned was no doubt entertaining the serving women – he forced his mind to dwell on nothing but tomorrow’s visit to the priory: on what he needed to learn, and from whom.
Unavoidably, that meant thinking of Sibbel Bostock. And now he knew at first hand how she could enthrall men, it was hard to prise her image from his mind.
But it was Julian Corbyn he thought of last thing at night, and again first thing in the morning.
Gilbert spoke to Will very cordially at breakfast, inviting his brother to accompany him on the daily ride round his land. Will had little interest in farming. But the air was clear and fresh, and with time to spare before leaving for the priory he was glad enough of a reason to ride out.
He had rarely known his brother in so talkative a mood. Gilbert showed him every field and its boundaries, and described in some detail how he intended to manage it the following year: whether by ploughing and sowing, and with which crop, or by leaving it fallow with sheep to dung it. Will strove to be friendly, asking questions to show that he took an interest, and evidently this pleased his brother.
‘We’ll make a gentleman farmer of you yet!’ said Gib, giving him a sideways glance from between his shaggy hair and his beard as they rode back through the castle gatehouse and dismounted. But Will merely laughed, and went in search of his daughter.
He soon saw her, running through the herb garden towards the barns followed by her nurse. But before Will could join them, Meg emerged from the house and waylaid him. She wore a look of contrition.
‘I am sorry I teased you over Julian last night. I hoped I had prepared you for disappointment – but not so, it seems?’
He gave a wry shrug. ‘You could not know, Meg. Julian told me she scorns Lord Stradsett’s son, and I was hopeful. But it seems that she secretly admires another.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully for the truth was too dangerous even to be hinted at. ‘I angered her, I fear, by saying too much. Now she does not wish to see me again.’
‘Ah, Will,’ said his sister kindly, giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze. But she followed it instantly with a firm shake, and words that were firmer still.
‘The sooner you secure Gib’s release and go back to London, the better. We’ve been thankful for your presence here, none more so than Gib and poor Alice. We shall all miss you. But there’s no occupation for you here in Norfolk, let alone in Castleacre. When do you leave?’
‘Tomorrow, all being well.’
‘I am glad to hear it, for your sake. Now I’ll keep you from your daughter no longer. You’ll find her with Agnes, collecting eggs. Ask her if she can count them. I’ve tried to teac
h her as far as ten, but I doubt you’ll persuade her to venture beyond five.’
Meg gave him an affectionate smile and swept back to the house. ‘Betsy!’ Will called as he approached the barns, and he was delighted when she hurried out to greet him, cautiously cradling a speckled egg in her cupped hands.
He went down on his haunches to admire it. ‘Have you found many more?’ he asked. ‘How many?’ But she would not say.
Agnes, who like her charge had become less shy with him, came forward with a basket half-filled with eggs and Betsy added hers to it. Will tried to persuade the child to count them, but she knew her limitations. One-two-three-four-five, she said boldy, and then lost interest.
‘But you have learned a rhyme to say to your father,’ prompted Agnes. ‘You remember it: “What is the …?”’
Betsy waved the prompt crossly aside. She stood at her father’s crouched knee, her hands behind her back, her eyes closed tight in concentration.
‘What is the way to London Town?
One foot up and one foot down,
That is the way to London Town.’
Her eyes flew open on the last line and she beamed with pleasure at having remembered it to the end. Will chuckled proudly. ‘Well said, my sweeting! So it is the way, and a long one, for all those who must walk. But my horse will carry me there in two and a half days, and back again to see you at Christmas.’
As he stood up to thank Agnes for her care of his daughter, the dogs began to bark and there came a clattering of hooves across the bridge. Three horses were approaching through the gatehouse. Two of them carried attendants, one man and one woman. At their head, beautifully erect on her side-saddle, rode Julian Corbyn.
Astonishment made Will unmannerly. He hurried to meet her, but it was only the lack of something to do with his hands that reminded him to doff his cap. As before, her hair glowed chestnut brown against the green velvet hood of her riding cloak, making him catch his breath in admiration.
‘Mistress Julian – pray dismount and enter the house,’ he stammered.
It seemed that her discomfiture matched his own, for her cheeks had coloured and she kept her eyes down. Her words came tumbling out almost as Betsy’s had done, as though she had rehearsed them.
‘I thank you, Master Will, but I must not stay. I am riding to Lynn with my aunt and uncle, and they are waiting for me in the market place. I am here solely to bring a lace collar for your sister to copy. I promised it to Dame Meg when I was here before, and she showed me the fine lace you brought her from Flanders …’
Julian ran out of words. Emboldened by her pink-cheeked breathlessness, Will went forward to take the small package she held out to him.
‘I will give it to Meg later,’ he said, aware that his sister might well be watching but confident that she would not emerge from the house. Agnes, he noticed, had taken Betsy away on another egg hunt.
He stood boldly at Julian’s stirrup, so close that she could not avoid looking at him. ‘When we last met, you said—’
‘I know what I said. Truly, I have regretted it ever since. Forgive me, Will, I was foolishly hot-headed.’
He breathed his relief. ‘Then you’ll take my advice?’
‘No, I shall not!’ Julian coloured again, this time with pride. ‘I shall not change my beliefs, nor my affections. But I have need of you as a friend, and I would not cast you aside for all the world.’
It was small consolation, Will reflected wryly; but better than nothing. ‘My friendship for you is assured,’ he said. ‘But as a friend, I must ask you to be guarded in what you do and say – especially when you are in Norwich.’
‘Well, you need have no fear of that,’ she said with vexation. ‘My father will not allow me to spend this winter in Norwich. My mother and I are to accompany him to London instead.’
‘To London?’ His hopes took a great leap. ‘Then I may see you there?’
‘That was what I thought,’ she agreed, ‘as soon as my father told me. We shall be at our house in Whitefriars – is that far from Gray’s Inn?’
‘No distance at all!’
‘Good.’ Preparing to leave, Julian gathered her reins. ‘You must call on us there – I know my father will be glad to see you.’
‘And you?’
She made no direct reply. But the smile she gave him before she turned her horse and rode out of the castle yard left him in no doubt.
Chapter Twenty Four
The bell of the parish church was ringing the noonday hour when Will rode out, in high spirits and his saint’s-day-and-Sunday doublet, to go to dinner at the prior’s lodging.
He went first to Northgate, where his godfather was about to leave his house attended by a groom. Lawrence Throssell sat his placid horse stiffly and rode with care, unwilling to jolt his frail bones more than necessary. As they paced across the corner of the market place and along Priorygate, Will told him what he had discovered concerning the bailiff’s murder; or rather, a part of what he had discovered.
Though he revealed Sibbel Bostock’s influence over Jankin Kett, he did not mention Gilbert’s adultery with her, nor yet the constable’s. His main purpose was to convince the justice of the peace that Gilbert was not guilty of the murder of the prior’s bailiff, and so he related what he knew of poor Jankin’s undoubted guilt.
The old gentleman listened and nodded and tugged his sparse white beard in thought. ‘Does Mistress Bostock confess to having procured the death of her husband at the hand of Jankin Kett?’
‘She denies that she procured it, sir, but I have reason to think she lies. I believe the truth of this matter is to be found within the priory. We may hear it at dinner if we ask the right questions.’
Lawrence Throssell hmm’d and haw’d with unease. ‘It is not fitting for such questions to be asked by guests of the prior.’
‘Two of the priory’s servants have been murdered, sir. Surely that is even less fitting?’
His godfather sighed. ‘Well, well. But as to your brother Gilbert, there is no longer a case for him to answer. Bring him to my house before supper, and I will withdraw the charge and release you from your bond.’
They had reached the priory gatehouse, from the grandeur of which was emerging a foul-smelling rabble of the poor, clutching their midday dole of food. With his groom riding ahead of him through the gates to clear the way, the justice of the peace looked them over sternly.
‘Their numbers increase weekly,’ he observed with a frown, ‘and I have no doubt that many of them are merely idle. They’re vagabonds and sturdy beggars, who could earn their living if they would. I’faith, I know not whether to be thankful to the priory for feeding them and keeping them from begging at our doors, or to be vexed with the priory for encouraging them to come to Castleacre.’
Burdened as he was by the duty of maintaining public order, Master Justice Throssell sighed and shook his head. Then, as the rabble passed by, his face cleared. ‘But let us go to our own dinner. No doubt Prior Nicholas will have something better to offer us than half a loaf and a piece of cheese.’
At the prior’s lodging, everything was of the finest quality. The building had been greatly enlarged by Nicholas de la Pole to make a fitting house for a nobleman. Though it was smaller than Sir Ralph Corbyn’s mansion at Oxmead, the hospitality the prior provided for his guests was even more splendid.
On this occasion, when Master Justice Throssell, Will Ackland and the reluctant sub-prior were the only guests, dinner was served in the prior’s own chamber on the upper floor of the lodging. It was a handsome room lit by two oriel windows, its walls lined with linenfold panelling and a tapestry depicting scenes of hawking, a sport of which the prior was very fond. The wooden roof, supported by moulded beams, was painted all over with Tudor roses complete with stems and leaves. Sculpted on either side of the great stone chimney place, and painted in the same colours, were musicians with angels’wings.
The table was covered with the finest damask cloth, in the centre of wh
ich was a handsome silver salt in the shape of a galleon in full sail. Every dish and charger was of silver or silver-gilt, all worn smooth from daily use. Noble guests would no doubt dine from better silver. Royal guests such as Queen Katherine, who stayed there on her way to and from the shrine at Walsingham, would use the gold plate that stood on the side board in gleaming array.
At each guest’s place was a silver-handled knife, a silver spoon, fine drinking glasses and a damask napkin. The prior’s own servants, dressed in his livery, brought towels and silver basins of warmed rose-water for the guests to wash their hands, not only before the meal but during the course of it whenever there was need. And as soon as the prior had finished calling down God’s blessing, rolling the Latin as richly round his tongue as he would shortly roll the food, an unseen lutenist began to play for their entertainment during dinner.
Prior Nicholas was an affable host, evidently glad of the company of Lawrence Throssell with whom he had been at the priory school and later at university, though at a much grander college. The two of them – one portly, one bird-like – carried their years and white hairs well, despite the dimming eyesight they shared.
They spoke first, over oysters with vinegar and pepper, of their years at Cambridge. Will, who had travelled through the university town the previous week, told them that it had begun to resemble a great builder’s yard; with so much new construction being done at so many of the colleges, the air was filled with the noise and dust of a host of stone-cutters, scaffolders, carpenters, smiths and masons.
‘But the stonework of King’s College chapel,’ he reported to the prior, who was a Kingsman, ‘is now complete. The glaziers are working to insert the windows, and they’re wondrously coloured. With those and its fan-vaulted roof, it will be without equal in Europe for size and beauty.’
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