New Blood From Old Bones

by Sheila Radley

  ‘One of my ancestors sided with a baron who was defeated,’ Will explained. ‘All his lands, except for the remains of the castle, were seized by the victor and given to the priory. Our family still farmed the land – as my brother Gilbert has done since our father’s death – but we are merely impoverished gentlemen, and tenants of the priory.’

  Ned Pye shook his head, bemused, as he tried to adjust his ambitions to his master’s situation. ‘Then – in truth – your family can provide you with nothing?’

  ‘Nothing at all. No money, no land, no property,’ said Will. ‘I’ve told you before – I am a penniless younger brother, as you have cause to know from the quality of your horse.’

  Ned nodded ruefully. ‘I never believed the fountains flowing with wine, nor yet the dancing girls and the roasted swan. But I was sure a castle could provide me with a better mount than this …’

  ‘Even if it could, I would never give you a good horse,’ said his master. ‘Your hands are too hard.’

  ‘Not too hard to tend your wounds until I got you to the French priory!’

  ‘True. And I shall never forget it, with you to remind me so often. Well, you have leave to drink at my expense at an alehouse in the town while we’re here – so long as you’re sober enough to bring my boots and shaving water every morning.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Ned Pye. ‘I knew there would be a catch in your offer.’ He looked with disparagement towards the thatched roofs and gables that climbed higgledy-piggledy up the slope of the valley from the ford and clustered round the parish church. ‘By the Mass,’ he said, ‘I never saw such a poor little town as yours. When can we go back to London?’

  ‘In a week’s time. I must return for my final year of studies before I qualify as a barrister,’ said Will. ‘While I’m here, making the acquaintance of my daughter, you must occupy yourself – but without disgracing my family, if you please. You‘ll find entertainment enough in the town during St Matthew’s feast.’

  Will guided his horse down the bank to join the crowds approaching the ford. Ned Pye followed, grumbling. ‘Entertainment?’ Will heard him scoff. ‘Two poxy jesters and a moth-eaten old bear …’

  The bear was indeed a poor creature, shambling along some yards ahead of them with its toes turned in. It was docile enough, but muzzled with iron and no doubt clipped about the claws. The thick-set bearward held it on a heavy chain attached to a stake, while his boy followed carrying their pack, and the drum and pipe to which the wretched creature would be made to perform a shuffling dance.

  But the water of the river seemed to revive the bear. It stopped to drink deep, then raised its great head and sniffed the air. Suddenly, regardless of people, horses and mules in the way, it plunged downstream, jerking the bearward off his feet though he still hung on to its chain.

  There was a great commotion, a shouting and a splashing as folk stumbled out of the animal’s path. Nuns scattered like mounted magpies. The archdeacon’s fine horse reared, nearly unseating him. The bearward’s boy waded after his floundering master, drumming to call the creature to order.

  The bear, however, was intent upon reaching a barrier formed halfway across the river by a fallen bough. Debris had built up against the bough, formed of branches and weed and oddments dropped by travellers as they crossed the ford. The largest of these oddments looked like a ragged bundle of cloth, partially floating in the water and rocking a little as the bear splashed towards it.

  By this time the bearward had regained his feet, though up to his haunches in the river. Cursing and belabouring the animal with his stake, he began to haul it away as it attempted to snout through its muzzle at the waterlogged bundle. The boy joined him, waist-deep, and together they heaved on its chain.

  The crowds, including Will and his servant, had perforce to move on, pushed across the ford by those following behind. Besides, all were weary after their travels and intent upon reaching the end of their journey.

  But Will Ackland’s curiosity had been roused. He made a point of watching as his horse splashed past, and saw the man and the boy dragging the reluctant bear out of the water. And he noticed that as they regained dry ground, the bearward glanced back fearfully at the half-submerged bundle of rags and crossed himself.

  Chapter Two

  The gaze of every wayfarer, after crossing the ford, was drawn to the great grey bulk of the priory. With its splendid bell-resounding church – bigger by far than the parish church up on the ridge – and all the other stone buildings that rose above the high walls that encircled its precinct, it dominated the shallow valley.

  Its domination was almost complete, for the priory owned most of the land hereabouts and land elsewhere besides. Like every other religious house it offered hospitality to travellers as well as to pilgrims. But its gatehouse stood on the north side of the outer wall and everyone bound for the priory had first to journey up through the town, to the great profit of the people of Castleacre.

  Travellers of high rank, clerics, and nuns on pilgrimage, would all ride without pause to the priory where they could be sure of good food and drink and comfortable beds in the guest houses. Poor pilgrims and wayfarers would also go straight to the priory, where they would be sheltered overnight and given food at the almonry. But for those with money in their pockets, the town itself was the immediate goal.

  Over three centuries, as the fame of Castleacre priory had grown, alehouse keepers and tradesmen had moved their premises further and further down towards the ford to capture incoming customers. Seeing the town so near, and scenting food in the smoke from its fires, weary travellers had always hurried eagerly into its embrace. And the street called Southgate had never disappointed them, for shoes could be mended here, horses could be shod, hot pottage and meat pasties could be eaten and – above all – thirsts could be quenched.

  ‘By the Mass,’ croaked Ned Pye hopefully above the noise, as he and his master edged through the crowds in the narrow street, their horses delicately avoiding the outstretched legs of the drinkers who filled the benches outside every alehouse, ‘I‘m as dry as a gammon of bacon hung on a chimney …’

  Will Ackland ignored him, for he was intent on stopping the first honest Castleacre man he saw and sending him, with a groat for his trouble, to give a message to the parish constable. Then he rode on, with Ned croaking indignantly behind him. Presently the street widened to form the sloping market place, just below the church, where an inn at the sign of the Woolpack provided refreshment and beds for dealers in the cloth trade. From there, Will turned east along Castlegate. Ahead of them, at the end of this street, stood what was left of the Acklands’castle.

  It looked more imposing from the town than it did from the river. The old Normans had built it well, and though the outer walls were now in some places no higher than a house, they were set on the edge of a great earthwork that rose out of a wide, scrub-grown ditch. Castlegate street ran directly to the edge of the ditch, which was crossed by a stone bridge. On the far side of the bridge was a high gatehouse, set in the outer wall.

  Even Ned Pye seemed to find the gatehouse still impressive, with its twin round towers on either side joined by a stone vaulting that supported an upper chamber. But the massive oak gates in the entrance arch stood permanently wide, broken by a battering ram more than two centuries before.

  ‘Give you good day, Jacob!’ shouted Will as they clattered through the archway. The old yardman, who had been watching for him these three days past, cried a toothless welcome, and barking dogs rushed out to escort them in.

  The gate led to the lower ward of the castle, an open place of several acres where men-at-arms would once have lived and fought. Now, to Ned’s wry disapproval, it was nothing more than a walled farmstead, busily domestic in the mellow sunshine of the September afternoon. From their right, as they rode in, the regular thump of flails from the direction of the barn – built, like the stables, the cowshed and the hogsty, against the inside of the old wall – told that corn was being threshed
. But Ned was heartened by what was happening to the left of the gate, convenient for the kitchen of the Acklands’ dwelling, where serving women were busy about the well and dairy, and appetising smells emerged with the smoke from bakehouse and brewhouse.

  A paved way led across from the gate to the dwelling, still known in the town as ‘the castle’though it was no greater in size than a manor house. But it was solidly built from the stones of the Norman keep whose scant remains stood behind and above it on a high scrub-covered mound.

  The house had a steeply pitched tiled roof, a massive central chimney stack, mullioned windows and a gabled two-storey porch. It faced south, towards a garden of herbs. For the rest, there was a large vegetable patch, grazing for the house-cows, beehives, a round dove-house built of stone, and an orchard patrolled by a gaggle of geese, all within the embrace of the old outer walls.

  As the men rode up to the house, scattering fowls, a tall gentlewoman appeared at the front door. Her hair was covered by her linen under-cap, but Ned knew her by her dark eyebrows and the level gaze of her eyes as his master’s elder sister, Dame Margaret Morston. She had been widowed young, and had returned to take charge of domestic affairs at the castle after their mother’s death. Will had spoken of her affectionately as ‘Meg’.

  But there was no suggestion, as she stood waiting for them with folded hands and a stern expression, of any return of affection on her part.

  ‘William Ackland’ – she accused her brother, as though he were still an unruly boy half her height – ‘where have you been all this while?’

  Ned shot an astonished look at his master, and was relieved to see that he disregarded his sister’s scolding. Indeed, he had a great grin on his face.

  ‘Meg!’ cried Will, swinging out of the saddle and going to her with hands outstretched, for he knew that her greeting was nothing more than a tease, a reminder of her fruitless attempts to discipline him when he was a boy. Her frown had already changed to a welcoming smile. Plucking up her gown she ran to embrace him, heedless of the dirt of travel that caked his short coat, hose and riding boots.

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed with relief, ‘I am thankful to have you safe home!’

  ‘And I to see you again.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, and added with due humility, ‘I ask your pardon, sister, for staying away so long.’

  ‘And so you should!’ Dame Meg retorted with spirit. Standing back to look at him, her hands on his upper arms, she went through the motion – immovably big as he was – of giving him a good shake, just as she used to do when he vexed her in their youth. ‘So you should ask pardon, for you’ve been needed here. Even more so these last months.’

  Will returned her searching gaze. Though still a handsome woman, she looked older than her thirty-six years. There were lines of worry on her face, and her brown eyes, once so lively, were dulled.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked. And then, with a rush of anxiety: ‘Is my daughter well?’

  ‘As always, thank God. She’s a fine, healthy child. She was chasing butterflies in the garden when Jacob told us you were coming, and her nurse hurried her indoors to dress in your honour. You’ll see her soon enough. But now’ – she turned to smile at the sturdy young man who was holding the horses – ‘this must be the famous Ned Pye, to whom we’re indebted for saving your life in the wars!’

  ‘The same,’ agreed Will, beckoning him forward. ‘You’ll find Ned an honest rogue. You may trust him with your money, but never with a modest maid or a good horse for he’d soon ruin both.’

  Ned swept his cap from his yellow hair and made her an elaborate bow in the fashion he had seen in Italy. ‘I am your servant, madam.’ Then, grinning, he added, ‘If truth is being told, even Master Will has a fault or two. But’ – virtuously – ‘my lips are sealed.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Dame Meg, amused by his impudence. ‘I’d have you know there’s nothing you could tell me of my brother that would astonish me. But you are most welcome here, Ned Pye. Leave the horses with Jacob and go to the kitchen, there’s food and drink waiting for you. Come, Will.’

  She led her brother through the porch and into the screens passage, at the far end of which rose the stair-turret. On the left, some of the indoor servants clustered in welcome under the archway that led from the kitchens and buttery, the older women competing to relieve him of his riding coat. The absence of any young serving women, and the shrieks and giggles Will could hear from the kitchen quarters, suggested that Ned was already making their acquaintance.

  The door on the right of the passage led to the hall, with its heavily beamed ceiling, into which sunlight came slanting through the hazy window glass. A bough smouldered on its bed of ash in the great chimney place. In front of it, an old hound and a tangle of cats slumbered together on the rushes. The hall was exactly as Will remembered it, with the long table and plain stools and benches – all the furnishing there was in his mother’s time – greatly improved by the addition of his sister’s possessions.

  Dame Meg had no children. After the death of her late husband, a prosperous elderly merchant of Lynn, she had brought her household goods with her to Castleacre. Until she chose to re-marry, or to move elsewhere, the Acklands had the benefit of her fine Flanders tapestry with its scenes of hawking and hunting, her painted wall-hangings, and all her beds, chairs, chests, cupboards, cushions, linen and silver plate.

  ‘How many suitors have you now?’ Will teased her as they passed through the hall and into the parlour. His wounded leg was stiff and aching after the long ride, but he tried to conceal the weakness from his sister. ‘Is Reginald Bixley still hopeful?’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Meg carelessly. ‘And others not worth naming, who come to woo me for my land and properties. It’s an enviable state, to be a prosperous widow, and I sha’n’t surrender it lightly. My father made me marry a man I could not love, and I’ll never marry another unless my heart is in it.’

  ‘Well said,’ approved her brother. In truth, he knew more than one lively young man who had married a rich widow to give himself a start in the world, and pleased her well enough into the bargain. But having himself married for love, he wanted no less for his sister.

  The best of her belongings had gone to the furnishing of the parlour. Meg sat down in her big cushioned chair, placed in the window to give her a good light for sewing, and resumed the making of a child’s linen shift. Will sat near, stretching his leg when he thought she was not looking. A servant brought wine for Dame Meg, and ale from the brewhouse to quench Will’s thirst. As soon as they were alone, he repeated his question.

  ‘What’s amiss, Meg? Is it Gilbert? Or poor Alice?’

  Since their brother’s marriage, shortly after Will’s own, they had always referred privately to his wife as ‘poor Alice’. The daughter of a yeoman farmer, her attraction for Gilbert Ackland had been her dowry of twelve good ewes and the annual services of her father’s best ram. For the yeoman, the attraction of the match lay in the fact that his daughter would be marrying into the ranks of the gentry.

  For Alice herself, though, Gilbert’s brother and sister had seen little advantage. She was by nature pale and timid, and as fearful of her overbearing husband as she had been of her father. By right, since Gilbert at thirty-three was the elder brother and head of the Ackland family, Alice had become mistress of the castle on her marriage. But when Meg had proposed to move to a house she owned at Lynn, so as to leave the new mistress in charge, poor Alice had begged her tearfully to continue as before.

  Meg sighed as she sewed. ‘I am sorry for all her misfortunes. But’ – her frown gathered – ‘Gib’s conduct worries me far more. He was always hot-headed, you know that well enough. Of late, though, he’s been so beyond reason that I dread to think how it will end.’

  They were interrupted by a tap at the door, and now a wholesome-looking country girl entered and made a bob. ‘Shall I bring in Mistress Betsy?’ she asked.

  Dame Meg drew breath. ‘A moment, Agnes.’ Then, quickly an
d almost with apology to Will: ‘Knowing nothing about children, I have brought her up as our mother did us …’

  ‘And I’m thankful for your care of her, Meg,’ he assured her. ‘I am greatly in your debt. But if my fondness can ever repay, you are richer by far than your husband left you.’

  ‘Have done, Will Ackland!’ she protested, pink-cheeked. ‘Now, are you ready to meet your daughter?’

  He rose to his feet, his stomach tightening with unease. He had looked forward to this moment throughout the journey from France. Now it had come he felt as nervous as when, a tongue-tied youth, he first went to Anne to tell her of his love.

  What was he going to say to her child? He knew no children – what did a man say to them? Would Betsy be able to love him as a father, even though he had seen nothing of her all these years?

  But his unease was outdone by that of his daughter. She entered the room reluctantly, a tiny maid in a stiff new gown, her white-capped head hanging shyly, one hand clinging for dear life to her nurse’s skirts.

  Meg cleared her throat. ‘Come, Betsy,’ she said in an echo of the formal voice their mother had always used, sounding stern for fear of spoiling the child by showing affection to her, ‘greet your father as you have been taught.’

  Agnes, without doubt the provider of affection, gently pushed her towards Will. But Betsy would go no more than a few steps before plucking at her gown to raise it from the floor, and making a wobbly curtsey.

  ‘I hope I see you well, sir,’ she babbled dutifully, without raising her head. Then she ran, breathless, to her nurse and hid her face.

  ‘My feet are well, I thank you,’ he answered wryly, ‘for that is all you’ll see of me unless you look up. Or I of you.’ He held out his hands. ‘Come, sweet Betsy …’