Will stood silent, watching as the lolling corpse was bared to their view. The most notable feature was on the hairless chest, a gaping white mouth where a knife thrust had penetrated. It was near to the heart, though perhaps not near enough to have killed him immediately.
He appeared to be a man of forty or fifty, with no noteworthy scars or blemishes to distinguish him. One thing, though, was clear to Will. He said nothing, out of courtesy to his godfather, for he did not want to usurp the older man’s authority. But Justice Throssell, for all his shortness of sight, had made the same observation.
‘This is no vagabond, master constable! He has no sores, nor signs of rough living, and he was well fed. Did you not notice that when you saw his wound?’
Thomas Gosnold made haste to justify himself. ‘’Twas dusk, sir, before I had time to view the corpse. The rags seemed proof that he was a vagabond.’
‘Not proof enough, as you can see. What say you now, concerning the rags?’
‘Why, sir –’ The constable hesitated, his eyes bulging with the effort of thought. Then his brow lightened. ‘Why, he was a penitent on pilgrimage! His sins were so grievous to God that he dressed in rags and walked barefoot as part of his penance. There’s many such on the road. And murder is done easily enough, as we all know – a jostling, a harsh word, then tempers flare and knives are out.
‘Aye’ – the constable warmed to his imagining – ‘there you have it, sir! The man was a penitent, come from a distance on pilgrimage and set upon by some vagabond at the ford. The knife wound did not kill him, and so he was battered to death. We cannot know who he is. Let us ask the priest to give him a Christian burial, and have done.’
Justice Throssell fingered the grey wisp of his beard. ‘What do you say, Master Will Ackland?’
‘Shall we see t’other side of the corpse, sir?’ suggested Will. ‘We may learn something more from that.’
At a nod from the justice the two Hobs turned the corpse over, retrieving the limbs as they flopped awry. And immediately there was a stirring of interest, and of some alarm, for what was now revealed was a large splash of roughened crimson skin on the man’s left buttock.
‘Save us, Holy Mother of God,’ cried the sexton, crossing himself as did his son. ‘’A’s been touched by the Devil!’
‘Not so,’ Will said quickly. ‘There was a companion of mine in the wars, who died of his wounds. He had just such a hidden birthmark, known to none until his body was stripped for burial. And he was as good a Christian man as any I’ve known, and died as godly a death. There’s naught to fear – as Master Justice Throssell and the constable will tell you.’
The constable had looked uneasy, as though he would gladly have crossed himself too, but he had taken his cue from the justice. Now he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘Aye, aye,’ he agreed.
‘Indeed. And now we have some means of recognition after all,’ said Justice Throssell with satisfaction. ‘Not public recognition, I grant you – but enough for a wife’s proof, if her husband is missing.’
‘He could have walked fifty mile or more!’ protested the constable. ‘We cannot search Norfolk and Suffolk for missing husbands!’
‘Nor do I suggest it. But we cannot bury the corpse unknown, master constable, until we are sure he is not from this parish.’
The justice turned to Hob the elder. ‘Now, master sexton. You are the expert here, for you have been burying our corpses these twenty years and more. How long has this man been dead?’
Hob puffed out his chest, well pleased with the recognition of his craft. ‘Aye, sir,’ he beamed, showing the brown stumps of his teeth. ‘Sexton for twenty-three year, and ’prentice to my father afore that, as young Hob is to me. Now, as to this corse …’
He moved importantly round the trestle, waving away the flies, prodding and sniffing at the body, and nodding his head wisely. ‘’Tis a matter of how long a’s been in the water, for water will hasten the bloating. Now, some corses I have buried—’
‘Your judgement, if you please,’ interrupted Justice Throssell.
‘Aye, well, sir –’ Knowing better than to vex him by any further delay the sexton pronounced, ticking off the time on his earthy fingers: ‘Three days, by my reckoning. A’did not die today – nor yesterday when the corse was found – but the day afore that.’
The justice glanced at Will, who nodded a qualified agreement. The man had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to come and go, yet not so long that corruption had begun to advance. Three days was probably right, by his battlefield reckoning – though he could not be sure, for the running water might have affected duration of the rigor.
‘Then to your duty, master constable!’ piped Justice Throssell. ‘Put word about the parish instantly for the name of any man of this age and stature, missing these three days past or thereabouts. And give me no more talk of burying until your duty’s done.’
Lawrence Throssell’s table was much better appointed than that at the castle, with linen of finer quality, slender drinking glasses, silver spoons, and a handsome silver salt as a centrepiece. The servants were more attentive in offering basins of warm water and towels for them to wash their hands. The food was of better quality too, for Lawrence had an uneasy stomach and insisted that his cook must use grease sparingly. The dish of fresh trout was griddled, and served with spinach and a salad of watercress very lightly salted. There was also shredded cheese with sugar and sage, fine wheaten bread, choice apples and sweet chestnuts.
The justice said the Benedictus and then urged his guest to fall to. But Will ate little, not so much because the corpse had spoiled his appetite but because he had a great deal on his mind.
‘You found the truth of what I told you about the constable?’ said his godfather. He had sent away the servants, and he himself filled their glasses with good white Rhenish wine.
‘I did,’ agreed Will, adding justly: ‘Though it can be understood, for farming is a busy enough life without the distraction of holding office. But Thomas Gosnold sees only what he wants to see – and hopes you will see nothing more. Why else should he object to your viewing the corpse in daylight?’
‘Or to your keen-eyed presence, William. What did you see that I missed?’
‘Only the feet, and then only because I was standing near. I wanted the corpse turned over so that I could see their soles. The constable must have seen them too, but their condition did not suit his argument. That dead man was no penitent on barefoot pilgrimage! He was used to wearing well-fitting boots – and to riding rather than walking, for his feet were not broken nor even roughened by hard use.’
Lawrence Throssell looked up from his fish, his eyes shrewd.
‘Then what is your opinion of the murdered man?’
‘Why, that he was not wearing those rags when he was stabbed. There was no cut in the shirt that matched the knife thrust to his chest, therefore the rags must have been put on him after. As for his head—’
‘Good, good,’ interrupted the Justice. ‘I was sure you would notice what I failed to see. But I saw his head well enough. In all my years I have never known the victim of a quarrel between strangers to be beaten so savagely.’
‘You confirm what I thought, sir. Why should a stranger, having already stabbed a man in a quarrel, go to the extreme of destroying his features? Why should he exchange his victim’s clothes for rags? The only reason, to my mind, is that the murderer wanted to prevent recognition of the dead man. And that must mean – as you suggested – that the victim does indeed belong to this parish.’
Justice Throssell was nodding his head with satisfaction, but Will was sombre.
‘Not only that, I fear,’ he said, pushing his plate aside. He had knifed the succulent pink flesh of the trout from its backbone, but he had no heart to eat.
‘The conclusion I have come to will distress my family, as it does me, but it has to be said. The murderer, too, must be a man of this parish. Why else should he fear recognition of his
victim? He must know that if the body could be recognised, he would instantly be accused of the deed. And that points to one man, whose threats to kill – as you told me this morning – are known throughout the town.’
Lawrence Throssell frowned in solemn agreement and abandoned his own dinner.
‘If the body is Walter Bostock’s, it bodes ill for your brother … But for all I know,’ he counselled hopefully, ‘the prior’s bailiff is alive and well.’
‘Please God he is. But my sister Meg described him when we talked of him last night. She said he was some ten years older than Gib, and a good deal smaller in stature – as is the corpse.’
Will rose from the table. ‘By your leave, godfather. It was my intention to seek out the bailiff this afternoon, but now there’s some urgency in the matter. I’ll bring news as soon as I can.’
‘Do so, William.’ Lawrence Throssell rose too, tugging uneasily at his beard. ‘You will know Walter Bostock if you see him,’ he said, ‘for his features are distinctive. He’s easily recognised by his two front teeth set wide apart, and his broken nose.’
Chapter Seven
Will emerged from his godfather’s house to find a cluster of serving women near the well on the opposite side of Northgate, gathered round a yellow-haired young man who had charge of two horses. From the laughter and the stirring of excitement about him, it seemed that Ned Pye was holding court.
Recognising Master Will Ackland, two gossips on the fringe of the group gave him a hasty good day, pretended they had taken no interest in the cause of the commotion, and went about their business. The serving women scattered, giggling, their pails half-filled with the water they had fetched as an excuse to leave their work.
Ned was clearly pleased with himself, though he claimed not to be. ‘These simple Norfolk women,’ he scoffed as he handed his master the reins of his horse. ‘They’ll marvel at any tale of travel I tell’em.’
‘Not so,’ Will informed him. ‘They’re less easily gulled than you think, for I heard a gossip declare that Rome itself could not be finer than Swaffham on a market day. Here, catch!’
He tossed Ned one of the choice apples that his godfather had pressed on him as he left. Both horses – Ned’s ageing bay mare, Will’s black stallion with a white blaze – instantly pushed forward, snuffling eagerly. Their mouths reached out with velvet insistence, and the men had no option but to share their fruit.
‘There’s much to tell,’ Will began as they all stood crunching. ‘But some of it you’ve no doubt heard in the town?’
‘Heard and seen,’ Ned agreed. ‘I made an early acquaintance of the sexton, and saw the corpse for myself. I’ve heard since that the constable seeks to know if any man of the parish is missing.’
‘And what’s your opinion of the injuries to the face?’
‘That’s easily said. Whoever killed him had cause to hate him.’
‘So it seems.’ Will paused for a moment, absently convincing his horse that the palm of his hand was empty. ‘More force was used, for longer, than mere concealment warranted. There must have been a passion in those blows, a kind of madness …’
He frowned, reluctant to say more. His servant said nothing at all as they both mounted, but he had begun to whistle elaborately. It seemed that his suspicions were much the same as his master’s.
‘You are too hasty, Ned Pye,’ said Will sternly, mindful of his godfather’s advice. ‘Be convinced – as I am – that we shall find the prior’s bailiff alive, and my brother guilty of nothing more than gross ill-humour.’
Their way took them the short distance down Northgate to the market place, over which there now hung an air of exhaustion. After a busy feast-day morning of drinking, buying, gawping and laughing, of selling and entertaining, of eating and more drinking, most people – parishioners, countryfolk and pilgrims alike – were slumped in a comfortable half-stupor in the warmth of the sun. The dancing bear lay sprawled too, looking like nothing more than a discarded heap of mangy fur, except that it twitched and snuffled in its muzzled sleep.
Picking their way among the snorers, Will and his servant crossed the market place and took the street to the west, Priorygate. There were few houses here, and then only on its northern side, for it was bordered to the south by the great flint wall surrounding the priory precinct, halfway along which was the gatehouse.
A midday dole of food was given out at the almonry, every day of the year, to poor travellers and pilgrims, and to any who could not support themselves on account of age, misfortune or infirmity. Today it had been given out later than usual because of the morning’s great ceremonies, and the poor had waited long for their food. But to celebrate the feast of St Matthew, all those who pressed forward to receive the dole had been given not only a lump of cheese and a loaf of coarse rye bread, but a herring as well.
As Will and Ned Pye rode along the street, the poor were beginning to emerge from the precinct. Hungry, ragged, old and not so old, foul-smelling, crippled, blind, they came jostling out through the gatehouse clutching their dole. Those who lived in the town scurried with the bounty as fast as they could to their hovels. The rest of them fell-to by the wayside, tearing ravenously at the food and quarrelling over fallen fragments.
‘Lord!’ observed Ned Pye with scorn, ‘here’s a feast indeed! I trust the monks, with their solemn vows of poverty, are enjoying a herring apiece for their dinner too. Not to mention the prior and his guests … He must live in a poor lodging, if this humble gatehouse is anything to judge by!’
His master was too preoccupied to reply. Ned stopped to stare at the imposing two-storey building, with its great central archway, through which a good road led down across grassland to the grandeur of the priory. The gatehouse had been built within the past thirty years, of red bricks ornamented with lozenges of blue, and dressed with stone. A row of carved shields on the north face bore the arms of the priory’s royal and noble benefactors. In all, it was larger and much finer than the Acklands’gatehouse would ever have been, even at the height of the castle’s power.
‘A simple place, i’faith …’ concluded Ned. But his master had ridden on, past the gatehouse and down the long slope that led to the bridge over the river, and Ned had to gallop after him.
From the gatehouse on, there was no one on the road at all. Ordinarily there would be many comings and goings, for the road served the tithe barn, the mill, and the warehouses fronting the wharf, but these were all owned by the priory and were out of use in honour of St Matthew’s day.
‘This is the quickest way to Lynn,’ Will told Ned Pye when his servant caught him up, ‘either by road or by river. Thanks,’ he pointed out, ‘to the priory which did all the building.’
‘Thanks?’ said Ned. ‘I’ve heard few thanks in the town! What with tolls to pay for the use of the bridge, and charges for grinding corn at the mill and loading merchandise at the wharf, there’s many a Castleacre man holds a grudge against the priory.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Will, dismissive for once of his countrymen. ‘They always grumble against the priory, but any other landowner would irk them just as much. They can’t see what great prosperity the monks have brought to Castleacre over the centuries. If we, the Acklands, still owned all the land here, we could never have built the bridge, nor the mill, nor the wharf. Without the wealth of the priory, and the crowds of pilgrims it brings, this would be a poor little town.’
Ned did more of his meaningful whistling, but his master ignored him.
They had come to a place where the great wall curved back, making room for carts to turn. Within the wall and overshadowing it stood the tithe barn, fully as long and as high as the nave of the parish church.
Access from the road to the barn was through a wide gateway in the wall, but today the iron-bound oaken gates were closed and barred. The bailiff’s dwelling could still be reached by going through a postern. Will led the way, ducking as he rode through, and then on past one end of the tithe barn, scattering fowls that were peck
ing up spilled grain. The barn towered above them, with its stone walls, its massively downsweeping thatched roof, and its three gabled entrance bays, each of them tall enough to allow a high-laden cart to be driven through.
‘Hah!’ snorted Ned Pye. ‘Here’s another grumble against the priory. Small wonder, when every man sees a tenth of his produce swallowed up in that great maw!’
Will rode on. Anxious to assure himself of his brother’s innocence, he galloped along the narrow path that led across rough pasture to the bailiff’s house. Backed by a clump of oak trees, it stood on the valley’s slope from where it overlooked the tithe barn, and was distantly overlooked in its turn by the great tower of the priory.
The prior’s bailiff could consider himself a yeoman by virtue of his occupation. His thatched house was surrounded by a domestic farmstead, with herbs and vegetables, fruit trees and small livestock. The whole was bounded by a hedge of furze bushes, which did the double duty of keeping out the priory’s cattle and providing prickly branches on which – as now – linen could be spread out to dry.
Will had not expected the bailiff himself to be at home. He had thought to hear of his whereabouts from his wife, a child or a servant. But seeing the door of the house shut on so warm an afternoon, and hearing no answer to Ned’s shout of Ho within! as they approached, Will feared that the entire household must have gone to celebrate the feast day.
He was about to ride on towards the priory and seek information there, when he saw a tall, well-made woman emerge from the trees behind the house, herding pigs that had been foraging for acorns. She drove them through a gap in the furze, closed it again with a hurdle of wattles, and then came across the farmstead with the pigs oinking after her.
Evidently she was unmarried, for her dark hair flowed free from under her linen cap and hung about her shoulders. Her skirts were hoist well above her ankles for easier working, and her feet were bare.
‘Where can I find your master, my good woman?’ called Will.
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