She waited until she was near before she spoke, raising her hand to shade her eyes from the sun.
‘I am Sibbel Bostock. What master should I have,’ she asked with spirit, ‘save my husband, the prior’s bailiff?’
Will’s error reddened his cheek. He would not knowingly have insulted her – but yeomen’s wives, in his experience, usually took good care not to be mistaken for unmarried women of lesser rank.
‘Your pardon, mistress,’ he said with a stiff inclination of his head. He waited for a reply to his question, but she was busy driving the pigs into their hurdled enclosure and gave him no answer. She was somewhere between him and his sister in age, her eyes and mouth large, her skin as brown as that of any husbandman’s wife. The disarray of her hair was caused by its thickness, for her cap could not contain it, and as she moved it twined about the column of her throat.
Will persisted, with some vexation. ‘I am brother to Gilbert Ackland,’ he told her, ‘and I have business with your husband. Be so good as to tell me where I may find him.’
She left the pigs immediately and came closer, looking up at him with eyes that were almost black, yet bright as if newly burnished. Her colouring, more Italian than English, was not to Will’s liking. True, he had once found dark eyes attractive; but they had been in a younger face and under a hotter sun than this.
‘Then you must be Master Will Ackland, home from your travels,’ said the bailiff’s wife with eager respect. ‘Will it please you to dismount and refresh yourself? I have some good elderberry wine of last year’s making.’
He refused with the briefest courtesy. ‘I thank you, no. My business is urgent. I must know where the bailiff is.’
She shook her head. ‘You will not find him in Castleacre, sir. He is gone away.’
‘Gone?’ Will’s fears redoubled. His horse, responding to the tension its rider communicated, shifted its hooves and tossed its head. ‘How long has the bailiff been away?’ he demanded, shortening the reins. ‘Which way did he go?’
‘Why, he set out yesterday at dawn to ride to Bromholm. He goes there each year, to make the Michaelmas reckoning.’
Will slackened his grip on the reins. ‘Ah …’ he said with guarded relief. ‘Bromholm priory, that was once a daughter house of Castleacre, and still holds land on this priory’s behalf. Tell me, Mistress Bostock: when your husband set out yesterday, did he travel alone?’
‘Aye, so far as I know.’
‘And when do you expect him back?’
‘He’s usually away a se’ennight.’ The bailiff’s wife placed a hand on Will’s stirrup leather, and tilted back her head to look directly up at him with her bright dark eyes. ‘Is there aught I can do for you, sir, in his absence? Shall you leave a message against his return?’
‘It can wait,’ said Will, turning his horse away. He wished her an abrupt farewell, and cantered back the way he had come.
But Ned Pye was never one to miss an opportunity. Pausing beside the bailiff’s wife, he bent down from his saddle to gaze boldly into her eyes.
‘My master,’ he said in his most beguiling voice, ‘has too much on his mind to recognise a good offer. For my part, I would gladly come another time to taste your elderberry wine.’
Sibbel Bostock gave him short shrift.
‘Be off with you, Jackanapes!’ she retorted, with a flash of contempt and a box on the ear that left his head ringing. And though Ned essayed a jaunty whistle as he caught up with his master at the tithe barn, pride deterred him from making any mention of her.
‘So the bailiff is alive, after all,’ he said as they rode back to the town together. ‘If he set out early yesterday, he cannot be the man who was murdered at the ford, for the corpse is older than that. A man killed yesterday at dawn,’ he said, drawing on his battlefield experience, ‘would ha’been stiff when we saw him this morning. All’s well, Master Will – you need have no further concern for your brother.’
‘Would it were so,’ said Will. ‘There’s reason for hope, I grant you. But that corpse has lain for some time in fast-running water, losing all its blood. Tell me, from your knowledge – would it have begun to rot sooner than a blood-filled corpse on dry land, or later?’
Ned scratched his head. ‘Mass,’ he admitted, ‘I cannot tell.’
‘No more can I. And if there’s doubt as to the day when the man was killed, we cannot know that the corpse is not the bailiff’s. What I need, to be sure of my brother’s innocence, is eye-witness proof that Walter Bostock is alive.’
Ned guessed what he would be required to do next. He was not displeased, for he saw advantage in it.
‘It’s a long ride to Bromholm,’ he asserted, though he had no knowledge of the place.
‘The priory is near Bacton, on the sea coast north of Yarmouth, forty-odd mile east of here. You can reach it in less than a day and a half, if you ride hard.’
‘Ride hard? On this sorry old nag, already worn out by the journey from Dover?’ Ned grimaced and shook his head. ‘No, Master Will – if you want me there and back in haste, I must needs have a good horse.’
‘And so you shall,’ promised his master. ‘As soon as we reach the Woolpack inn, we’ll choose you a horse from the stables there.’
Ned was gratified, but wary of such an easy victory. ‘A young horse, mind, sound in wind and limb?’
‘The very best the innkeeper can provide. If you leave by the Walsingham road, and then turn east along the valley of the Nar, you’ll reach North Elmham by nightfall. Tomorrow, ride east through Reepham, Aylsham and North Walsham, changing your horse as need be.’
Ned looked accusingly at his master. ‘Change my horse?’
‘So I said.’ Will gave him a twitch of a grin. ‘I never promised to buy you one. You’ll journey faster if you hire fresh horses as you go.’
‘I might have known,’ grumbled Ned Pye. ‘Servants,’ he continued in an injured voice, ‘must always suffer the whims of their masters …’
They were approaching the market place, where noise was rising again. The holiday-makers and entertainers must have climbed back to their feet, however unsteadily, the keepers of shops and alehouses were no doubt redoubling their efforts to profit from the crowds, and enjoyment was likely to continue with dancing and singing and dicing and drinking far into the night.
‘And what message,’ Ned continued with vexation as their horses began to push through the outer fringes of the crowd, ‘Am I to give the bailiff if I find him?’
‘None at all,’ said Will briskly. ‘Ask one of the lay-brothers to point him out to you, and satisfy yourself that you’ve seen him. You’ll know him by his broken nose, and a gap between his two front teeth.’
‘And if he’s not been seen there –?’
‘As soon as you’re sure, either way, return with the news as fast as you can. You’ll find the road between North Walsham and Bromholm crowded, though, for the priory there is famous as a place of pilgrimage.’
Their horses were now surrounded by the newly fed poor, all pushing towards the market place. Some were beggars and vagabonds, intent on taking advantage of unwary holiday-makers. Others were poor pilgrims, on their way home or to other shrines, and lingering in Castleacre to enjoy the free entertainment. Most of them were now in good spirits, and helped the horses along with cries and slaps.
‘Bromholm, did you say, master?’ quavered an aged pilgrim eagerly, gazing up at Will rheumy-eyed from where he trudged between their two horses. ‘I ha’been on pilgrimage to Bromholm! I ha’prayed before their wondrous true relic of the Holy Cross!’
‘I’ah!’ said Ned Pye, feeling thoroughly disagreeable. ‘When a man has travelled half over Europe, as I have, he knows that if all the supposed relics of the Holy Cross in all the churches of Christendom were put together, there’d be a forest of crosses! Aye, and if all the supposed bones of the saints were mended, they’d have more arms and legs than they knew what to do with. And as for new blood appearing on the bones –’
Will bent from his saddle and gripped the man’s shoulder for a moment. ‘Go on in faith, friend,’ he reassured him. And then, with his disgruntled servant riding ahead and shouting Way, way!, he forced a passage through the crowded market place to reach the stables at the Woolpack inn.
Chapter Eight
Master Justice Throssell was heartened by the news his godson brought. Inviting him to his parlour again, he poured two glasses of the Rhenish wine.
‘I’ll send word to the constable that the prior’s bailiff, though absent, is accounted for. But you are right to be cautious, Will. We must know for sure that Walter Bostock is alive before we can be confident of your brother’s innocence.’
‘Is there news of any other missing men? I heard the enquiry spoken of at the inn.’
‘It seems that it has caused a stir. My own servants have been about this business, as have the constable’s, though they’re hampered by the feast-day crowds.’
The justice’s sparse beard twitched with amusement. ‘Two absentees from home have already been declared. Mistress Pardew, wife to poor wandering Tom, swears the corpse must be her husband’s though his age is greater than mine, and he has but one arm. And the wife of Jack Broach the thatcher claimed he was missing, in the hope that he would be caught in fornication and brought by the churchwardens before the archdeacon. But it seems that the constable’s servants knew full well where to find him.’
Will laughed, remembering Jack Broach. ‘Sleeping out of the way of his wife in the barn behind the Green Man, I have no doubt, and drunk as a rat into the bargain! Well, these tales will serve to take attention from my brother. As to the corpse …?’
‘He must be buried by dusk tomorrow,’ said Justice Throssell, ‘for he’ll keep no longer. Should anyone seek to claim him later, he can be identified by knowledge of his birthmark.
‘But enough of Castleacre!’ Unequal in size as he was to his great chair, Lawrence Throssell eased himself eagerly forward. ‘I long to hear the news you have gathered on your travels. How does England stand now with France? And with the Emperor?’
The old gentleman bombarded Will with questions, but did not stay to listen to his answers. He seemed to have something of more immediate importance on his mind, and presently he burst out with it.
‘And what of King Henry and His Holiness the Pope? What of the King’s great matter – the annulment of his marriage, which only the Pope can authorise? I know what occurred last year, when Cardinal Wolsey and another Papal legate sat in London to judge the King’s case. I heard tell of Queen Katherine’s dignity as she rejected the tribunal, saying she could have no fair trial in England. But what now, Will? Is the case going to Rome, as she wishes?’
Will shook his head. ‘The Pope prevaricates, as always. Though he’s supreme head of the church, he fears to offend any of the great rulers of Europe. He wishes to please our King, and yet he dare not give way to his urging, for the Queen has the support of her nephew the Emperor. Meanwhile, King Henry gives his attention to little else. During the past three years, I’ve travelled to and from Rome with royal envoys five times, on this matter alone. The King grows increasingly angry that his wishes are frustrated.’
‘Ha! Because,’ said Justice Throssell, outraged, ‘he desires to marry one of the Queen’s maids of honour! I heard so from one of my fellow justices, who was at Westminster earlier in the year.’ He brooded, swirling the pale wine in his glass. ‘I have heard it said that Her Grace would resolve the matter by renouncing the world and retiring to a nunnery.’
‘It’s said so,’ agreed Will. ‘But not by the Queen. That course has been urged on her many times, not only by the King but by the Pope himself. But Queen Katherine will never do so, for all that she’s a very devout lady. She holds herself to be King Henry’s true and lawful wife, and mother of his rightful heir, the Princess Mary.’
‘And so I do believe,’ asserted Lawrence Throssell loyally. ‘And so does every man of sound mind in Norfolk. Aye, and throughout the kingdom, I have no doubt. There was such rejoicing, twenty years ago, when they were married – and evidence enough of their happiness …’
The old gentleman sighed. ‘Well, well. The King can obtain an annulment only if he shows that their marriage was invalid, and he has no good case for that.’
‘Good case or not,’ said Will, ‘King Henry has convinced himself of its truth. He cites the Bible for authority. Though the Queen has borne him sons, none lived beyond a few weeks. He says this is God’s judgement on him for unlawfully marrying his brother’s widow.’
Justice Throssell snuffled with indignation. ‘The King has no ground for that argument! When he married Prince Arthur’s widow, it was with special dispensation from the Pope.’
‘So I understand. But now he states that his conscience is so greatly troubled by this matter that nothing will resolve it but an annulment of the marriage.’
‘Hmm,’ said the justice darkly. He sighed again, then creaked to his feet. ‘My bones tell me’tis pity to waste the sun, when winter lasts so long. Let us walk in the garden for a while.’
Enclosed as it was by a high brick wall, his garden was warm and mellow, the colours turning as the season turned. No livestock were kept here, apart from bees and doves, and there was no disorder, only carefully tended herbs, flowering plants and fruiting trees. The damask roses that were the old gentleman’s pride were over, but their fruits glowed scarlet in the sun.
The two men walked together along the swept paths, Will pacing slowly, Lawrence Throssell pausing every now and then in mid-trot to cup in his hand a ripening quince or a medlar, absently drawing it to his godson’s attention without interrupting their talk.
‘And how does the Queen reply to the King’s argument that their marriage was invalid?’ he asked.
‘Her Grace’s defence never wavers. She told the tribunal, on oath, that she never had conjugal relations with Prince Arthur, and that she was a virgin at the time of her marriage to King Henry. She challenged the King to deny that, but he would not answer.’
‘No, for he knows it to be true, as I and many others have always believed. I recall,’ said Justice Throssell, ‘that I was a young lawyer at Westminster at the time of the marriage of Prince Arthur, the Prince of Wales, to the Princess Katherine of Aragon. I saw them both.
‘The bride was just sixteen years old, small for her age, but of a pleasing appearance. We had all expected her to be dark, being Spanish, and her fairness surprised us – but then, she has English Plantagenet blood in her veins. Prince Arthur was a year younger, and half a head shorter still – he was puny, a child in appearance. He had always been frail and sickly, quite unlike his younger brother Prince Henry. No one who saw them, as I did, ever believed that their marriage had been consummated. There was sadness, but no surprise, when Arthur died not five months later.’
‘And that,’ said Will ‘was, what, nearly thirty year ago? I heard tell of it when I was in London last year, at the time of the tribunal. Courtiers who had been in attendance on the night of that marriage gave evidence at the tribunal on behalf of the King. They tried to prove that Katherine could not have been a virgin when she married King Henry.
‘One of them swore that Prince Arthur had called from the marriage bed for ale, early next morning, saying he was dry for he had been in the midst of Spain that night. But if the prince did indeed say so, was it any more than the boast of a weakling boy? I think the King’s conscience need no more trouble him on that account than it has done these twenty years past.’
‘My opinion chimes with yours, Will,’ agreed his godfather. ‘The King may cite his conscience as reason for divorce, but here’s the truth on’t: he is a lusty gentleman, and the Queen – his elder by six years – is now past
child-bearing. To get a male heir he must needs marry a younger woman, and he’s already made his choice.’
The old gentleman paused, shaking his head with regret. ‘That it should be Nan Bullen’ – he pronounced the name Boleyn in the Norfolk way – ‘a girl born at Blickling in this county, who has betrayed her mistress the Queen and thrust herself into his favour … But there’ – he shook his head again – ‘she had example from her elder sister Mary, who was the King’s whore before her.’
‘True,’ said Will. ‘But there’s a difference. The King merely dallied with Mary Boleyn, as he did earlier with Bessie Blount who bore his bastard son, Henry Fitzroy. He’s deeply enamoured of Anne Boleyn, and has been so these four years.’
‘I heard it said that she did not let him have his way with her,’ conceded Lawrence Throssell somewhat grudgingly. ‘She could not do so, and keep his favour, unless he loved her. But does she hold him off still?’
Will laughed. ‘I am not in her confidence, godfather, nor that of King Henry! It’s rumoured that she allows him many liberties – but it would be a rash man who enquired more closely. Anne Boleyn is a clever young woman, bold and strong-willed, and she intends to be Queen. She behaves so at court already, and is kissed openly by the King despite Queen Katherine’s presence.’
Justice Throssell exclaimed his disapproval at some length. ‘She must be a great beauty, to captivate him in this way,’ he concluded.
‘Not so,’ said Will. ‘Her mouth is too large and her eyes are too black, for she’s as dark-hued as our Spanish Queen is fair. And yet …’
He paused for a moment. The image that had come fleetingly into his mind was not that of Anne Boleyn but of Sibbel Bostock, wife to the prior’s bailiff, an older woman but of similar appearance.
‘Yet it is said that she captivates the King with the brilliance of her eyes and the liveliness of her spirit. He seems bewitched by her, and can deny her nothing.’
Lawrence Throssell’s brow had creased with anxiety. ‘Then how will this great matter be resolved? These are not private troubles. Here is a contest between the supreme spiritual authority of Rome, and the governance of this realm. What is to happen, if the Pope will not grant King Henry a divorce?’
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