Silenced by admiration, and vexed by his own poor showing, Will could only bow again and say, ‘Mistress Julian.’
‘Master Will,’ she returned with grave acknowledgement, though her lips twitched with a smile too near amusement for his comfort.
‘On Sunday, then, Will,’ said Sir Ralph, clearly anxious to be on his way. ‘Ride over to Oxmead directly after Mass. We have matters of great importance to discuss – though no doubt,’ he added indulgently, ‘my daughter will vex you with questions about the dress and manners of France and Italy.’
‘I shall indeed,’ said Julian. ‘What other subject could be of interest to me?’
She spoke demurely, as a good daughter should, but there was a wilful light in her eye. ‘I must ask Master Will about the appearance of gentlemen, especially,’ she added, ‘for I hear that in France and Italy they dress very fine…’
She gave Will a smile at his own expense, and rode out through the gatehouse. He stood staring after her, so dazed that he hardly heard his sister’s exasperated cry: ‘William Ackland! Where have you been?’
Chapter Thirteen
Meg questioned him all the way back to the house, though Will would only say that he had been tickling trout at the river.
‘In the river, more like!’ They had entered the hall, and she ceased her scolding long enough to order the servants to pull off his sodden boots and bring him hot water and towels.
‘No – bring me a flagon of ale first!’ Will instructed them. He was in an excellent humour, and gave an affectionate greeting to Alice who had re-entered the hall before them. She was now sitting at the table, where she was sorting a strew of herbs. The air of the great room was sharp with chervil, onion, tarragon and fennel, mingled with the smoke of burning logs.
Alice looked up at Will, her features plain and pale in comparison with Meg’s, and gave him a small, rare smile. Ever since their attendance at Mass on St Matthew’s day, when he had lent her his arm, she had been less shy with him. And no doubt Gilbert’s absence for the whole day had made her feel more at ease.
A servant brought ale, and Will took it and stood with his back to the great fireplace, knee-deep in slumbering dogs. His spirits unaccountably high, his aching leg forgotten, his clothes steaming in the warmth, he raised the flagon and drank deep.
But Meg had still not finished her complaints. Though she sat down with Alice and resumed the sorting of the herbs, for her hands could never rest, she delivered herself of her opinion.
‘Your conduct is not fitting for a grown man, Will Ackland – let alone one who’s a gentleman, and very near a barrister. I spent two hours or more, as we sat in my parlour with the Corbyns awaiting your return, praising you for your knowledge and the statecraft you’d learned on your travels. I hoped Sir Ralph would look on you favourably, and give you some advantage at Westminster when you’re called to the Bar. But then you come home as tattered and soaked as a vagabond after a rainstorm! What must he have thought of you?’
‘You need have no fear of that,’ Will assured her. ‘Sir Ralph is too wise to judge a man by a trivial disarray in his appearance.’ Then he grinned at her. ‘But I thank you for what you said of me, Meg, for he’s invited me to dinner on Sunday.’
She stopped in her task, a great bunch of thyme, ready for drying, in her hands and a look of relief on her face. ‘Aah …’ she said, on a long breath. ‘Then I’m very glad for you.’
‘And I,’ said Alice. ‘Mistress Julian Corbyn,’ she added artlessly, with all the authority of someone who had once travelled as far as Swaffham, ‘is more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen …’
He affected indifference. The women glanced at each other, endeavouring not to laugh.
‘Even if her father failed to notice your appearance,’ said Meg, ‘Mistress Julian did not. From what we saw, you pleased her not at all.’
‘Ha!’ said Will with confidence. ‘No matter, for I’ll dress finer than any man in Norfolk on Sunday!’ He stepped over the tangle of dogs and cats and began to strut about the hall, flagon in hand, reviewing in his mind’s eye the peacock clothes he had bought on his travels.
‘I shall wear my blue-embroidered shirt, and my French doublet of murrey-red with the sleeves slashed to show the pink lining. And the dark – no, the paler of the blue hose. And the boots of Florentine leather, and my feathered cap of black Italian velvet.’
‘Shall you, indeed?’ said Meg dryly. ‘And where, pray, do you keep all this finery?’
‘Why, in my travelling chest—’
Will stopped abruptly, his confidence foundering. He slapped his head with the heel of his hand. ‘Mass,’ he groaned, ‘I had forgot! I left the chest at Gray’s Inn. All I have here is what I stand in …’
‘Not so. You have what you brought for saints’days and Sundays.’
‘That’s not good enough for Oxmead!’
‘But surely’ – Meg pretended to be puzzled, but her eyes mocked him – ‘Sir Ralph will not judge you by your appearance? Did you not say just now that he’s too wise for that?’
Will scowled, temporarily silenced. His sister turned to Alice. ‘I do believe,’ she said, ‘that William plans to go a-wooing …’
‘That I do not!’ he protested, but they only teased him the more. He slammed down his flagon, stalked out to the screens passage, and shouted for a servant. He missed Ned Pye, who always seemed able to conjure up whatever was needed, however unpromising the circumstances. Ned would have ensured that he went to Oxmead well dressed – and would have given him a companion’s support into the bargain.
There was so much raucous laughter from the direction of the kitchens that Will had to shout a second time before the gangling boy, Lambert, came at a run. Needing help to remove his boots, Will sat on the heavy bench against the wall of the passage and anchored himself to it while the boy tugged.
‘Is the cook drunk again?’ Will asked with resignation.
‘He is but merry, sir,’ panted Lambert, taking a fresh grip. He had long outgrown his clothes, and his shirt-sleeves and hose came nowhere near his raw-boned wrists and ankles.
‘And what’s the cause of such merriment?’
Lambert kept his head down as he wrestled with the first soaked boot, staggering back as it came off, boot-hose and all. Recovering his balance he seized immediately on the second. The noise from the kitchens increased, and Will repeated his question.
‘Why, nothing … A – a bawdy jest, sir,’ Lambert mumbled as he heaved away. His long narrow chin was downy with an unshaven first beard, and splotched with pimples. His eyes were reddened, as were those of all the servants who worked in the smoky kitchens. But there was a great unease in them, and Will knew that there was something he was trying to hide.
Freeing himself from the boot with a final kick, Will stood up, barefoot, and seized Lambert by the shoulders. ‘The truth, boy!’
he demanded. ‘I’ve heard bawdy jests in plenty, but none to cause so much laughter before supper time. Tell me the truth.’
‘Sir –’ said Lambert wretchedly. He hesitated, then burst out: ‘Master Ackland is the cause. He’s been gone since breakfast, when he beat the cook sorely. And now we hear he’s fled the town – and the cook is glad of it!’
Will stared at the boy. ‘Fled?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Lambert would not meet his eyes. ‘On account of having murdered the prior’s bailiff …’
‘God’s blood!’ exploded Will, angered by the spreading rumour and more so by the fear that it might be true. He flung the boy aside, but seized him again before he could fall.
‘Listen to me, Lambert Catchpole. There’s no one in this town – not the justice of the peace, nor the constable, nor any other – who can say who the dead man is. As for your master, I have no doubt he’ll return before nightfall demanding his supper. And woe betide the cook, and all of you, if it’s not ready – and done exactly to his liking!’
By the time Will had changed his damp clothes and returned
to the hall, he found it empty. It was a room that always darkened early, and the distant sound of women’s voices told him that they had moved to Meg’s parlour, where daylight lingered longest.
He was glad to be alone with his anxiety. Restless for Ned’s return from Bromholm, he strode about, kicked the log on the hearth into flame, and conferred with the dogs. But presently Meg came looking for him. ‘Betsy is with us,’ she said, and so he was eager to follow her.
His womenfolk had, it seemed, taken it upon themselves to provide him with garments fine enough to wear at Oxmead. From the clothing and stuffs piled on the table in the window, it appeared that they had ransacked every chest in the house. ‘Not just for your benefit, neither,’ his sister pointed out. ‘We have the honour of the family to consider.’
Before he would look at any of it, he went to his daughter. Under the eye of her nurse Agnes, she was exploring the tumbled contents of the great oak chest in the parlour, her plump arms buried deep in old velvets and satins.
‘What have we here, Betsy?’ he asked, kneeling beside her. The smell of dried lavender floated up from the chest as he discovered a gown of deep blue that had belonged to his mother, and one of emerald green that Meg had worn when she was young. ‘Do you know the names of the colours?’
Shy again at first, she gave him a half-smile and a nod.
‘Well then: what’s this?’
‘Green,’ she said instantly.
‘Good. And this?’
‘Blue.’
He smiled. ‘I see you know them all. One more, then.’
Betsy hesitated. Her budding lips tried to frame the ‘y’of ‘yellow’, but found it difficult. Undaunted, she looked him mischievously in the eye.
‘Red!’ she asserted. And then she chuckled, knowing that he knew she was teasing him, and he stroked her hair fondly and went to join her elders.
Meg and Alice had decided that they had time enough to make him a new shirt, out of some fine linen that Meg had put by, inset at the neck with a band of many-coloured embroidery they had found. As for doublet and hose, Alice offered what her husband had been married in, and had never worn since.
‘Gilbert will never know,’ she said, though there was some apprehensiveness in her voice.
‘He cannot wear them again, for he’s grown too fat,’ said Meg. ‘They’ll be large for you, even so – but we can have them altered to fit.’
‘I’ll not wear Gib’s hose!’ Will declared ungraciously.
‘Then you must make do with your Sunday pair,’ snapped Meg, out of patience with him. ‘But you need not turn up your nose at his doublet. It’s as fine as any Norfolk gentleman could wear, for I ordered it from the best tailor in Lynn.’
It was indeed a fine garment, made of light blue velvet with bands of darker blue braid in the front and on the wide-puffed upper sleeves. Will tried it on, admiring it but finding it far too large at the waist. The women fussed round him, pinching and pinning it.
‘I thank you both,’ he said. ‘But who is to alter it? There’s no time to take it back to Lynn.’
‘Young Dickson, here in Priorygate, will do it,’ said Meg, removing a pin from her mouth. ‘He’s a much better tailor than his father was – why, I hear that the prior himself has some of his clothing made by him. If young Dickson’s tailoring is good enough for my lord prior, it should be good enough for Master Will Ackland. There …’
She stood back to judge the alterations, conferring with Alice over the placement of a last pin. ‘You look very handsome, Will,’ murmured his sister-in-law.
His sister snorted. ‘At least he’ll do the family no discredit,’ she conceded. ‘Now, Agnes shall take the doublet straight to the tailor, so as to lose no time in the unpicking. And you must call there tomorrow morning, Will, for a fitting.’
As they divested him carefully of the pinned garment, and wrapped it in a cloth, Will caught sight of Agnes’s wholesome face. She was a good-hearted young woman, and always ready to be of service, but her expression now was one of dismay.
She said nothing beyond a small ‘Aye, madam,’ as she took the bundle Meg gave her, but her eyes were cast down and her mouth was tight. Will followed her out of the parlour and caught her up in the hall.
Some of the candles had been lit, and the tablecloth was in place, but the three serving women who were supposedly setting the supper had gathered in a muttering huddle, pewter plates and drinking cups and loaves of bread clutched to their aproned bosoms. As soon as Will entered the room they fell silent and scurried about their work, giving him covert glances.
He ignored them. ‘What’s amiss, Agnes?’ he asked quietly.
She looked away from him, her eyes wretched. ‘Oh, sir – I dare not go out, for fear of what folk will say! Here’s Master Ackland fled, and the whole town calling him a murderer—’
The sound of hooves galloping into the castle yard made everyone in the hall look up, and stand as if frozen. Collectively – including even the dogs, or so it seemed – they held their breath.
Then the front door burst open and a great bellowing for attention reverberated through the house. His brother had not fled after all, and Will had never been so glad to hear his voice.
But it seemed that something untoward had happened during the day, for Gilbert bore the unmistakable marks of a brawl. He walked with a cautious stiffness, as though his back pained him. There was bruising on one of his cheeks, and on the other, extending across his forehead, was a livid weal.
Gilbert refused, that evening, to speak of it – or indeed to speak at all, except savagely to the servants. But Will took note that his brother did not leave the castle again that night, nor yet early the following morning.
Chapter Fourteen
After breakfast, when the priory bell was ringing for the monks’ Chapter Mass, Will went out under an overcast sky to call on the tailor in Priorygate.
He chose to walk rather than ride. Unwilling to believe that all Castleacre considered his brother a murderer, he wanted to meet the eyes of everyone he came upon. But where yesterday there had been smiles and greetings, today there were none.
Townspeople pointed him out covertly, turning away at his approach or busying themselves so as to avoid speaking to him. True, Dickson the tailor rose from where he sat cross-legged in the window of his shop and attended to him eagerly, but he was a young man intent on building up his business.
While he was in the shop, with its coloured clutter of half-finished garments and reels of thread, Will negotiated for the making of a new cap for his visit to Oxmead, in place of the Sunday cap he was now wearing. He had persuaded Meg to let him have a good piece of the emerald green velvet from her discarded gown, and she had laughed and found him a peacock’s feather to go with it.
The tailor promised that all would be ready by the next morning, Sunday, before Mass. Will left the shop with rising spirits. As he stepped out again into the street, a woman’s voice, deep and warm, hailed him.
‘Why – Master William Ackland!’
He would not have recognised Sibbel Bostock except by her voice. The woman who was approaching him from the direction of the priory gatehouse was properly attired as the wife of a yeoman. Her gown was of a seemly length, and her hair was entirely hidden by her linen undercap and her gable hood. She carried an empty basket on her way to the market place.
Will’s spirits sank again. He returned her greeting with the briefest courtesy, for he was reluctant to speak to her. With reason, he felt uneasy in her presence. It seemed that, living out of the town as she did, the bailiff’s wife had not yet heard the rumours. Would the townspeople be quick to inform her, he wondered, that it was her husband who had been murdered, and his brother who was the murderer?
But he could not part from her at once, for she might later think of his haste as an admission of Gib’s guilt. Better, he decided, to deny that part of the rumour by making conversation with her.
‘Young Dickson is a good tailor, I hear,’ he said
, conscious of a stiff formality in his voice. For all that her lustrous black hair was now completely hidden, Sibbel Bostock was a remarkably handsome woman. The black eyes, in the strong brown-skinned face, seemed larger and more bright than he remembered.
‘An excellent tailor,’ she agreed. ‘And perhaps I can be of assistance to you, Master Will? Should you need any fine cloth or velvet for Dickson to make up, my husband’s aunt has the best you can buy this side of Lynn, at her shop by the church in Swaffham. She will be sure to give you a fair price if you mention my name.’
Will muttered his thanks. The image of the mutilated corpse hovered unbidden before his mind’s eye. Was it her husband who had been buried unknown before dusk yesterday, with only the constable, the sexton and his son to attend him during the last rites?
His unease doubled as Sibbel Bostock continued, smiling and lowering her voice confidentially though there were none to hear.
‘I have placed an order with Dickson, secretly, for a new cap for my husband. The prior’s bailiff is like most men – except young gentlemen such as yourself, of course – and always favours his sad old cap … Now there’ll be a new one for him, will-he nil-he, when he returns from Bromholm!’
Will smiled as best he could, feeling compassion for a good wife who might well, unknowing, have been a widow for some days. ‘And when will that be?’ he asked, for something to say.
‘Tuesday at best, or Wednesday more like. Unless of course he’s delayed on business for the priory. He may be required to go to Thetford, or even further afield.’
They had conversed enough, he hoped, for her to doubt any rumour she might hear about Gilbert. Possibly she would hear nothing, for the townspeople might shun her as they so often shun the newly bereft, not knowing what to say beyond God ha’mercy. But to make it plain that Gib had not fled, Will said that his brother was waiting for him to return and discuss a matter of business. He bade her farewell and walked quickly back through the town, his head held high and looking neither to right nor to left.
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