‘I must go up there and speak to him. I hope to bring him down with me, and the three of us will then ride into the town together. Have his horse saddled and ready, Jacob.’
Ned had been listening with some scepticism. ‘I doubt your brother will be brought down so easily,’ he said as they went through the herb garden and round the side of the house towards the upper ward.
‘I must try to make him see reason. If I can’t – if he prefers to flee – then he must take the consequences. But at least I shall have told him what the consequences are.’
Aware that Gilbert might be looking out from the old keep, they kept their voices low and made soldierly use of natural cover as they approached the great earthwork. Ned Pye stared up at the precipitous scar, the chalk a brilliant white against the darkly overcast sky. ‘That is the way you climbed when you confronted your brother the other day? With your leg weakened from wounds? I wonder you didn’t fall and break your neck.’
‘I climbed it often enough when I was a boy.’
‘That proves you’re no wiser now than you were then,’ said his servant severely. ‘Surely you’re not going to climb it again?’
‘No, I’ve learned my lesson. Last time, my brother saw me climbing and became enraged, thinking I was spying on him. This time, with two of us, our tactics will be different. I shall take the path that winds up through the scrub and emerges on the far side of the keep. I’ll draw Gib’s attention by calling to him as I go. Meanwhile, you will climb up on this side, unseen, to give me support.’
‘I am to climb the cliff?’ Ned was indignant. ‘Ha – I might have known it! Servants must always expect the dangerous tasks … Well, if I reach the top without breaking my own neck, what am I to do then?’
‘Stay out of sight, and come to my help only if I call. I may need you if Gib becomes violent.’
‘And if he sees me while I’m making the climb?’
‘He’ll kick flints down on your head, I shouldn’t wonder. If he does,’ Will advised, ‘your best plan is to duck.’
Chapter Sixteen
A westerly wind had risen, loosening the first drops of rain from the heavy clouds. Will left the cover of the orchard trees and made an open approach to the upper ward.
‘Ho there, Gib!’ he called loudly, before taking to the path that snaked up the scrub-covered side of the earthwork. ‘Where are you, brother?’ he went on, pausing occasionally in his brisk pace. ‘Gib, I say – are you up there?’
There was no answer. Reaching the top he began to search the ruins, and found Gilbert leaning his arms on a chest-high stretch of broken wall, gazing out over the roofs of the town in a brooding silence. Approaching rain had already obscured the great grey bulk of the priory, but the bell for the noonday Choir Office made its powerful presence, visible or not, known throughout the valley.
Will joined his brother, standing beside him and leaning his own folded arms on the wall. ‘Shall we go to dinner?’ he suggested.
‘I’ll eat my dinner when I please,’ Gilbert growled, without turning his head.
‘Why not, since you’re the master here?’ said Will, humouring him. He fell silent for a few moments. The rain, sweeping across from the west, dashed against their faces, but neither brother moved.
‘No doubt you’ve heard what’s being said about you in the town?’
‘Ha!’ said Gilbert with contempt. ‘The fools say I killed the prior’s bailiff – but the murdered man cannot even be recognised!’
‘That was true until this morning. But Justice Throssell has now heard that recognition’s been made. The corpse is undoubtedly Thomas Bostock’s.’
Gilbert’s head jerked round towards his brother, his cap and his beard streaming with rain. What little could be seen of his weather-worn face had paled, making the bruising on one cheek and the livid weal on the other more clearly visible.
‘Undoubtedly? How can that be?’ he blustered. ‘I heard it said that the face of the corpse was battered beyond all knowledge.’
‘So it was. But Justice Throssell has now been told that Walter Bostock had a distinctive birthmark on his body – and so had the corpse. There’s no longer any doubt, Gib. The prior’s bailiff has been murdered.’
Gilbert flung himself away and began to stride up and down between the broken walls, but with some caution, as though his back pained him. ‘Then may his soul burn in hell,’ he muttered, ‘for he deserved to die—’
He stopped abruptly in mid-pace. ‘But I did not kill him!’ He strode back to Will and thrust his thick finger to within an inch of his brother’s face. ‘Mark me: I am not his murderer!’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘Aye – by the Holy Cross of Bromholm!’
Will was heartened by his brother’s use of one of the most solemn and binding of all oaths. Even coming from a man who practised his religion only when it suited him, it carried conviction.
‘Then who is the murderer, Gib? Do you have evidence against anyone?’
Gilbert turned away impatiently. ‘If I had, I’d have told you before now. The murder could have been done by any one of the priory’s tenants. They all hated the bailiff, though most were too cunning to say so – the constable especially. Aye, you’d do well to suspect the constable!’
‘Then I’ll do what I can to find some evidence. But meanwhile, the charge has been laid against you. Master Justice Throssell requires you to attend him at once to answer to it.’
‘To attend him? To answer a false charge? God’s blood, am I to be treated like a common suspect!’ Gilbert’s face was so purpled with rage that his injuries hardly showed. ‘Never! The Acklands were lords of this valley for two hundred years, and I’ll not be summoned to attend a mere magistrate.’ He stabbed his finger at Will again. ‘Go back to Justice Throssell, brother, and inform him that I am not guilty.’
Will shook his head. ‘Gib,’ he said patiently, ‘I cannot do that. The law requires you to answer in person to the justice of the peace. All I can do for you is to keep you company. Otherwise—’
Gilbert thrust his wet face menacingly close to Will’s. ‘Otherwise what? Make me go, will you, little brother?’
‘Why should I trouble?’ said Will, folding his arms. ‘The choice is yours. If you’re not willing to come with me to the magistrate, he’ll send the constable and his servants to arrest you and take you there by force.’
‘The constable – by force?’ Gilbert let out an infuriated roar. ‘God’s death, I’d sooner leave Castleacre than submit to that! Out of my way!’
Will stood his ground. ‘If you flee, you’ll only harm your cause. Listen to me, Gib—’
But Gilbert was beyond reason. His instant response was to strike out at his brother. Will saw the ham-like fist coming and jerked his head aside, but the glancing blow was fierce enough to rock him back on his heels. Gib turned and broke into a pounding run, making his way in the driving rain round the outer passage of the keep towards the top of the path.
But Will was by far the more agile of the two, despite his old wounds. He cut off a corner of the keep by vaulting over one broken wall, and then scrambled up another, cursing when his boots slipped on the wet flints and he cracked his knee. As he stood up on an empty window embrasure just above head level, he caught a glimpse of Ned Pye leaning comfortably in a sheltered corner, keeping an eye on what was happening.
The empty window was one of the many vantage points Will had used in his youthful single combats with his brother. As Gib ran by below, Will leaped on to his heavy shoulders and wrapped his arms round his brother’s neck, bearing him to the ground.
‘Now will you stay and listen to me,’ he panted, kneeling astride and pinning him face down on the grass-grown passageway.
Gilbert slammed his hands impotently on the wet turf. ‘My back is hurt – get off me!’ he protested through gritted teeth.
‘Pains you, does it?’ said Will callously, exploring the tender, swelling flesh on his own cheek with cautious fing
ers. ‘How did you come by the damage – and to your face as well? Brawling, were you?’
‘What’s it to you? My horse put a hoof in a rabbit hole and threw me into a bush. Get off me, do you hear!’
Gilbert gave a sudden heave of his great shoulders and rolled over, breaking Will’s hold and elbowing him in the ribs for good measure. Lumbering to his feet he set off again towards the path. Will followed him at a run, flinging himself forward to seize Gib round the knees, at the same time thrusting the weight of his shoulder behind his brother’s thighs. Hobbled, but carried forward by his own momentum, Gib thudded to the ground and lay there winded.
This time, Will intended to make sure that his brother heard him out. Gilbert’s cap had fallen off in their struggles. Sitting astride his shoulders, Will seized his attention by grabbing a handful of the rain-matted hair at the nape of his neck and pulling back his head, making him roar a protest.
‘Quiet, Gib, and listen. Flee if you will, for I’ll not try to stop you again. But remember this: if you flee, it will convince the justice of the peace that you must be guilty of the murder.’
He paused, wiping the rain out of his eyes with his sodden sleeve while he waited for his words to sink in.
‘Do you understand? If you did not commit the crime, you must go before Justice Throssell and plead not guilty. And then, on the strength of your solemn oath’ – he eased his grip on his brother’s hair – ‘I’ll set about finding the real murderer.’
‘Ha!’ snorted Gilbert. ‘What chance have you of that, when it’s most likely the constable himself? And meanwhile, you expect me to lie in that stinking town gaol, awaiting trial? Never!’
‘Then you must do as you please,’ snapped Will, out of patience at last. He released Gilbert’s hair and stood up, rubbing his cramped thigh. ‘I’ve told Master Justice Throssell that if you’ll agree to be bound over to appear at the next Quarter Sessions, I’ll keep you out of gaol by standing surety for you. But if you’d sooner flee, and be hunted down by hue-and-cry – then go, and the devil take you.’
The rain had begun to ease. Will strode towards the path, trying not to limp, and Gilbert hurried after him.
‘Not so hasty, brother. In truth, I did not know you had any surety to offer.’
‘I have a few savings. But mark me, Gib: I can’t return to my studies at Gray’s Inn without them. If you flee, you’ll deprive me of both my money and my profession.’
With some effort, Gilbert formed his features into an unaccustomed expression of gratitude. ‘On my oath, I shall not flee. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you please – aye, and at my expense!’
It was strange to think that the enraged brother who had ordered him from the castle two days ago had now become a suppliant, following anxiously on his heels as they descended the narrow winding path through the scrub. Will muttered his thanks for the invitation to stay, but avoided any more discussion.
With a full year’s study still to complete, he needed to return to London for the start of the Michaelmas law term. He hoped to set off from Castleacre in four days’time, on Wednesday; at the latest on Friday.
It was not lack of money that would prevent him from going. Meg would undoubtedly be willing to release him from his bond by standing surety for Gib herself. But duty to his family required him to stay until he had discovered the true murderer.
As everyone knew, the solemn process of the law was no guarantee that justice would be done. If Gilbert remained the suspected offender, his plea of not guilty at the Quarter Sessions would be of no avail. There was good evidence that he had threatened to kill the bailiff, and the jurymen – chosen for their local knowledge and likely acquaintance with the facts of the case – would almost certainly find him guilty.
Until their grandfather’s day, convicted felons who could read had been able to escape hanging by pleading benefit of clergy. But murderers were no longer given that benefit. The only thing that could save Gib from being hanged would be the discovery that another man had committed the crime. Small wonder, then, that he was suddenly anxious for Will’s help.
They had reached the foot of the mound. Will turned to reassure his brother, and saw that Ned Pye was following them down the path at a discreet distance, wisely preferring not to descend by way of the chalk cliff.
‘Be of good cheer, Gib!’ he said, concealing his own unease by slapping him over-heartily on the back. ‘I’ll find the murderer as soon as I can, with my servant’s help. Ned is a good man to have at your shoulder in perilous times, and he’ll be as loyal to you as he is to me.’
Despondent, muddied, yesterday’s bruises evident on his pale cheeks, Gilbert nodded his thanks. Will glanced down at his own dishevelment and let out a great chuckle.
‘By the Mass, Gib, we’ll be in trouble when Meg sees us! Let’s meet her wrath together, for I dare not face her alone!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Stand forward, Gilbert Ackland!’
For a moment Will feared that his brother would refuse to comply. The two of them, as presentable as a vexed and anxious Meg had been able to make them in a hurry, stood at one end of the great oak table in Justice Throssell’s hall, where they had been ushered by the sturdiest of his servants. The justice himself, stern under his skull cap, had just entered from the parlour to take his seat at the far end of the table. It was his steward, acting as his clerk, who gave the command, and Gib drew a fierce breath and clenched his fists in impotent fury at being summoned by a servant.
Thankful at least that the constable was not there to witness Gib’s humiliation, and perhaps to gloat over his own escape from justice, Will gave his brother a nudge. With great reluctance, Gib took a step forward.
The justice of the peace looked up severely, giving no sign that he knew either of them. ‘Gilbert Ackland,’ he said, his piping voice surprisingly strong, ‘you are charged with a grievous felony, in that you did murder Walter Bostock, bailiff to the prior of Castleacre. How say you to the charge? Are you guilty or not guilty?’
Gilbert squared his great shoulders. ‘I am not guilty, sir!’
A log shifted on the hearth, sending up a crackle of sparks. Everyone present watched in a tense silence as the justice’s clerk wrote down the plea in his careful, cramped hand, his quill scratching on the parchment.
‘Then I commit you for trial,’ continued the justice, ‘at the next Quarter Sessions in Bishop’s Lynn. Is there any man here who will stand surety for you until that time?’
‘I will, sir. William Ackland,’ he added, to make it clear that he was not presuming upon his relationship with Justice Throssell, nor yet his long acquaintance with his godfather’s steward. He stated the sum he could pay, the justice agreed, and he went forward – not without misgiving – to sign away his life’s savings on the strength of his uncertain-tempered brother’s oath.
Then the justice solemnly ordered Gilbert to remain within the parish at all times, and within his castle walls from dusk to dawn. He would be allowed to leave the castle in order to attend Mass on saints’days and Sundays, and to walk or ride once a day round his own fields. But he was forbidden to go on any other man’s land, or to enter any inn, alehouse, shop or private dwelling, on pain of immediate imprisonment.
‘Do you understand these conditions?’
Gilbert’s tension was near-mutinous, but he forced himself to mutter, ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Very well. The court is risen.’
The steward held open the door that led to the parlour, and Master Justice Throssell trotted out with immeasurable dignity. Avoiding each other’s eyes, the brothers turned to leave. The justice’s other servants shuffled awkwardly out of the way, uncertain of their role now that the court proceedings were over. But the steward, a neat, precisely clean-shaven man, dropped his clerk’s formality and came hurrying back down the hall to escort his master’s godson to the front door.
‘Master Will …’ he said, with evident sympathy for his predicament.
> ‘Robert …’ acknowledged Will. He lingered, while Gib went out to the street where Ned was waiting with their horses. ‘I expected to see the constable here, ready and willing to clap my brother into gaol.’
‘Justice Throssell sent to inform him of the hearing, sir. But the constable – knowing that you’d agreed to stand surety and his presence would not be needed – begged to be excused. It seems he’s injured, after being thrown by his horse.’
Will was immediately interested. ‘Thrown, was he? Is he badly hurt?’
‘That I don’t know, sir,’ said the steward, who had been schooled in diplomacy by his master. But he allowed his eyebrows to rise eloquently. ‘From all accounts he’s expected to survive.’
Hopeful that the constable’s so-called accident had happened at the same time as Gilbert’s, Will hurried outside to join his brother. There he found that a noisy crowd – Castleacre’s usual spectators, the very young and the old, the idle, the simple, and the women who always carried their spindles with them so that they might earn as they stood gossiping – had gathered by the well on the opposite side of Northgate. From their disappointed mutterings, it seemed that they had hoped to enjoy the sight of Gilbert Ackland being dragged off to the town gaol.
Ned had kept Gilbert as far from them as possible by bringing the horses close to Justice Throssell’s door, and placing his own mount nearest to the crowd. Gilbert himself, still unmounted, was incoherent with rage and humiliation.
‘Go home,’ Will advised him. ‘I’ll stay and speak to them, for we cannot be whispered about and pointed at every time we pass through the town.’
His brother was unsure of himself after enduring the indignities of the magistrate’s court. ‘Do I go alone?’ he mumbled.
‘Why not?’ said Will. ‘I’m not your gaoler. You’ve given me your oath, and keeping it is a matter for your own conscience. Mount up and go, or your dinner will be ruined.’
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