New Blood From Old Bones

by Sheila Radley

  From somewhere high above, rising over the plainchant, Will heard a distant shout. He thought it sounded like In Manus Tuas, Domine –

  It was followed by a long thin scream, fading as it neared. Looking up, Will saw a figure falling from the topmost gallery of the tower, his black tunic and scapular spread like a bat’s wings as he tumbled through the incense-laden air.

  The monks’voices wavered uncertainly as they heard the muffled crash of the body striking the marble floor. Then they resumed, continuing their calming benediction.

  Will ran to the crumpled body of the sub-prior. Father Arnold had fallen face-down in front of the rood screen, his arms outflung, as though submitting himself to the mercy of God.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The following morning was bright with sunshine and the downward drift of yellowing leaves, though a coolness in the air hinted at chill winds to come. It was a good day for saddling up and galloping off towards London.

  Will felt glad to be leaving Castleacre. As Meg had said, there was no occupation for him here – least of all in winter, when days were dark and roads were foul. Whereas London, he thought eagerly as he prepared to set off, held never-ending interests and pleasures; not least the prospect of seeing Julian there.

  But he was leaving with the satisfaction of knowing that he had been of assistance to his family, and also to his godfather, the justice of the peace. As soon as they had returned from the priory the previous day, Master Justice Throssell had dealt promptly with those matters that came within his jurisdiction.

  The Justice’s first act had been to send his own servants to arrest Sibbel Bostock and bring her before him on a charge of conspiring to procure the death of her husband. Mistress Bostock, still defiantly protesting her innocence, was now being held in the town gaol to await trial.

  ‘In truth,’ the justice of the peace had confided to Will, ‘there’s little evidence we can bring against her without implicating the sub-prior in the deaths of the bailiff and Jankin Kett. Prior Nicholas has asked me to let her go free, for a trial at the county Assize court would cause scandal and harm to the priory; but I have my duty to do. However, I intend to leave her to languish in the town gaol until the time of the Assizes, and then free her on condition that she leaves the parish of Castleacre and never returns within ten miles, on pain of further imprisonment.’

  Next, Master Justice Throssell had summoned Gilbert Ackland, withdrawn the charge of murder against him and released Will from his bond. He had also taken it upon himself, in the interest of good order within the town, to give stern advice to the two offenders against church law, Gilbert Ackland and Thomas Gosnold the constable. Telling them that he was aware of their adultery, he had advised them to go immediately to the parish priest and confess, before the archdeacon got to hear of their offences.

  Later that evening, Will had heard that Thomas Gosnold had paid a large sum to the parish church by way of penance. As for Gilbert, he said nothing about his penance. But he was undoubtedly relieved to be a free man again, and he had given Will an unprecedented embrace last night and again before breakfast this morning.

  It pleased Will to know that he was leaving his family in good heart. Meg was glad that he was at last returning to his studies. Betsy had sat happily on his knee yesterday evening, too young to understand that he was going away. Only poor Alice was woebegone; but her sad condition was reason enough for that.

  The entire household – outdoor as well as indoor servants, all of them glad of any diversion – turned out in the castle yard to see the travellers depart. Old Jacob held the two horses, while Ned Pye busied himself with strapping on the laden saddle-bags.

  Ned, it seemed, had done much to enliven the servants during his short stay at the castle, and there was a parting exchange of ribald jokes and laughter. As usual, Agnes stood apart from this, holding Betsy’s hand. But Will noticed that this morning there was a becoming flush on her homely face, and she did not take her eyes off Ned Pye. For his part, Ned seemed to ignore her; but once or twice his master saw him give her a great wink from under his fringe of yellow thatch.

  ‘Where’s Gib?’ asked Will, eager to make his final farewells, mount up and go. ‘I haven’t seen him since breakfast.’

  There came a shuffling and an astonished muttering from the servants standing nearest the house. ‘Why – Master Ackland’s here, sir,’ spoke up Lambert the gangling boy.

  The crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea, staring at the near-stranger who was advancing through their midst. Gilbert Ackland was dressed in the gabardine smock of a beadsman, with strong walking boots and a broad-brimmed leather hat that had belonged to their grandfather. He carried a small pack on his back, and walked with an ash-plant in his fist.

  ‘Friends,’ he announced, his eyes shining out from the tangle of his hair: ‘you see me as I now am – a pilgrim.

  ‘Two days ago, I was falsely accused of murder. I vowed then that if my innocence were proved with my brother’s help, I would make a pilgrimage in thanksgiving. Last night I confessed my sins to the parish priest, and he has given me his blessing. The time has now come for me to make good my vow.’

  ‘Well said, Gib!’ applauded his sister. ‘You are right to do so. Shall you go to Walsingham, or Bromholm?’

  ‘Neither,’ Gilbert struck the ground impressively with his staff. ‘My pilgrimage is to the shrine of St James at Compostella.’

  The servants gasped in astonishment. Alice, who had been resting on the mounting block, gasped with unhoped-for relief. Ned gave a suppressed snigger, and Will and Meg, knowing that their brother had never travelled further than Swaffham, were hard put not to laugh.

  ‘Gib,’ said Will, struggling to keep his face straight, ‘have you any idea where Compostella is?’

  ‘No – but I shall find it,’ said Gib stoutly. ‘The priest tells me that if I walk to London, and cross the river there, I shall come to Dover. And in Dover I shall find many other pilgrims to companion me on my way.’

  Will scratched his ear. ‘True. But Compostella is in Spain, hundreds of miles away. It would take you many months to walk there. Besides, this is the wrong season to begin a pilgrimage. With winter coming on, you’d be beset with difficulties and privations.’

  ‘It will test my faith,’ agreed Gib. ‘But I have bought from the priest a medal of the blessed St Christopher, who will guard and guide me on my journeyings.’

  ‘Aye, aye!’ cried one of the servants devoutly, before his fellows – agog to hear more of the family argument – could clap their hands over his mouth to hold his noise.

  Reminded that they had an audience, Dame Meg immediately dispersed it. She scolded the servants back to work, shooed away Agnes and Betsy, glared at Ned Pye until he took the horses off to the gatehouse, and then addressed the elder of her brothers with exasperation.

  ‘Gilbert Ackland!’ she said. ‘Walk anywhere you will in England, and you’ll come to the shrine of a saint. Surely St Edmund at Bury, or St Thomas at Canterbury, would be pilgrimage enough for you? You cannot think of going so far as Compostella – what of your farm while you’re away?’

  ‘I leave my farm, and my wife Alice,’ said Gib solemnly, ‘in the care of my brother William. I know he will manage the one, and protect the other, until such time as I return. And if it should please God to take my life while I am on pilgrimage …’

  Will was dumbfounded. He had never known his brother to make a jest, but he could not believe that he meant what he said.

  ‘Don’t play the fool, Gib! I know nothing about farming. And besides—’

  ‘I showed you the management of the land, yesterday,’ Gib reminded him. ‘And my foreman, Mat Fielding, knows what work the men must do.’

  Meg confronted him, her handsome face flushed with anger. ‘Enough, Gib! You cannot unload your duties on to Will – he must return to his studies at Gray’s Inn. I will look after Alice, and manage the farm, while you make a pilgrimage in England. Compostella is too
far. It’s out of the question.’

  Gilbert sighed, aggravating them further by his new-found patience. ‘I am truly sorry to vex you, sister,’ he said, ‘and to inconvenience you, brother. But the oath I swore was by the Holy Cross of Bromholm, and I cannot choose but honour it.’

  Silenced, Will and Meg looked at each other in dismay. By the Holy Cross of Bromholm was the solemn oath Gib had used to convince Will that he was not guilty of the bailiff’s murder. It was one of the most binding of all oaths. Gilbert could not break it without committing a grievous sin, nor could they ask it of him.

  Gib shouted to a servant to bring him provisions, and Alice eagerly offered to help. Meg took Will’s arm and drew him aside.

  ‘You are to go back to Gray’s Inn, as you planned,’ she insisted. ‘I can manage everything here – better than Gib, if the truth be told.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Will. He tried to speak lightly, though disappointment weighed him down. ‘But I cannot in all conscience leave you burdened with Alice, in her condition, and with my daughter, as well as the farm. Especially not at this time of year, with winter coming on. No – I will stay for a few months, until Alice has recovered and the worst of the weather is over. Ned can fetch some of my law books, and I’ll spend a virtuous winter reading them.’

  Meg tried to argue, but he took her sternly by the shoulders. ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘I am master here now!’ And they both laughed, though in truth he found little enough to laugh at.

  Ned Pye was holding the horses under the gatehouse arch, and looking glum.

  ‘No doubt you heard?’ said Will.

  ‘Aye – you’re staying here.’

  ‘It won’t be so bad, with my brother gone. And we sha’n’t be imprisoned – we can ride over to Lynn, or to Norwich …’

  ‘Ha! And to Swaffham on market day, I suppose?’

  Will ignored the gibe. ‘We always keep a good Christmas here, as you’ll find,’ he went on, hoping fervently that Julian’s family would return to Oxmead for the festival. ‘And as soon as spring comes—’

  ‘Save your breath to cool your porridge, Master Will,’ Ned advised him. ‘This is where we part company. I’m off to London whether you come or no. I shall die of dullness if I stay in your poor little town an hour longer.’

  Will was dismayed, but tried to hide it. ‘Castleacre, dull? How can you say that, when we’ve had two murders within the space of a week! Aye, and discovered the culprits, between us.’

  Ned shrugged. ‘I’ve had small thanks from your brother for that. But there – servants are always disregarded.’

  ‘Not so, for he’s given me a purse for you!’ It wasn’t true, but Will acknowledged the justice of it; and if it would appease Ned, he was willing to make good Gib’s omission.

  The horses had begun to toss their heads restlessly, their bridles jangling. Ned, somewhat mollified busied himself quietening them. More hopeful now, Will set about persuading him to change his mind.

  ‘Come, Ned – you cannot leave me so suddenly, after all we’ve been through together! Think how I took you into my service, when you were looking for wages as well as adventure. Think how you saved my life. Think of our travels – the excitements we’ve shared –’

  ‘Aye, and think of the good horse you were too miserly to buy me!’

  ‘Ah! As to that,’ said Will recklessly, ‘I’ll make you a promise. We’ll go to Lynn horse fair, and I’ll buy you whichever mount you choose, up to the quality of my own. But first—’

  ‘First? Ha! I might have known there’d be something in the way.’

  ‘First, you must ride to London and bring me back some of my law books. I’ll give you a letter to take to Gray’s Inn. And as an earnest of my pledge, you shall borrow my own horse for the journey. How say you?’

  Ned looked at his master suspiciously. ‘How do I know you won’t trick me over my new mount?’

  ‘How do I know you’ll ever return from London?’

  They were still arguing when the great bell of the priory began a solemn tolling, as preface to the Requiem Mass for Dom Arnold, sub-prior of Castleacre. The sub-prior – news of whose death had spread the previous evening from the priory to the precinct and from the precinct to the town – had died, it was said, by accident, as a result of a fall while going about his duties. And no-one who knew the truth would speak of it, for in 1530 the church was still the greatest power in the land, as King Henry and his mistress Anne Boleyn had cause to know.

  Copyright

  First published in 1998 by Constable

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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  ISBN 978-1-4472-2672-7 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-2671-0 POD

  Copyright © Sheila Radley, 1998

  The right of Sheila Radley to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

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