New Blood From Old Bones (20 page)

Will thanked her for the information, and rose to go. Doll Harbutt planted her hands on her knees and heaved herself to her feet, her expression subdued again.

‘We've had a sad event here at the priory today, Master Will.

Young Jankin Kett, one of the lay-brethren – you and your family know him of old –'

‘Jankin?' Will felt a lurch of alarm somewhere deep within him. ‘What has happened?'

‘He's dead, sir.'

She gave a long, heartfelt sigh. Shaken, Will crossed himself and murmured a
God ha'mercy
… ‘How did he die?'

‘Drownded, poor simpleton. One of the monks took a walk by the river after Chapter Mass, and saw him afloat. ‘A must have fallen in and could not swim.'

‘True, he could not,' said Will slowly, through lips that felt numbed. ‘I tried to teach him when we were young, but his limbs were all awry.' He shook his head. ‘Poor Jankin – he loved the river. We used to tickle trout together. That was what he was doing when I first saw him yesterday. I tried to speak to him, and followed him through your yard, but he would not stay.'

Doll Harbutt snuffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sat down again, suddenly overcome. ‘That was when I last saw him. ‘A was harmless, sir, harmless … and yet I shouted at him and beat him round the ears. We all did it, servants and some of the other lay-brethren as well … When they brought him up from the river this morning, I was so grieved for the poor mooncalf that I laid his body out myself.'

‘Had he been dead long?' asked Will. ‘Had he begun to stiffen?'

‘No, sir.' She paused, then added in a broken voice: ‘The bruises we gave him were plain enough, all round the back of his neck …'

‘I must go and see him,' said Will. ‘Where is he lying?'

‘In the nave, sir. He's to be buried after Vespers.'

Her helpers were returning from the green with baskets piled with dried linen. The laundress still had the remainder of the day's work to do, but evidently she had a greater burden. She caught Will by the sleeve and looked up at him with haunted eyes.

‘Do you think, sir,' she whispered hoarsely, ‘that Jankin took his own life because we made him wretched? If so, he's gone straight to hell, and his sin will be on our heads too.'

Will sought to reassure her. ‘No, Mistress Harbutt,' he said firmly.

‘I do not believe that Jankin would have taken his own life.'

The priory church was never empty. At this time of the afternoon, when the monks were engaged elsewhere in meditation, reading or study, there might be no one there at all. But a benevolence of saints was always present, their carved and painted images looking down from every altar, niche and corner; and silence was never complete, for the walls seemed to encompass the echo of centuries of plainchant and prayer.

The great candles that were used to light the church during High Mass, revealing the vivid colours of the wall paintings and the brilliance of the gold and silver and jewels with which the statues were adorned, were now extinguished. The carved and painted bosses, distantly high in the roof of the nave, were lost in the gloom. But Will could see two candles burning in the north aisle, beyond the pillars that separated it from the nave, and there he found the body of his boyhood friend.

Jankin was at peace, there was no doubt about that. Lying on a bier in his white shroud, with only his face visible under his shock of dark hair, he looked little older than when he had first been put into the care of the priory. All the fear and anxiety had been smoothed from his moon-flat features by the hand of death.

But even though Will had some idea of Jankin's wretchedness, he refused to believe that he had drowned himself. Self-destruction was a sin so great that the thought of it could not be borne. Whatever private misgivings they might share with the laundress, everyone at the priory, monks and lay-folk alike, would prefer to attribute Jankin's death to an accident.

What concerned Will, however, was not misgivings but guilty knowledge. The bruising on the back of the neck that the laundress had observed suggested a different cause of death. And if that were so, the truth would be kept hidden somewhere within the priory.

He was just finishing a heartfelt prayer for the repose of his friend's soul when he heard the swift approach of sandalled footsteps, and saw from the corner of his eye the swirl of a black habit. He knew at once, without looking up, that its wearer was the sub-prior. But the nave of the church was the one part of the priory that was always open to laymen, and there was no need for apology.

‘An untimely death, Father Arnold,' he said as he rose to his feet. ‘And a grief for my family – Jankin's mother was our nurse, as I think I told you.'

The sub-prior inclined his head fractionally by way of acknowledgement. His cowl was pushed back, revealing his gaunt face, but his deep-set eyes were lowered. ‘Jankin idled by the river when he should have been at work,' he said in his austere voice. ‘No doubt he fell in and was unable to swim.'

‘Perhaps so,' said Will. ‘But he was mistreated by the other servants, I saw that for myself when I was here yesterday. I understand there is bruising on the back of his neck. Could he have been held under water in some incident – some horseplay – do you think?'

The sub-prior raised his eyes and gave Will a single, burning glance. ‘How should I know that?' he said with disdain. And turning abruptly, he swept away towards the Quire.

Will rode back to the castle and found Ned Pye waiting for him, sitting astride the parapet of the bridge over the ditch with his back against the outer wall of the gatehouse. He was juggling with pebbles to pass the time, and looking pleased with himself.

‘Here's news to hearten you!' he cried, jumping down and taking the horse's bridle. The castle dogs, accustomed to Will by now, came rushing out without much barking and fawned round his legs as he dismounted.

‘The constable's servants,' Ned went on, ‘tell me that he came home yesterday with a fine black eye! Mistress Gosnold was so angry with him that she hasn't spoken to him. And he hasn't left his yard since then, for he's too ashamed to be seen.'

‘Excellent news! What else do they say about the constable?'

Ned grinned. ‘They say he has a whore somewhere, for he sometimes rides out o'nights. And no one knows where he might be during the day…'

It could be nothing more than servants'gossip. What with his flocks and herds and his duties as constable, Thomas Gosnold had reason enough to absent himself from Southacre. But the black eye certainly suggested a brawl, and perhaps a rivalry with Gilbert Ackland.

‘My brother's at home, I hope?'

‘Aye, and comforting himself with ale. He shambles about the yard like a caged bear, and snarls at everyone he comes across. That's why I'm here, out of his way. Old Jacob has gone into hiding.'

‘He's a wise man. And we'd best stay here too, if we're to talk without interruption.'

Ned hitched the horse's reins to a rusted hinge that had once supported one of the castle's great outer doors. ‘The servants aren't best pleased with you, Master Will,' he said, evidently agreeing with them. ‘They think you should ha'let your brother be clapped into gaol, guilty or no, to give them a few weeks'peace.'

Will let that pass.

‘Keep your fleas to yourself, sirrah,' he commanded an over-friendly hound, pushing the animal aside with his boot and slapping his bitten calf. He joined Ned on the parapet, drew up his heels out of the dogs'way, and rested his arms on his knees in thought.

‘I must persuade Gib to tell me the truth about the brawl. But even if we know that they've both enjoyed Sibbel Bostock's favours, we need more than that to connect the constable with her husband's death.'

‘I could start by finding out what happened to the bailiff's horse,' suggested Ned. ‘It can't ha'disappeared – I'll wager it's been sold. I'll visit the farrier before supper and ask him to describe it.'

‘Do that,' Will agreed. ‘And what of the other possessions the bailiff had with him when he set out? All I've found so far are his clothes – except for his riding boots. There's his saddle and harness to find, and his saddle-bags, and the rent rolls for the priory's lands at Bromholm. If we can trace any of them to Southacre, we'll have a good case against the constable.'

‘We?'
objected Ned in an injured voice. ‘Who is this
we
? It seems that I'm expected to do it all myself, since you are riding out on pleasure tomorrow …'

Will had almost forgotten that he was invited to dinner at Oxmead. Almost, but not quite, for the image of Julian Corbyn had come to mind, delightfully unbidden, on several occasions during the day.

‘I do not go on pleasure,' he informed his servant austerely. ‘Sir Ralph Corbyn is one of the Members of Parliament for Norfolk. He could be of assistance to me when I become a barrister.'

‘Ha!' crowed Ned. ‘You needn't try to deceive me. I've heard how you pestered the womenfolk to deck you out in finery for the occasion! You're going a-wooing – and without my approval …'

Will repaid him for his impertinence by tipping him off the parapet, though he took care to dump him on the bridge rather than down into the ditch.

‘Enough of your grumbling,' he said. ‘And you need not grin like an ape, neither. As for the tasks – you told me not two hours ago that you'd rather do them alone than in my company. Besides, it's in your interests as much as mine to discover the murderer. The sooner my brother's name is cleared, the sooner we can return to London.'

Ned stood up and brushed the dust of Castleacre off the seat of his hose. ‘Amen to that,' he said fervently.

An uneasy quiet hung over the yard. Even the geese and the dunghill roosters seemed subdued as Gilbert Ackland, morose as a captive bear, prowled within the confines of his castle walls.

Will approached his brother in the orchard, careful not to give the impression that he was cornering him. For his part, Gib knew better than to receive his benefactor with a snarl; but his bitterness towards the rest of the world was undisguised. Only the news of the constable's black eye seemed to give him any satisfaction.

Will guessed that his brother had kept his liaison with Sibbel Bostock a secret for fear of the long reach of church law. Had word of it got to the churchwardens'ears, he would have been summoned before the archdeacon's court and either heavily fined or sentenced to imprisonment for adultery. But that was now of small significance. Finding himself in danger of being hanged for murder, Gib was at last prepared to answer his brother's questions, though he did so with resentment.

Yes, he had fought with Thomas Gosnold yesterday – and Sibbel Bostock had been the cause.

It was at Michaelmas the previous year that he had first accepted her invitation to taste her elderberry wine. Since then, he had visited her whenever her husband was away on priory business.

‘That must have given you a double satisfaction,' suggested Will. ‘Not only did you enjoy Mistress Bostock, but you cuckolded your enemy the bailiff into the bargain.'

‘Aye – it pleased me well at first. Then I began to suspect that I had a rival. Sibbel denied it … but I've been in torment these past few months. Then, yesterday –'

Gilbert snatched a ripe apple from a tree and hurled it viciously against the castle wall, where it splattered on impact.

‘I found Thomas Gosnold with her! By God – if I'd already murdered the bailiff I would ha'killed the constable too.'

Will tried to give his brother some consolation. ‘I doubt that you and the constable were the only men to enjoy her favours, Gib. Mistress Bostock offers a taste of her elderberry wine to any man who's to her liking. And if we're to discover the murderer, we must know every one of them. Do you have reason to suspect anyone else?'

Gilbert swelled with rage. The priory bell had begun to ring for the early evening service of Vespers, but he had no difficulty in making himself heard above its sound.

‘God's blood – haven't I already pointed you to the murderer? Thomas Gosnold had reason enough to want to rid himself of the bailiff. Aye, and he had opportunity, too. And the authority to escape justice by claiming the body was unknown. Have the constable arrested, and let me go free!'

Will gave him a few moments to calm himself. ‘So that you can return to Sibbel Bostock's arms?' he suggested, not unkindly.

Gilbert's outburst had abated. He turned his great head towards his brother, his eyes wretched amid the tangle of his hair and beard.

‘I'God's name,' he said in a broken voice, ‘I
love
the wench … She bewitches me. I cannot leave her be …'

Recalling the lustrous black-eyed charms of Sibbel Bostock, Will had no difficulty in understanding. It seemed to him that his brother was as much in thrall to her as King Henry was to Anne Boleyn, a woman made in a similar mould. And how it would end, for man, monarch or mistresses, he could not begin to guess.

At supper, Will told the family of the death of Jankin Kett, though not of his ill-treatment nor of the likelihood that others had played a part in his drowning. Meg was sad for a time, less perhaps for Jankin himself than for their vanished childhood of which he had been a part. Even Gib muttered a
God ha'mercy
. And by the time Will had finished explaining to them that Jankin's death had been an accident, he had almost come to believe it himself.

He slept lightly and was up and about by Sunday cock-crow, eager for the meeting with Julian Corbyn that the day would bring. Ned Pye was eager too, heartened by the prospect of returning to London as soon as he could find the bailiff's murderer. He went whistling about his duties, cleaning his master's boots until they shone, sharpening Will's knife to a fine edge for shaving, and fetching a second basin of hot water without too much grumbling.