Free New Blood From Old Bones by Sheila Radley Page A

the well on the opposite side of Northgate, gathered round a yellow-haired young man who had charge of two horses. From the laughter and the stirring of excitement about him, it seemed that Ned Pye was holding court.
    Recognising Master Will Ackland, two gossips on the fringe of the group gave him a hasty good day, pretended they had taken no interest in the cause of the commotion, and went about their business. The serving women scattered, giggling, their pails half-filled with the water they had fetched as an excuse to leave their work.
    Ned was clearly pleased with himself, though he claimed not to be. ‘These simple Norfolk women,’ he scoffed as he handed his master the reins of his horse. ‘They’ll marvel at any tale of travel I tell’em.’
    â€˜Not so,’ Will informed him. ‘They’re less easily gulled than you think, for I heard a gossip declare that Rome itself could not be finer than Swaffham on a market day. Here, catch!’
    He tossed Ned one of the choice apples that his godfather had pressed on him as he left. Both horses – Ned’s ageing bay mare, Will’s black stallion with a white blaze – instantly pushed forward, snuffling eagerly. Their mouths reached out with velvet insistence, and the men had no option but to share their fruit.
    â€˜There’s much to tell,’ Will began as they all stood crunching. ‘But some of it you’ve no doubt heard in the town?’
    â€˜Heard and seen,’ Ned agreed. ‘I made an early acquaintance of the sexton, and saw the corpse for myself. I’ve heard since that the constable seeks to know if any man of the parish is missing.’
    â€˜And what’s your opinion of the injuries to the face?’
    â€˜That’s easily said. Whoever killed him had cause to hate him.’
    â€˜So it seems.’ Will paused for a moment, absently convincing his horse that the palm of his hand was empty. ‘More force was used, for longer, than mere concealment warranted. There must have been a passion in those blows, a kind of madness …’
    He frowned, reluctant to say more. His servant said nothing at all as they both mounted, but he had begun to whistle elaborately. It seemed that his suspicions were much the same as his master’s.
    â€˜You are too hasty, Ned Pye,’ said Will sternly, mindful of his godfather’s advice. ‘Be convinced – as I am – that we shall find the prior’s bailiff alive, and my brother guilty of nothing more than gross ill-humour.’
    Their way took them the short distance down Northgate to the market place, over which there now hung an air of exhaustion. After a busy feast-day morning of drinking, buying, gawping and laughing, of selling and entertaining, of eating and more drinking, most people – parishioners, countryfolk and pilgrims alike – were slumped in a comfortable half-stupor in the warmth of the sun. The dancing bear lay sprawled too, looking like nothing more than a discarded heap of mangy fur, except that it twitched and snuffled in its muzzled sleep.
    Picking their way among the snorers, Will and his servant crossed the market place and took the street to the west, Priorygate. There were few houses here, and then only on its northern side, for it was bordered to the south by the great flint wall surrounding the priory precinct, halfway along which was the gatehouse.
    A midday dole of food was given out at the almonry, every day of the year, to poor travellers and pilgrims, and to any who could not support themselves on account of age, misfortune or infirmity. Today it had been given out later than usual because of the morning’s great ceremonies, and the poor had waited long for their food. But to celebrate the feast of St Matthew, all those who pressed forward to receive the dole had been given not only a lump of cheese and a loaf of coarse rye bread, but a herring as well.
    As Will and Ned Pye rode