New Blood From Old Bones by Sheila Radley Page A

when she added, ‘If you’re not back for supper I’ll send men to find you, armed with cudgels.’

Chapter Nine
    The lower ward of the castle, where the house and farmstead were, was already in evening shadow. But the old keep stood high on the upper ward, an earthwork behind the house, and its ruined walls – as uneven as rotten teeth – caught the last rays of the sun.
    When they were boys, Will and Gib had spent many warlike hours up there, fighting the barons’wars over again. As the elder, Gib had always claimed the right to be first holder of the keep, and that had suited Will, the more active and inventive of the two. Between them, they had demolished whole armies of imaginary archers and knights as they fought for possession of the keep. But every battle had ended in fierce single combat among the ruins, and both of them bore faded scars to remind them of their rivalry.
    The earthwork of the upper ward stood as high as the chimneys of the house, and its sides were as steep as the roof. It was overgrown with birch trees, now in yellowing leaf, and bushes glistening with berries, except where a wide scar ran straight from top to bottom. This was where the stones that had been taken from the old keep in Will’s grandfather’s day had been slid down to the lower ward for the building of the house. The process had gouged away the thin soil, making the scar as white and in places as steep as Dover cliff, for wind and weather had worn it to bare, slippery chalk.
    Climbing this cliff was one of the challenges Will had enjoyed in his youth. He had known better, though, than to take such an exposed route when his brother was holding the keep, for that would have been to invite defeat. Instead, he had found several different ways up through the maze of goat paths that traversed the scrub, so that he could always take Gilbert by surprise.
    Since then, the goats had been banished to the outer ditch of the castle, and the scrub had grown and tangled beyond recognition. Gilbert had no doubt made a winding path up to the keep, but it was not immediately obvious and Will did not intend to skulk about in search of it. On this delicate errand – wanting to hear what Gib would say about the murder, but without antagonising him – he preferred to make an open approach. And besides, he relished the challenge of climbing the mound again.
    Casting off his cap and doublet he stood, as in youth, in shirt and hose and surveyed the chalk scar. Then, he had always begun the climb simply by taking a run at it. He was tempted now to ignore his years and wounds and take a run at it again – but that, he was forced to acknowledge, would almost certainly result in an early, ignominious downward slide. Better to be thrifty with his breath and scramble all the way, using embedded flintstones to give him a grip or a toe-hold where the chalk was steepest.
    At first the climb went well, for his hands and feet instinctively sought their old lodging places. Even so, he soon became aware that it was more taxing than he remembered, and he was obliged to pause for breath halfway. The dry weather had loosened the surface, and as he progressed he had been sending down trickles of chalk and small flints. When he resumed the climb, he became aware that chalk and flints were beginning to slide down from another source – this time upon him, from above.
    Very soon the slide became a shower. He had to stop and fling up an arm to protect his eyes. The small flints were becoming larger and sharper-edged, and when one of them caught him a dizzying crack on the side of the head he knew that this was no accident. The debris was not merely falling, but being kicked down on him. Once again, his brother was intending to do battle.
    Almost caught off-balance, with his full weight on his weaker leg, Will clung with one hand to a flintstone while his other foot scrabbled in vain to find a toe-hold. Glancing down, he saw that