Heartstone

by C. J. Sansom

  I shook my head vigorously. ‘I fear the effect on her. And if I stopped going to see her, she would be alone.’

  Guy did not reply, only went on looking at me. I threw down my knife and sat back.

  ‘If only love could always be mutual,’ I said quietly. ‘I loved Dorothy Elliard, but she could not return my love. While for Ellen I feel only – liking, yes. Pity.’

  ‘Guilt? Because of what you cannot feel for her?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  He said quietly, ‘It would take courage for you to tell her. To face her reaction.’

  I frowned angrily. ‘I am not thinking of myself!’

  ‘Not at all? Are you sure?’

  ‘The best way to help her is to find out the truth about her past!’ I snapped. ‘Then—’

  ‘Then the problem may be handed over to someone else?’

  ‘It does not belong with me. And finding out the truth can only help her, surely.’

  He did not reply.

  AFTERWARDS I went upstairs to look at my commonplace books, notes on cases and aspects of the law going back to my student days. I needed to refresh my mind on the rules and procedures of the Court of Wards. First, though, I thought about Coldiron. I half-wished I had dismissed him in the garden, but it occurred to me that if I did and then had to go to Hampshire, there would be nobody left in charge of the house and the two boys except Guy, and it would be unfair to leave that responsibility with him. Better to set enquiries about possible stewards in motion round Lincoln’s Inn tomorrow, and make sure I had someone to take his place before dismissing him. Yet Josephine worried me; I did not want to cast her out into the world with nobody but Coldiron. I cursed the day I had taken him on.

  I spent the rest of the evening making notes, calling down to Coldiron to bring a candle as the light faded. I heard Josephine’s footsteps pattering up the stairs: she brought in a candle, set it on my desk, and left with a quick curtsey. Her steps descended again, pitter, pitter, pitter.

  At length I stopped writing and sat back to think. Master Hobbey had begun by purchasing a portion of this tract of woodland plus the monastic buildings, which he had converted into a house, then he had bought the children’s wardship. The capital outlay for all these transactions would have been large, even for a prosperous merchant. It would be interesting to find out the sums involved. Emma, Bess Calfhill said, had not liked young David Hobbey; but my reading had made clear that only in the most exceptional circumstances would the court consider an appeal by a ward against a proposed marriage. The marriage partner would have to be far below her in social class, or a criminal, or diseased or deformed – I noted wryly that a hunchback counted – for the Court of Wards to disallow the marriage on the basis of ‘disparagement’.

  But Emma had died, and if that was Hobbey’s plan it had come to naught. Her inheritance would have passed to Hugh and though by one of the law’s oddities a girl, if unmarried, could apply to have her wardship ended at fourteen, a boy could not ‘sue out his livery’ until the age of twenty-one. According to Bess, seven years ago Hugh had been eleven; he would be eighteen now – three years till he could come into his lands.

  I got up and paced the floor. Until Hugh was twenty-one Hobbey would be entitled only to the normal income his lands brought in, and if it was woodland there would be no income from rents. Yet, as I had told Barak, the owners of wardships were notorious for ‘wasting’ the lands of their wards, selling and profiting from assets like woodland and mining rights.

  A book on my shelf caught my eye: Roderick Mors’s Lamentation of a Christian Against the City of London, a diatribe against the city’s social evils that had belonged to my friend Roger. I opened it, remembering there was a passage about wardship: ‘God confound that wicked custom; for it is too abominable, and stinks from the earth to heaven, it is so vile.’

  I closed the book and looked out over my garden. It was nearly dark; the window was open and the scent of lavender came up to me. I heard the bark of a fox, a flutter of wings somewhere. I thought, I could almost be in the countryside, back on the farm where I grew up. At that moment it was hard to believe the country was embroiled in crisis; armed men marching, armies forming, ships gathering in the Channel.

  NEXT MORNING I walked down Chancery Lane to catch a boat to Westminster Stairs. Crossing Fleet Street, I saw someone had placed handwritten posters all over the Temple Bar, calling on the mayor to beware ‘priests and strangers’ that would set fire to London. The weather was even stickier this morning; the sky had taken on a yellow, sulphurous look. I turned into Middle Temple Lane and followed the narrow passageway downhill between the narrow buildings. Along a side lane the old Templar church was visible. Vincent Dyrick practised in the Temple. I thought, only four days now until the hearing. I walked on past Temple Gardens, where the recent storms had laid great wreaths of petals under the rose bushes, and down to Temple Stairs.

  The river was still crowded with supply boats heading east. I saw one barge laden with arquebuses, five-foot iron barrels glinting in the sun. The boatman told me all the King’s ships had sailed out from Deptford now, bound for Portsmouth. ‘We’ll sink those French bastards,’ he said.

  At Westminster Stairs two barges were tied up, each with a dozen men leaning on the oars. I climbed up into New Palace Yard, under the huge shadow of Westminster Hall. A company of a hundred soldiers was drawn up beside the great fountain, resplendent in the red and white of the London Trained Bands. They made a magnificent display, as they were meant to. Their weapons were a stark contrast to their bright uniforms: dark, heavy wooden maces with heads full of spikes and studs in elaborate, brutal designs.

  Facing them was a stocky officer on a black horse, with a surcoat in the royal colours, green and white, a plumed helmet on his head. A crowd of onlookers lined the square, the hawkers, pedlars and prostitutes of Westminster and some clerks from the courts. One of the whores pulled down her bodice to display her breasts to the recruits, and people nearby laughed and cheered. The officer smiled faintly.

  The soldiers had a tense, expectant air, watching as the officer produced an impressive-looking parchment, held it up with a flourish, and began declaiming: ‘By the faith I bear to God and King, I will truly obey the martial laws or statutes.’ He paused and the men repeated his words in a loud chant. I realized this was a swearing in, men taking the oath binding them to full-time service, and I pushed my way through the crowd, a careful hand on my purse. Then, suddenly, I was in the narrow, dark lane between Westminster Hall and the abbey, deserted save for a white-headed old clerk walking slowly towards me, bent under the weight of a pile of papers.

  I arrived at the group of old Norman buildings behind Westminster Hall, white stone shabby with soot. Instead of heading for the Court of Requests as usual, I opened a stout wooden door in the adjacent building and climbed a flight of narrow stone steps to a wide archway. Above it was a carved representation of the seal of the Court of Wards; the royal arms and underneath the figures of two young children bearing a scroll with the Latin motto of the court: Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor. A helper to wards, orphans and widows.

  THE BROAD VESTIBULE of the court was dim, with the familiar law court smell of dust, old paper and sweat. A number of doors led off to one side, while on the other several people sat on a long wooden bench, their faces strained and tight. All were richly dressed. There was a couple in their thirties, the man in a fine doublet and the woman in a silk dress and a hood lined with pearls. A little way along sat a boy of about ten in a satin jerkin. A young woman in a dark, high-collared dress held his hand as she argued with a barrister I did not know.

  ‘But how could they do that?’ she asked. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘I have told you, my lady,’ he answered patiently, ‘here, it is expecting sense that makes no sense.’

  ‘Excuse me, Brother,’ I asked. ‘Can you direct me to the clerk’s office?’

  He looked at me curiously. ‘The door behind you
, Brother. You new to Wards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tapped his waist where his purse hung. I nodded. The child looked at us with an expression of desperate puzzlement. I knocked at the clerk’s door.

  INSIDE, a large room was divided in two by a wooden counter. On the far side, under a window through which the sky was still darkening, a thin, grey-haired clerk in a dusty robe sat working at a desk. A younger, thin-faced clerk was arranging papers on the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The older clerk looked up, the steady scratch of his quill ceasing, and came across to me. His lined face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He bowed briefly, then laid a pair of ink-stained hands on the counter and stared at me enquiringly, quite unintimidated by my serjeant’s coif. The clerks held great power in all the courts, but usually they showed deference to barristers and serjeants. The Court of Wards, it seemed, was different.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he asked neutrally.

  I opened my satchel and laid Michael Calfhill’s summons on the counter. ‘Good day, master clerk. My name is Serjeant Shardlake. I wish to go on record in this case. I believe Master Warner, the Queen’s attorney, has written to Attorney Sewster.’

  He looked at the paper, then back at me, his expression a shade more respectful. ‘Yes, sir. I was told to allow a late entry on the record. But Master Sewster also told me to say, sir, that evidence to support the plaintiff’s case needs to be filed quickly.’

  ‘I understand. Were you told the man that laid the Bill of Information has died?’

  ‘Yes.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The plaintiff dead, a lawyer instructed four days before the hearing, no depositions, no papers. Sir William will be placed in difficulties at the hearing. The proper procedures have to be followed. The interests of young children are at stake, you see.’

  ‘I would be willing to show good appreciation for any help you can give me now. I hope to have fresh depositions shortly.’ I slipped my hand under my robe, to my purse, ‘Master – ’

  ‘Mylling, sir, under-clerk.’ He turned his palm slowly upwards. I glanced at his young colleague, still putting away papers. ‘Oh, don’t heed him,’ Mylling said. ‘Five shillings in the new money to see all the papers about the wardship, three in proper silver.’

  I blinked. The whole legal and government system was lubricated by bribes. Money or expensive gifts were passed to officials from parties to legal cases, merchants looking to supply the army, people wishing to buy monastic land. But usually these presents were made semi-covertly, described as gifts in token of personal esteem. And those who asked for too much too often, as rumour said Rich had done last year, got into trouble. For a clerk to ask a serjeant blatantly for money like this was remarkable. But this, I reflected, was the Court of Wards. I handed over the money. The young clerk went on with his filing, quite uninterested in what was clearly routine business.

  Mylling’s manner became friendly. ‘I’ll get you on the record, sir, and fetch the papers. But, sir, I tell you in your own interest, you need witnesses that can give some credibility to Master Calfhill’s accusations. I am being honest with you, as I was with Master Calfhill when he came.’

  ‘Michael Calfhill saw you when he made the application?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Mylling looked at me curiously. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No. I only took instructions from his mother yesterday. What was he like?’

  Mylling thought a moment. ‘Strange. You could see he’d never been in court before. Just said terrible things had been done to this young ward, he wanted it brought before Sir William at once.’ Mylling leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘He seemed wild, distracted. I wondered if he was a bit brainsick at first, but then I thought, no, he is – ’ he thought a moment – ‘outraged.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That fits.’

  Mylling turned to his assistant. ‘The papers, Alabaster,’ he said. The young man had been listening after all, for he immediately began rooting in the dog-eared piles, quickly fetching over a thick bundle tied in red ribbon. Mylling untied it and passed me the top paper. A Bill of Information, filled out in a neat hand, the signature in the bottom corner the same as that on the suicide note. I read:

  I, Michael John Calfhill, do humbly petition this Honourable Court to investigate the wardship of Hugh Curteys, granted to Nicholas Hobbey, of Hoyland Priory, Hampshire, anno 1539, monstrous wrongs having been done to the said Hugh Curteys; and to grant an injunction to avoid Nicholas Hobbey’s possession of the ward’s body.

  I looked at Mylling. ‘Did you help draft the application?’ I asked. Clerks were not supposed to do that, but Michael Calfhill would not have known the legal formulae and Mylling would probably have helped for cash.

  ‘Ay. I told him the bill should strictly be signed by a barrister, but he insisted on doing it himself, at once. I said he should tone his language down, but he wouldn’t. I did try to help him. I felt sorry for him.’ I saw, rather to my surprise, that Mylling spoke truly. ‘I told him he’d need witnesses and he said he’d talk to some vicar.’

  ‘May I?’ I reached for the file. The paper beneath the application, as I expected, was the defendant’s reply to the bill. Signed by Vincent Dyrick, it was a standard defence, bluntly denying that any of the allegations were true. The other papers were much older.

  ‘Is there anywhere private I could look at these?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Court papers may only be taken out of the office for hearings. You may lean at the desk here.’ My hand went to my purse again, for leaning over that counter for any length of time would, I knew, hurt my back, but Mylling shook his head firmly. ‘I’m afraid that is the rule.’

  So I leaned over the counter and looked through the papers. Nearly all dealt with the grant of Hugh and Emma’s wardship six years before; records of the application by Nicholas Hobbey, Gentleman, and valuations of the land from the local officers, the escheator and feodary. Hobbey had paid £80 for the wardship, and £30 in fees. That was a large amount.

  There was also a copy of the earlier conveyance to Hobbey of the priory buildings and his minority share of the woodland he had bought from the Court of Augmentations. He had paid out £500 for those. There was a plan of the lands formerly under the nunnery’s ownership; I looked to see whether there were any valuable rented properties, but all the land, both Hugh’s and Hobbey’s, seemed to be just an expanse of woodland – apart from the village of Hoyland, which Hobbey had bought with the priory buildings. He was lord of the manor, giving him an increase in social status. Hoyland was quite a small village, I saw, thirty households so perhaps two hundred people. There was a schedule of tenancies and I saw that although some households owned their land freehold, most held it on short leases of seven to ten years. I thought, the amount of rent will be minimal, not much profit for anyone there. Hoyland Priory was described as being eight miles north of Portsmouth, ‘on the hither side of Portsdown Hill’. From the plan it lay very near the main London to Portsmouth road, ideal for transporting wood.

  I stood up, easing my back. Hobbey had made a big investment, first in his portion of the land and then in the wardship. He had moved down there, so presumably he had sold his merchant’s business in London. A successful merchant deciding to set himself up as a country gentleman – it was a common enough picture.

  I looked up. Mylling was glancing at me covertly from his desk. His eyes skittered away. ‘This wardship went through very fast,’ I said. ‘Barely two months from the original petition to the grant. Hobbey paid high fees. He must have wanted the wardship badly.’

  Mylling got up and came over. He said in a low voice, ‘If he wanted it put through quickly he would have been expected to show his appreciation to Attorney Sewster and the feodary.’

  ‘Master Hobbey has lands in Hampshire next to the wards’ property. And a young son.’

  Mylling nodded sagely. ‘That’ll be it. If he married the girl to his son that would unite their lands. Draw up a pre
-contract of marriage while they’re still children. You know the gentry. Marry in haste, love at leisure.’

  ‘The girl died.’

  Mylling inclined his head wisely. ‘Wardship has its risks like any other business. There’s still the boy’s marriage, though. He could make some profit from that.’ Mylling turned away as the outer door opened and a fat, elderly clerk brought in a file of papers, depositing it on the counter. ‘Young Master Edward’s wardship to his uncle is confirmed,’ he said. ‘His mother was overruled.’

  Through the door I heard the sound of a woman and a little boy weeping. The clerk stroked the dangling sleeves of his robe. ‘His mother said the uncle is so ugly the boy runs away at the sight of him. Sir William told her off for insolence.’

  Mylling called for Alabaster and he came over. ‘Draw the orders, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Alabaster smiled cynically at the court clerk. ‘No gratitude in Wards, is there, Thinpenny?’

  The clerk scratched his head. ‘That there isn’t.’

  Alabaster smiled again, a nasty smile I thought, then saw me looking and turned back to his desk. Thinpenny left and Mylling returned to his desk. I turned back to the Curteys documents. There was little more on the file: an exhibition setting out the amounts Hobbey undertook to pay for the children’s education – another outgoing, I thought – and then a short certificate recording the death of Emma Curteys in August 1539. Finally there were half a dozen orders from the last few years, ordering that Master Hobbey be permitted to cut down a limited amount of woodland belonging to Hugh, ‘the trees being mature and the demand for wood great’. Hugh’s profits, like his inheritance, were to be held by the Court of Wards. The amount to be cut down was to be agreed ‘between Master Hobbey and the feodary of Hampshire’. On each occasion sums between £25 and £50 had been remitted to court with a certificate endorsed by the feodary, one Sir Quintin Priddis. At last, I thought, the stink of possible corruption; there was nothing to prove that larger sums had not been split between Hobbey and this Priddis. But nothing to prove they had, either. I slowly closed the file and straightened up, wincing at a spasm from my back.