by C. J. Sansom
‘They are recruiting heavily in London,’ Dyrick said.
‘I accompanied our local magistrate on a review of the village men. For all that some of them are ruffians, they are stout fellows who will make good fighting men.’ Hobbey’s face took on a preening expression. ‘As lord of the manor I have had to supply them with harness. Fortunately the nuns had a store of old pikes and jacks, even a few rusty helmets, to meet the manor’s military obligations.’
There was silence round the table for a moment. I thought of Leacon’s men repairing the musty old jacks they would have to fight in. Hobbey looked at me, eyes glinting sharp in the candlelight. ‘I believe you are personally acquainted with the Queen, Master Shardlake.’
‘I have that privilege,’ I answered carefully. ‘I knew her majesty when she was still Lady Latimer.’
Hobbey spread his hands, smiling coldly. ‘I, alas, have the patronage of no high personages. I have risen only to be a country gentleman.’
‘All credit to you for that, sir,’ Dyrick said. ‘And for your fine house.’
‘These smaller religious houses can be turned to fine residences. The only disadvantage is that this one was also used as Hoyland parish church, so we have to go to the next parish on Sundays.’
‘With all the oafs from the village,’ Abigail added tartly.
‘And our status means we need to go each Sunday,’ Hobbey added in a weary tone. Clearly, I thought, this is no religious family.
‘How many nuns were here, Nicholas?’ Dyrick asked.
‘Only five. This was a subsidiary house of Wherwell Abbey, in the west of the county. I have a picture of the last abbess but one in my study, I will show you tomorrow.’
‘Her face all wrapped up so tight in her wimple,’ Abigail said with a shudder.
‘They used to send disobedient nuns here,’ David said. ‘Ones that had had monks’ hands at those wimples, and elsewhere—’
‘David, fie, for shame,’ his father said. But he spoke mildly, giving his son an indulgent look.
Hugh said quietly, ‘Some nights, sitting here, I seem to hear faint echoes of their prayers and psalms. Just as we still faintly smell the incense.’
‘They deserve no sympathy,’ Hobbey said flatly. ‘They lived as parasites on the rents from their woodland.’ I thought, as you do now.
‘They would be able to make fine profits today,’ Dyrick said. ‘The price wood is fetching.’
‘Yes. This is the time to sell, while the war is on.’
‘There will be good profits from your land and Master Hugh’s too,’ I observed.
Dyrick raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Master Hobbey is laying up a fine store of money for Hugh.’
‘You are welcome to see my accounts,’ Hobbey said.
‘Thank you,’ I answered neutrally, knowing those could be doctored.
‘For when I am twenty-one, a grown man,’ Hugh said quietly, then laughed, a bitter little sound. Abigail sighed deeply. I thought, that woman is wound so tight she could explode.
Hobbey passed the wine around. Dyrick placed his hand over his cup. ‘I will have no more, thank you,’ he said. ‘I prefer to keep my mind sharp.’ He looked at me meaningfully.
‘What happened to the nuns when they left?’ I asked.
‘They got good pensions.’
‘Old Ursula was one of the nuns’ servants,’ Abigail said. ‘She wishes they were back, you can see it in her.’
‘We needed someone who knew the place,’ Hobbey said, an impatient note entering his voice.
‘She looks at me insolently. And those other servants, they’re all from the village. They hate us, they’ll murder us in our beds one night.’
‘Oh, Abigail,’ Hobbey said, ‘these fears and fantasies of yours.’
The servants came in again, carrying trays of custards and comfits. As we ate I noticed something odd about the light. The candles seemed to be flickering and dimming. Then I realized that huge numbers of moths were flittering round them, as they had been at the campfire the night before. They caught their poor wings in the flames and fell and died, more moths at once taking their place. ‘Some fool servant has left a window open,’ Abigail said.
Hobbey looked at the candles curiously. ‘I have never seen so many moths as this summer. It must be to do with the strange weather we had in June.’
Dyrick looked at Hobbey, then me. ‘Well, Master Hobbey, a delightful meal. But perhaps now we should discuss the business that brought us here.’
‘Yes,’ Hobbey agreed. ‘Abigail, boys, perhaps you could leave us.’
‘Should not Hugh stay?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Dyrick answered firmly. ‘He is a boy and this is men’s business. You will have ample chance to talk to him tomorrow.’
I looked at Hugh. His face was impassive as he rose and accompanied Abigail and David from the hall. As the door closed I heard Abigail calling out for Lamkin. Fulstowe remained where he was behind his master, still as a soldier on guard. ‘I would like Ambrose to stay,’ Hobbey said. ‘He manages my business down here.’
‘Certainly,’ I agreed.
Hobbey leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, Master Shardlake. This is a strange business. Upsetting for my family. My wife has had delicate health ever since poor Emma died.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘She always wanted a daughter.’ But Hugh, I thought, has no affection for her with his coldly formal manner, addressing her as ‘Mistress’. And David had treated his mother like dirt.
‘And just now she is anxious about the hunt,’ Hobbey added in a lighter tone. ‘We are having a hunt on my land, Master Shardlake. It will be an occasion, the first in my new deer park.’ Pride had entered his quiet voice, as when he showed me the tapestries. ‘It was to be this week but we have postponed it to next Monday to allow this business to be dealt with.’ He shook his head. ‘And all because Michael Calfhill chose to burst in on us out of the blue last spring.’
‘May I ask what happened then? Informally, for now?’
Hobbey looked at Dyrick, who nodded. ‘It is simply told,’ Hobbey said. ‘One afternoon in April the boys were at the butts – they think of nothing but their bows since this war began. I was in my study when a servant ran in and said a strange man was outside, shouting at Hugh. I called for Ambrose and we went out. I did not recognize Calfhill at first, it was five years since he worked for me. He was raving, shouting at Hugh that he must come away with him. He said he loved him better than anyone else in the world.’ He inclined his head, looking at me meaningfully, then turned to Fulstowe. ‘It was an extraordinary scene, was it not, Ambrose?’
Fulstowe nodded gravely. ‘Master David was there as well, he looked terrified.’
‘What was Hugh’s reaction, Master Hobbey?’
‘He was afraid. Both boys said later that Calfhill just appeared from the old nuns’ cemetery.’
‘He must have been hiding there,’ Fulstowe added. ‘It is very overgrown.’
So you see,’ Dyrick said, ‘Michael Calfhill was a pervert. Probably thoughts of what he would like to do with Hugh had been roiling in his mind for years and driven him mad.’ He reached across the table and slapped his hand down on a moth which had fallen to the table and fluttered there, desperately beating its burned wings. He wiped the mess on a napkin. ‘Forgive me, Nicholas, but it was annoying me. Now, Brother Shardlake. How do you wish to proceed with the depositions?’
I addressed Hobbey. ‘I would like to talk to Hugh, of course, and yourself and your wife.’
Hobbey nodded. ‘So long as Master Dyrick is present at all the interviews.’
‘And Master David.’
‘No,’ Dyrick said firmly. ‘He is a minor. Hugh is too, but the court will wish to see his evidence despite his youth. David is a different matter.’
I went on, ‘And Fulstowe, and such servants as have dealings with the boys.’
‘God’s death,’ Dyrick said. ‘We will be here till the leaves fall.’
‘Fulstowe certainly.’ Hobbey leaned forward, speaking in the same quiet, even tone but with a steely note now. ‘But my servants know the boys only as masters.’
‘The Court of Wards would not permit random interrogation of servants,’ Dyrick said firmly, ‘unless they had particular knowledge. It undermines the relationship between master and servant.’
Dyrick was right; I had been testing the water. I could not force the servants, or David, to give depositions unless I believed they had particular evidence. I would, though, have liked to talk to David; there was an uneasiness under his spoiled foolishness. And Abigail had spoken of the servants murdering them in their beds, while Dyrick had told me Hobbey wished to enclose the village lands. If the servants were village folk, that might explain Abigail’s fear. It might also mean some would be willing to talk to me.
‘We will leave David and the servants,’ I said, ‘for now.’
‘For good and all,’ Dyrick said emphatically.
‘Then there is the feodary,’ I added. ‘Sir Quintin Priddis.’
Hobbey nodded. ‘I have written to him and had a letter back today. At the moment he is in Christchurch, but he is coming to Portsmouth on Friday. I would suggest we go to see him there.’
‘I would prefer to meet him here,’ I answered. ‘Over the next couple of days I would like to see Hugh’s woodlands, then I hoped Sir Quintin and I could ride Hugh’s lands together. So that I might ask him about the stretches of woodland which have been cut, how much each part fetched.’
‘I doubt he would be able to do that,’ Hobbey replied. ‘Sir Quintin Priddis is an old man, infirm of body though not of mind. And those woods are hard going. If lands have to be ridden his son, Edward, usually does that. And I do not know whether Edward Priddis is with him.’
Dyrick nodded agreement. ‘I think the court would expect you to accommodate Master Hobbey where possible, Brother Shardlake. Can you not see Sir Quintin in Portsmouth? If his son is with him, perhaps he could ride back with us if you insist on riding Hugh’s lands.’
I considered. The King’s party would not be arriving for ten days. Portsmouth was still safe for me. ‘Very well. Provided, Master Hobbey, that you write to him making clear I may request him or his son to come here afterwards.’
Hobbey looked at me seriously. ‘I wish only to cooperate, Master Shardlake, to meet all reasonable demands.’ He emphasized the ‘reasonable’. ‘I will have my books of account sent up to your room,’ he added.
‘Thank you.’ I rose. ‘Then until tomorrow, sir. Fulstowe, I would like to take this letter to Barak. His wife has a baby due soon. Perhaps you would tell me where his quarters are.’
The steward stepped forward. ‘Certainly. He is in one of the old outhouses. I will take you there.’
‘I will not trouble you. I can walk round.’
‘It is dark out there now,’ Hobbey said.
‘No matter. I was brought up in the country.’
WE LEFT THE great hall. Master Hobbey bade us goodnight and climbed the stairs; Dyrick gave me a curt nod and said, ‘Till tomorrow.’ I followed Fulstowe outside. He stood on the steps, looking up at the stars.
‘A fine night, sir,’ he observed, smiling deferentially. I thought, this is a proper steward, loyal to his master, not an oaf like Coldiron. But I did not trust him an inch.
‘Indeed. Let us hope this better weather continues.’
Fulstowe indicated a row of substantial buildings against the side wall of the enclosure. ‘Your servant is in the fourth building down. You are sure you would not like me to accompany you?’
‘No, thank you. I will see you tomorrow.’
He bowed. ‘Then goodnight, sir. I will leave the door open a little for you.’
I walked down the steps. I took a deep breath, relieved to be away from them all. I breathed in the country scents, grass and the rich fragrance of flowers from Abigail’s garden. I had still not got used to the silence after those days on the road.
There was a footstep behind me, I was sure. I looked round. The only light came from the moon, and a few candles shimmering at the priory windows. I could see nobody, but the lawn was dotted with trees behind which someone could hide. Fear came on me again, the fear that had been with me since the corner boys’ attack, and I realized how much I missed the security of riding with Leacon’s company. I hurried on, turning back every few seconds to signal to anyone looking that they had been heard. I counted along the squat, functional outhouses, knocking heavily on the door of the fourth. It opened and Barak looked out, dressed in his shirt.
‘It’s you. God’s teeth, I thought someone was trying to batter the door down. Come in.’
I followed him inside. A mean little room with a truckle bed in the corner, lit by a cheap, smoky, tallow candle. I took out the letter.
‘News from Tamasin?’ he said, his face suddenly bright.
‘I have had a letter from Guy, he says she continues well.’
Barak tore open the letter and read it. He smiled broadly. ‘Yes, all is well. Tammy says she is doing everything Jane Marris tells her. I’m not sure I believe her, though.’
‘Is not the letter written in Guy’s hand?’ I asked curioulsy.
Barak flushed, then looked at me. ‘Tamasin can barely write, did you not know?’
‘No.’ I was embarrassed. ‘I am sorry, I thought—’
‘Tamasin is a woman of low birth, she was taught little more than to sign her own name.’ His tone was sharp, I had annoyed him. ‘Did Guy tell you how Ellen was?’
‘Guy had not visited her when he wrote.’ He grunted. ‘No Feaveryear for company?’ I asked in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
‘No, thank heaven. He’s next door. I heard him at his prayers through the wall a while ago.’
‘Well, we cannot grudge him his belief.’
‘I grudge his deference to that Dyrick. He thinks the sun shines out of his arse.’
‘Yes. ’Tis well said that a faithful servant shall become a perpetual ass.’
Barak looked at me closely. ‘Are you all right? You seemed scared when you came in.’
‘I thought I heard someone following me. I was probably mistaken.’ I laughed uneasily. ‘No corner boys here.’
‘We still don’t know who set them on you. Do you think it could have been Hobbey?’
‘I don’t know. He is a hard man for all his civility.’ I shook my head. ‘But there was no time for him to instruct anyone.’
‘What of Hugh Curteys? How does he seem?’
‘Well. I have just dined with the family. I think he would like to go and join the army.’
Barak raised his eyebrows. ‘Rather him than me. When do you think we will get home?’
‘We have to go to Portsmouth on Friday to see Priddis, the feodary. Then we shall see.’
‘Friday? Shit, I thought we would be on the road home by then.’
‘I know. Listen, I want you to help me take the depositions tomorrow, give me your view of these people. And try to make friends with the servants, see what they may have to tell. Quietly – you know how.’
‘That might not be easy. Fulstowe told me not to go to the house unless I was asked for. Haughty fellow. I took a walk by myself in the grounds, greeted a couple of gardeners but only got a surly nod. Hampshire hogs.’
I was silent a moment. Then I said, ‘That family …’
‘What?’
‘They try to hide it, but it breaks through. They are angry and frightened, I think. All of them.’
‘What of?’
I took a long breath. ‘Of me. But I think also of each other.’
Chapter Eighteen
ON RETURNING TO the house I spent two hours going over Hobbey’s accounts. He had given me the books dating back to 1539, the year they had all moved to Hoyland. Everything was clearly recorded in a neat hand that I guessed was Fulstowe’s. Much woodland had been cut down in the last six years, and the payments had accumulated into a considerable s
um. Hugh’s land was accounted for separately, and the amount of different types of wood – oak, beech and elm and the prices each had fetched – neatly entered. But I knew well enough that even accounts as clearly set out as these could be full of false entries. I recalled the old saying that there was good fishing in puddled waters. I sat awhile, thinking back to the meal, the terrible tension round the table. There was something very wrong here, I sensed, more than profiteering from a ward’s lands.
At last I went to bed and slept deeply. Just before I woke I dreamed of Joan, welcoming me home on a cold dark night, saying I had been away too long. I heaved myself out of bed, then sat thinking. It struck me that if we were not travelling to Portsmouth until Friday, then instead of visiting Rolfswood on the way home, finding some excuse to send Barak on, I should have the opportunity to ride to Sussex while we were here. I estimated the journey at perhaps fifteen miles; I would have to stay overnight to rest the horse.
I heard youthful shouts outside. I opened the window and looked out. Some distance away – I guessed the regulation two hundred and twenty yards – Hugh and David stood shooting arrows at the butts. I watched Hugh loose an arrow. It sped through the air and landed smack in the centre of the target. He seemed as fast and accurate as Leacon’s men.
I would have benefited from a session of the morning exercises Guy had given me for my back, but there was much to be done. So I dressed in my serjeant’s robe and went downstairs. It felt uncomfortable; it was another hot, sticky morning.
The great hall was empty, but I heard Barak’s voice somewhere and followed it to a large kitchen, where he and Feaveryear sat at a table eating bread and cheese, their tones more amicable than I had heard before. The old woman Ursula stood at the big range, sweat on her thin face. Abigail Hobbey’s lapdog, Lamkin, stood by Feaveryear’s feet, gobbling at a lump of cheese. It looked up as I entered, wagging its feathery tail as though to say, see what a lucky fellow I am.
‘Tamasin has a good woman to care for her,’ Barak was saying to Feaveryear, ‘but I cannot help worrying. I imagine her out in her garden, weeding when she should be sitting indoors.’
