by C. J. Sansom
‘If I go into the village while you’re away, maybe it’s time to tell them you are counsel at Requests. Then we might get some information.’
I considered. ‘Yes. Do it. See Ettis. Tell him if they write to chambers I’ll apply for an injunction as soon as I get back. On condition they say nothing to Hobbey.’ I smiled. ‘I can tell Hobbey about it on the day we leave.’
‘You are turning into a Machiavelli since becoming a Court of Wards lawyer.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘Ask Ettis to tell us in return all he can about Hugh. Something is going on in this house that we cannot see. I swear it.’
Chapter Twenty-one
SEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning found me riding north along the Portsmouth road, already a mile from Hoyland Priory. Once again I had taken Oddleg. He walked along rapidly, seeming happy to be on a long journey again. The weather was fine, a scent of dewy grass on the air which was still cool at that hour. It would be hot later, and I wore a doublet of light wool, grateful to have left my robes behind. As I rode I pondered the conversation I had had, just before I left, with Hugh.
I had asked to be called at six, and been woken by a knock on the door. Fulstowe put his head round. ‘There is some breakfast downstairs, sir,’ he said, adding, ‘I understand you are travelling to Sussex and will not be back until tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes. A piece of business for another client. Thank you.’ I had already told Hobbey that, and no more – I was not going to tell them anything about Ellen. I rose and dressed. Then I picked up Emma’s decorated cross from my bedside table and Hugh’s copy of Toxophilus. I stepped quietly into the corridor and walked along to Hugh’s room. I hesitated briefly, then knocked. I had gone there the previous evening, but either he was not there or was not answering. Here was a rare chance to speak with him undisturbed.
This time he answered the door, already dressed in shirt and doublet.
‘I am sorry to disturb you so early,’ I said, ‘but I am setting out for Sussex now, and I wanted to return your book.’
He hesitated a moment before inviting me in, as courtesy demanded.
The room was furnished with a bed, a chest and a table, and a wall hanging in green and white stripes, the Tudor colours. On a shelf above the table I saw, to my surprise, a collection of perhaps two dozen books. The room smelled strongly of wax and Hugh’s bow, unstrung, leaned against a corner of the bed. A box of wax and a rag lay beside it.
‘I am polishing my bow.’ He gave a little smile. ‘Mistress Abigail prefers me to do it outside, but at this hour who will know?’
‘It is early indeed.’
‘I like to rise before everyone else, have some time to myself before they are all up.’ I caught a note of contempt in Hugh’s voice and looked at him keenly. He coloured and put a hand to his neck. He is very conscious of those marks, I thought.
‘You have many books,’ I said. ‘May I look?’
‘Please do.’
There were Latin and Greek classics, a book on manners for young gentlemen, and copies of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, The Book of the Hunt and Boorde’s Dietary of Health, as well as Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. There were, unusually, no religious works save a New Testament.
‘A fine collection,’ I observed. ‘Few people your age have so many.’
‘Some were my father’s, and Master Hobbey fetched some for me from London. But I have no one to discuss them with since our last tutor left.’
I took down The Book of the Hunt. ‘This is the classic work on hunting, I believe.’
‘It is. Originally by a Frenchman, but translated by the Duke of York, who died at Agincourt. When nine thousand English archers routed a huge French army,’ he added proudly. He sat down on the bed.
‘Are you looking forward to the hunt next week?’ I asked.
‘Very much. It will only be my third. We do not socialize much here.’
‘I understand it has taken time for the local gentlefolk to accept the family.’
‘It is only the prospect of the hunt that is bringing them. So Mistress Abigail says at least.’ I realized how isolated Hugh was down here, David too.
‘At my last hunt it was I who brought down the hart,’ Hugh added proudly.
‘I was told you were awarded the heartstone, that you wear it round your neck still.’
His hand rose to his neck again. His eyes narrowed. ‘By whom?’
‘Master Avery.’
‘You have been questioning him about me?’
‘Hugh, the only reason I am here is to look into your welfare.’
Those unreadable blue-green eyes met mine. ‘I told you yesterday, sir, I have no complaints.’
‘Before I left London, Bess Calfhill gave me something for you. Something Mistress Hobbey gave to Michael. It was your sister’s.’ I opened my hand and showed him the decorated cross. At once tears started to his eyes. He turned his head away.
‘Michael kept it till he died?’ Hugh asked, his voice hoarse.
‘Yes, he did.’ I laid the cross on the bed beside him. Hugh reached out and grasped it. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, then looked at me.
‘Mistress Calfhill remembers my sister?’
‘Very fondly.’
He was silent a moment, grasping the cross tightly. Then he asked, ‘What is London like now? I have been here so long. I remember little more than the noise, people always shouting in the streets, and then the quiet of our garden.’ Again I sensed a weariness in him that a boy of his age should not feel.
‘If you went to university you could meet new people your age, Hugh, discuss books from morn to night. Master Hobbey must make provision if you want to go.’
He looked up, gave a tight smile, then quoted: ‘ “In study every part of the body is idle, which encourages gross and cold humours.” ’
‘Toxophilus?’
‘Yes. You know I wish not to study but to go to war. Use my skills at the bow.’
‘I confess I think Master Hobbey right to stop you.’
‘When you go to Portsmouth on Friday, will you see your friend the captain of archers?’
‘I hope so.’
‘David and I are coming. To see the ships and soldiers. Tell me, were there lads my age among those archers? I have seen companies on the road to Portsmouth where some soldiers looked no older than me.’
I thought of Tom Llewellyn. ‘In truth, Master Hugh, the youngest recruit I met was a year or so older than you. A right well-built lad.’
‘I am strong enough, and skilled enough, too, I think, to bury a well-steeled arrow in a Frenchman’s heart. God give them pestilence.’ He spoke with passion. I must have looked surprised, for he flushed and lowered his head, rubbing one of the little moles on his face. Suddenly the lad seemed terribly vulnerable. He looked up again. ‘Tell me, sir, is Master Dyrick your friend? They say lawyers argue over cases but are friends outside the court.’
‘Sometimes they are. But Master Dyrick and I – no, we are not friends.’
He nodded. ‘Good. I dislike him. But often in this life we must spend our time associating with those who are not friends, must we not?’ He gave a bitter little laugh, then said, ‘Time goes on, sir. I should not detain you.’
‘Perhaps when I return we may discuss Toxophilus, and your other books.’
He looked up, his composure restored. ‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘I look forward to it.’
I left him clutching Emma’s cross.
AS I RODE along I thought again of Abigail saying she did not feel safe to have the hunt, her husband replying that he could not bear the isolation here any more. What were they frightened of? Was there some connection to our being shot at the day before? Whatever was being kept hidden at Hoyland, I felt Hugh knew at least something of it. Then there was the trouble with the villagers. I reflected that the chain of events at Hoyland was typical of a landlord seeking to destroy a village and take the land for his own purposes. I had seen the patt
ern many times at the Court of Requests. Village politics here was typical too: independent small landowners such as Ettis taking the lead, and some of the poor villagers being intimidated into selling their leases back to the landlord.
By the time I reached the turning for Rolfswood the sun was well up and it was becoming hot. I had expected a poor country track, but the road into Sussex was well maintained. I had ridden about a mile when I noticed a smell of burning, and remembered the charcoal burners from our ride down. To my right a wide path cut through a high bank into the forest. Curious, I urged the horse onto the path.
A few hundred yards in I came to a glade where a large, beehive-shaped clay structure stood, taller than a man, smoke rising from an opening at the top. Piles of small branches were set around the clearing. Two young men sitting on a mound of earth rose as I appeared.
‘Burning charcoal?’ I asked.
‘Ay, sir,’ one answered. Both had black faces from their work. ‘We don’t usually work in summer, but they want as much charcoal as they can get for the foundries these days.’
‘I understand they are casting cannon now.’
‘That’s over in the east, sir. But there is plenty of work for the small West Sussex foundries too.’
‘The war brings good profits,’ his friend added, ‘though we see little of them.’
‘I am heading for Rolfswood. I believe there used to be an ironworks there that burned down.’
‘Must have been a while ago. There’s no iron worked round here now.’ The man paused. ‘Would you take a drink of beer with us?’
‘Thank you, but I must get on my way.’ They seemed disappointed and I thought it must be lonely work out here, with only the charcoal pile for company.
IT WAS PAST THREE when I arrived at Rolfswood. It was a smaller place than I had expected, a main street with several good houses built of brick but not much behind except poor hovels. A straggling path led to a bridge across a little river, then across a field to an ancient-looking church. There was, I was pleased to see, a sizeable inn on the main street. Two carts passed me, full of small branches, new-cut and giving off a raw smell of sap.
I dismounted outside the inn. There I found a room for the night, which was comfortable enough. I went to the parlour to see what information I could raise; I had considered the story I would tell to explain my interest.
The parlour was empty save for an old man sitting alone at a bench. A big scent hound, a lymer, lay beside him. It raised its heavy, lugubrious face to look at me. I crossed to the serving hatch, and asked the elderly woman behind it for a beer. Her plump wrinkled face under its white coif looked friendly. I gulped down the beer, for I was sore thirsty.
‘Have you travelled far, sir?’ she asked.
‘From near Portsmouth.’
‘That’s a good day’s ride.’ She leaned her elbows comfortably on the counter. ‘What’s the news from there? They say the King’s coming.’
‘So I hear. But I have not been to Portsmouth. I am a London lawyer; I have some business at a house north of Portsdown Hill.’
‘What brings you to Rolfswood?’
‘A friend in London believes he may have relatives here. I said I would come and enquire.’
She looked at me curiously. ‘A good friend, to make such a long journey.’
‘Their name is Fettiplace. He heard from an old aunt they once had an iron foundry here.’
‘That’s gone, sir,’ she said gently. ‘The foundry burned down near twenty years ago. Master Fettiplace and one of his workers were killed.’
I paused, as though taking in the news for the first time, then said, ‘Had he any family?’
‘He was a widower. He had a daughter, whose story is even sadder. She saw the fire and lost her reason because of it. They took her away, I heard to London.’
‘If only my friend had known. He only recently learned he might have a Sussex connection.’
‘Their house and the land the foundry stood on were sold to Master Buttress, our miller. You’ll have passed the house in the main street, it’s the one with the fine carvings of animals on the doorposts.’
Sold, I thought. By whom? Legally, surely, it would have gone to Ellen. ‘No other Fettiplaces locally?’
‘No, sir. Master Fettiplace was from somewhere in the north of the county. He came here to build the foundry.’ She leaned out of the hatch, and called to the old man. ‘Here, Wilf, this gentleman is enquiring after the Fettiplace foundry.’ He looked up. The serving woman spoke to me quietly. ‘Wilf Harrydance used to work there. He’s a poor old fellow, buy him a drink and he’ll tell you all he knows.’
I nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you. Fetch us two more beers, will you?’
I took them over to the old man. He nodded thanks as I set a mug before him, and studied me with interest. He was well drawn in years, wearing an old smock and bald save for a few straggling grey hairs. His tanned face was wrinkled but his blue eyes were intelligent, eager with curiosity. The dog wagged its tail, no doubt looking for scraps.
‘You want to hear the Fettiplace story, sir?’ He waved a hand. ‘I heard all you told Goodwife Bell. I may be old but my ears are good.’
‘If you would. My name is Master Shardlake. You worked at the foundry?’
‘I’d been with Master Fettiplace ten years when the fire happened. He wasn’t a bad master.’ He was silent a moment, remembering. ‘It was hard work. Loading the ore and the charcoal into the furnace, checking the progress of the melt through the flue – by Mary, when you looked in there the heat near melted your eyeballs. Then scraping the bloom of melted iron out into the hearth – ’
I heard Ellen’s voice again. The poor man! He was all on fire! Wilf had paused and frowned, noting my inattention. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Please go on. What sort of foundry was it? Was it what they call a bloomery?’
He nodded. ‘A small one, though the bellows were water powered. Master Fettiplace came to Rolfswood as a young man, he had already made some money in the iron trade over in East Sussex. There’s an outcrop of iron ore here, a small one, we’re on the western fringes of the Weald. Master Fettiplace bought some woodland that he could use for making charcoal. The river goes through there too, so he put his money into damming the river to make the mill pond, and built the furnace. The flow of water turns the wheel that powers the bellows, you see?’
‘Yes.’
‘The iron ore gets brought in, in our case from a little further upriver where the ironstone outcrop lay, and you put it in the furnace with the charcoal. The iron melts out of the ore and falls to the bottom. You see?’ he repeated, in a schoolmasterly manner.
‘I think so. Another beer?’
He nodded gravely. ‘Thank you.’
I fetched two more beers and set them on the table. ‘What was Master Fettiplace like?’
Wilf shook his head sadly. ‘William Fettiplace wasn’t a lucky man. Rolfswood furnace never did very well, the quality of the ironstone was low, and with the competition from the new blast furnaces the price of charcoal kept going up. Then his wife that he was devoted to died young, leaving him with a young daughter. And he died in the fire, with my friend Peter Gratwyck. That mysterious fire.’ Wilf was looking at me keenly now.
‘Mysterious? I would have thought there was always a risk of fire in such places.’
He shook his head. ‘It was summer, the furnace wasn’t even working.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is how it was. The furnace was an enclosed area, a courtyard inside a wooden wall. The enclosure was mostly roofed over, except for the centre – it got very hot when the furnace was working. Inside the enclosure was the main building with the furnace at one end, and the big bellows connected to the water wheel. The rest of the enclosure was storage space – ore and coke and building materials. It was a small, old-fashioned foundry. Master Fettiplace hadn’t the money to build a blast furnace. There were only a few workers. We worked our lands during the summer, and in the winter did the casting. See?’<
br />
‘Yes.’
‘Someone always had to be there during the summer, to take deliveries of coke and ore ready for the winter, and keep an eye on the mill pond and the wheel. Peter usually did that, he lived very close by. But that summer – it was 1526, the year before the great dearth when the crops failed through the rains. That August I remember was cold and windy, like October—’
‘And the fire – ’ I prompted.
He leaned in very close, so I felt his warm beery breath. ‘That summer Peter was living at the furnace. His wife, who was a vicious old shrew, had thrown him out, saying he drank too much. I suppose he did, but never mind that. Peter asked Master Fettiplace if he could stay at the furnace for a while, and he agreed. There was a little straw bed there, people often stayed overnight during the winter campaigns, but he was the only one there that night.’ Wilf took another draught of beer and sat back. ‘Ah, sir. It hurts me still to remember.’ He sighed. The dog looked up at him and gave a little whine.
‘Towards nine that night I was at home here in the town. A neighbour came banging at my door, saying the furnace was on fire. I ran out. Lots of people were heading for the woods. As you came close to the furnace you could see the flames through the trees, the mill pond all red, reflecting the fire. It was dreadful, the whole enclosure was ablaze from end to end when I got there. It was built of wood, you see. Ellen Fettiplace blamed Peter afterwards, said he had lit a fire in the foundry building to warm himself and started the blaze.’
‘Ellen? The daughter?’ I had to pretend not to know.
‘That’s right. She was the only witness. She and Master Fettiplace had gone for an evening walk to the furnace – Master Fettiplace wanted to check that an ore delivery had come – and found Peter drunk by the fire. Master Fettiplace shouted at him, he jumped up and somehow his clothes caught light. He fell over on the straw bed and that caught light too. There was a lot of coke dust about and the whole place went up. Peter and Master Fettiplace were burnt to death; only young Ellen got out, and it drove her mad. Too mad to appear at the inquest, a statement from her was read out.’ I remembered Ellen screaming. I saw his skin melt, turn black and crack! He tried to get up but he fell!
