by C. J. Sansom
‘Talking with Sir Franklin in his tent. I don’t think they’ll be long.’
I looked at the wrestlers. One was a big stocky fellow in his twenties, the other, I saw, was Tom Llewellyn. He had a powerful chest and shoulders for one so young. As I watched Llewellyn managed to throw his opponent on the ground, where he lay panting. Some cheered, others looked morose. Many had the big leather pouches in which they carried their belongings at their waists, and various small items were taken out and handed over. Carswell’s neighbour gave him a double-sided nit comb, the thin side black with dead lice, and a tiny bone spoon.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing to the spoon.
‘Ear-wax scoop,’ Carswell answered cheerfully. ‘Useful stuff for waxing your bows.’ He threw a cloth to Llewellyn, who wiped his sweating chest. ‘Well done, lad.’
‘See who’s next,’ Barak murmured. ‘This should be interesting.’ I saw that Sulyard and Pygeon had stepped into the ring. They glared at each other as they removed jerkins and shirts. Sulyard was bigger, and his body looked to have a raw-boned strength; but Pygeon, though stringy, had not an ounce of fat on him. Sulyard put his hands on his hips and turned to the crowd. ‘We won’t be long – those who’ve put bets on lop-ears get ready to lose your stakes!’
Pygeon did not reply, only stared at Sulyard. He shook his arms to loosen them, then shifted his weight from foot to foot to get his balance. He was taking this seriously. Sulyard grinned at him. ‘We should have our own bet, lop-ears,’ he said loudly. ‘Tell you what, if I win I’ll have that rosary you use to say Hail Mary on the quiet. His family are our village recusants, lads!’
‘And if I win,’ Pygeon shouted, ‘I’ll have your brigandyne.’
Sulyard looked taken aback. Several in the crowd laughed. Someone shouted, ‘Take the bet, Sulyard, as you’re so sure of winning.’
Barak said to Carswell, ‘Bet you a half groat Sulyard wins.’
‘Done.’
The fight went on for ten minutes, Sulyard’s thrusting power against Pygeon’s unexpected strength. I realized Pygeon meant to tire Sulyard out. Slowly the camp bully weakened. In the end Pygeon put him down, not with a throw but with a steady, powerful movement that made his stringy muscles stand out. The taller man’s legs buckled, and then Sulyard was on the ground, panting heavily. Pygeon smiled, savouring his triumph.
‘Shake hands and share a loving cup!’ Carswell called out.
Pygeon looked down at Sulyard. ‘Fetch the brigandyne to me when you are recovered, Master.’ He picked up his clothes and walked away. The gamblers who had lost – most of them – reached ruefully for their bags. Barak paid over the half groat. I saw that Leacon had come out of his tent, accompanied by Sir Franklin and Snodin. They stood talking.
‘Come, Jack,’ I said, ‘the afternoon wears on. We must say farewell to Leacon and return to Hoyland.’
Barak raised a hand to the soldiers. ‘Farewell, lads, I must return my master to our gracious hosts!’
‘You’re picking up Carswell’s style of humour,’ I told him as we walked away.
‘No, ’tis my own.’
As we approached Leacon I saw he too had had a barbering. The whiffler Snodin was talking loudly and angrily, ‘Milk bellies that can’t do without beds. Simpering, mumping weaklings—’
‘All right, Snodin,’ Sir Franklin said testily. He stared at me as I approached. ‘Sir Franklin, I am sorry to interrupt, but I would say goodbye to Master Leacon – ’
Sir Franklin waved a hand impatiently. ‘A moment. Snodin, send a message about the deserters to Sir William Paulet. He must alert the shires to look for them.’
‘Yes, Sir Franklin. The fools,’ Snodin burst out with sudden emotion. ‘Why did they do it? I trained those men, I know them.’ He looked at Sir Franklin. ‘Will they hang if they’re caught?’
‘The King has ordered every deserter to be hanged.’
The whiffler shook his head, bowed and walked off. ‘Deserters,’ Leacon told me. ‘Two went last night.’
‘They’ll be caught if they return home.’
Barak and I exchanged glances. If we had followed Alderman Carver’s advice, Barak would have been a deserter. Leacon shook his head sadly. ‘Poor fools. It will be a public hanging if they’re caught. All the companies are below strength now. As are the ships – they say the West Country is stripped of fishermen, the women are having to take the boats out.’
‘I saw some Spanish sailors in town.’
‘They’ll take any foreigner that can sail, save French and Scots.’
Even more with his head shaven Leacon looked, like West, far older than his years. Yet West’s eyes had been clear and sharp, while Leacon’s had that vacant, staring look again. ‘George,’ I said quietly, ‘I fear we must leave you now.’
He nodded. ‘Will you be coming back to Portsmouth?’
‘I think not. We return to London on Tuesday.’ I put out my hand. ‘But my prayers, for what they are worth, go with you and your men. And I hope we may meet once more in London, in happier days. Bring Carswell, I will find him a company of actors.’
‘Happier days. Yes, I long for those.’
BARAK SEEMED to have got over our argument, perhaps because of the reminder about deserters. As we rode back across Portsea Island, I told him what had passed with West.
‘So Ellen could have done it herself.’
‘If West is to be believed.’
‘Is he?’
‘I don’t know. If he was responsible for the attack on Ellen, he has a strong motive for saying something likely to make me – or at least, my imaginary client – drop the matter.’ I looked at him. ‘But do not worry, we will go back on Tuesday as I said. I have no power here, I cannot compel anyone to answer my questions. Least of all Priddis, the one man who could give me information. But back in London,’ I added grimly, ‘there could be ways of bringing pressure.’
‘The Queen?’
‘Maybe. When she returns from Portsmouth.’
‘And what of Hugh?’
I sighed heavily. ‘Unless Priddis’s visit produces something, I have no evidence even that there has been fraud. I cannot in good faith incur more costs.’
‘I’m glad you are seeing sense,’ he said.
We were forced to pull aside from the road by a long line of carts rumbling past, well guarded by soldiers. They were covered with tarpaulins, but protruding from the carts’ tails I saw piles of thick fabric, decorated with elaborate, colourful designs in cloth of gold. Barak looked at me. ‘Are they – ?’
‘They look like the royal tents we saw at York.’
Cart after cart rumbled by, heading not for the town but towards the sea.
‘Is the King going to set up camp on the coast?’ Barak asked incredulously.
‘It looks like it. So he’s going to come right to the front line. Well, he never lacked courage.’
‘Even if they land, the French could never hold England.’
‘The Normans did. You’re right, though, the people would resist hard. But if there’s a chance of bringing us back to Rome the Pope will jump behind the French if they gain a foothold. Emperor Charles too perhaps. God’s death,’ I burst out angrily, ‘has there ever been such a tangle?’
‘Lord Cromwell would have been seeking a way out. But the King won’t do that.’
‘Never. He’ll see England drowned in blood first.’
‘Well,’ Barak said more cheerfully, ‘at least back in London you can do something about Coldiron. Thank you,’ he said, ‘for agreeing to go back.’
I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘You worry about Tamasin, don’t you?’
‘All the time,’ he said with feeling.
We rode on, towards Portsdown Hill.
Chapter Twenty-nine
WE ARRIVED AT Hoyland towards seven, exhausted. I washed and combed myself thoroughly to rid myself of the fleas and lice I had picked up, then lay on my bed thinking about Ellen and Hugh. I could see no way out o
f either impasse.
I was so tired I slept deeply that night. The next day passed peacefully enough. At meals Abigail barely spoke; she seemed listless, defeated. Dyrick was his usual sharp, aggressive self. Hobbey was guarded, Hugh civil enough, seeming indifferent now to my presence. David, though, was in a strange mood, quiet and restive. A couple of times I caught Fulstowe casting sharp looks at the boy. During the day everyone except Abigail was out, making final preparations for the hunt.
In the afternoon I took a walk in the grounds to try and clear my head, for I thought endlessly of Ellen and who could have started that fire, my mind fairly spinning with it all. In Abigail’s garden the flowers drooped in the endless sultry heat.
THAT EVENING came the first of the events that was to change the life of the Hobbey family for ever.
I was sitting at the table in my chamber, trying to work out the costs that might be awarded against us at the next hearing. They were considerable. The light was beginning to fail. I was vaguely aware that outside the boys were at the butts again, I could hear them through the open shutters. Then I heard a sudden anguished cry. ‘No!’
I rose and looked out of the window. To my amazement Feaveryear was running across the lawn. Hugh and David stood looking at him, too far away for me to make out their expressions. Feaveryear ran as though the devil were after him. He disappeared from view, then I heard running footsteps on the stairs, and a frantic knocking on Dyrick’s door.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, yet another hot, close July day, we all walked to church. Hobbey led the little procession. Abigail was on his arm, in her best clothes but with her head cast down. Then came Dyrick, Barak and I, followed by Fulstowe at the head of the servants. Barak had not wished to go but I had roused him out, saying we should give no cause for criticism. To my surprise, though, Feaveryear was absent.
‘Is young Feaveryear unwell?’ I asked Dyrick. He had been frowning to himself, preoccupied.
He gave me a sharp, sidelong look. ‘I’ve sent him back to London. There was a letter waiting when we returned from Portsmouth, about a case. I sent him back to deal with it early this morning. There’s no point us both wasting our time here,’ he said, as ever making a point against me.
‘We have had no letters. Barak hoped there might be one from his wife.’
‘It came by special messenger from London. It concerns an important case.’
‘I thought I saw Feaveryear running across the lawn last night.’
He gave me another sharp look. ‘I had called him.’
It was a long walk to the church in the neighbouring village of Okedean. Long too, on their one day of rest, for the Hoyland villagers we passed, who had used the priory church when the nuns were there. Ettis, a pretty wife and three children at his side, crossed our path at the end of a country lane. He bowed and stood aside to let us pass. Abigail gave him a look of hatred.
OKEDEAN CHURCH was small, crowded with the people of both villages. Here, as in Reverend Seckford’s church, they evidently cleaved as much as possible to the old ways, the church smelling heavily of incense, saints still in their niches. I wondered what Hugh’s parents, the reformers, would have made of it. Hobbey, Dyrick and I took places at the front of the congregation in accordance with our rank, next to a stocky, middle-aged man and his haughty-looking wife, whom Hobbey introduced to us as the owner of the neighbouring manor, Sir Luke and Lady Corembeck. Sir Luke, Hobbey said proudly, was a justice of the peace who would be attending his hunt tomorrow. For the first time I heard deference in his voice.
The vicar gave a sermon calling on all to pray and work for the defence of the country, for the men to attend practice with the local militia. I looked at the Doom painting behind him, Christ on a throne in judgement, his face serene, angels guiding the virtuous to heaven while below the pale and naked sinners tumbled into a lake of fire. I remembered Feaveryear saying soldiers and sailors who died in battle without finding salvation must end in Hell. What had he been running from last night? Where was he?
After the service Hobbey paused for some more words with Sir Luke in the doorway, the servants and villagers walking past us. Lady Corembeck addressed Abigail a couple of times, but she answered in monosyllables, sunk in apathy. At length Hobbey parted from the Corembecks with much bowing, and we walked down the path to the lych gate. Then we saw that a group of about thirty Hoyland villagers were waiting just outside the church, whole families blocking our way. Ettis was at their head. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Hobbey.
Ettis walked over to stand boldly in front of him, his square face set hard. Fulstowe stepped to Hobbey’s side and put his hand to his dagger.
‘No need for that, Master Fulstowe,’ Ettis said quietly. ‘I want only to say something to your master.’ He indicated the villagers behind him. ‘See those people, Master Hobbey. Look hard, you will see some that your steward here has been pressing to abandon their land. My support is growing. We intend to bring a case in the Court of Requests.’ Dyrick looked at me suspiciously. Ettis continued, ‘So be warned, sir, keep your men off our woodlands, for they will shortly be subject to legal proceedings. I tell you this before all these people here assembled, including Sir Luke Corembeck, our justice of the peace.’
Abigail marched up to him. ‘Churl and knave to torment us so!’ she shouted, right into his face.
Ettis stared back at her with contempt. Then David ran past his mother and stood before the villagers, his face red. ‘Hedge-pigs! Lumps! Cattle! When I am lord here I will drive you all out, you will all beg, beg!’
Some of the villagers laughed. ‘Get back to the nursery!’ one shouted.
David looked round in helpless frustration. Then he gave a strange, puzzled frown. His limbs started to jerk, little flickering spasms, his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed on the ground. The villagers took a step back; there were frightened murmurs from some of the women. Abigail put her hands to her cheeks and uttered a gasping groan. On the ground David was twitching wildly now, like a puppet.
‘What’s he doing?’ someone called out.
‘He’s possessed, get the priest!’
Then someone said, ‘It’s the falling sickness,’ and Abigail groaned once more.
It was; I had seen it in London. That dread disease where those afflicted seem normal most of the time but can be struck down, out of the blue, to lie jerking on the ground. Some believed it a type of madness, others a form of possession.
Abigail sank on her knees and tried to still her writhing son. ‘Help me, Ambrose, for pity’s sake!’ she cried. ‘He’ll bite his tongue!’ I thought, so this has happened before.
Fulstowe unbuckled his dagger from his belt and thrust the leather scabbard between David’s teeth. His lips were flecked with white foam now. I saw Dyrick looking on, astonished. Hobbey stared at his son, then at the watching crowd. He called out, in a voice full of rage and pain, ‘Well, you have seen! Now in God’s name go, leave us!’ Next to him, Hugh stood looking blankly at David. No pity, nothing.
The villagers did not move. A woman said, ‘Remember that carpenter who came to live in the village – he had the falling sickness!’
‘Ay, we stoned him out!’
Sir Luke Corembeck came to life. ‘Disperse, I order you!’ he called.
People began to move away, though they looked back at David, with fear and loathing. He lay still a moment, then sat up, groaning. He looked up at his mother. ‘My head hurts,’ he said and began to cry.
Hobbey came over to him. ‘You had an attack,’ he said gently. ‘It is all right, it is over.’
‘They all saw?’ David asked in horror. His face wet with tears, he looked wildly round. Hobbey and Fulstowe helped him to his feet. Hobbey clasped his son’s arm.
‘I am sorry, David,’ he said gently. ‘I feared this would happen one day. It was the fault of Ettis and his people.’ He turned to Sir Luke. ‘Thank you, sir, for dispersing them.’ At that moment I had to admire Hobbey’s dignity. He swallowed h
ard, then continued, ‘I fear, as you have seen, my son has the falling sickness. It comes on seldom, a little rest and he will be as normal again.’
‘Ettis and his churls caused this,’ Sir Luke said. ‘Jesu, it is a fine day when yeomen defy gentlemen.’
We followed the family back down the lanes, Fulstowe and Hugh each with an arm under David’s shoulders. I knew this was very serious for the family; among both gentry and villagers David would now be seen as tainted. I gestured to Barak to hang back.
‘What about that?’ he asked.
‘My guess is they’ve been hiding this for years. Dyrick didn’t know – he was amazed. Dear God, that couldn’t have happened in a more public way. David Hobbey may be a churl, but he didn’t deserve that. By the way, I think there is more to Feaveryear’s going than Dyrick said.’ I told him what I had seen from the window the previous evening. ‘I saw him running as though he’d seen the devil. And Dyrick looks very worried about something.’
‘Maybe David had an attack yesterday, too.’
‘No. He was standing at the butts with Hugh. Whatever happened, Feaveryear ran to tell Dyrick about it. And now he’s gone.’
‘When Abigail said after Lamkin was killed that you couldn’t see what was before your eyes, she must have meant David.’
I shook my head. ‘No. She meant something else. She of all people wouldn’t draw my attention to David’s condition.’ I looked at the group ahead of me: Abigail hovered behind her son. ‘Feaveryear’s lodging is hard by yours. Did you hear him go?’
‘I heard a door slam just after dawn, then his quick little steps. I thought he was going for an early prayer.’
‘What made him run like that, I wonder?’ I knew his disappearance was important, but not why.
Chapter Thirty
THE WOOD WAS delightfully peaceful in the early morning. The birds sang lustily in the trees; a squirrel watched me from the branch of a beech, its bushy red tail bright against the green leaves. I was sitting on a fallen log beside an oak tree in a little glade, comfortable in the loose jerkin and shirt I had donned for the hunt. Behind me, though, I could hear the murmuring voices of the breakfast party on the the other side of the trees, while stealthy rustlings deeper in the park indicated Master Avery and his men were checking the deer tracks. But I had had to get away from them all, just for a minute. Soon enough we would be riding pell-mell through the hunting park. I reflected on all that had happened on the previous day.
