Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  There was a crash from the cart: the new wheel had been fixed, but as soon as the men released their hold it fell off again, the cart lurching once more onto its side. Dyrick groaned. 'We shall be here all day.' He stood up. 'Come, Feaveryear, help me adjust my horse's harness.' He walked away, Feaveryear rising hastily to follow him.

  'He doesn't want his little clerk telling us his secrets,' Barak said scoffingly. 'He need not fear. Feaveryear is loyal as a dog.'

  'Have you got to know him any better?'

  'All he seems willing to talk about is his salvation, the wickedness of the world, and how this journey is a waste of his honoured master's time.'

  We looked up as Carswell approached us, a serious expression on his face. He bowed. 'Sir, I am sorry for the trouble last night. I wanted you to know, few think like Sulyard.'

  'Thank you.'

  He hesitated. 'May I ask you something?'

  'If you wish.' I waved a hand to the bank beside me. I smiled encouragingly, expecting some legal query.

  'I hear the London lawyers have their own band of players,' he said unexpectedly.

  'Plays are often performed at the Inns of Court, but no, the actors' companies are independent bodies of men.'

  'What sort of people are they?'

  'A roistering lot, I believe, but they must work hard or they could not perform as they do.'

  'Are they well paid?'

  'No, badly. And life is hard in London these days. Have you a wish to be an actor, Carswell?'

  His face reddened. 'I want to write plays, sir. I used to go and see the religious plays when they were allowed and as a boy I wrote little playlets of my own. I learned to write at the church school. They would have had me for a scholar, but my family is poor.'

  'Most plays today are full of religious controversy, like John Bale's. It can be a dangerous occupation.'

  'I want to write comedies, stories to make people laugh.'

  'Did you write any of the naughty songs you sing?' Barak asked.

  'Many are mine,' he said proudly.

  'Most comedies in London are foreign,' I said. 'Italian mainly.'

  'But why should there not be English ones too? Like old Chaucer?'

  'By God, Carswell, you are a well-read fellow.'

  'Archery and reading, sir, those were always my pastimes. To my parents' annoyance; they wanted me to work on the farm.' He pulled a face. 'I needed to get away, I was happy to join up. I thought once this war is over I might come to London. Maybe earn my bread with some players, learn more about how plays are made.'

  I smiled. 'You have thought this out, I see. Ay, we need some English comic writing today if ever we did.'

  We were interrupted by Snodin marching across. 'Come, Cars-well,' he snapped. 'We're going to have some archery practice in a field down the road. Leave your betters alone, you mammering prick.'

  'He's doing no harm,' Barak said.

  Snodin narrowed his eyes. 'He's a soldier and he'll do as I say.'

  'Yes, Master Snodin.' Carswell hastily got up and followed the whiffler. I called after him, 'Ask for me at Lincoln's Inn when you return.'

  'There's an unusual fellow,' I said to Barak. 'And you should be careful of antagonizing another officer. One was enough.'

  'Arsehole. As for Carswell, you'd do better not to encourage him. Half those actor folk drink themselves into the gutter.'

  'You are in a poor humour today. Missing Tamasin?'

  'I wonder how she is faring all the time.' He looked at me. 'And I wonder what you are planning to do about that Ellen.'

  I did not reply.

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTERNOON, and we had eaten by the roadside, before the cart was finally repaired. It took twenty men with ropes to reload the cannon. The cart pulled in to the side of the road to let the company past. We continued south, ever deeper into the Forest of Bere.

  I made my way up to the head of the company, where Leacon rode with Sir Franklin. 'George,' I said, 'we will be parting shortly.'

  'Ay. I am sorry for it.'

  'And I. But before we go I wonder if I could ask another favour.'

  'I will help if I can. What is it?'

  'If Portsmouth is full of soldiers, I imagine a good proportion of those who served professionally in the past will be there.'

  'Yes. Portsmouth is becoming the focus of all the military activity.'

  'If you get the chance, I wonder if you could ask whether anyone ever heard of a man called William Coldiron. He is my steward, for the time being at least.' I told him the story of Coldiron and Josephine, how from what I had overheard in the tavern it seemed he had never married. 'If anyone knows his history, I would be interested to hear it. I do not believe his tales of killing the King at Flodden, but certainly he has been a soldier.'

  'I will ask if I get the chance.'

  'If you do, maybe you could write to me at home.'

  'I will. And if you should come to Portsmouth while you're here, look for me. Though I will have a busy time keeping these fellows in order. I hear the town is chaos, full of foreign soldiers and sailors. The company will be pleased to see you too.'

  'They do not all think me an unlucky hunchback?'

  'Only a few joltheads like Sulyard.'

  'Thank you. That means a lot.'

  I rode back to the rear of the company. The road began slowly ascending and the pace slowed. I was half asleep in the saddle when Dyrick roughly shook my arm.

  'We turn off here.'

  I sat up. To our right a narrow lane led into deep, shadowed woodland. We pulled aside. I called out, 'George! We leave you here!'

  Leacon and Sir Franklin turned. Leacon gestured to the drummer, who ceased drumming. The company halted, and Leacon rode back to us. He gripped my hand tightly. 'Farewell, then.'

  'Thank you for letting us ride with you.'

  'Yes,' Dyrick added with unaccustomed grace. 'I think we would have had another two days' riding without you to speed us on.'

  I looked into the captain's tired, haunted eyes. 'I am glad we met again,' I said sincerely.

  'And I. We must move on now, it will be late when we reach Portsmouth.' Dyrick called a farewell to Sir Franklin, and he half-raised a gloved hand.

  Some of the soldiers called goodbyes. Carswell waved. Leacon rode back to the head of the company.

  'God go with you all,' I called out.

  The trumpet sounded, the supply carts trundled past us, and the company marched away, the tramp of their footsteps fading as they rounded a bend. We turned into the lane.

  THE FOUR OF US rode under the trees. All at once everything was silent, no sound apart from the chirking of birds. I was conscious of how tired I was, how dusty and smelly we all were. Suddenly the path ended at a high old stone wall. We passed through a gateway into a broad lawned area dotted with trees, a knot garden full of scented summer flowers to one side. Straight ahead stood what had once been a squat Norman church, with a wide porch and arched roof. But now large square windows had been put in at each side of the door and in the walls of what had once been the attached cloister buildings. Tall new brick chimneys rose from the cloister roof. I heard dogs barking in kennels somewhere behind the house, alerted by the sound of the horses. Then three men in servants' smocks appeared in the porch. They approached us and bowed. An older man with a short blond beard followed, wearing a red doublet and a cap which he swept off as he came up to Dyrick.

  'Master Dyrick, welcome once more to Hoyland Priory.'

  'Thank you. Your master had my letter?'

  'Yes, but we did not think you would arrive so soon.'

  Dyrick nodded, then turned to me. 'This is Fulstowe, Master Hobbey's steward. Fulstowe, this is Master Shardlake, of whom I wrote.' A bite in his tone at those words.

  Fulstowe turned to me. He was in his forties, with a square, lined face, his short fair beard greying. His expression was respectful but his sharp eyes bored into mine.

  'Welcome, sir,' he said quietly. 'These fello
ws will take your horses.' He turned to the porch. 'See, Master Hobbey and his family wait to greet you.'

  On the steps four people now stood in a row, a middle-aged man and woman and two lads in their late teens: one stocky and dark, the other tall, slim and brown haired. All four seemed to hold themselves rigid as they waited silently to receive us.

  Part Three

  HOYLAND PRIORY

  Chapter Seventeen

  WE DISMOUNTED. Fulstowe gave Feaveryear a formal smile.

  'You are well, master clerk?'

  He bowed. 'Thank you, Master Fulstowe.'

  Fulstowe looked at Barak. 'You must be Master Shardlake's clerk?'

  'I am. Jack Barak.'

  'The groom will show you both your quarters. I will have your masters' panniers taken to their rooms.'

  I nodded to Barak. He and Feaveryear followed the groom, other servants leading the horses. Dyrick smiled. 'You will miss your amanuensis, Master Shardlake. Well, it is time you met our hosts and their ward.'

  I followed him towards the steps, where the quartet waited. I saw that near the rear wall of the enclosed gardens a butts had been set up, a mound of raised earth with a round cloth target at the centre. Behind it was what looked like a jumble of gravestones. I followed Dyrick up the steps.

  Nicholas Hobbey was a thin, spare man in his forties, with thick grey hair and a narrow, severe face. He wore a blue summer doublet of fine cotton with a short robe over it. He clasped Dyrick's hand warmly. 'Vincent,' he said in a clear, melodious voice, 'it is good to see you here again.'

  'And you, Nicholas.'

  Hobbey turned to me. 'Master Shardlake,' he said formally, 'I hope you will accept our hospitality. I look forward to relieving the anxieties of those who sent you.' His small brown eyes assessed me closely. 'This is my wife, Mistress Abigail.'

  I bowed to the woman Michael Calfhill had called mad. She was tall, thin-faced like her husband. The whitelead powder on her cheeks could not conceal the lines beneath. She wore a wide-skirted, grey silk dress with yellow puffed sleeves and a short hood lined with pearls; the hair at her brow was a faded blonde, turning grey. I bowed and rose to find her staring at me intently. She curtsied briefly, then turned to the boys beside her, took a deep, tense breath and spoke in a high voice. 'My son, David. And my husband's ward, Hugh Curteys.'

  David was a little under normal height, solid and stocky. He wore a dark brown doublet over a white shirt with a long lacework collar. His black hair was close-cropped. Black tendrils also sprouted at the collar of his shirt. Reverend Broughton had said David was an ugly child and he was on the verge of becoming an ugly man; his round face heavy-featured and thick-lipped, shaved close but still with a dark shadow on his cheeks. He had protuberant blue eyes like his mother, his only resemblance to either parent. He looked at me, his expression conveying contempt.

  'Master Shardlake,' he said curtly, extending a hand; it was hot, damp and, to my surprise, callused.

  I turned to the boy we had travelled over sixty miles to meet. Hugh Curteys was also dressed in dark doublet and white shirt, and he too wore his hair cropped close. I remembered Mistress Calfhill's story of the time he had nits, and chased his sister round the room laughing. I was conscious of Emma's cross round my neck, where I had worn it for safe-keeping on the journey.

  Hugh was a complete contrast to David. He was tall, with an athlete's build, broad-chested and narrow-waisted. He had a long chin and a strong nose above a full mouth. Apart from a couple of tiny brown moles his would have been the handsomest of faces were it not for the scars and pits of smallpox marking its lower half. The scarring on his neck was even worse. His upper face was deeply tanned, making the white scars below even more obvious. His eyes, an unusual shade of blue-green, were clear and oddly expressionless. Despite his obvious good health I sensed a sadness in him.

  He took my hand. His grip was dry and firm. His hand was callused too. 'Master Shardlake,' he said in a low, husky voice, 'so you know Goodwife Calfhill.'

  'Indeed.'

  'I remember her. A good, fond old lady.' Still no expression in those eyes, only watchfulness.

  The steward Fulstowe had come up the steps and stood beside his master, observing us carefully. I had the odd sense he was watching the family to see how they performed, like a playmaster.

  'Two letters arrived for you this morning, Master Shardlake,' he said. 'They are in your room. One for your man Barak too. They were brought by a royal post rider on his way to Portsmouth, I think he had ridden through the night.' He looked at me keenly. 'One letter had the Queen's seal on it.'

  'I am fortunate to have the Queen's solicitor for a friend. He arranged to have correspondence sent on to me by the post riders. And collected too, from Cosham.'

  'I can arrange for a servant to take letters there for you.'

  'Thank you.' I would make sure they were well sealed.

  'Master Shardlake is modest,' Dyrick said. 'He sometimes gets cases from the Queen.' He looked meaningfully at Hobbey. 'As I told you in my letter.'

  Hobbey said smoothly. 'Shall we go inside? My wife dislikes the sun.'

  * * *

  WE PASSED THROUGH what had once been the doors leading into the church. Inside was a curious smell, dust and fresh wood overlaying a faint, lingering tang of incense. The south transept had been converted into a wide staircase leading to the old conventual buildings, while the old nave had been transformed into an impressive great hall, the ancient hammerbeam roof exposed. The walls were bright with tapestries of hunting scenes. The old windows had been replaced by modern mullioned ones, and new ones had been added, making the hall well lit. A cabinet displayed bowls of Venetian glass and vases of beautifully arranged flowers. At the far end of the hall, though, the old west window remained, a huge arch with its original stained glass showing saints and disciples. Below it a large dining table was covered with a turkey cloth. An elderly woman servant was laying out tableware. A fireplace had been installed against one wall. This conversion would have taken time and much money; the tapestries alone were worth a considerable amount.

  'You have done more work since I last came, Nicholas,' Dyrick said admiringly.

  'Yes,' Hobbey answered in his quiet voice. 'The west window needs plain glass put in, otherwise all is done save for that wretched nuns' cemetery.'

  'I saw what looked like headstones by the far wall,' I said. 'Next to the butts.'

  'The locals will not pull them down for us. No matter what we offer.' He shook his head. 'Superstitious peasants.'

  'Played on by that rogue Ettis,' Abigail said bitterly. I looked at her; she seemed strung tight as a bow, her clasped hands trembling slightly.

  'I will get someone from Portsmouth, my dear, as soon as things are quiet again there,' Hobbey answered soothingly. 'I see you admire my tapestries, Master Shardlake.' He stepped over to the wall, Dyrick and I following. The tapestries were exceptionally fine, a series of four making up a hunting scene. The quarry was a unicorn, startled from its woodland lair in the first tapestry, chased by horsemen in the second and third, while in the last, in accordance with ancient legend, it had halted in a clearing and laid its horned head in the lap of a young virgin, who sat smiling demurely. But her allure was a trap, for in the trees around the bower archers stood with drawn bows. I studied the intricate weave and beautifully dyed colours.

  'They are German,' Hobbey said proudly. 'Much of my trade was along the Rhine. I got them at a good price, they came from a merchant bankrupted in the Peasant Wars. They are my pride and joy, as the garden is my wife's.' He ran the flat of his palm almost reverently over the unicorn's head. 'You should see how those villagers look at my tapestries when they come here for the manorial court. They stare as though the figures would leap off the wall at them.' He laughed scornfully.

  The boys had come close, David looking at the archers poised to shoot the unicorn. 'Hard to miss at that range,' he said dismissively. 'A deer would never let you get that close.'

  I
remembered how Hugh's and David's hands had felt callused. 'Do you boys practise at the butts outside?'

  'Every day,' David answered proudly. 'It is our great sport, better even than hawking. The best of manly pastimes. Is that not so, Hugh?' He slapped Hugh on the shoulder, hard I thought. I noticed a suppressed anxiety in David's manner. His mother was watching him, her eyes sharp.

  'It is.' Hugh looked at me with that unreadable gaze. 'I have a copy of Master Ascham's new-printed Toxophilus that he presented to the King this year. Master Hobbey gave it to me for my birthday.'

  'Indeed.' The book the Queen had told me Lady Elizabeth was reading. 'I should like to see that.'

  'Have you an interest in archery, sir?'

  I smiled. 'An interest in books, rather. I am not built for the bow.'

  'I shall be pleased to show you my copy.' For the first time Hugh's face showed some animation.

  'Later, perhaps,' Hobbey said. 'Our guests have been on the road five days. Hot water waits in your rooms, sirs, let it not get cold. Then come down and join us. I have told the servants to prepare a good supper.' He snapped his fingers at the old woman. 'Ursula, show Masters Dyrick and Shardlake to their rooms.'

  She led us upstairs, into a corridor through whose arched windows I saw the old cloister, set to more flowerbeds and peaceful in the lengthening shadows. Ursula opened the door to a large guest room with a canopied tester bed. A bowl of water steamed on a table beside three letters.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  She nodded curtly. Behind her in the doorway, Dyrick inclined his head. 'You see how well Master Curteys is?' he said.

  'So it would seem. On first impression.'

  Dyrick sighed, shook his head and turned to follow Ursula. I closed the door, crossed quickly to the bed and picked up the letters. One was addressed to 'Jack Barak' in a clumsy hand. I opened the other two. The first, from Warner and dated three days before, was brief. He apologized again for being unable to send one of his men to accompany us, and said the King and Queen would be leaving for Portsmouth on July 4th—yesterday, so they were already on their way. He said they hoped to arrive on the 15th, and would stay at Portchester Castle. He had set enquiries in train about Hobbey's financial history, but had nothing to report yet.