by C. J. Sansom
‘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 fellows 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 hi
s 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.
I turned eagerly to Guy’s letter, written on the same day, in his small neat handwriting:
Dear Matthew,
All is quiet at the house. Coldiron does all I ask, though with a surly air. The mood against foreigners grows even worse; today I went to see Tamasin, who I thank God remains well, and suffered some insults on my way. Simon says he has seen more soldiers passing through London, many marching to the south coast. I have been in England over twenty years and have seen nothing like it. Under their bravado I think people are afraid.
One strange thing; yesterday I entered the parlour and startled Josephine, who was dusting. She jumped and dropped a little vase, which broke. I was sure I heard her utter a word, ‘Merde’, which I know for a French oath. She was apologetic and frightened as ever, so I made little of it, but it was an odd thing.
Today I go to the Bedlam to visit Ellen; I will let you know how she fares. Having prayed much on the matter I feel all the more that the best help you can give her is to leave her be. But you must decide.
Your true and loving friend,
Guy Malton
I folded the letter. Despite what he said, I had already decided to visit Rolfswood on the way home; I felt I must. I sighed and went to look out of the window. I could see the little cemetery, a jumble of stones set amidst unkempt grass. I thought, Dyrick is right, Hugh is glowing with health. And Nicholas Hobbey’s tone had never varied from urbane politeness. He hardly seemed the man to have set those corner boys on me. But something was wrong here, I felt it.
A SUBSTANTIAL SUPPER was served in the great hall. Dusk was falling and candles were lit in sconces round the chamber. Hobbey sat at the head of the table, Hugh and Dyrick on one side and David and Abigail on the other. I took the remaining chair, next to Abigail. The steward stood behind Hobbey, presiding as servants brought in the food, their footsteps clicking on the worn, decorated tiles of the old church. Apart from Ursula, most were young men. I wondered how many servants the Hobbeys would keep; a dozen perhaps.
I was conscious of a wheezy, snuffling noise beside me. I looked down and saw what seemed like a bundle of fur on Abigail’s lap. Then I saw two small button eyes staring up at me with friendly curiosity. It was a little spaniel, like the Queen’s dog, but very fat. Abigail smiled down at it with an unexpectedly tender expression.
‘Father,’ David said in a disgusted tone, ‘Mother has Lamkin on her lap again.’
‘Abigail,’ Hobbey said in his quiet even voice, ‘please let Ambrose take him out. We do not want him climbing on the table again, do we?’
Abigail allowed Fulstowe to take the dog, her eyes following as he carried it from the room. She glanced at me, a flash of something like hatred in her eyes. Fulstowe returned and stood behind his master again. Ursula set down an aromatic bowl of ginger sauce. Dyrick studied the food with an anticipatory smile. Hugh stared ahead, his face expressionless.
‘Let us say grace,’ Hobbey said.
IT WAS A splendid meal, cold roast goose with rich sauces and fine red wine in silver jugs. Dyrick and I, both hungry, set to eagerly.
‘How are things in London?’ Hobbey asked. ‘I hear the currency has been debased again.’
‘It has. It is causing much confusion and trouble.’
‘I am glad I moved to the country. How was your journey? We have had storms here, but I know they were worse in London. I worried the roads would be muddy, and full of the King’s traffic coming to Portsmouth.’
‘So they were,’ Dyrick agreed. ‘But we were lucky, thanks to Brother Shardlake. We met up with an old client of his, a petty-captain of a company of archers, who let us ride with them. A blast from his trumpeteer and everyone moved out of the way.’
I saw Hugh turn and look at me intently. ‘A grateful client?’ Hobbey asked with a smile. ‘What did you win for
him?’
‘The freehold of some land.’
He nodded, as though that was what he had expected. ‘And they were heading for Portsmouth?’
‘Yes. Country lads from Middlesex. One wants to go to London to be a playwright.’
‘A country soldier writing plays?’ Hobbey gave a little scoffing laugh. ‘I never heard such a thing.’
‘I believe he composed the rude ditties the soldiers sang on the road,’ Dyrick said. ‘Saving your presence, Mistress Abigail.’ Abigail smiled tightly.
‘Country lads should stay at the plough,’ Hobbey said firmly.
‘Except when they are called to defend us all?’ Hugh asked quietly.
‘Yes. When they are full grown.’ Hobbey’s look at his ward was suddenly severe.
Dyrick said, ‘More men are marching south. And the King and Queen are coming to Portsmouth to review the ships, I hear.’
Hugh turned to me. ‘The soldiers were archers, sir?’
‘Yes, Master Curteys. Their skill with a bow had to be seen to be believed.’
‘You should see Hugh and I practising at the butts,’ David said, leaning across his mother. ‘I am the stronger,’ he added proudly.
‘But I am the one who hits the mark,’ Hugh countered quietly.
‘I was a fine archer in my youth,’ Dyrick said complacently. ‘Now I am teaching my son. Though I thank God he is only ten, too young to be called up.’
‘Master Shardlake will not want to see you boys practising that dangerous sport,’ Abigail said. ‘One of the servants will end with an arrow through his body one of these days.’
Hugh turned cold eyes on her. ‘Our only risk of being shot, good mistress, is if the French land. They say they have over two hundred ships.’
Hobbey shook his head. ‘All these rumours. A hundred, two hundred. What a tumult. Three thousand men have been levied in north Hampshire and sent to Portsmouth. Hoyland village, like all the coastal villages, is exempt from recruitment, with the men kept in the militia ready to march to the coast when the beacons are lit.’
