by C. J. Sansom
The young cottager he had addressed smiled broadly. ‘I am ready, sir.’
‘The rest of you, is there anything you do not understand?’
‘If we kill a doe or faun, do we get a choice of the best meat?’ a villager asked.
‘You have been told so,’ Hobbey answered sharply.
‘We’ll take a haunch back for Master Ettis,’ another said, and they laughed. Even among the men Hobbey had recruited, it seemed, there was a rebellious mood. Abigail, sitting on her cushions, turned and glared at the villager who had spoken. ‘Nicholas,’ she called, ‘see that man gets no meat for his rudeness.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Avery slapped a gloved hand on the map. ‘Please, your attention! We will be dealing with a strong and fierce beast!’
‘My apologies,’ Hobbey said. He glared at Abigail. ‘My wife will ruin all with her tongue.’
There was a gasp of indrawn breath among the women at Hobbey’s public insult to his wife. Abigail flushed and turned away. A muscle twitched in Hobbey’s cheek. Then he looked back to Avery. ‘Continue,’ he snapped.
The huntsman took a deep breath. ‘Once the stag is roused out, the hunt proper will begin. We chase him back to the main path, then on to where the archers lie in wait. You men at the hurdles must do your job well, not be frightened if the stag rushes towards you. Away from the path, in the wood, a stag is far fleeter than a horse.’
‘That is right,’ Corembeck agreed portentously.
Next Avery drew five crosses at points well up the path. ‘The archers will be waiting here – Master Hugh, Master David, Fulstowe and our two young guests. You set off ahead of the rest. To one of you will go the honour of loosing the fatal shot, bringing down the stag.’ He looked at the archers. ‘Remember, find good cover and a clear line of shot. And keep still.’ He surveyed the company. ‘As the stag is driven to the archers I will sound my horn – like this – to warn them to be ready. If I need to summon the archers for any reason I will blow my horn thus.’ He sounded a different note. ‘Now, is all clear?’
There was a chorus of assent. Avery nodded. ‘Very well, sirs, to your mounts. Handlers, keep careful hold of the dogs!’
WE WATCHED AS David and Hugh, Fulstowe and the two other boys rode into the wood in single file. A few minutes later Avery gave a signal and the rest of us followed. The only sound was the occasional jingle of harness, quickly silenced. The dogs, though straining at their leashes, knew to be silent. I was between Barak and Dyrick, just behind Hobbey, who rode with Corembeck. At the head Avery set a slow, steady pace. I sensed Oddleg was uneasy at this strange, silent progress and patted him gently.
After half an hour Avery raised a hand and pointed down a narrow side track. It was hard to make no noise as the horses rode along it, brushing against the branches which grew to the edges. And then, as suddenly as when Barak and I had stumbled upon the doe, we were facing a clearing full of deer. It was as Avery had said, several does and fauns, and a large stag too, all feeding peacefully. The animals turned, tensing instantly. The stag raised its head.
And then it began, the rush of quickening blood and the pell-mell chase we had been waiting for. In an instant the does and fauns had turned and fled. The hunting dogs, loosed, sped past us. Six riders rode after them, crashing through the wood.
The rest of us faced the big stag. On my one previous hunt, long ago, I had not seen the stag until it was dead. This one was bigger, the great antlers with their sharp points waving menacingly. It lowered its head at Corembeck, who was nearest. ‘To the side, sir,’ Avery said quietly but clearly. Corembeck guided his horse slowly to the left, smiling with tense excitement. In a second the stag had shot through the resulting gap, back down the path, the massive muscles of its hind legs flexing as it ran. Avery blew his horn and we all followed him, urging our horses on. Barak grinned, his face alight. ‘Jesu, this is something!’ he called out breathlessly.
We chased the stag down the track. A group of men stood on the road, calling ‘Hey! Hey!’ and waving their arms to make it turn right, towards the archers. It shot on down the path and we careered after it. At one point where the trees thinned the stag turned aside, but a big wooden hurdle had been erected across the gap. It turned back to the path and fled on, precious moments lost. As it turned I glimpsed the whites of its eyes, full of terror.
The stag picked up speed, outrunning the horses. I had to focus every sense on riding, watching for overhanging branches. Barak might have been enjoying this but I was not; I feared the dangers of riding so fast in a forest; dreaded the crack of a protruding branch against head or knee.
Then the great beast turned its head towards another gap in the trees, and plunged sideways. There was another hurdle there but it was low. The stag crouched; it was going to try and jump, but villagers had appeared beside the hurdle, waving and shouting. But the stag did not run on; it turned and stood facing us. The riders skidded to a halt. I was still at the front, next to Hobbey now. The stag made a sound, more like a bellow than a grunt, lowered its head and waved its great antlers from side to side. Avery blew his horn, the note that would summon the archers. Then the stag lowered its head and charged.
It ran straight at Hobbey’s mount, catching his horse on the neck. The horse screamed and reared; Hobbey gave a loud cry and toppled backwards, onto me. Oddleg plunged and I felt myself falling, Hobbey on top of me. We landed in a thick bank of stinging nettles, their softness saving us from serious injury, Hobbey’s weight driving the breath from my body. I pushed him off, before he suffocated me, sharp nettle stings biting at my hands and neck. Then I heard a loud ‘thwack’, a soft grunt from the stag and a crash.
I drew deep whooping breaths as Barak ran across and helped me into a sitting position. Avery was helping Hobbey to his feet. Gasping, I looked round. A villager was holding Oddleg, who did not seem injured, though Hobbey’s horse lay kicking in the undergrowth. The men from the village were running up to us. In the centre of the path lay the stag, surrounded by the hunters, an arrow protruding from its chest. As I watched, it took a long, shuddering breath, twitched and lay still. Hugh came up and stood over it, bow in hand, his face a sheen of sweat. Young Master Stannard ran up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Master Curteys. What a shot!’
A slow smile of satisfaction spread across Hugh’s features. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I did it again.’
Hobbey was breathing fast, clearly shaken. Hugh glanced at him, then looked at me. ‘You are hurt, sir,’ he said. ‘There is blood on your wrist.’
I touched my arm, there was what felt like a deep cut below the elbow. I winced. ‘I must have landed on a piece of wood.’
‘Let me look,’ Barak said.
I removed my doublet and rolled up my sleeve. There was a nasty cut on my forearm, blood leaking fast. ‘You need that bound up,’ Barak said. ‘Here, let me cut off that sleeve, the shirt’s ripped anyway.’
As Barak tended my wound, Hobbey stepped over to his ward. ‘Hugh,’ he said, his voice shaking, ‘thank you, you saved the hunt. Maybe even my life.’
Hugh gave him a wintry smile. ‘I told you, sir, I would make a good shot on the field of battle.’
A horn sounded from somewhere deep in the wood. ‘They’ve killed the does,’ Sir Luke said. ‘Here, you men, move the stag to the side of the path so the cart can come up. And help Master Hobbey’s horse.’ The fallen animal was brought to its feet, fortunately uninjured though trembling violently. Four villagers grabbed the stag by the antlers, and dragged it, trailing blood, to the verge.
THE HUNT DISPERSED, Hobbey ordering everyone to walk or ride back to the clearing. A servant led his limping horse away. Hugh left with the two young gentlemen, enjoying their congratulations. Avery went up the path to fetch Fulstowe and David, who must have been too far up the path to have heard the horn. Hobbey stood, dusty, his clothes torn, rubbing his pale hands. ‘I am sorry I fell on you, sir,’ he said. ‘Will your arm be all right?’
‘I think so
. Come, Barak, let us go back to the house.’ I stood, but at once the wood spun round me. Barak helped me sit down again.
‘You’ve had a shock. Rest here awhile.’
Dyrick laughed. ‘Be careful, Nicholas, or he’ll find some way of suing you for trespass against the person.’
‘Be quiet,’ Hobbey snapped. Dyrick’s face darkened and he looked as though he were about to say something, but then he turned and stalked away down the path, just as Avery reappeared with Fulstowe and David. David looked at the stag, the arrow stuck deep in its chest. Fulstowe stepped close. ‘A fine shot,’ he said admiringly. ‘We should raise cups to Master Hugh tonight. He deserves the heartstone as a new trophy.’
‘Had the stag run on to us,’ David said sulkily, ‘I would have got him. It should have been my kill.’
‘God’s death, boy,’ Hobbey snapped. ‘It knocked Master Shardlake and I over. It could have hurt us badly! Fulstowe is right, you should be congratulating Hugh.’
David’s eyes widened. I had never heard Hobbey shout at his son before. David cried out, ‘Oh yes, Hugh is always better than me! At everything. Hugh, Hugh, Hugh!’ He glared at me. ‘Hugh that the hunchback thinks so badly treated.’
‘Go home!’ Hobbey pointed at his son with a trembling finger.
David muttered an obscenity and crashed away into the wood, clutching his bow. I glimpsed angry tears on his face. Hobbey turned to Fulstowe in time to catch him smiling at the exhibition. His eyes narrowed. ‘Go, steward,’ he said. ‘Meet the cart and tell them to get this stag loaded up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Fulstowe said, an ironic touch in his voice. He too walked away.
‘Agh, my hands,’ Hobbey said. ‘I need to find some dock leaves. Avery, come with me, you know these woods.’
Avery’s eyes narrowed at being addressed like a household servant; nonetheless he accompanied Hobbey down the path. Barak and I were left alone with the dead stag. The birds, driven from the scene by all the clamour, slowly returned to their roosts, and their song began again.
‘This’ll be some story to tell Tammy when I get home,’ Barak said.
‘Dyrick offered me a deal on costs before the hunt,’ I said quietly. ‘If we leave tomorrow after Priddis’s visit, each side will pay their own. I think it’s because of David. I think I must accept.’ I sighed. ‘The mysteries of this house will have to be left to themselves.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Barak looked at me, a rueful smile on his face.
Creaking wheels sounded on the path. Half a dozen men guided the big cart we had seen at the clearing down the lane. It was dripping blood from the does and fauns, which must already have been taken to the clearing.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’m all right now. Let’s go.’
We rode slowly down the path, the servants with the cart doffing their caps as we passed them. It was further than I had realized. My arm throbbed painfully.
I was thinking we must be at the glade soon when Barak touched my shoulder. ‘Look,’ he said quietly. ‘What’s that? Through there?’
‘Where?’ I looked through the trees. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Something bright, like clothing.’ He dismounted and walked into the wood. I dismounted too and followed, then almost walked into him from behind as he came to a dead stop.
‘What is it? – ’
I broke off at the extraordinary scene before us. Ahead of us was the little dell I had found that morning, with the fallen log leaning against a tree. For a second my mind whirled, for it seemed I was seeing the unicorn hunt on the tapestry in Hobbey’s hall brought to life. A woman with long fair hair sat on the log, her back against the tree, arms folded on her lap. She stayed quite silent, not moving at our appearance. The images were mixed up and for a second I thought I saw a unicorn’s horn projecting from her brow. Then I realized what was really there. Abigail Hobbey, pinned to the tree behind her by an arrow through her head.
Part Five
THE UNQUIET DEAD
Chapter Thirty-one
BARAK AND I sat at the end of the big dining table in the great hall of Hoyland Priory. Fulstowe, Dyrick and Sir Luke Corembeck stood talking in low, intent voices under the old stained-glass window. Sir Quintin Priddis sat on a chair by the empty fireplace, his good hand on his stick and the dead white one in his lap, watching them with a cynical smile. Behind him Edward Priddis stood in his dark robe, his expression serious. They had been sitting in the hall when we returned from the discovery of Abigail’s body.
‘Ettis had every reason to hate her,’ Fulstowe was saying. ‘He had suffered from her tongue; he knew my poor mistress was strong against his defiance.’
‘She faced him when he was shouting at my client in his own study a few days ago,’ Dyrick agreed. ‘I was there.’
Fulstowe nodded grimly. ‘I know him well as a troublemaker. He is the only one with the fire and recklessness to risk his neck. Sir Luke, I beg you, use your authority as magistrate to have him brought back here. Question him; find out where he was today.’
Sir Luke scratched a plump cheek, then nodded. ‘That would perhaps be a reasonable step, until the coroner arrives. I can get my servants to bring him in. There is a cellar at my house where we can keep him.’
Priddis cackled suddenly. ‘You have found your murderer, then?’ he called out. ‘A village leader, opposed to your enclosure plans. Convenient.’
Sir Luke bridled. ‘Ettis is a hot-headed rogue, Master Feodary, and an enemy of this family. He should be questioned.’
Priddis shrugged. ‘It matters naught to me. But when the coroner arrives from Winchester he might think efforts would have been better spent checking the movements of everyone on the hunt.’
‘That is being done, sir,’ Dyrick replied.
‘Ettis would not run,’ I said. ‘He has a wife and three children.’
‘Full enquiries will be carried out by the coroner,’ Corembeck replied haughtily, ‘but in the meantime it will do no harm to secure Ettis.’
‘When will the coroner be here?’ Dyrick asked Fulstowe.
‘Not until the day after tomorrow at the earliest, even if our messenger finds clear roads between here and Winchester, which I doubt.’
Barak looked downcast. As first finders of the body we would have to stay until the inquest. But I could not help feeling pleased. The carapace of mystery around this family would surely crack open now. Then I thought, guiltily, poor Abigail.
Sir Quintin looked at his son. ‘Well, Edward, you might as well go and look at Hugh Curteys’ property, that is why we are here after all. Unless you and Master Shardlake fear another arrow flying from those woods. Fulstowe tells me someone shot at you too, a few days ago.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Though it was a warning shot, intended to miss.’
‘I am not afraid, Father,’ Edward said sharply.
I said, ‘We will be riding through a cleared area. The big trees have all been felled; there is nowhere for an archer to hide.’ I looked across at Dyrick. ‘Will you come?’
‘I should stay with Master Hobbey. And, Fulstowe, I want you to give the messenger going to fetch the coroner a letter to my clerk Feaveryear. It must be forwarded to London as fast as possible, I do not care what it costs.’
Edward Priddis looked at me. ‘Then I will change my clothes, sir, and we can go.’
BARAK HAD BEEN the first to recover from the awful sight in the glade. He had walked silently over the grass and gently touched Abigail’s hand. ‘She is still warm,’ he said.
I approached the body. Abigail’s eyes were wide open, her last emotion must have been sudden shock. I saw that a yellow woodland flower lay beside the body, some of the petals torn off. I thought, she must have picked it as she walked here. I looked at the arrow protruding obscenely from her white brow. The fletches were of goose feather. I remembered the boys had carried peacock and swan, but could not remember if they had had ordinary goose-feather arrows in their arrowbags too. There was hardly a
ny blood, just a small red circle round the arrow shaft.
‘We’ll have to go and tell them,’ Barak said quietly. I could hear, faintly, the murmur of voices just on the other side of the trees. I put a hand on his arm.
‘Let us take a minute to look round before this dell is full of people.’ I pointed to the trees. ‘He shot from that direction. Come, help me see if we can find the place.’
We tried to follow the killer’s line of sight. A little way into the trees, an oak blocked my path. I turned; I was looking straight at poor Abigail’s body. I glanced down and saw the faint imprint of the sole of a shoe in the soft earth.
‘He stood right here,’ I said. ‘He could have been walking along the road, as we were, and like us caught a glimpse of that bright yellow dress through the trees. Then he walked here silently, put an arrow to his bow and shot her.’
‘So it wasn’t planned?’
‘Not if it happened that way.’
‘What if she arranged to meet someone here, and they killed her?’
‘That’s possible. But she may have come here to get away from all the company, as I did. It can’t have been easy sitting with those women, knowing they had probably been told about David.’
Barak looked at the body. ‘Poor creature. What harm did she ever really do anyone? She was bad-tempered and rude, but so are many. Why kill her?’
