Heartstone (38 page)

AFTERWARDS I went round to Barak's quarters. The summer evening had begun, casting long shadows over the lawns. The old stones of the priory looked warm and mellow. Barak was in his room, reading Tamasin's letter again. We walked round to the front of the house, where Lamkin lay dozing on his back under a tree. We went past the butts and into the little graveyard. It was very overgrown. I saw a flash of colour among the greenery. Flowers had been laid by a headstone.
Sister Jane Samuel, 1462-1536.

‘Probably one of the last nuns to die here,' I said. ‘I wonder who put these flowers here.'

‘Ursula perhaps,' Barak suggested. ‘Hobbey would not approve.'

‘No. Listen, I overheard something earlier.' I told him about the Hobbeys' conversation. ‘Abigail is frightened, she said she and Hobbey would never be safe. And why is she afraid of having the hunt?'

‘You sure you heard right?'

‘Yes. I have a duty to find out what is happening,' I said firmly. ‘It is what the Queen would wish.'

He shook his head. ‘You and the Queen. I just want to go home.'

I RETURNED to my room. A book had been laid on my bed.
Toxophilus
, by Roger Ascham. I lay down on the bed and opened it. It began with a flowery dedication to the King, and his ‘most honourable and victorious journey into France'. Victorious, I thought. Then why are we poised against a French invasion? And honourable - I recalled what Leacon had said about the waging of war on women and children in Scotland. I leafed through the text. The first part was a dialogue in which Toxophilus - clearly Ascham - described the virtues of archery to an appreciative student. Archery, as an exercise that trained all parts of the body, was contrasted to the risks and dangers of gambling. Ascham praised war: ‘Strong weapons be the instruments with which God doth overcome that part which he will have overthrown.'

I thought back to my childhood. I had tried pulling a bow at our village butts just once, my father had taken me when I was ten with a little bow he had bought for me. My deformity had meant I could not take a proper stance with the bow; my arrow, released, had dropped to the ground. The village boys laughed, and I ran home in tears. Later my father had said, in the disappointed tones I had already come to know, that I was not formed for the art and need not go again.

I took up the book once more, persisting. I passed to the second part, where the dialogue changed to a discussion of the skills and techniques of archery: what to wear, how to stand, the types of bows and arrows - thorough and detailed knowledge.

I laid down the book and went to stand by the open window, looking out on the lawn. What was happening here? Hobbey might be creaming off the profits from felling trees on Hugh's lands, but there was more to it than that. Yet Hugh seemed to have complete freedom. I knew from long experience that families will sometimes make one member a scapegoat for their troubles, but from what I had seen it was not Hugh but Abigail who had that role here. What was she so frightened of?

TO MY SURPRISE I slept well. A servant woke me at seven as I had asked. Outside the spell of fine weather seemed over; it was cloudy, close and sticky. I dressed once more in my serjeant's robes. I still had Emma's cross round my neck, I should give it to Hugh. I remembered Avery saying he wore this gruesome heartstone.

There was a knock at my door. Dyrick stood there. He too had put on his robe, and slicked down his coppery hair with water.

‘Fulstowe says we may have a storm before the day is out. Perhaps you should postpone your ride through the woods.'

‘No,' I answered briefly. ‘I shall go today.'

He shrugged. ‘As you wish. I came to tell you Mistress Hobbey is better, she is willing to be deposed. Unless, having seen Hugh, you will end this nonsense now.'

‘No,' I answered. ‘Can you ask Fulstowe to have Barak fetched?' Dyrick made an impatient sound and turned away.

WE GATHERED again in Nicholas's study. Abigail was already there, sitting under the portrait of the abbess of Wherwell. She had taken care of her appearance today, her hair was tied up, her face powdered. Lamkin sat on a little rug on her lap.

‘I hope you are feeling better, Mistress Hobbey,' I began.

‘Better than I was.' She glanced nervously at Barak and Feaveryear, their quills poised. ‘Then I will begin,' I said. ‘I wonder, madam, what you thought when your husband suggested buying Hugh and Emma's wardship.'

She looked me in the eye. ‘I was glad of it, for I could have no more children. I welcomed Hugh and Emma. I had always wanted a daughter especially.' She sighed deeply. ‘But the children would not let me close to them. They had lost their parents. Yet do not many children lose their parents young?' Her look had a sort of appeal in it.

‘Sadly they do. I understand Reverend Broughton, the Curteyses' vicar, opposed the wardship. You and he had words.'

Abigail raised her chin defiantly. ‘Yes. He defamed my husband and me. Everything about the wardship was done properly.'

‘Master Shardlake cannot dispute that,' Dyrick said. He was watching Abigail carefully, anxious I guessed lest she lose control.

‘It must have been terrible when all the children took smallpox. I understand you took care of David yourself, despite the danger.'

A flash of anger in her face. ‘And neglected Hugh and Emma, is that what you imply? Well, sir, whatever Michael Calfhill may have said, that is not true. I constantly visited Hugh and Emma. But they only wanted to see each other, only each other.' She lowered her head and I realized she was weeping. Lamkin whined, looking up at his mistress, and she stroked his head as she reached for a handkerchief. ‘I lost Emma,' Abigail said quietly. ‘I lost the girl I wanted for my daughter. It was my fault, all my fault. God forgive me.'

‘How was it your fault, Mistress Abigail?'

Her tear-stained face suddenly closed and her eyes flickered away from mine. ‘I - I sent for some red cloth, it draws the bad humours out, but I had left it too late, there was none—'

I said, ‘But yesterday Fulstowe told me he managed to get some.'

Dyrick looked quickly at Abigail. ‘Perhaps you meant to say he got it too late to save Emma.'

‘Yes, that was it,' she said hurriedly. ‘I was mistaken, it was too late.'

‘You are leading the witness, Master Dyrick,' I said angrily. ‘Barak, make sure his intervention is entered in the record.'

‘I apologize,' Dyrick said smoothly. Abigail took deep breaths, visibly bringing herself under control. I thought, why does she really hold herself responsible for Emma's death?

I asked how she and Hugh got on now. She answered curtly, ‘Well enough.' Finally I asked her about Michael Calfhill. ‘I never liked him,' she said defiantly. ‘He tried to drive a wedge between me and the children.'

‘Why would he do that?'

‘Because he wanted them to cleave to him, not to my husband and me.'

‘Both Hugh and Emma?'

‘Yes,' she answered quietly. Then she said in a rush, her voice shaking, ‘But Michael Calfhill had such a terrible, agonized death. God pardon him, God pardon him.'

‘Do you know why he was dismissed?'

She took a deep breath, bringing herself under control again. ‘Only that it was for impropriety. My husband told me the reasons were such as a woman should not know. That is all.'

‘Is there anything else, Master Shardlake?' Dyrick asked.

‘No.' I had plenty to digest already. ‘I may have further questions later.'

‘Master Shardlake always says that,' Dyrick told Abigail wearily. ‘Thank you, Mistress.'

Abigail wrapped the rug round Lamkin, rose from the chair, and carried the dog out of the room, hugging it to her bosom. I thought of her fear of the servants, her endless snappish battling with her son, her husband's impatience with her and Hugh's cold indifference. Poor woman, I thought. That dog is all she has left to love.

AFTER LUNCH Barak and I fetched two of the horses we had hired in Kingston, and set out to look at the woodland. I took Oddleg, the strong, placid horse that had brought me from London. The pall of grey cloud had thickened, and the air was uncomfortably heavy. We took the Portsmouth road south; Hobbey had told us that in that direction trees were being cut on both Hugh's estate and his.

To the right one of the communal village fields sloped gently away, its strips of different crops a riot of colour. Villagers working there glanced up, some staring at us. As we rode on the woodland to our left gave way to the cleared area, stretching back a good half-mile to where the forest remained untouched, a line of unbroken green. Thin young trees were thrusting up from the undergrowth, mostly pollarded so that the trunks would divide into two trees.

We stopped. ‘This area was felled some time ago,' Barak observed.

‘They felled everything, not just the mature trees. It will be decades before the forest returns here. That is Hugh's land. How much the timber fetches depends on the type of tree. Prime oak, or elm or ash?' I shook my head. ‘Fraud is so easy.'

Behind us a trumpet sounded suddenly. We pulled in to the side as a company of soldiers tramped by, raising clouds of dust. The men looked tired and weary, many footsore. A whiffler walked up and down the line, calling on laggards to raise their feet. The baggage train rumbled past and the company disappeared round a bend. I wondered how Leacon was faring in Portsmouth.

We rode on a further mile or two. To the left the cleared area gave way again to dense forest. There was woodland to the right, too, which from the plan was the village woodland Hobbey wanted. The road sloped gently upwards, and now we could see the line of a high hill in the distance; Portsdown Hill, with the sea on the other side. Then we came on an area where men were felling trees. Almost all had been cut, back to a distance of a hundred yards. One group of men was sawing up a felled oak, another stripping leaves from branches piled on the ground. Long sections of trunk were being loaded onto an ox cart.

‘Let's talk to them,' I said. We rode carefully past the stumps, most still gleaming raw and yellow, and halted a little distance from the work. A man came across to us, a tall stringy fellow. He removed his cap and bowed.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.'

‘I am Master Shardlake, lawyer to Hugh Curteys that owns this land. I am staying with Master Hobbey at Hoyland Priory.'

‘Master Fulstowe said you might be coming,' the man answered. ‘As you see, we are working hard. I am Peter Drury, the foreman.' He had watchful little button eyes.

‘You seem to be cutting a great swathe here. What trees are you felling?'

‘Everything, sir. Some oak, but the cleared part was mostly ash and elm. The oak goes to Portsmouth, the branches to the charcoal burners.'