Heartstone (10 page)

I arrived at the group of old Norman buildings behind Westminster Hall, white stone shabby with soot. Instead of heading for the Court of Requests as usual, I opened a stout wooden door in the adjacent building and climbed a flight of narrow stone steps to a wide archway. Above it was a carved representation of the seal of the Court of Wards; the royal arms and underneath the figures of two young children bearing a scroll with the Latin motto of the court:
Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor
. A helper to wards, orphans and widows.

T
HE BROAD VESTIBULE
of the court was dim, with the familiar law court smell of dust, old paper and sweat. A number of doors led off to one side, while on the other several people sat on a long wooden bench, their faces strained and tight. All were richly dressed. There was a couple in their thirties, the man in a fine doublet and the woman in a silk dress and a hood lined with pearls. A little way along sat a boy of about ten in a satin jerkin. A young woman in a dark, high-collared dress held his hand as she argued with a barrister I did not know.

'But how could they do that?' she asked. 'It makes no sense.'

'I have told you, my lady,' he answered patiently, 'here, it is expecting sense that makes no sense.'

'Excuse me, Brother,' I asked. 'Can you direct me to the clerk's office?'

He looked at me curiously. 'The door behind you, Brother. You new to Wards?'

'Yes.'

He tapped his waist where his purse hung. I nodded. The child looked at us with an expression of desperate puzzlement. I knocked at the clerk's door.

I
NSIDE
, a large room was divided in two by a wooden counter. On the far side, under a window through which the sky was still darkening, a thin, grey-haired clerk in a dusty robe sat working at a desk. A younger, thin-faced clerk was arranging papers on the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The older clerk looked up, the steady scratch of his quill ceasing, and came across to me. His lined face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He bowed briefly, then laid a pair of ink-stained hands on the counter and stared at me enquiringly, quite unintimidated by my serjeant's coif. The clerks held great power in all the courts, but usually they showed deference to barristers and serjeants. The Court of Wards, it seemed, was different.

'Yes, sir?' he asked neutrally.

I opened my satchel and laid Michael Calfhill's summons on the counter. 'Good day, master clerk. My name is Serjeant Shardlake. I wish to go on record in this case. I believe Master Warner, the Queen's attorney, has written to Attorney Sewster.'

He looked at the paper, then back at me, his expression a shade more respectful. 'Yes, sir. I was told to allow a late entry on the record. But Master Sewster also told me to say, sir, that evidence to support the plaintiff's case needs to be filed quickly.'

'I understand. Were you told the man that laid the Bill of Information has died?'

'Yes.' He shook his head sadly. 'The plaintiff dead, a lawyer instructed four days before the hearing, no depositions, no papers. Sir William will be placed in difficulties at the hearing. The proper procedures have to be followed. The interests of young children are at stake, you see.'

'I would be willing to show good appreciation for any help you can give me now. I hope to have fresh depositions shortly.' I slipped my hand under my robe, to my purse, 'Master - '

'Mylling, sir, under-clerk.' He turned his palm slowly upwards. I glanced at his young colleague, still putting away papers. 'Oh, don't heed him,' Mylling said. 'Five shillings in the new money to see all the papers about the wardship, three in proper silver.'

I blinked. The whole legal and government system was lubricated by bribes. Money or expensive gifts were passed to officials from parties to legal cases, merchants looking to supply the army, people wishing to buy monastic land. But usually these presents were made semi-covertly, described as gifts in token of personal esteem. And those who asked for too much too often, as rumour said Rich had done last year, got into trouble. For a clerk to ask a serjeant blatantly for money like this was remarkable. But this, I reflected, was the Court of Wards. I handed over the money. The young clerk went on with his filing, quite uninterested in what was clearly routine business.

Mylling's manner became friendly. 'I'll get you on the record, sir, and fetch the papers. But, sir, I tell you in your own interest, you need witnesses that can give some credibility to Master Calfhill's accusations. I am being honest with you, as I was with Master Calfhill when he came.'

'Michael Calfhill saw you when he made the application?' I asked.

'Yes.' Mylling looked at me curiously. 'Did you know him?'

'No. I only took instructions from his mother yesterday. What was he like?'

Mylling thought a moment. 'Strange. You could see he'd never been in court before. Just said terrible things had been done to this young ward, he wanted it brought before Sir William at once.' Mylling leaned his elbows on the desk. 'He seemed wild, distracted. I wondered if he was a bit brainsick at first, but then I thought, no, he is - ' he thought a moment - 'outraged.'

'Yes,' I said. 'That fits.'

Mylling turned to his assistant. 'The papers, Alabaster,' he said. The young man had been listening after all, for he immediately began rooting in the dog-eared piles, quickly fetching over a thick bundle tied in red ribbon. Mylling untied it and passed me the top paper. A Bill of Information, filled out in a neat hand, the signature in the bottom corner the same as that on the suicide note. I read:

I, Michael John Calfhill, do humbly petition this Honourable Court to investigate the wardship of Hugh Curteys, granted to Nicholas Hobbey, of Hoyland Priory, Hampshire, anno 1539, monstrous wrongs having been done to the said Hugh Curteys; and to grant an injunction to avoid Nicholas Hobbey's possession of the ward's body.

I looked at Mylling. 'Did you help draft the application?' I asked. Clerks were not supposed to do that, but Michael Calfhill would not have known the legal formulae and Mylling would probably have helped for cash.

'Ay. I told him the bill should strictly be signed by a barrister, but he insisted on doing it himself, at once. I said he should tone his language down, but he wouldn't. I did try to help him. I felt sorry for him.' I saw, rather to my surprise, that Mylling spoke truly. 'I told him he'd need witnesses and he said he'd talk to some vicar.'

'May I?' I reached for the file. The paper beneath the application, as I expected, was the defendant's reply to the bill. Signed by Vincent Dyrick, it was a standard defence, bluntly denying that any of the allegations were true. The other papers were much older.

'Is there anywhere private I could look at these?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. Court papers may only be taken out of the office for hearings. You may lean at the desk here.' My hand went to my purse again, for leaning over that counter for any length of time would, I knew, hurt my back, but Mylling shook his head firmly. 'I'm afraid that is the rule.'

So I leaned over the counter and looked through the papers. Nearly all dealt with the grant of Hugh and Emma's wardship six years before; records of the application by Nicholas Hobbey, Gentleman, and valuations of the land from the local officers, the escheator and feodary. Hobbey had paid PS80 for the wardship, and PS30 in fees. That was a large amount.

There was also a copy of the earlier conveyance to Hobbey of the priory buildings and his minority share of the woodland he had bought from the Court of Augmentations. He had paid out PS500 for those. There was a plan of the lands formerly under the nunnery's ownership; I looked to see whether there were any valuable rented properties, but all the land, both Hugh's and Hobbey's, seemed to be just an expanse of woodland - apart from the village of Hoy-land, which Hobbey had bought with the priory buildings. He was lord of the manor, giving him an increase in social status. Hoyland was quite a small village, I saw, thirty households so perhaps two hundred people. There was a schedule of tenancies and I saw that although some households owned their land freehold, most held it on short leases of seven to ten years. I thought, the amount of rent will be minimal, not much profit for anyone there. Hoyland Priory was described as being eight miles north of Portsmouth, 'on the hither side of Portsdown Hill'. From the plan it lay very near the main London to Portsmouth road, ideal for transporting wood.

I stood up, easing my back. Hobbey had made a big investment, first in his portion of the land and then in the wardship. He had moved down there, so presumably he had sold his merchant's business in London. A successful merchant deciding to set himself up as a country gentleman - it was a common enough picture.

I looked up. Mylling was glancing at me covertly from his desk. His eyes skittered away. 'This wardship went through very fast,' I said. 'Barely two months from the original petition to the grant. Hobbey paid high fees. He must have wanted the wardship badly.'

Mylling got up and came over. He said in a low voice, 'If he wanted it put through quickly he would have been expected to show his appreciation to Attorney Sewster and the feodary.'

'Master Hobbey has lands in Hampshire next to the wards' property. And a young son.'

Mylling nodded sagely. 'That'll be it. If he married the girl to his son that would unite their lands. Draw up a pre-contract of marriage while they're still children. You know the gentry. Marry in haste, love at leisure.'

'The girl died.'

Mylling inclined his head wisely. 'Wardship has its risks like any other business. There's still the boy's marriage, though. He could make some profit from that.' Mylling turned away as the outer door opened and a fat, elderly clerk brought in a file of papers, depositing it on the counter. 'Young Master Edward's wardship to his uncle is confirmed,' he said. 'His mother was overruled.'

Through the door I heard the sound of a woman and a little boy weeping. The clerk stroked the dangling sleeves of his robe. 'His mother said the uncle is so ugly the boy runs away at the sight of him. Sir William told her off for insolence.'

Mylling called for Alabaster and he came over. 'Draw the orders, there's a good fellow.'

'Yes, sir.' Alabaster smiled cynically at the court clerk. 'No gratitude in Wards, is there, Thinpenny?'

The clerk scratched his head. 'That there isn't.'

Alabaster smiled again, a nasty smile I thought, then saw me looking and turned back to his desk. Thinpenny left and Mylling returned to his desk. I turned back to the Curteys documents. There was little more on the file: an exhibition setting out the amounts Hobbey undertook to pay for the children's education - another outgoing, I thought - and then a short certificate recording the death of Emma Curteys in August 1539. Finally there were half a dozen orders from the last few years, ordering that Master Hobbey be permitted to cut down a limited amount of woodland belonging to Hugh, 'the trees being mature and the demand for wood great'. Hugh's profits, like his inheritance, were to be held by the Court of Wards. The amount to be cut down was to be agreed 'between Master Hobbey and the feodary of Hampshire'. On each occasion sums between PS25 and PS50 had been remitted to court with a certificate endorsed by the feodary, one Sir Quintin Priddis. At last, I thought, the stink of possible corruption; there was nothing to prove that larger sums had not been split between Hobbey and this Priddis. But nothing to prove they had, either. I slowly closed the file and straightened up, wincing at a spasm from my back.

Mylling came over. 'All done, sir?'

I nodded. 'I wonder whether Master Hobbey will come to the hearing.'

'His barrister going to the initial hearing would suffice. Though I would go if I was the subject of an accusation like that.'

'Indeed yes.' I gave him a friendly smile. I needed Mylling for one thing more. 'There is a separate matter I seek information on. Not connected to this case. The record of a
lunatico inquirendo
, a finding of lunacy on a young woman. It would have been nineteen years ago. I wondered if you could help me find it.'