Heartstone (38 page)

Beside him Hugh held up an arrow, watching as the wind ruffled the goose-feather fletches slightly. 'Swing your body a little to the left, Master Samuel,' he said quietly. 'You have to take account of the wind. Now bend your left leg back, and push forward, as though you were making a throw.' Feaveryear hesitated. 'See, I will show you.' Hugh took the bow. He stood, thrusting his weight backward as he pulled on the string. Through his shirt I saw the outline of tight, corded muscles.

'Concentrate on the target,' he told Feaveryear, 'not the arrow. Think only of that and loose. Now, try it.'

Feaveryear took the bow again, glanced round at us, then pulled the bow back a little further and loosed the arrow with a grunt. It rose a little in the air, then buried its point in the grass a short way off. David laughed and slapped his thigh. Fulstowe smiled sardonically. 'Well done, Feaveryear,' David said sarcastically. 'Last time it only dropped from the bow!'

'I am useless,' Feaveryear said with a sad laugh. 'I succeed only in pulling my arms from their sockets.'

'Ignore David,' Hugh said. 'It takes years of practice to strengthen your arms to pull a bow properly. But anyone may learn, and see, already you improve a little.'

'It is hard work.'

' "The fostering of shooting is labour, that companion of virtue," ' I quoted from
Toxophilus
.

Hugh looked at me with interest. 'You have read the book, Master Shardlake.'

'He makes some pretty phrases.'

'It is a great book,' Hugh replied earnestly.

'I would not go quite so high as that.' I noticed Hugh and David had both been shaved, David's dark stubble reduced to the merest shadow on his cheeks while Hugh had a little cut by one of the scars on his neck. 'Perhaps we may discuss the book sometime.'

'I should like that, Master Shardlake. I have little opportunity to discuss books. David can barely read,' he added jestingly, but with an edge. David scowled.

'I shoot better than you,' he said. 'Here, Feaveryear, I will show you how a truly strong archer shoots.' He picked up his own bow from the grass. Like Hugh's it was beautifully made, though not quite so highly polished.

'Such achievement for a youngling,' Barak said, straight faced. David frowned, unsure if he were jesting. Then he strung the bow, bent to it, came up and loosed the arrow. It sped through the air and hit the target, missing the centre by a few inches.

'Not quite so good as Hugh,' Fulstowe said quietly, with a little smile.

David rounded on him. 'I have the greater strength. Set the butts further off and I would beat him easily.'

'I think perhaps your argument is groundless,' I ventured to the boys. '
Toxophilus
says range and accuracy are both needed. You both excel, and if one has a little more of each quality than the other, what matter?'

'David and I have been jesting and bickering these last five years, sir,' Hugh said wearily. 'It is what we do, the subject matters not. Tell me,' he added earnestly, 'what is it you find to criticize in
Toxophilus
?'

'His liking for war. And his praise for the King has a crawling quality.'

'Should we not foster the arts of war to protect ourselves?' Hugh asked with quiet intensity. 'Are we to allow the French to invade and have their will with us?'

'No. But we should ask how we came to this. If the King had not invaded France last year--'

'For hundreds of years Gascony and Normandy were ours.' For the first time I heard Hugh speak with real passion. 'It was our birthright from the Normans before upstart French nobles started calling themselves kings--'

'So King Henry would say.'

'He is right.'

'Do not let Father hear you talking like that,' David said. 'You know he will not let you go for a soldier.' Then, to my surprise, his voice took on a note of entreaty. 'And without you who should I have to hunt with?' David turned to me. 'We went out this morning, and our greyhounds caught half a dozen hares. Though my fast hound caught more--'

'Be quiet,' Hugh said with sudden impatience. 'Your endless who-is-better-than-who will drive me brainsick!'

David looked hurt. 'But competition is the spice of life. In Father's business--'

'Are we not supposed to be gentlemen now? Do you know what a hobby is, Master Shardlake?'

'A hunting hawk,' I answered.

'Ay, the smallest and meanest of birds.'

David's eyes widened with hurt. I thought he might burst into tears.

'That's enough, both of you,' Fulstowe snapped. To my surprise he spoke as though he had the authority of a parent. Both boys were silent at once.

'Please do not argue,' Feaveryear said with sudden emotion, his prominent Adam's apple jerking up and down. 'You are brothers, Christians--'

He was interrupted by a loud voice calling his name. Dyrick was striding across the lawn. He looked angry, his face almost as red as his hair. 'What are you doing shooting with the boys? And you, Barak! You were told to keep to the servants' quarters. Master steward, do you not know your master's instructions?'

Fulstowe did not reply, but gave Dyrick a cold look. 'The boys invited us,' Barak said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

'So we did, sir,' Hugh said. 'For some new company.'

Dyrick ignored them. 'Come with me, Sam! Quick! Ettis and a bunch of clods from the village are shouting Master Hobbey down in his own study. I want what they say recorded!'

'Yes, sir,' Feaveryear answered humbly. Dyrick turned and strode away, Feaveryear following.

'Come boys,' Fulstowe said. 'I think we should go in. And it is not sensible to argue in front of our guests.' He looked at Hugh and David, and some understanding seemed to pass between the three. They went off after Dyrick and Feaveryear. Barak glanced over the building, eyes narrowed. 'We could go for a little walk and pass under the study window. It's at the back of the house. We might find something out. See, they have opened all the windows to let in the breeze.'

I hesitated, then nodded. 'This case leads me into bad habits,' I muttered as I followed him round to the back of the house, where a stretch of lawn faced the old convent wall. Raised voices could be heard from Hobbey's study. I recognized the Hampshire burr of Ettis, whom we had met in the village. He was shouting. 'You want to steal our commons. Then where will the poor villagers get wood and food for their pigs?'

'Take care, Goodman Ettis!' Dyrick's loud rasp cut like a knife. 'Your boorish ways will serve you ill here. Do not forget that some of the cottagers have already sold their land to Master Hobbey. So less common land will be needed.'

'Only four. And only when you threatened them with repossession when they got behind with their rent. And the grant is clear! The priory granted Hoyland village our woods near four hundred years ago.'

'You have only your poor English translation of it--'

'We cannot read that Norman scribble!' another voice with a Hampshire accent shouted.

We were right under the window now. Fortunately the sill was above our heads. I looked round uneasily, fearing some servant might appear round the side of the house.

Dyrick replied forcefully, 'This grant only says the village should have use of all the woodland it needs.'

'The area was mapped out, clear as day.'

'That was done before the Black Death, since when Hoyland, like every village in England, has far fewer people. The woodland area should be correspondingly reduced.'

'I know what you have planned,' Ettis shouted back at Dyrick. 'Fell all our woodland, make great profit, then take the village lands and turn everything over to more woodland. No knife-tongued lawyer will talk us out of our rights! We will go to the Court of Requests!'

'You'd better hurry, then,' I heard Hobbey answer smoothly. 'I've ordered my woodsmen to start again on the area you wrongly call yours next week. And you people had better not impede them.'

'Note they've been warned, Feaveryear,' Dyrick added. 'In case we need to show the magistrate.'

'Who is in your pocket,' Ettis said bitterly.

Then we heard a bang, which must have been the door opening and slamming against the wall. Abigail's voice cried out shrilly, 'Rogues and vagabonds! Nicholas, Fulstowe tells me they shot an arrow at the hunchback lawyer in the forest! You villains!' she screamed.

'Shot?' Hobbey sounded shocked. 'Abigail, what do you mean?'

'I have just seen Master Shardlake,' Dyrick said. 'He looks no worse than he ever does.'

'He wasn't hit! But they did it!'

Then I heard Fulstowe's voice: he must have heard the commotion and come in. 'Shardlake and his clerk were shot at while riding Master Hugh's woodland. They surprised a deer: it must have been a poacher warning them off. No one was hurt, nor meant to be,' he added impatiently.

'You stupid woman!' It was the first time I had heard Hobbey lose control. Abigail began to cry. The room had fallen silent. I inclined my head, and we began moving quietly away, round the side of the house.

'That was getting interesting,' Barak said.

'I was concerned someone would come out and see us. And I think we heard enough.' I frowned. 'That woman is so frightened.'

'She's mad.'

'It's hard to know. By the way, did you notice the way the boys took orders from Fulstowe earlier? And from what we heard there Fulstowe doesn't bother showing much respect to Abigail.'

'Who is right about the woods?' Barak asked.

'I'd need to see the land grant. But if there's a defined area, that stands well for the villagers.'

'If I go into the village while you're away, maybe it's time to tell them you are counsel at Requests. Then we might get some information.'

I considered. 'Yes. Do it. See Ettis. Tell him if they write to chambers I'll apply for an injunction as soon as I get back. On condition they say nothing to Hobbey.' I smiled. 'I can tell Hobbey about it on the day we leave.'

'You are turning into a Machiavelli since becoming a Court of Wards lawyer.'

I looked at him seriously. 'Ask Ettis to tell us in return all he can about Hugh. Something is going on in this house that we cannot see. I swear it.'

Chapter Twenty-one

S
EVEN O'CLOCK
the next morning found me riding north along the Portsmouth road, already a mile from Hoyland Priory. Once again I had taken Oddleg. He walked along rapidly, seeming happy to be on a long journey again. The weather was fine, a scent of dewy grass on the air which was still cool at that hour. It would be hot later, and I wore a doublet of light wool, grateful to have left my robes behind. As I rode I pondered the conversation I had had, just before I left, with Hugh.

I had asked to be called at six, and been woken by a knock on the door. Fulstowe put his head round. 'There is some breakfast downstairs, sir,' he said, adding, 'I understand you are travelling to Sussex and will not be back until tomorrow afternoon.'

'Yes. A piece of business for another client. Thank you.' I had already told Hobbey that, and no more - I was not going to tell them anything about Ellen. I rose and dressed. Then I picked up Emma's decorated cross from my bedside table and Hugh's copy of
Toxophilus
. I stepped quietly into the corridor and walked along to Hugh's room. I hesitated briefly, then knocked. I had gone there the previous evening, but either he was not there or was not answering. Here was a rare chance to speak with him undisturbed.

This time he answered the door, already dressed in shirt and doublet.

'I am sorry to disturb you so early,' I said, 'but I am setting out for Sussex now, and I wanted to return your book.'

He hesitated a moment before inviting me in, as courtesy demanded.

The room was furnished with a bed, a chest and a table, and a wall hanging in green and white stripes, the Tudor colours. On a shelf above the table I saw, to my surprise, a collection of perhaps two dozen books. The room smelled strongly of wax and Hugh's bow, unstrung, leaned against a corner of the bed. A box of wax and a rag lay beside it.

'I am polishing my bow.' He gave a little smile. 'Mistress Abigail prefers me to do it outside, but at this hour who will know?'

'It is early indeed.'

'I like to rise before everyone else, have some time to myself before
they
are all up.' I caught a note of contempt in Hugh's voice and looked at him keenly. He coloured and put a hand to his neck. He is very conscious of those marks, I thought.

'You have many books,' I said. 'May I look?'

'Please do.'

There were Latin and Greek classics, a book on manners for young gentlemen, and copies of
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
,
The Book of the Hunt
and Boorde's
Dietary of Health
, as well as Sir Thomas More's
Utopia
. There were, unusually, no religious works save a New Testament.

'A fine collection,' I observed. 'Few people your age have so many.'

'Some were my father's, and Master Hobbey fetched some for me from London. But I have no one to discuss them with since our last tutor left.'

I took down
The Book of the Hunt
. 'This is the classic work on hunting, I believe.'

'It is. Originally by a Frenchman, but translated by the Duke of York, who died at Agincourt. When nine thousand English archers routed a huge French army,' he added proudly. He sat down on the bed.

'Are you looking forward to the hunt next week?' I asked.

'Very much. It will only be my third. We do not socialize much here.'

'I understand it has taken time for the local gentlefolk to accept the family.'

'It is only the prospect of the hunt that is bringing them. So Mistress Abigail says at least.' I realized how isolated Hugh was down here, David too.

'At my last hunt it was I who brought down the hart,' Hugh added proudly.

'I was told you were awarded the heartstone, that you wear it round your neck still.'

His hand rose to his neck again. His eyes narrowed. 'By whom?'

'Master Avery.'