Heartstone (73 page)

'Robert,' I said, 'I apologize again--'

'Come, you should leave, now.'

We went back up the stairs I had descended in such fear. 'Master Warner,' I said when we reached the top. 'There is one last question I would ask, if you will?'

'Well?' he asked roughly.

'Something you said to me at Hampton Court. You said the Queen was like Catherine of Aragon, utterly loyal to her servants.'

'Do not worry,' he said contemptuously, 'the Queen will stay loyal to you.'

'I did not mean that. It was something else you said, that Catherine of Aragon had her faults. What did you mean by that?'

'It is simple enough. She was another like you, sir, who would not let go when sense and even decency indicated she ought. When the King first said he wished to divorce her, the Pope sent her a message. That I did know of, as her lawyer. The Pope, to whom Catherine of Aragon's ultimate loyalty lay as a Catholic, suggested that in order to resolve the problems that were beginning to tear England apart, she should retire to a nunnery, which in canon law would allow the King to marry again without a divorce.'

'That would have been a neat answer.'

'It would have been the best answer. She was past childbearing age; the King would not bed with her anyway. She could have kept her status and honours, lived an easy life. And her daughter Mary that she loved would have kept her place in the succession rather than being threatened, as she was later, with execution. So much blood and trouble would have been spared. And the irony is Catherine of Aragon's obstinacy meant that England split from Rome; the last thing she wanted.'

'Of course. I see.'

Warner smiled tightly. 'But she believed God desired her to stay married to the King. And as often happens, God's will and her own chimed nicely. So there you are, that is where obstinacy may lead. Fortunately, our present Queen has a strong sense of realism. Stronger than some men, for all that she is a weak woman.'

He turned on his heel, and led me away. And with his last words it came to me, like a click in the brain. I understood now what had happened at Hoyland, what the secret was that everyone had known and concealed. Warner turned and looked at me in surprise as I released a sound that started as a sigh but ended as a groan.

A
N HOUR LATER
Barak and I were riding north along the London road. When I arrived at the inn I had been moved by the relief on his face. I told him Warner was innocent and that I had received a deserved rebuke from the Queen.

'Well,' he said, 'I did warn you.'

'Yes. You did.'

As we rode on I was silent; Barak probably thought I was in a chastened mood, but I was thinking hard, turning everything over since that flash of revelation as I left the Queen, afraid I might be building another castle in the air. But this time everything fitted tightly. And it would be easy to find out, very easy.

I said quietly, 'I want to call in at Hoyland on the way. Just briefly.'

For a second I thought he would fall from his saddle. '
Hoyland
? Have you gone stark mad? What sort of welcome do you think you'll get?'

'I know now what it was that the Hobbeys were keeping quiet. What caused poor Michael Calfhill such distress when he came, and why Feaveryear left.'

'Jesus Christ, another theory.'

'It is easy to test. It should only take half an hour. And if I am wrong no harm will be done, and we can be on our way.'

'Do you think you know who killed Abigail?' he asked sharply.

'I am not sure yet. But if I am right, the killer came from within the household not the village.' I gave him a pleading look. 'Maybe I am wrong, but if I am right Ettis may be proved innocent. Half an hour. But if you want, ride on and find a bed in Petersfield.'

He looked down the dusty, tree-shaded road, then at me, and to my relief he shook his head and laughed. 'I give up,' he said. 'I'll come. After all, it's only the Hobbeys we have to face this time.'

Chapter Forty-one

I
KNEW THAT
if we rode up to the front door of Hoyland Priory, Fulstowe might see us and order us off. Accordingly we turned onto the path along the edge of the hunting park that led to the rear gate. Overhanging branches brushed us as we rode quietly along. I remembered the day of the hunt, the great stag turning at bay. And the day we had ridden into Hugh's woodland and that arrow had plunged into the tree beside us.

We dismounted beside the gate. 'Let's tie the horses to a tree,' I said.

'I hope it's unlocked.'

'It's flimsy. If need be we can smash it open.'

'Breaking and entering?' Barak looked at me seriously. 'That's not like you.'

But it was unlocked, and we stepped quietly through into the familiar grounds. Ahead was the lawn dotted with its trees; to our left the kennels and other outhouses. Barak looked down to the little sheds where he and Dyrick's clerk had lodged. He suddenly asked, 'Feaveryear hasn't been harmed, has he?'

'No, he was sent packing back to London because he discovered something.'

'In God's name, what?'

'I want you to see for yourself.'

I looked at the great hall, the sun glinting on the windows. No one was about; it was very quiet. We started a little as a pair of wood pigeons flapped noisily from one tree to another. It was hot, the sun almost directly above. My coif chafed against my brow and I wiped away sweat. I realized I was hungry; it was well past lunchtime. I looked at the old nuns' cemetery, the practice butts, remembered Hobbey saying he wondered if he might be under a curse for taking over the old convent.

One of the servants, a young man from the village, came out of the buttery. He stared at us in astonishment, as though we were ghosts. All the servants would know how I had upset the family at the inquest. I walked across, smiling. 'Good afternoon, fellow. Do you know if Master Hobbey is at home?'

'I - I don't know, sir. He is going to the village today, with Master Fulstowe and Master Dyrick.'

'Dyrick is still here?'

'Yes, sir. I don't know if they've gone out yet. You have come back?'

'Just briefly. Something I need to speak with Master Hobbey about. I will go round to the house.' We walked away, leaving him gazing after us.

'I wonder what they're up to in the village,' Barak said.

'Trying to bully them over the woodlands, probably.'

We went down the side of the great hall and round to the front of the house. In Abigail's garden the flowers were dying unwatered in the heat. I said, 'Remember when that greyhound killed Abigail's dog? Remember her saying I was a fool who did not see what was in front of me? If I had, then, she might not have died. But they were so clever, all of them. Come,' I said savagely, 'let's get this over.'

We walked round to the front porch. Hugh was sitting on the steps, oiling his bow. He wore a grey smock and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face. When he saw us he jumped to his feet. He looked shocked.

'Good afternoon, Hugh,' I said quietly.

'What do you want?' His voice trembled. 'You are not welcome here.'

'I need to talk to Master Hobbey. Do you know where he is?'

'I think he's gone to the village.'

'I will go in and see.'

'Fulstowe will throw you out.'

I met Hugh's gaze, this time letting my eyes rove openly over his long, tanned face, staring straight at the smallpox scars. He looked away. 'Come, Jack,' I said. We walked past Hugh, up the steps.

The great hall, too, was silent and empty. The saints in the old west window at the far end still raised their hands to heaven. The walls remained blank; I wondered where the tapestries were. Then a door at the upper end of the hall opened, and David came in, dressed in mourning black. Like Hugh and the servant before him, he stared at us wonderingly. Then he walked forward, his solid body settling into an aggressive posture.

'You!' he shouted angrily. 'What are you doing here?'

'There is something I need to see your father about,' I told him.

'He's not here!' David's voice rose to a shout. 'He's gone to the village with Fulstowe, to sort out those serfs.'

'Then we will wait till he returns.'

'What's this about?'

'Something important.' I looked into the boy's wide, angry blue eyes. 'Something I have discovered about the family.' David's full lips worked, and his expression turned from truculence to fear.

'Go away! I am in charge in my father's absence. I order you to leave!' he shouted. 'I order you out of this house!' He was breathing heavily, almost panting.

'Very well, David,' I said quietly. 'We will go. For now.' I turned and walked away to the door. Barak followed, casting glances over his shoulder to where David stood staring. Then the boy turned and walked rapidly away. A door slammed.

We stepped back into the sunlight. In the distance I saw Hugh standing, shooting arrows at the butts. Barak said, 'David looked like he'd been found out in something.'

'He has, and realized it. He is not quite as stupid as he seems.'

'He looked like he might have another fit.'

'Poor creature,' I said sorrowfully. 'There is every reason to pity David Hobbey. More than any of them.'

'All right,' Barak said in a sharp voice. 'Enough riddles. Tell me what's going on.'

'I said I wanted you to see. Come, walk with me.'

I led the way round the side of the house. Here we had a clear view of Hugh. He stood with feet planted firmly on the lawn. He had a bagful of arrows at his belt and was shooting them, one after another, at the target. Several were stuck there already. Hugh reached down, fitted another arrow to his bow, bent back, rose up and shot. The arrow hit the centre of the target.

'By God,' Barak said. 'He gets better and better.'

I laughed then, loudly and bitterly. Barak looked at me in surprise.

'There is what none of us saw,' I said, 'except Feaveryear, who realized and ran to Dyrick. I think Dyrick did not know until Hobbey told him after Lamkin died. I remember he looked perturbed after that. He had probably demanded Hobbey tell him what it was Abigail had said I could not see.'

'Know what?' Barak's voice was angry now. 'All I see is Hugh Curteys shooting on the lawn. We saw that every day for a week.'

I said quietly, 'That is not Hugh Curteys.'

Now Barak looked alarmed for my sanity. His voice rose. 'Then who the hell is it?'

'Hugh Curteys died six years ago. That is Emma, his sister.'

'What--'

'They both had smallpox. But I believe it was Hugh that died, not Emma. We know Hobbey was in financial difficulties. He could hold off his creditors by making a bond to pay them, over a period of years, and creaming off the money from the Curteys children's woodlands. I think that is why he took the wardship.'

'But that's a boy--'

'Let me continue.' I went on, in tones of quiet intensity, 'But then Hugh died. Remember how wardship works: a boy has to be twenty-one to sue out his livery and gain possession of his lands, but a girl can inherit at fourteen. Emma would have inherited Hugh's share of the lands automatically. Hobbey no doubt had thought he would have control at least for nine years, but now he faced losing them in one. Not long enough to pay off his debts. So I think they substituted Emma for Hugh.'

'They couldn't - '

'They could. It helped that the children were so close in age and looked alike, though no one who knew them both would have been deceived. So they dismissed Michael Calfhill at once and left London quickly.'

'But Michael said he saw Emma buried.'

'It was Hugh in that coffin.'

'Jesus.'

'Michael never did anything wrong with Hugh. And when he came to visit last spring he recognized Emma.'

Barak leaned forward, watching the figure on the lawn intently as another arrow was loosed at the target. Like the last, it hit dead centre. 'You're wrong, that's not a girl. And what on earth would be in it for her?'

'Not marrying David, I would guess. Of course, she might have learned from Michael that David's falling sickness meant she could go to the Court of Wards and say a marriage to him would be disparagement. But, with Michael gone and her fate in the hands of the Hobbeys, it would be a hard thing for a thirteen-year-old girl to do on her own. And the impersonation would have given her some power over the Hobbeys. She held their fate in her hands. I would guess Emma agreed to the substitution because it meant there could never be a marriage. That was probably all she thought of then,' I added sadly. 'But once it was done they were all trapped.'

Barak shaded his eyes with his hand, looked again at Hugh. 'That is no girl. It can't be.'

'Keep your voice down. No, you wouldn't think so. But a girl may learn skill at the bow, may be educated as well as a man. I think that is why the time I met Lady Elizabeth kept coming back into my mind. She too is a good archer. And if a girl has learned to walk as a boy, dress as a boy, behave as a boy and shoot arrows like a boy, then among strangers the deception may be kept up for years. If she is tall, that helps too.'