by C. J. Sansom
‘I promise.’ I shook his trembling hand and left him.
MY CONSCIENCE troubled me as I walked back down the lane towards the town. I wished I could have told him Ellen was alive, that she had had at least some semblance of a life before I brought fresh trouble to it. I believed there had been a rape on that long-ago night, as well as the fire. I remembered Ellen’s words – They were so strong! I could not move! The sky above – it was so wide – so wide it could swallow me! And Ellen’s dress had been torn and had grass on it. But who were the men who had done it?
Thinking hard, I was paying little attention to my surroundings. The lane ran between hawthorn hedges, and suddenly two men stepped from a gap and stood in front of me. They were in their thirties, labourers by the look of them. They looked vaguely familiar. One gave a little bow. ‘Evening, master,’ he said.
‘Good evening, fellows.’
‘I hear you’ve been cozening old tales out of our father.’ Now I recognized the resemblance to Wilf in their thin sharp faces.
‘I was asking about the fire at the Fettiplace foundry, yes.’ I looked round. We were quite alone in the shady lane. I heartily wished Barak were with me.
‘Been talking to old John Seckford too, have you?’
‘Yes. Your father suggested it.’
‘Father is an old gabblemouth. He’s been full of theories about that fire for years, saying the verdict didn’t make sense, something was kept quiet. We tell him it’s all long past and he shouldn’t be making trouble. The Wests are powerful people, they own the land we farm. Father doesn’t know anything, he wasn’t there. We thought we’d tell you, sir.’ His tone was quiet, even respectful, but threatening nonetheless.
‘Father said you were leaving Rolfswood tomorrow,’ his brother added. ‘Our advice is not to come back, and certainly not to talk to our father again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Or you might be found with your head broken. Not that we ever told you that, or even spoke to you at all.’ He nodded at me significantly, then the two turned and disappeared again through the gap in the hedge. I took a long, deep breath, then resumed my way.
I SPENT a troubled night at the inn. What had happened here nineteen years ago? Theories chased each other round my tired mind as I lay in bed. Could Peter Gratwyck have been one of the rapists? Had he and Philip West attacked Ellen and her father, then set fire to the foundry to dispose of the body? Had Gratwyck then run away? I shook my head. There was no evidence to support that theory, nor any other. But I wondered all the more whether murder had been done that night.
Priddis’s involvement had been a shock. In two days I was to meet him in Portsmouth. And Philip West was probably there too. That was no surprise, for all the prominent officials of the region, and the army and the King’s ships, were gathering in Portsmouth now. The King himself would be there in a week.
Tomorrow I would return to Hoyland Priory and its strange family. I realized I had scarcely thought about them since I arrived here. I tossed and turned, remembering how Seckford had described Ellen: like a poor animal caught in a trap.
NEXT MORNING I rose early. There was one more thing I could do before I left.
I left the inn and walked up the main street. I soon found the house Goodwife Bell had mentioned. It was the largest, new-painted in blue, with diamond-paned windows and a doorway framed by posts beautifully carved with animal figures. I knocked at the door. A servant answered, and I asked if I could speak to Master Buttress regarding the Fettiplace family. That should bring him, I thought.
I was asked to wait in the parlour. It was a well-appointed room, dominated by a wall painting of Roman officials in togas, arguing outside the Senate. A large vase of summer flowers stood on a table. I looked at them, remembering what Seckford had said about Ellen bringing flowers to him. This was the house where she had been brought up, lived all her life until the tragedy. I looked around it, my senses heightened, but felt nothing, no connection.
The door opened and a tall, burly man with curly iron-grey hair entered, wearing a wool doublet with silver buttons over a shirt embroidered with fine lacework. He bowed.
‘Master Buttress?’ I asked.
‘I am. I am told you have an enquiry about the Fettiplace family, who once lived here.’ His manner was civil, but there was something both watchful and aggressive about him.
‘I am sorry to trouble you so early, but I wonder if you could help me.’ I told him my story about making enquiries for a friend.
‘Who told you I owned the house?’
‘I heard it at the inn.’
Buttress grunted. ‘This town is full of gossip. I only knew the family slightly.’
‘I understand. But I have been thinking. Mistress Fettiplace would have had to put her London address on the deed of conveyance when she sold the house. That might help me trace her. Unless,’ I added, ‘her sanity was an issue, in which case the conveyance would have gone through the Office of Wards, as it was then.’
Buttress looked at me narrowly. ‘As I recall, she sold it herself. It was all done properly, she was past sixteen, of an age to sell.’
‘I have no doubt it was, sir. But if you could be so kind as to find the conveyance, it would be a great help if I could find an address.’ I spoke deferentially, reckoning that was the best approach with this man. He frowned again, then drew himself up to his full height. ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘I will see if I can find it.’
Buttress left, returning a few minutes later with a document with a red seal at the bottom. He brushed the dust off with a sweeping motion and laid it on the table. ‘There, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘You will see everything is in order.’ I studied the conveyance. It sold the house, and the freehold of some woodland, to Humphrey Buttress on the fifteenth of December 1526. Two months after Ellen had been taken away. I did not know the price of land round here then, but it was less than I would have expected. The address was care of a solicitor, Henry Fowberry of Warwick Lane, off Newgate. The signature above it, Ellen Fettiplace in a round childish hand, was nothing at all like her signature I had seen at the Bedlam. It was a forgery.
I looked up at Buttress. He smiled urbanely. ‘Perhaps this solicitor is still in practice,’ he said. ‘You may be able to find him.’
I doubted that. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘If not, your friend may be best advised to drop his search.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Have you heard?’ Buttress said. ‘The King has just ordered the second instalment of the Benevolence to be paid now instead of at Michaelmas. Every man of means has to pay fourpence in the pound on the value of his assets.’
‘I had not heard.’
‘To pay the men and supplies for this great levy en masse. You will have seen much activity on the roads if you have come from London.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘If you are going to be away any length of time you should arrange to pay your assessment in London, or they will be after you.’
‘My business near Portsmouth should only keep me a few days.’
‘And then you will be returning home?’ His hard eyes were fixed on mine.
‘That is my plan.’
Buttress seemed to relax. ‘I am a magistrate,’ he said proudly. ‘I have to help collect the payments locally. Well, we have to stop the French from landing, Pope’s shavelings that they are. The price of grain is high, so I should not complain.’
‘You are lucky if you have more coming in than going out this year.’
He smiled tightly. ‘Wars need supplies. Well, I would offer you some breakfast. Better than you will get at that inn – ’
‘Thank you,’ I answered. I wanted to learn more about this man.
‘ – but unfortunately I must leave. There is much to do at the mill. I am a man short, one of my workers was gored to death by a bull last week.’
‘How sad.’
‘The fool forgot to shut a gate and it went after him.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Bulls, fires, these rural part
s can be dangerous places.’
I BREAKFASTED at the inn. I received sour glances from the old woman who had introduced me to Wilf, and wondered if she had become suspicious of my close questioning of him and told his sons. I fetched Oddleg from the stables and rode out of Rolfswood, which was stirring into life on another fine summer’s morning. I patted the horse. ‘Back to Hampshire, good beast,’ I said, settling myself in the saddle. And soon, I thought, to Portsmouth.
Chapter Twenty-three
BY THE TIME I rode once more through the gate of Hoyland Priory it was around four o’clock, the shadows lengthening. All was peaceful. A gardener was working on Abigail’s flower beds. Insects buzzed and a woodpecker tapped somewhere in the woods. Two peacocks strutted across the lawn, watched by Lamkin as he sprawled under a tree. I rode round the side of the house, Oddleg quickening his pace at the prospect of returning to the stables.
I gave the ostler instructions to ensure the horse was properly washed down and combed. He was surly and uncommunicative like all the Hobbey servants. As I left the stables, a door in the rear wall of the enclosure opened and the huntsman Avery entered. He wore a green jerkin, green scoggers on his legs and even a green cap above his thin, deeply tanned features. He bowed. I walked across to him.
‘Only – what – four days till your hunt?’ I asked.
‘It is.’ Barking sounded from the kennels; the dogs had heard his footsteps. He smiled tiredly. ‘Feeding time. They always hear me.’
‘You must be busy now.’
‘Ay. The dogs cause much labour – feeding them, keeping them clean, walking them twice a day. And more work in the park, making ready for the hunt. Master Hobbey wants everything just right.’
‘So some in the village will work for him.’ Avery smiled wryly and shrugged.
‘How big is the park?’ I asked.
‘Around a mile each way. It was a deer park under the nuns, I believe. They used to lease it out to local gentry. But it has been allowed to deteriorate these last few years.’
‘I wonder why Master Hobbey did not use it before now.’
‘Well, sir, that is really his business.’ A cautious note entered Avery’s voice. Yes, I thought, he has been warned against me by the family.
‘You are right, I apologize. But tell me, what will happen on the day of the hunt?’
‘The guests and members of the family will take places along a prearranged route and the stag will be driven towards them. I saw the stag again yesterday. A magnificent beast.’
‘And whoever brings it down will be entitled to the heartstone?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Might it be Master Hugh again, I wonder?’
‘It might be him, or one of the guests. I do not know how good shots they are. Or Master David, he is a fine shot, though he cannot seem to learn that you must keep quiet and hidden when you are tracking.’
‘Is that why you are wearing green? To blend in with the wood?’
‘It is. All the hunters will wear green or brown.’
‘Do you travel the country organizing hunts, Master Avery?’
‘I do now. I was in charge of a monastery hunting park until eight years ago. Then it was put down, the land sold off in parcels.’
‘Which house?’
‘Lewes Priory, over in Sussex.’
‘Really? Lewes? The engineers who demolished Lewes for Lord Cromwell also took down a monastic house I had – connections with – just afterwards.’
Avery shook his head sadly. ‘I watched Lewes come down in a great roar and cloud of dust. A terrible sight. Did you see this other place come down?’
‘No. I did not wait for that.’ I sighed, remembering.
Avery hesitated, then said, ‘I will be glad to leave this place after the hunt. All the bad feeling with the village, the family hissing round each other like snakes. You are here to look out for Master Hugh’s welfare?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘He is the best of them. A fine lad.’ Perhaps thinking he had said too much, Avery bowed quickly and walked away to his dogs.
I WALKED thoughtfully past the outhouses to Barak’s room.
‘Master Shardlake.’ I turned at a sudden voice behind me. Fulstowe had just emerged from the laundry building.
‘You startled me, master steward.’
He gave his deferential smile. ‘I am sorry. I saw you through the open doorway. You have just returned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Only a wash and a rest.’
‘I will arrange for hot water to be sent to your room. Some more letters have arrived for you, Barak has them.’
‘Thank you. Is everyone in the house well?’
‘Yes. We have had a quiet time.’ Fulstowe’s eyes quested over my face. ‘Was your business in Sussex successful, sir?’
‘It was – complicated.’
‘We shall be leaving for Portsmouth early tomorrow, if that is convenient.’
‘You are coming with us?’
‘Yes. Master Hugh and Master David too. They are determined to see the fleet.’ He smiled. ‘Boys will be boys.’
‘Near grown men now.’
He stroked his neat blond beard. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And now I will have a word with my clerk before I go in, see my letters.’
Fulstowe looked along the row of outhouses. ‘I believe Barak is in his room.’
I smiled. ‘You seem to know everyone’s movements, master steward.’
‘That is my job, sir.’ He bowed and left me.
I KNOCKED on Barak’s door. He answered at once. ‘Good, you’re back.’
I looked at him curiously. ‘Why are you skulking indoors on a fine afternoon?’
‘I’m tired of that arsehole steward and his minions watching my every move. Jesu, you’re dusty.’
‘Let me sit down.’ I sat on the straw bed. Two letters addressed to me lay there, one from Warner and one from Guy. ‘Any news of Tamasin?’
‘She wrote again the day we arrived.’ He leaned against the door and pulled a letter from his shirt. ‘Guy says she still comes along well. She is still determined the child is a girl. I miss her.’
‘I know. Next week we shall be home.’
‘I pray we are.’
‘How have the Hobbeys been?’
‘I haven’t seen Hobbey or Abigail. They let me take my meals in the kitchen, apart from that they don’t let me in the house. The boys were practising archery again this morning. Feaveryear and I joined them. Then Dyrick came out and shooed us off, said he needed Feaveryear and we should not be mixing with the young gentlemen.’ He frowned. ‘I wanted to put my boot up his arse and kick him all the way back to the house.’
‘I would like to myself. But he would like me to lose control.’
‘I felt sorry for little Feaveryear. He could no more make an archer than that dog Lamkin could. David mocks him, but Hugh was patient. I think he welcomes someone to talk to apart from David.’
‘Feaveryear doesn’t look as if he’s had much patience from anyone before.’
‘I have some news from Hoyland village.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I went there yesterday evening, sneaked out the back gate. They have a tavern there, and I asked for Master Ettis. Someone fetched him, we had a drink, then I went to his house. It’s the best in the village. He leads the faction that wants to fight for their commons. I told him you work for Requests.’
‘Will he keep it quiet?’
‘Yes. I helped him draft a letter to the court. I said when we return to London you may take the case. If he would help us with information.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Said he’d cut my throat if I played him false. It was bluff: he told me after they have a spy in the house, who confirmed we were here about Hugh.’
I was about to open Warner’s letter, but now I sat up. ‘Who?’
He smiled. ‘Old U
rsula that worked for the nuns. They’re furious angry, Ettis’s people. Apparently Hobbey has not only been threatening to take half their woodlands under his interpretation of that old charter, but he’s also trying to buy people out. Fulstowe has been offering a good price for the poorer cottagers’ smallholdings if they’ll go. And some of them have been given work helping set up this hunt.’
‘Divide and rule. What is the mood among the rest of the Hoyland people? Would they take it to court?’
‘I think so. Most are behind Ettis. They know that if the commons go down the village will die. Hobbey made a mistake by threatening to put his woodcutters on the villagers’ woods, Ettis said. He’s brought things to a head. Ettis thinks that was Hobbey’s decision, by the way. Fulstowe has a more crafty approach. Ettis says he is the brains behind what’s going on.’
‘Interesting. What did Ettis say about the Hobbey family?’
‘Nothing new there. David’s a spoilt fool. Hobbey brings him riding through the village sometimes, and David raises a stink if some stiff-jointed old villager doesn’t pull his cap off in time. Hugh they never see, nor Abigail. Ettis said Hugh goes walking in the lanes on his own sometimes, but he turns his head away and hurries past with a mumble if he meets a villager.’
‘He is too conscious of his face, I think.’
‘Some of the village women say Abigail is a witch, and Lamkin her familiar. Even the servants at the house are frightened of Abigail, they never know when she’s going to start screaming and shouting at them. And apparently it’s not true the local gentry shunned Hobbey because he bought the priory. It’s rather that the family have isolated themselves. They never go anywhere, except for Hobbey making the occasional trip to Portsmouth or London.’
I frowned. ‘What is it Abigail is frightened of?’
‘I asked Ettis that. He had no idea. I told him too about that arrow shot at us in the forest. He was pretty sure we disturbed a poacher who wanted to warn us off.’