by C. J. Sansom
* * *
AN 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.'
'But her breasts? And the stubble—Hugh gets shaved regularly.'
'Breasts can be flattened with padding. And though they have taken trouble to tell us Hugh is shaved regularly I have never seen any stubble on his face. Have you?'
'But he had shaving cuts—'
'He had cuts on his face. Or rather, hers. Those are easy enough to make.'
'No Adam's apple—'
'Some boys have a prominent one, like Feaveryear. Others have one that is barely noticeable. And her scars prevented anyone from looking too closely at her neck.'
Barak stared harder. 'But to keep it up for years—'
'Yes. It must have been a terrible strain on them all, one that unbalanced Abigail and David. They told Fulstowe, of course—his help was essential. And that gave him a hold over the family. The Hobbeys must soon have realized they were caught, trapped for ever. Because once it started there was no going back. If they were found out they could have ended in prison.'
'But why would Emma keep up the pretence now? Jesu, he—or she—wants to go and be a soldier!'
I said angrily, 'Perhaps by now she scarcely knows who or what she is.'
'Listen. I know it fits, but you'd better be sure—'
I said sadly, 'I looked at Hugh properly for the first time, on the steps when we arrived. Full in his scarred face. Then I saw he could easily be a girl.'
Barak turned to me. 'Did Hugh—Emma—kill Abigail?'
He spoke too loudly. The slim, lithe figure at the butts had just risen to fire another arrow. He—or rather she—lowered the bow and turned to face us. We stood quite still for a moment, all three of us, like some strange tableau. Then, in seconds, the person we had known as Hugh had strung an arrow to the bow, raised it and taken aim at my chest. I knew there was nothing Barak or I could do; before we could run a few paces Emma Curteys could loose the arrow, string another, and shoot us both dead.
I raised my arms, as though I could ward off that steel-tipped shaft. 'Don't!' I shouted. 'You will gain nothing!'
I could not see her face properly at that distance; it was shaded by the hat, which I realized now was one of the many ruses, like putting her hand to her scars, that Emma had developed over the years to prevent people looking her fully in the face. I saw the bow move slightly and stepped back with a cry, but then I realized it was trembling, shaking slightly from side to side in her hand though she still aimed at me.
'Run!' Barak cried.
I seized his arm. 'No! Don't do anything sudden!' I called out to Emma. 'I'm your friend!' I called steadily. 'Haven't you realized that? I will help you!'
Still she stood, the bow trembling gently. The whole thing can only have lasted ten seconds but it seemed like an age. Then I saw a figure on the edge of my vision, a dark solid shape running towards the archer.
'Hugh!' David shouted out—he still called her Hugh—'stop! It can't help you! They know, it's over! Put the bow down!'
Emma turned, pointing the bow at David as he ran towards her. The arrow hit him in the side, its force sending him staggering. He toppled over onto the lawn, moaned once, then was silent. Then, no doubt drawn by the shouting, Fulstowe appeared in the doorway. David had lied, he was in there after all. He stepped out. A gaggle of servants followed as Fulstowe began walking towards David. Emma reached back, flicked another arrow on to her bow, and aimed at the steward. Fulstowe stopped dead in his tracks. One of the women servants screamed. I thought Emma would shoot Fulstowe down but instead she retreated backwards, step by step, to the gate, still keeping him covered. Only once did she glance across to where David lay on the lawn, quite still now. All this time she had not uttered a single word.
She backed out of the gateway, then turned and ran. Fulstowe and some of the other servants raced over to where David lay. Someone screamed, 'Murder!'
Chapter Forty-two
DAVID, THOUGH, was not dead. From where he lay on the grass I heard a faint, desperate moan. Fulstowe turned from the gate and ran across to him, Barak and I following. Blood was pouring from the wound in David's side, from which the arrow shaft protruded obscenely.
'Help me,' he whimpered.
'Still, lad,' Barak said gently.
The steward shouted to the servants who had gathered at the side of the lawn. 'Quick! Someone ride to fetch the Cosham barber-surgeon! And tear up some sheets!'
I shouted, 'My horse is ready saddled, tied up outside the back gate. Take it!'
Fulstowe looked wildly at me. 'What the hell happened? Why are you here?'
'Hugh shot David. I think he might have killed us had David not intervened.'
'What?'
'Leave me go!' I heard a shrill, desperate voice from the doorway. Hobbey stood there, Dyrick holding his arm. He threw Dyrick off, ran across to David and knelt beside him. He began tenderly stroking his dark head, tears streaming down his cheeks. The boy lifted a hand with difficulty and his father clutched it.
I felt a hand seize my own arm, nails digging into it, and looked up into Dyrick's furious face. 'God's nails,' he snarled. 'What have you done?'
'Found out the truth,' I answered quietly. 'That Emma Curteys has been impersonating her dead brother. It's all over now, Dyrick.'
'I didn't know!' he blustered. 'All these yea
rs, they made a fool of me too. I knew nothing until—'
'Until Lamkin died, and you demanded Hobbey tell you what it was Abigail said I could not see that was in front of me. Then Feaveryear guessed.'
An angry spasm twisted Dyrick's sharp features. 'The stupid lad formed a passion for Hugh, that sent him wailing and praying to God for forgiveness. Then he realized the truth, he said he kept looking at Hugh closely and one day he understood.'
'You should have withdrawn from acting for Hobbey then.' I looked at him with scorn. 'But you couldn't bear to be made to look a fool, could you? Couldn't bear the revelation of how you had been gulled?'
'You sanctimonious bent churl!' Dyrick launched himself at me, pummelling at me with hard bony fists, even as Hobbey wept over his son. Then he was sent sprawling down on the lawn. Barak stood over him.
'You preening shit,' he said. 'You're finished. Now shut your weasel mouth or I'll give you the beating I've dreamed of for weeks!'
Dyrick lay on his back, red and gasping, his robe spread out beneath him. I looked to where Hobbey still knelt over David; he had not even turned round. 'My poor son,' he said gently. 'My poor son.'
* * *
THE BARBER-SURGEON arrived shortly after. Helped by Fulstowe he took David inside, Hobbey and the servants following. Dyrick went with them. Barak and I stayed in the great hall. I asked a servant to tell Dyrick I wanted to talk to him as soon as possible. We sat down at the table, silent, shocked, waiting.
'Where do you think Emma will go?' Barak asked.
'My guess is Portsmouth, to try and enlist. I think, God help me, she may seek to end all this in a blaze of glory.'
'Did she kill Abigail?'
I shook my head. 'I think today was the first time she lost control. No, that was someone else.'
He said, 'If I hadn't raised my voice—'
We looked up at the sound of footsteps. Fulstowe approached us, pure hatred in his eyes. 'Master Hobbey would speak with you.'
I nodded assent. 'Come, Barak.' I wanted a witness to this.