by C. J. Sansom
‘What happened in there, lawyer? We heard her screaming from the other end of the building. Her that’s normally more quiet and biddable than any of them. What did you say to her, or maybe do to her?’ His glare turned into a vicious leer.
‘Nothing. I only told her I may be going away for a while.’ I had to say as little as possible, for her sake.
‘Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard since they put Cromwell’s head on a pike.’ Shawms’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s all? I heard her screaming about burning men, the sky swallowing her.’
‘She started shouting when I told her I was going, I didn’t understand any of it.’
‘They’ll say any sort of crazy rubbish when they’re riled.’ Shawms leered again. ‘Doesn’t like the idea of you going away, does she?’
I heard muttering on the other side of the door, male voices, something being moved. ‘What are they doing to her?’ I asked.
‘Tying her up. It’s what happens to those who make scenes. Be grateful it’s not the chains.’
‘But she’s ill—’
‘And those who are ill must be restrained. Then perhaps they’ll learn to restrain themselves.’ He leaned forward. ‘This was your fault, Master Shardlake, for coming here so much. I don’t think you should come again for a while. If you’re going away, maybe now she’ll realize you’re not going to order your life around her, and that may do her good. We’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she does nothing stupid.’
‘Maybe it would be easier for you all if she died,’ I said quietly.
He shook his head and looked at me seriously. ‘That it would not, Master Shardlake. We’ve kept her safe here nineteen years, and will go on keeping her safe.’
‘Safe from what?’
‘From herself.’ He leaned forward and said, slowly and emphatically, ‘The only danger to Ellen Fettiplace is from people stirring her up. It’s best for everyone if she stays here, grazing like a contented cow. Go and do your business. Then when you come back, we’ll see where we are.’
‘Let me look in that room before I go. See that she’s all right.’
Shawms hesitated, then knocked on Ellen’s door. Gebons opened it. Palin stood by the bed. Ellen’s feet were tied, and her hands too. She stared at me and her eyes were no longer blank, they were full of anger again.
‘Ellen,’ I said. ‘I am sorry – ’
She did not reply, just stared back, clenching her bound hands. Shawms closed the door. ‘There,’ he said. ‘See the damage you have done.’
Chapter Ten
AGAIN I CLIMBED the stairs to the Court of Wards. Barak was at my side, the Curteys case papers tied in red ribbon under his arm. We passed under the carving of the seal: Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor.
It was a beautiful, warm morning. I had walked down to Westminster, where I had arranged to meet Barak outside the court half an hour before the hearing. I found my assistant leaning against the wall, looking as worried as I had ever seen him.
‘Goodryke called again last night,’ he said without preliminary.
‘By Mary, that man is obsessed.’
‘Tammy answered the door, told him I was out. He ordered me to be sure to attend for swearing in in two days’ time. If I don’t they’ll be after me as a deserter.’
‘It’s time to get you out of London,’ I said firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter where.’
‘Even if I go, Goodryke won’t let it lie. You can hang for desertion now.’
Before I could reply I felt a touch on my arm. It was Bess Calfhill, dressed in black again. She looked nervous.
‘Am I late?’ she asked. ‘I feared I was lost among all these buildings and alleyways—’
‘No, Mistress Calfhill. Come, we should go in. We’ll talk afterwards, Jack.’
We climbed the stairs, walked under the coat of arms. I was relieved to see Reverend Broughton sitting on the bench in his cassock. He looked solid, determined. A little further up the bench Vincent Dyrick looked at me and shook his head slightly, as though amazed by the unreasonableness of the whole situation. Next to him young Feaveryear was ordering papers into a large bundle.
‘Good morning,’ I said to them, as cheerfully as I could for I had been worrying about Barak and Ellen for most of the night.
Bess looked anxiously at Dyrick. ‘Where will the case be heard, sir?’ she asked quietly. Dyrick nodded at the door to the court. ‘In there, madam. But do not worry,’ he added scoffingly, ‘we will not be there long.’
‘Now, Brother Dyrick,’ I said reprovingly. ‘You are for the defence, you are not allowed to talk to the applicant.’
Dyrick snorted. ‘The late applicant’s personal representative, you mean.’
Barak approached Feaveryear. ‘That’s some pile of paperwork you’ve got.’
‘Bigger than yours,’ Feaveryear replied in a tone of righteous resentment, staring at the much smaller bundle Barak carried.
‘Oh, mine’s always big enough for the job in hand. So my wife says, anyway,’ Barak retorted. Feaveryear looked scandalized, then pointed a thin finger at the documents Barak carried. ‘Those are tied in red ribbon,’ he said. ‘Papers for Wards require to be tied in black.’ He nodded at the black ribbon round his own files.
Dyrick looked up. ‘The applicant’s bundles are in the wrong colour ribbon?’ He stared at me. ‘I have heard of cases being thrown out of Wards for lesser errors.’
‘Then you must tell the Master,’ I replied, cursing myself inwardly for my mistake. I had missed the rule in my haste.
‘I will.’ Dyrick smiled wolfishly.
The court door opened, and the black-robed usher I had seen in Mylling’s office appeared. ‘Those concerned in the wardship of Hugh Curteys,’ he intoned. I heard a gasp of indrawn breath from Bess. Dyrick rose, his robe rustling as he strode to the door.
THE COURTROOM was the smallest I had ever entered. It was dimly lit by narrow arched windows set high in an alcove, the walls undecorated. Sir William Paulet, Master of the Court of Wards, sat at the head of a large table covered with green cloth, a wooden partition behind him blank save for the royal coat of arms. Beside him Mylling sat, his head lowered. The usher showed Dyrick and me to places at the table facing the Master. Barak and Feaveryear sat beside us. Bess Calfhill and Reverend Broughton were waved to seats separated from the body of the court by a low wooden bar.
Paulet wore the red robes of a judge, a gold chain of office round his neck. He was in his sixties, with a lined, hoary face and narrow lips above a short white beard. His large, dark blue eyes conveyed intelligence and authority but no feeling. I knew he had been master of the court since its founding five years before. Before that he had been a judge at the trial of Sir Thomas More, as well as a commander of the royal forces against the northern rebels nine years earlier.
He began by giving me a thin smile. ‘Serjeant Shardlake. Master Dyrick I know, but I think you are new to my court.’
‘Yes, Master.’
He stared at me for a long moment, frowning. I guessed he was annoyed by the Queen’s interference in his court. He nodded brusquely at the papers in front of him. ‘These are strange allegations. Please explain the matter.’
Dyrick half rose. ‘If I may mention a point of procedure, Master, the papers of the claimant’s personal representative are not in the correct form. The ribbon should be black—’
‘Do not be silly, Brother Dyrick,’ Paulet said quietly. ‘Sit down.’
Dyrick flushed but remained on his feet. ‘And the papers, such as they are, were filed very late—’
‘Sit down.’
Dyrick did so, frowning. He had hoped to earn me at least a reproving word from the judge. Paulet turned back to me. ‘Yes, Serjeant Shardlake?’
I made the best of my weak case. Quills scratched as Barak, Feaveryear and Mylling took notes. I explained Michael’s long association with the Curteys children, his good character and record as a tutor, and his serious concern about Hugh after his rece
nt visit to Hampshire. I said his mother believed his complaint warranted urgent investigation.
When I had finished, Paulet turned and stared at Bess for perhaps half a minute. She flushed and shifted in her seat, but returned his gaze steadily. Broughton put his hand over hers, earning him a glance of disapproval from the Master. Then Paulet turned back to me.
‘Everything depends on the mother’s evidence,’ he said.
‘It does, Sir William.’
‘The applicant’s death is a strange matter. A suicide, he must have been sick in his mind.’ There was a suppressed sob from Bess, which Paulet ignored.
I said, ‘Master, something which may have tipped this man of good character over the edge of reason must be serious indeed.’
‘May be serious, Master Shardlake. May be.’ Paulet turned to Dyrick. ‘I will hear from Master Hobbey’s representative. Master Hobbey himself is absent, I see.’
Dyrick rose. ‘My client is busy with contracts to supply the fleet and army at Portsmouth with wood, work of national importance.’ He looked at me. ‘From his own woodlands, I should add.’
Paulet considered a moment. ‘I understand no marriage is in prospect for the ward.’
‘No, indeed. Master Hobbey would not wish his ward to marry till he finds a lady of his own choice.’ Dyrick’s voice rose. ‘As we know, the man who lodged this extraordindary bill is dead. His mother’s evidence is mere hearsay. And Reverend Broughton’s deposition deals only with allegations relating to the grant of the wardship many years ago.’ His voice took on a reproving note. ‘That wardship went through the due and proper processes of the Office of Wards, predecessor to this honourable court.’
Paulet nodded. ‘Very true.’ He stared at Broughton. ‘I think you a naughty fellow, sir, to stir up trouble now over how the wardship was granted.’
Broughton rose. ‘I have told only the truth, as God is my witness.’
‘Do not bandy words with me, or I will have you in the Fleet for contempt.’ Paulet did not raise his quiet voice but it cut like a knife. Broughton hesitated, then sat down again. Paulet turned back to Dyrick and sighed.
‘Michael Calfhill’s allegations, however vague, do, I think, merit some investigation. Do you wish to question the witnesses?’
Dyrick stared at Bess. She looked back at him, lifting her chin. Dyrick hesitated, then said, ‘No, Master.’ I smiled inwardly. Dyrick had realized that questioning Bess on her statement would only reveal her total sincerity. I understood then that I had won this stage of the battle at least, and from the angry set of his face Dyrick did too. But I took no credit. I had seen enough of Paulet to realize that if pressure had not been brought on him by the Queen he would indeed have thrown us out the door of his strange fiefdom in minutes.
‘I think,’ Paulet said, ‘the court should order depositions from all persons currently concerned with Hugh Curteys’ welfare.’ He looked at me. ‘Whom did you have in mind, Serjeant Shardlake?’
‘Hugh Curteys himself, of course. Master Hobbey, his wife, perhaps their son, the steward of the household. Any current tutor—’
‘There is no tutor,’ Dyrick said. He stood again, his face red with suppressed anger. ‘And David Hobbey is a minor.’
‘Anyone else, Master Shardlake?’
‘I would submit that a statement should be taken from the local feodary, and that he should make his accounts regarding Hugh Curteys’ estate available.’
Paulet considered. ‘Sir Quintin Priddis is feodary of Hampshire.’
I ventured some flattery. ‘Your wide knowledge does you credit, Master.’
Paulet smiled thinly again. ‘Not really. I am from Hampshire too. I am going down to Portsmouth in a few days, as governor, to bring some order to all the soldiers and sailors.’ He reflected. ‘A deposition from Sir Quintin: yes, I agree to that. But as for viewing the accounts – I think not. That could be considered a slur on Sir Quintin’s honesty.’ He stared at me with those large empty eyes, quite straight-faced, and I realized I had not won as much as I thought. If profits were being creamed off Hugh’s estate, and the fact that Hobbey was cutting down woodland strengthened the notion, the local feodary was probably involved. Without accounts he could say anything and there was no way to test the truth of it.
‘Now,’ the Master continued urbanely, ‘there is the question of who should take these depositions.’ He looked at Dyrick, whose face was now almost as red as his hair. ‘What about Serjeant Shardlake?’
‘With due respect,’ Dyrick answered, ‘an impartial person is needed—’
Paulet leaned back in his high chair. ‘I have a better idea. You and Serjeant Shardlake can both go.’
I saw what Paulet was doing. He was going to let the investigation go ahead, but handicap my enquiries by setting Dyrick to breathe down my neck as well as refusing to order disclosure of the accounts. Dyrick must have realized that, but he looked no happier. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘that would give me difficulties. Family commitments—’
‘It is your commitment to the court that matters, Brother. Master Shardlake, have you any objections to my suggestion?’
And then I had an idea. I stared at Barak, who looked back enquiringly. ‘Sir William,’ I said, ‘if Brother Dyrick and I are both to go, then might I ask that we take our clerks to assist us?’
Paulet inclined his head. ‘That seems reasonable.’
‘Perhaps they could be named in the order to attend us. Merely to ensure fairness, equality of legal resources, in the investigation.’
Paulet turned to Dyrick. ‘Any objection to that?’
Dyrick hesitated. Paulet drummed his fingers on the desk. Dyrick said, ‘I have no objection, if Serjeant Shardlake wishes it.’ I looked down at Barak and ventured a wink. If he was ordered by a court to travel to Hampshire the army could not touch him.
‘What are the names?’
‘Barak and Feaveryear, Master.’
‘Note the names, Mylling.’
I saw to my surprise that Feaveryear was smiling.
Paulet leaned back. ‘Now, I shall set a further hearing, let us say four weeks from today, to get this matter over and dealt with. I may be back myself, we should be able to see off the French by then, eh?’ Mylling laughed at the joke, his head shaking with amusement over his quill. Paulet gave a wintry smile. ‘If not, my deputy will take the hearing.’
Dyrick rose again. ‘Master, if Serjeant Shardlake and I are both to go, the cost will be high. I must ask that Master Hobbey’s costs be met in full, if, or rather when, these allegations are shown to be groundless.’
‘If they prove groundless they will be, Master Dyrick, I shall see to that.’ He turned to Bess. ‘Do you have the means, Madam, to meet what may be very considerable costs?’
Bess rose. ‘I can meet the costs, sir.’
Paulet gave her a long, hard look. He would guess the money would come from the Queen. I hoped Warner would be able to cobble together a plausible payment from the Queen’s treasury. The Master turned and held my eyes for a long moment. ‘This had best not be a mare’s nest, Serjeant Shardlake,’ he said very quietly, ‘or you will be in bad odour with this court.’ He turned to Mylling again. ‘Draw the order.’
The clerk nodded, took a blank piece of paper and began to write. He had not so much as glanced at any of us. I wondered whether he could have given information to Dyrick about my involvement, whether it could have been Dyrick that set the corner boys on me. My opponent was putting his papers in order with rapid, angry movements. Paulet said, ‘Master Dyrick, I would like a brief word.’ He stood, and everyone in the court rose hastily. Paulet bowed, dismissing us. Dyrick gave me a nasty look, then went out after the judge.
WE RETURNED to the vestibule. As soon as the door was closed Broughton seized my hand. ‘The light of the Lord’s grace shone in that court,’ he said. ‘With that hard judge I thought we must lose, but we won.’
‘We have won only the right to investigate,’ I cautioned.
&n
bsp; ‘But you will find the truth, I know. These people who gather wardships. Men without conscience who flatter themselves with heaping riches upon riches, honours upon honours, forgetting God—’
‘Indeed.’ I looked at the court door, wondering why Paulet had called Dyrick back. Bess came up to me. She was pale. ‘May I sit down?’ she asked.
‘Of course. Come.’
I sat her down on the bench. ‘So Michael has obtained his wish,’ she said quietly. ‘An enquiry.’
‘Be sure I shall question everyone in Hampshire closely.’ I glanced at Barak, who was leaning against the wall, looking thoughtful. Next to him Feaveryear swept his lock of lank hair from his forehead. He still looked pleased at the prospect of the journey.
Bess sighed heavily. ‘Thank you for all you have done, sir.’ She looked at me. Then she reached round to the back of her neck and unclipped something. She opened her hand and showed me a small, beautifully worked gold crucifix. She laid it on the bench between us. I looked at the delicately crafted figure. There was even a tiny crown of thorns.
Bess spoke quietly. ‘This was found with Michael when he died. It was Emma’s, given her by her grandmother. The child wore it in the old woman’s memory. After Emma died and Michael was dismissed he asked Mistress Hobbey if he could have some remembrance of Emma. She gave him that, with an impatient gesture, Michael said. He kept it with him always. Would you take it, and give it to the boy Hugh? I am sure Michael would wish him to have it now.’
‘I will, of course,’ I said. I picked it up.
‘I pray you get the poor boy out of the hands of that wicked family.’ Bess sighed. ‘You know, in the weeks before he died my son had taken up his archery again. I think if he had lived he would have gone to the militia.’
‘Did he fear being called up?’
She frowned. ‘No, sir, he wanted to play his part in repelling the French. He was a good and honourable man.’