by C. J. Sansom
‘That burn is three or four days old. She says her father told her to go on working. She must have been in agony handling things.’
‘He is a brute. Guy, are you sure you are willing to have charge of him while I’m away?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I think so.’
‘Handle him as you think fit. I will arrange for a new steward as soon as I return, then he can go.’ I hesitated. ‘Though I am concerned for Josephine.’
‘She relies on him so utterly.’ He looked at me. ‘I am not sure she is quite as stupid as she seems. Only used to being afraid.’
I said musingly, ‘I wonder if there might be some way of detaching her from Coldiron.’
‘You have enough responsibility with Ellen.’ He looked at me keenly, then asked quietly, ‘What should I say, Matthew, if she tells me she is in love with you?’
I blushed deeply. ‘Can you say you do not know the answer?’
‘But I do.’
‘Then tell her she must talk to me about it.’
He looked at me with his penetrating brown eyes. ‘She may decide to do so. What will you do then?’
‘Let me see what I can find out in Sussex.’
‘I suspect it may be nothing good.’
I was relieved to be interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. ‘Excuse me,’ I said.
A young messenger wearing the Queen’s badge prominently on his doublet stood in the doorway. Coldiron had let him in and was staring with wide eyes at the badge.
‘A message from Master Warner, sir,’ the young man said.
I turned to Coldiron. ‘The supper,’ I said. Reluctantly he returned to the kitchen. The messenger handed me the letter. I read it. ‘Damnation,’ I breathed.
It was from Warner. He told me he could not after all send the man he had promised; like many of the stout bodyservants at Hampton Court, he had that day been conscripted.
‘Is there a reply, sir?’ the messenger asked.
‘No reply,’ I said. I closed the door. It was not like Warner to let me down, but there were even stronger pressures on those working at court than on those outside. I thought, we leave tomorrow morning, it is too late to find anyone else now. I was more thankful than ever that I had not told Barak about what Ellen had blurted out to me about men burning. Now I would have to try to deal with that matter on my own.
Part Two
THE JOURNEY
Chapter Twelve
I ROSE SHORTLY after dawn on Wednesday, the first of July. I donned a shirt and light doublet, pulled on my leather riding boots and walked downstairs in the half-light. I remembered how, whenever I had set out on a journey before, Joan would be up no matter how early the hour, bustling around to ensure I had everything I needed.
At the foot of the stairs Coldiron and Josephine stood waiting, my panniers on the floor beside them. There was too much for me to carry alone and I had ordered Coldiron to walk with me to the river stairs, where I was to meet Barak.
Josephine curtsied. ‘Good morning, sir,’ Coldiron said. ‘It looks like a fine day for travelling.’ His eyes were hungry with curiosity; he thought I was going on royal business.
‘Good morning. And to you, Josephine. Why are you up so early?’
‘She can carry one of the panniers,’ Coldiron answered. Josephine gave me a nervous smile and held up a small linen bag. ‘There’s some bread and cheese here, sir, some slices of ham. And a sweet pastry I got at market.’
‘Thank you, Josephine.’ She blushed and curtsied again.
Outside, it was already warm, the sky cloudless. I walked down a deserted Chancery Lane, Coldiron and Josephine behind me. Fleet Street was silent, all the buildings shuttered, a few beggars asleep in shop doorways. Then my heart quickened at the sight of four blue-robed apprentices leaning against the Temple Bar. They detached themselves and approached with a slow, lounging walk. All wore swords.
‘Special watch,’ one said as he came up. He was a thin, spotty youth, no more than eighteen. ‘You’re abroad early, sir. It’s another hour till curfew ends.’
‘I am a lawyer going to catch a boat at Temple Stairs,’ I answered shortly. ‘These are my servants.’
‘My master is on important business,’ Coldiron snapped. ‘You lot should be in the army, not making trouble here.’
The apprentice grinned at him. ‘What happened to your eye, old man?’
‘Lost at the Battle of Flodden, puppy.’
‘Come on,’ I said. We crossed the street. Behind us one of the boys called out, ‘Cripples!’
We passed into Middle Temple Lane. A thin, chill river mist surrounded us as we walked through Temple Gardens. Barak was waiting at the stairs, his own pannier at his feet. He had found an early boatman, whose craft was tied up; the lantern was lit, a yellow halo in the mist.
‘All ready?’ Barak asked. ‘This fellow will take us to Kingston.’
‘Good. How is Tamasin?’
‘Tearful last night. I left home quietly without waking her.’ He looked away. I turned to Coldiron. ‘Put those in the boat. Barak’s too.’
As Coldiron descended the steps I spoke quietly to Josephine. ‘Dr Malton is in charge while I am away,’ I said. ‘He will be your friend.’ I wondered if she understood I meant she could appeal to Guy against her father, but she only nodded, her expression blank as usual.
Coldiron reappeared, panting in an exaggerated way. Barak stepped down to the boat. ‘Goodbye, Coldiron,’ I said. ‘Take care to do everything Dr Malton asks.’ His eye glittered at me again in that nasty way. As I descended the slimy steps I knew he would have liked to pitch me in the water, on royal service or not.
ON THE RIVER the mist was thick. Everything was silent, the only sound the swish of the oars. A flock of swans glided past, quickly vanishing again. The boatman was old, with a lined, tired face. A large barge passed us, with a dozen men at the oars. Fifty or so young men sat in it, all in white coats with the red cross of England on the front. They were unnaturally quiet, their faces pale discs in the mist. But for the plashing of the oars it might have been a ship of ghosts.
The mist thinned as the sun rose, bringing a welcome warmth, and as we approached Kingston river traffic appeared. We pulled up at the old stone wharf. I looked across the river at the wooded expanse of Hampton Court Park. The Queen would already be preparing her household for the journey.
We walked down a short street to the marketplace. Dyrick had sent me a message to meet him and Feaveryear at an inn called the Druid’s Head. Barak, who had shouldered two of the panniers, remained silent and thoughtful. I gave him an enquiring look. ‘Thank you for getting me out of that mess,’ he said quietly. ‘That boat full of soldiers we saw, I could have been in one like that through my foolishness.’
‘Well, thank goodness you are safe now.’
We entered the inn courtyard. There was a large stable, the doors wide open, several horses in the stalls. Next to it was a forge, where a sweating blacksmith hammered horseshoes at an anvil beside a glowing furnace. We turned into the inn. The parlour was almost deserted save for two men breakfasting at a table, their caps and two sets of spurs on the bench beside them. Dyrick and Feaveryear. We approached and bowed. Feaveryear half-rose, but Dyrick only nodded.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he grunted. ‘We should get started.’
‘We left London at first light,’ I answered pointedly.
‘I travelled down last night, to meet Feaveryear and look at the horses. A man of countenance expects a reasonable horse.’
‘We have four good horses, and a fifth for the panniers,’ Feaveryear said smugly. Greasy hair hung over his forehead as usual. He looked tired, though Dyrick was his customary energetic self. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood up briskly.
‘We should go. We need to reach Cobham tonight, nine miles away and I hear the Portsmouth road is full of soldiers and supply carts. Bring the panniers, Sam.’ Dyrick reached for his cap and led the way to the stables. Barak smiled and shook
his head, earning a look of rebuke from Feaveryear.
We entered the stable building. Dyrick nodded at the ostler. ‘The others have arrived at last,’ he said. ‘Are the horses saddled and ready?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll bring them into the yard.’
We went outside. The ostler and a boy led out five horses. They were all big, strong-looking beasts, with coats of brown and dappled grey. ‘You have done well,’ I said to Feaveryear.
‘My master said not to spare the purse. It is five pounds for the return journey.’
‘God’s warts,’ Barak breathed beside me.
‘There’s a premium on horses now,’ the ostler explained.
‘I suggest you pay the man, Brother Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘You can reclaim it from your client when she loses. Or her pay-mistress.’
‘I will pay half. That is what the court would expect. We can meet our own expenses till the outcome is known.’
Dyrick sighed, but fetched out his purse.
‘Might we get to near Portsmouth in four days?’ I asked the ostler.
He shook his head. ‘You’ll be lucky, sir. I’d plan on six or seven, the roads are so full.’
‘There, Master Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘I knew how it would be.’
We mounted, Dyrick and I in front and Barak and Feaveryear behind, the horse with the panniers secured to Feaveryear’s horse with a line. As we rode into the street a rider sped into the inn yard, his horse’s flanks sweating. I saw he wore the badge of the King’s household. A harbinger, responsible for checking the King’s route in advance of a royal journey.
WE RODE OUT of Kingston into the Surrey countryside. There were market gardens and cornfields on each side of the road, serving the insatiable demand of London, with the fenced-in woodland of Hampton Court behind them. Normally at this time of year people would have been garnering the hay and the cornfields would be turning yellow, but after the storms the half-flattened corn was still green. The people working in the fields must be praying for better weather. As the sun rose higher it became hot, and I was glad of my broad riding cap. The going was better than Dyrick had feared; the wide road was soft and full of deep ruts from loaded carts but the worst stretches had been repaired; the earth beaten flat, potholes filled with stones and layers of wattle fencing laid over muddy stretches. All our horses seemed strong and placid.
‘We should make Cobham today,’ I said to Dyrick.
‘I hope so.’
‘What is our route? I have never been to Hampshire.’
‘Cobham tonight, Godalming tomorrow if we are lucky. Then across the Hampshire border the next day and on past Petersfield and Horndean.’
‘Hoyland is seven or eight miles north of Portsmouth, I remember reading.’
‘Yes. On the fringes of the old Forest of Bere.’
I looked at him. ‘I gather you have visited Master Hobbey there before.’
‘Yes. Though he usually consults me when he comes to London on business.’
‘Is he still involved in the cloth trade?’
Dyrick looked at me sharply. ‘No.’
‘You spoke in court of his selling wood from Master Curteys’ lands recently?’
Dyrick turned in the saddle. ‘Impugning my client’s integrity already, Brother Shardlake?’ His voice took on its characteristic rasp.
‘How Hugh Curteys’ lands are managed is my concern.’
‘As I said in court, some wood is being cut. It would be foolish not to take advantage of the market just now. But all is properly accounted for with the feodary.’
‘Whose accounts I am not allowed to see.’
‘Because that would impugn Sir Quintin Priddis’s integrity as well as my unfortunate client’s.’ Again that undertone of anger. ‘You will get the chance to talk to Sir Quintin, that should be enough for any reasonable man.’
We rode on in silence for a while. Then I said mildly, ‘Brother Dyrick, we will be together for the next week or more. Might I suggest life would be easier if we could maintain some civility. That is normal practice among lawyers.’
He inclined his head, thought a moment. ‘Well, Brother, ’tis true I am vexed by this journey. I was hoping to teach my son to improve his archery this summer. Nonetheless, the visit could be useful. Along with the lands he bought from the abbey, Master Hobbey obtained the manorial rights over Hoyland, the local village.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘We have been in correspondence about plans he has to acquire their commons, a tract of forest. The villagers will be compensated,’ he added.
‘Without their common lands most villages cannot survive.’
‘So you have argued against me in court. But now I would ask you to give your word of honour not to involve yourself with the Hoyland villagers.’ He smiled. ‘What say you? For the sake of fellowship?’
I stared him down. ‘You have no right to ask that.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, sir, if you go hunting for clients among those villagers you cannot expect good relations with Master Hobbey.’
‘I intend to hunt for nothing. But I will not be bounden to you in return for your civility. Either you will give that as a brother lawyer or you will not.’
Dyrick turned away, a sarcastic smile on his face. I looked back at Barak. I had heard him attempting conversation with Feaveryear, and overheard Feaveryear say, ‘The Popish Antichrist,’ in a sharp tone. Barak rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.
We continued to make good progress, halting once by a stream to water the horses. Already my thighs were becoming stiff. Dyrick and Feaveryear stepped a few paces away, talking quietly.
‘This is going to be no pleasant journey,’ I said to Barak.
‘No. I heard your conversation with Master Dyrick.’
‘I begin to think he is one who would start an argument with the birds in the trees were there no people around. What was that I heard Feaveryear say about the Antichrist?’
Barak laughed. ‘Remember a while back we passed some men digging up a wayside cross?’
‘Ay. There’s few enough left now.’
‘I said it looked like hard work for a hot day, to make conversation. Feaveryear said the crosses were papist idols, then started on about the Pope being the Antichrist.’
I groaned. ‘A hotling Protestant. That’s all we need.’
A FEW MILES outside Esher our rapid progress ended. We found ourselves at the end of a long line of carts, held up while repairs were carried out to the road ahead. Men and women in grey smocks, probably from the local village, were beating flat a low-lying stretch of road scored with deep muddy ruts. We had to wait over an hour before we were allowed to continue, more carts lining up behind us, Dyrick fuming in the saddle at the delay. The traffic was thicker now, and for the rest of the morning we had to weave our way slowly past carts and riders.
At last we made it into the little town of Esher, where we stopped at an inn for lunch. Dyrick was still in a bad temper, snapping at Feaveryear when he spilled some pottage on the table. The clerk blushed and apologized. It astonished me how much he put up with from his master.
THE AFTERNOON’S journey continued long and slow. There were more and more carts heading south, some full of barrels of food and beer, others loaded with carpentry supplies, cloth, and weapons – one with thousands of arrows in cloth arrowbags. Once we had to pull into the side of the road to allow a big, heavy-wheeled cart to pass us, full of barrels lashed tightly with ropes, a white cross painted prominently on the side of each. Gunpowder, I guessed. Later we had to allow a troop of foreign soldiers past, big men in brightly coloured uniforms, the yellow sleeves and leggings slashed to show the red material beneath. They swung confidently by, talking in German.
In the middle of the afternoon the sky darkened and there was a heavy shower, soaking us and turning the road miry. The ground was rising, too, as we left the Thames valley and climbed into the Surrey Downs. By the time we reached Cobham, a village with a long straggling
main street by a river, I was exhausted; my legs and rear saddle-sore, the horse’s sides slick with sweat. Barak and Dyrick both looked tired too, and Feaveryear’s thin form was slumped over his horse’s pommel.
The place was busy, carts parked everywhere along the road, many with local boys standing guard. Across the road, in a big meadow, men were hurrying about erecting white conical tents in a square. All were young, strong-looking, taller than the average and broad-shouldered, their hair cut short. They wore sleeveless jerkins, mostly woollen ones in the browns and light dyes of the poorer classes, though some were leather. Six big wagons were drawn up on the far side of the field, and a dozen great horses were being led down to the river, while other men were setting cooking fires and digging latrines. An elderly, grey-bearded man, in a fine doublet and with a sword at his waist, rode slowly round the fringes of the group on a sleek hunting horse.
‘That looks like a company of soldiers,’ I said. There were perhaps a hundred men in all.
‘Where are their white coats?’ Dyrick asked. Soldiers levied for war were usually given white coats with a red cross such as we had seen in the barge.
Looking over the field, I saw a stocky red-faced man of about forty, wearing a sword to mark him out as an officer, running over to where two of the young men were unloading folded tents from a cart. One, a tall rangy fellow, had dropped his end, landing it in a cowpat.
‘You fucking idiot, Pygeon!’ the officer yelled in a voice that carried clear across the field. ‘Clumsy prick!’
‘Soldiers, all right,’ Barak said behind me.
‘Heading south, like all the others.’
Dyrick turned on me with sudden anger. ‘God’s blood, you picked a fine time to land this journey on me. What if we end with the French army between me and my children?’
‘Not very patriotic,’ Barak muttered behind me.
Dyrick turned in the saddle. ‘Mind your mouth, clerk.’
Barak stared back at him evenly. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We have to try and find a place for the night.’