by C. J. Sansom
‘Do you still wear that old Jewish symbol round your neck?’ I asked over my shoulder.
‘The old mezuzah my father left me? Yes, why do you ask?’
‘I have Emma Curteys’ little cross around mine. I will give it to Hugh, but not in front of the Hobbeys. Did you know he wears some piece of bone from the heart of a deer round his neck?’
‘The heartstone? Yes, I talked to Master Avery last night, the huntmaster. He seemed a decent fellow.’
I glanced round. ‘Did he say anything about the family?’
‘He closed up when I asked. Under orders from Fulstowe, I would guess.’ He halted suddenly, raising a hand.
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I heard hoofbeats, back on the road. Then they stopped.’
‘I can’t hear anything.’ There was nothing but the buzz of insects, little rustlings in the undergrowth as small animals fled from us. ‘Maybe you imagined it.’
‘I don’t imagine things.’ Barak frowned. ‘Let’s get this over with before we get soaked.’
The path narrowed to little more than a track winding through the trees. This was true ancient forest, some of the trees gigantic, hundreds of years old. They grew in profusion and great variety, but oaks with wide spreading branches dominated. The undergrowth was heavy, nettles and brambles and small bushes. The earth, where it could be seen, was dark, soft-looking, a pretty contrast to the bright summer green.
‘How far does the Curteys land extend?’ Barak asked.
‘Three miles here according to the plan. We’ll follow the path another half mile or so, then come back. This is mainly oak, and that fetches twice what the other trees will. That foreman was lying, and I think Hobbey’s accounts have been doctored.’
‘Different types of trees can grow in different places.’
‘That is what makes anything difficult to prove.’
We rode on. I was bewitched by the silence among the great trees. According to the Romans, all England looked like this once. I remembered a boyhood visit to the Forest of Arden, riding with my father along a similar path, the one time he took me hunting.
Then I saw a brown shape move ahead, and raised a hand. I saw we were by a little clearing where a deer, a fallow doe, stood cropping the grass, two little fauns at her side. She looked up as we appeared, then turned and in a moment all three had fled into the trees in a rapid, fluid movement. A crashing of undergrowth, then silence.
‘So that’s a wild deer,’ Barak said.
‘You’ve never seen one?’
‘I’m a London boy. But even I can see this track is fading out.’ He was right, the pathway was becoming mossy and hard to follow.
‘A little further.’
Barak sighed. We rode past the trunk of an enormous old oak. Then a sudden ruffle of wind set the leaves waving, and a large raindrop landed on my hand. A moment later the heavens opened and a sheet of rain fell down, soaking us in an instant.
‘Shit!’ Barak exclaimed. ‘I said this would happen!’
We turned back to the enormous old oak, making the horses push through the undergrowth so we could gain shelter by the trunk. We sat there as the rain pelted down, the wind that had come with it making the whole forest seem to shiver.
‘That path’ll be just mud when we ride back,’ Barak said.
‘Hard rain soon passes. And these are good horses.’
‘If I get congestion of the lungs, can I charge that up to Master costs—’
He broke off at a sudden, reverberating thud. We both turned. An arrow projected from the trunk above our heads, the white-feathered tip still trembling.
‘Ride!’ Barak yelled.
He gave his horse a prick of the spurs. We crashed out onto the path, which was slippery now. Every second I expected to feel an arrow in my back or see Barak fall, for on the path we were hardly less easy targets than under the tree. But nothing happened. After ten minutes’ desperate and difficult riding we stopped in a clearing.
‘We’ve outrun him now,’ Barak said. Even so we both stared wide-eyed through the pelting rain at the trees, aware of just how helpless we were against a concealed archer.
‘Come on,’ Barak said.
It was with relief that we reached the highway again. The rain was easing now. We stopped, staring back the way we had come.
‘Who was it?’ Barak asked, almost shouting.
‘Someone scaring us off? That was a warning; under that tree a bowman with any skill could have killed us both easily.’
‘Another warning? Like the corner boys? Remember I heard those hoofbeats on the road? Someone rode after us, someone who knows these woods.’
‘We’ll have to tell Hobbey, report it to the magistrate.’
‘What’s he going to do? I tell you, the sooner we’re out of here the better. God damn it!’
We rode back to Hoyland Priory. Once Barak would have dashed recklessly in pursuit of that archer, I thought. But now he has Tamasin and the coming child to consider.
WE ARRIVED back at the house. The rain had stopped, though there was still a breeze freshening the air. Old Ursula was in the great hall, polishing the table, and I asked her to fetch Hobbey.
‘He’s out, sir. Gone to the village with Master Dyrick. Mistress Hobbey is unwell again. She’s in bed with that dog,’ she added with a disgusted grimace.
‘Then please fetch the steward.’
Moments later Fulstowe strode into the hall. He looked at us curiously as I told him what had happened in the wood. ‘A poacher, without doubt,’ he said when I had finished. ‘Perhaps a deserter from the army, they say some are living wild in the forests. We have a forester to patrol Master Hugh’s woods but he is a lazy fellow. He will be sorry for this.’
‘Why should a poacher draw attention to himself?’ Barak asked sharply.
‘You said you disturbed some deer. Maybe he was stalking them. They would be a great prize for a deserter, or one of those hogs from the village. Maybe he shot to send you out of the woods.’ He frowned. ‘But it is a serious matter, the magistrate should be told. A pity you did not see him. If we could get one of those Hoyland churls hanged, it would be a lesson to all of them.’
‘Barak thought he heard hoofbeats on the road.’
‘They stopped just where we had entered the wood.’ Barak looked hard at Fulstowe. I could see he was wondering, as I had, whether the archer had come from the house.
Fulstowe shook his head. ‘A poacher would not be on a horse.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘He would not.’
‘I will have you informed as soon as Master Hobbey returns. I regret this should happen while you are his guest.’ He bowed and left us.
‘I am sorry I brought you to peril after all,’ I said quietly to Barak. ‘After what I promised Tamasin.’
He sighed heavily. ‘If I weren’t here, I’d be in the army. And you’re right, we weren’t in danger. He shot that arrow to miss.’ He looked at me. ‘Are you still going to ride to Rolfswood tomorrow?’
‘This may be my only opportunity.’
‘I’ll come if you like.’
‘No,’ I replied firmly. ‘I want you to stay here, work on the servants. See if you can learn anything from Ursula. Maybe visit the village again.’
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. I turned and went upstairs, feeling his concerned eyes on my back.
I LOOKED OVER my copies of the depositions in my room. Then I went over to the window, drawn by the sound of voices. Hugh and David were by the butts. Fulstowe was with them, Barak and Feaveryear too. I went downstairs to join them. The sun had come out again, making the wet grass sparkle prettily as I walked up to the group. There was still a little wind, high white clouds scudding across the sky. Hugh was instructing Feaveryear in pulling a bow, while David stood watching with Barak. Fulstowe looked on with an indulgent smile. Arrows had been stuck in the grass, their white-feathered tips reminding me of what had happened in the forest.
Feaveryear had put on a long, th
ick shooting glove and held a beautiful bow, a little shorter and thinner than those I had seen the soldiers use, the outer side golden and the inner creamy white, polished to bright smoothness. Decorated horn nocks were carved into teardrop shapes at each end. Feaveryear had fitted a steel-tipped arrow to the bow, and was pulling with all his strength. His thin arms trembled, but he could only pull the hempen string back a few inches. His face was red and sweating.
Beside him Hugh held up an arrow, watching as the wind ruffled the goose-feather fletches slightly. ‘Swing your body a little to the left, Master Samuel,’ he said quietly. ‘You have to take account of the wind. Now bend your left leg back, and push forward, as though you were making a throw.’ Feaveryear hesitated. ‘See, I will show you.’ Hugh took the bow. He stood, thrusting his weight backward as he pulled on the string. Through his shirt I saw the outline of tight, corded muscles.
‘Concentrate on the target,’ he told Feaveryear, ‘not the arrow. Think only of that and loose. Now, try it.’
Feaveryear took the bow again, glanced round at us, then pulled the bow back a little further and loosed the arrow with a grunt. It rose a little in the air, then buried its point in the grass a short way off. David laughed and slapped his thigh. Fulstowe smiled sardonically. ‘Well done, Feaveryear,’ David said sarcastically. ‘Last time it only dropped from the bow!’
‘I am useless,’ Feaveryear said with a sad laugh. ‘I succeed only in pulling my arms from their sockets.’
‘Ignore David,’ Hugh said. ‘It takes years of practice to strengthen your arms to pull a bow properly. But anyone may learn, and see, already you improve a little.’
‘It is hard work.’
‘ “The fostering of shooting is labour, that companion of virtue,” ’ I quoted from Toxophilus.
Hugh looked at me with interest. ‘You have read the book, Master Shardlake.’
‘He makes some pretty phrases.’
‘It is a great book,’ Hugh replied earnestly.
‘I would not go quite so high as that.’ I noticed Hugh and David had both been shaved, David’s dark stubble reduced to the merest shadow on his cheeks while Hugh had a little cut by one of the scars on his neck. ‘Perhaps we may discuss the book sometime.’
‘I should like that, Master Shardlake. I have little opportunity to discuss books. David can barely read,’ he added jestingly, but with an edge. David scowled.
‘I shoot better than you,’ he said. ‘Here, Feaveryear, I will show you how a truly strong archer shoots.’ He picked up his own bow from the grass. Like Hugh’s it was beautifully made, though not quite so highly polished.
‘Such achievement for a youngling,’ Barak said, straight faced. David frowned, unsure if he were jesting. Then he strung the bow, bent to it, came up and loosed the arrow. It sped through the air and hit the target, missing the centre by a few inches.
‘Not quite so good as Hugh,’ Fulstowe said quietly, with a little smile.
David rounded on him. ‘I have the greater strength. Set the butts further off and I would beat him easily.’
‘I think perhaps your argument is groundless,’ I ventured to the boys. ‘Toxophilus says range and accuracy are both needed. You both excel, and if one has a little more of each quality than the other, what matter?’
‘David and I have been jesting and bickering these last five years, sir,’ Hugh said wearily. ‘It is what we do, the subject matters not. Tell me,’ he added earnestly, ‘what is it you find to criticize in Toxophilus?’
‘His liking for war. And his praise for the King has a crawling quality.’
‘Should we not foster the arts of war to protect ourselves?’ Hugh asked with quiet intensity. ‘Are we to allow the French to invade and have their will with us?’
‘No. But we should ask how we came to this. If the King had not invaded France last year—’
‘For hundreds of years Gascony and Normandy were ours.’ For the first time I heard Hugh speak with real passion. ‘It was our birthright from the Normans before upstart French nobles started calling themselves kings—’
‘So King Henry would say.’
‘He is right.’
‘Do not let Father hear you talking like that,’ David said. ‘You know he will not let you go for a soldier.’ Then, to my surprise, his voice took on a note of entreaty. ‘And without you who should I have to hunt with?’ David turned to me. ‘We went out this morning, and our greyhounds caught half a dozen hares. Though my fast hound caught more—’
‘Be quiet,’ Hugh said with sudden impatience. ‘Your endless who-is-better-than-who will drive me brainsick!’
David looked hurt. ‘But competition is the spice of life. In Father’s business—’
‘Are we not supposed to be gentlemen now? Do you know what a hobby is, Master Shardlake?’
‘A hunting hawk,’ I answered.
‘Ay, the smallest and meanest of birds.’
David’s eyes widened with hurt. I thought he might burst into tears.
‘That’s enough, both of you,’ Fulstowe snapped. To my surprise he spoke as though he had the authority of a parent. Both boys were silent at once.
‘Please do not argue,’ Feaveryear said with sudden emotion, his prominent Adam’s apple jerking up and down. ‘You are brothers, Christians—’
He was interrupted by a loud voice calling his name. Dyrick was striding across the lawn. He looked angry, his face almost as red as his hair. ‘What are you doing shooting with the boys? And you, Barak! You were told to keep to the servants’ quarters. Master steward, do you not know your master’s instructions?’
Fulstowe did not reply, but gave Dyrick a cold look. ‘The boys invited us,’ Barak said, a dangerous edge to his voice.
‘So we did, sir,’ Hugh said. ‘For some new company.’
Dyrick ignored them. ‘Come with me, Sam! Quick! Ettis and a bunch of clods from the village are shouting Master Hobbey down in his own study. I want what they say recorded!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Feaveryear answered humbly. Dyrick turned and strode away, Feaveryear following.
‘Come boys,’ Fulstowe said. ‘I think we should go in. And it is not sensible to argue in front of our guests.’ He looked at Hugh and David, and some understanding seemed to pass between the three. They went off after Dyrick and Feaveryear. Barak glanced over the building, eyes narrowed. ‘We could go for a little walk and pass under the study window. It’s at the back of the house. We might find something out. See, they have opened all the windows to let in the breeze.’
I hesitated, then nodded. ‘This case leads me into bad habits,’ I muttered as I followed him round to the back of the house, where a stretch of lawn faced the old convent wall. Raised voices could be heard from Hobbey’s study. I recognized the Hampshire burr of Ettis, whom we had met in the village. He was shouting. ‘You want to steal our commons. Then where will the poor villagers get wood and food for their pigs?’
‘Take care, Goodman Ettis!’ Dyrick’s loud rasp cut like a knife. ‘Your boorish ways will serve you ill here. Do not forget that some of the cottagers have already sold their land to Master Hobbey. So less common land will be needed.’
‘Only four. And only when you threatened them with repossession when they got behind with their rent. And the grant is clear! The priory granted Hoyland village our woods near four hundred years ago.’
‘You have only your poor English translation of it—’
‘We cannot read that Norman scribble!’ another voice with a Hampshire accent shouted.
We were right under the window now. Fortunately the sill was above our heads. I looked round uneasily, fearing some servant might appear round the side of the house.
Dyrick replied forcefully, ‘This grant only says the village should have use of all the woodland it needs.’
‘The area was mapped out, clear as day.’
‘That was done before the Black Death, since when Hoyland, like every village in England, has far fewer people. The woodl
and area should be correspondingly reduced.’
‘I know what you have planned,’ Ettis shouted back at Dyrick. ‘Fell all our woodland, make great profit, then take the village lands and turn everything over to more woodland. No knife-tongued lawyer will talk us out of our rights! We will go to the Court of Requests!’
‘You’d better hurry, then,’ I heard Hobbey answer smoothly. ‘I’ve ordered my woodsmen to start again on the area you wrongly call yours next week. And you people had better not impede them.’
‘Note they’ve been warned, Feaveryear,’ Dyrick added. ‘In case we need to show the magistrate.’
‘Who is in your pocket,’ Ettis said bitterly.
Then we heard a bang, which must have been the door opening and slamming against the wall. Abigail’s voice cried out shrilly, ‘Rogues and vagabonds! Nicholas, Fulstowe tells me they shot an arrow at the hunchback lawyer in the forest! You villains!’ she screamed.
‘Shot?’ Hobbey sounded shocked. ‘Abigail, what do you mean?’
‘I have just seen Master Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘He looks no worse than he ever does.’
‘He wasn’t hit! But they did it!’
Then I heard Fulstowe’s voice: he must have heard the commotion and come in. ‘Shardlake and his clerk were shot at while riding Master Hugh’s woodland. They surprised a deer: it must have been a poacher warning them off. No one was hurt, nor meant to be,’ he added impatiently.
‘You stupid woman!’ It was the first time I had heard Hobbey lose control. Abigail began to cry. The room had fallen silent. I inclined my head, and we began moving quietly away, round the side of the house.
‘That was getting interesting,’ Barak said.
‘I was concerned someone would come out and see us. And I think we heard enough.’ I frowned. ‘That woman is so frightened.’
‘She’s mad.’
‘It’s hard to know. By the way, did you notice the way the boys took orders from Fulstowe earlier? And from what we heard there Fulstowe doesn’t bother showing much respect to Abigail.’
‘Who is right about the woods?’ Barak asked.
‘I’d need to see the land grant. But if there’s a defined area, that stands well for the villagers.’