Heartstone (23 page)

‘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.'

To my relief the ostler at the largest inn said three small rooms were available. We dismounted and walked stiffly inside, Barak and Feaveryear carrying the panniers. Feaveryear looked as though he would drop under the weight of the three he carried, and Barak offered to take one. ‘Thank you,' Feaveryear said. ‘I am sore wearied.' It was the first civil word we had had from either him or Dyrick.

I CLIMBED the stairs to a poky room under the rafters. I pulled off my boots with relief, washing the thick dust from my face in a bowl of cold water. Then I went downstairs, for I was ravenously hungry. The large parlour was crowded with carters drinking beer and wolfing down pottage at long tables. Most would have been on the road all day and they gave off a mighty stink. The room was dim, for dusk was drawing on, and candles had been set on the tables. I saw Barak sitting alone at a small table in a corner, nursing a mug of beer, and went to join him.

‘How's your room?' he asked.

‘Small. A straw mattress.'

‘At least you won't have to share it with Feaveryear. We'd no sooner closed our door than he took off his boots, showing a pair of shins a chicken would think shameful, then knelt down by his bed and stuck his bum in the air. It gave me a nasty turn for a moment, until he began praying, asking God to watch over us on the journey.' He sighed heavily. ‘If I hadn't been insolent to that arsehole Goodryke I'd be with Tamasin tonight, not him.'

‘It'll be more comfortable when we get to Hoyland Priory.'

He took a long swig of beer. ‘Watch that,' I said quietly. I realized the sight of the soldiers had reminded him again of the fate he had so narrowly escaped.

‘Here's looking forward to passing time with good company,' he said with heavy sarcasm.

Dyrick and Feaveryear came in. ‘May we join you, Brother Shardlake?' Dyrick asked. ‘The other company seems rather rough.'

We called for food and were served some pottage, all the inn had. It was flavourless, nasty-looking pieces of gristle floating on the greasy surface. We ate in silence. A group of girls entered, wearing low-cut dresses. The carters hallooed and banged on the tables, and soon the girls were sitting on their laps. Barak looked on with interest, Dyrick with cynical amusement and Feaveryear with disapproval.

‘Not enjoying the spectacle, Sam?' Dyrick asked him with a smile.

‘No, sir. I think I will go upstairs to bed. I am tired.'

Feaveryear walked slowly away. I saw him look at the girls from the corner of his eyes. Dyrick laughed.

‘He can't help hoping to see a pair of bubbies, for all his godliness,' he said, then added sharply, ‘though Sam is keen and sharp enough to help ensure your case against the Hobbeys is shown for the nonsense it is.'

I looked over the room, refusing to rise to his taunts. One of the carters had his face buried in a girl's bosom now. Then my attention was drawn by an officer in a soldier's white coat, sword at his waist. He sat hunched over a pile of papers at the corner of a table, seemingly oblivious to the clamour around him. I stared harder, for I seemed to recognize that shock of curly blond hair, the regular features beneath. I nudged Barak.

‘That officer over there. Do you recognize him?'

Barak peered through the dim room. ‘Is it Sergeant Leacon? I'm not sure. But he was discharged from the army.'

‘Yes, he was. Come, let us see. Excuse us, Brother Dyrick, I think I recognize an old client.'

‘Some fellow you got lands for from his landlord?'

‘Exactly.'

Barak and I weaved our way among the tables. The soldier looked up as we approached, and I saw it was indeed George Leacon, the young Kentish sergeant we had met four years before in York. I had done Leacon an injustice then, but put it right by wresting his parents' farm from a grasping landlord. Leacon had been in his twenties, but now he had lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look a decade older. His blue eyes seemed more prominent too, with a strange wide stare.