Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(49)

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 lowlying 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.