Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(50)

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 f*cking 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.’