Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(68)

‘And you, Nicholas.’

Hobbey turned to me. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said formally, ‘I hope you will accept our hospitality. I look forward to relieving the anxieties of those who sent you.’ His small brown eyes assessed me closely. ‘This is my wife, Mistress Abigail.’

I bowed to the woman Michael Calfhill had called mad. She was tall, thin-faced like her husband. The whitelead powder on her cheeks could not conceal the lines beneath. She wore a wide-skirted, grey silk dress with yellow puffed sleeves and a short hood lined with pearls; the hair at her brow was a faded blonde, turning grey. I bowed and rose to find her staring at me intently. She curtsied briefly, then turned to the boys beside her, took a deep, tense breath and spoke in a high voice. ‘My son, David. And my husband’s ward, Hugh Curteys.’

David was a little under normal height, solid and stocky. He wore a dark brown doublet over a white shirt with a long lacework collar. His black hair was close-cropped. Black tendrils also sprouted at the collar of his shirt. Reverend Broughton had said David was an ugly child and he was on the verge of becoming an ugly man; his round face heavy-featured and thick-lipped, shaved close but still with a dark shadow on his cheeks. He had protuberant blue eyes like his mother, his only resemblance to either parent. He looked at me, his expression conveying contempt.

‘Master Shardlake,’ he said curtly, extending a hand; it was hot, damp and, to my surprise, callused.

I turned to the boy we had travelled over sixty miles to meet. Hugh Curteys was also dressed in dark doublet and white shirt, and he too wore his hair cropped close. I remembered Mistress Calfhill’s story of the time he had nits, and chased his sister round the room laughing. I was conscious of Emma’s cross round my neck, where I had worn it for safe-keeping on the journey.

Hugh was a complete contrast to David. He was tall, with an athlete’s build, broad-chested and narrow-waisted. He had a long chin and a strong nose above a full mouth. Apart from a couple of tiny brown moles his would have been the handsomest of faces were it not for the scars and pits of smallpox marking its lower half. The scarring on his neck was even worse. His upper face was deeply tanned, making the white scars below even more obvious. His eyes, an unusual shade of blue-green, were clear and oddly expressionless. Despite his obvious good health I sensed a sadness in him.

He took my hand. His grip was dry and firm. His hand was callused too. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said in a low, husky voice, ‘so you know Goodwife Calfhill.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I remember her. A good, fond old lady.’ Still no expression in those eyes, only watchfulness.

The steward Fulstowe had come up the steps and stood beside his master, observing us carefully. I had the odd sense he was watching the family to see how they performed, like a playmaster.

‘Two letters arrived for you this morning, Master Shardlake,’ he said. ‘They are in your room. One for your man Barak too. They were brought by a royal post rider on his way to Portsmouth, I think he had ridden through the night.’ He looked at me keenly. ‘One letter had the Queen’s seal on it.’

‘I am fortunate to have the Queen’s solicitor for a friend. He arranged to have correspondence sent on to me by the post riders. And collected too, from Cosham.’

‘I can arrange for a servant to take letters there for you.’

‘Thank you.’ I would make sure they were well sealed.

‘Master Shardlake is modest,’ Dyrick said. ‘He sometimes gets cases from the Queen.’ He looked meaningfully at Hobbey. ‘As I told you in my letter.’

Hobbey said smoothly. ‘Shall we go inside? My wife dislikes the sun.’



WE PASSED THROUGH what had once been the doors leading into the church. Inside was a curious smell, dust and fresh wood overlaying a faint, lingering tang of incense. The south transept had been converted into a wide staircase leading to the old conventual buildings, while the old nave had been transformed into an impressive great hall, the ancient hammerbeam roof exposed. The walls were bright with tapestries of hunting scenes. The old windows had been replaced by modern mullioned ones, and new ones had been added, making the hall well lit. A cabinet displayed bowls of Venetian glass and vases of beautifully arranged flowers. At the far end of the hall, though, the old west window remained, a huge arch with its original stained glass showing saints and disciples. Below it a large dining table was covered with a turkey cloth. An elderly woman servant was laying out tableware. A fireplace had been installed against one wall. This conversion would have taken time and much money; the tapestries alone were worth a considerable amount.

‘You have done more work since I last came, Nicholas,’ Dyrick said admiringly.

‘Yes,’ Hobbey answered in his quiet voice. ‘The west window needs plain glass put in, otherwise all is done save for that wretched nuns’ cemetery.’

‘I saw what looked like headstones by the far wall,’ I said. ‘Next to the butts.’

‘The locals will not pull them down for us. No matter what we offer.’ He shook his head. ‘Superstitious peasants.’

‘Played on by that rogue Ettis,’ Abigail said bitterly. I looked at her; she seemed strung tight as a bow, her clasped hands trembling slightly.

‘I will get someone from Portsmouth, my dear, as soon as things are quiet again there,’ Hobbey answered soothingly. ‘I see you admire my tapestries, Master Shardlake.’ He stepped over to the wall, Dyrick and I following. The tapestries were exceptionally fine, a series of four making up a hunting scene. The quarry was a unicorn, startled from its woodland lair in the first tapestry, chased by horsemen in the second and third, while in the last, in accordance with ancient legend, it had halted in a clearing and laid its horned head in the lap of a young virgin, who sat smiling demurely. But her allure was a trap, for in the trees around the bower archers stood with drawn bows. I studied the intricate weave and beautifully dyed colours.