Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(79)

‘I understand some people from the village work as servants at the house.’

‘Some. Most care not to.’

‘The servants seem reluctant to speak to us,’ I said. ‘A pity. Exchanges of information can be useful. Master Hobbey’s lawyer’s name, by the way, is Vincent Dyrick.’

‘Leonard Ettis. Yeoman of this village.’

‘Be assured we mean you no harm. We will go back now. But perhaps we might walk this way again, and talk some more?’

‘Maybe,’ Ettis answered non-committally.

We turned back the way we had come. Barak glanced over his shoulder. ‘They’re still watching us.’

‘They’re frightened and angry. They need their commons for grazing and wood.’ I smiled. ‘But they have a leader, and they know about the Court of Requests. Hobbey and Dyrick will have a fight on their hands.’

‘You could have told them that you work there. That would get them on our side.’

‘I don’t want to anger Hobbey and Dyrick unnecessarily. Not yet. Now come, Hugh should be back soon.’





Chapter Nineteen


WE WENT BACK to the house to find the boys had just returned. Two servants were leading their horses away. Hugh and David stood in front of the entrance, showing their hawks to Feaveryear. Each held one of the big greyhounds on a leash; as Barak and I approached, the dogs sniffed the air. David’s dog growled and he jerked its leash. ‘Quiet, Ajax.’

Feaveryear was looking with fascination at the speckled plumage of the bird Hugh held at the end of his extended arm. The hawk turned fierce eyes on us, the bells on the jesses securing it to Hugh’s gloved hand jingling. Hugh laid his other hand lightly on its back. ‘Tush, Jenny, tush.’ David had a bag slung over his shoulder, from which a little blood dripped.

‘Good catch?’ I asked him.

‘A brace of plump wood pigeons, and three pheasants. We caught the pigeons on the wing,’ he added impressively, his heavy features lighting up. ‘A goodly feast for dinner, eh, Hugh?’ It struck me David Hobbey seemed very young for eighteen. I remembered the villagers talking of his childish airs and graces.

‘It would have been four had your Ajax not half-eaten the one he fetched,’ Hugh said.

Feaveryear held out his hand to Hugh’s bird. He smiled, his thin face full of wonder. ‘Not too close, Master Feaveryear,’ Hugh warned. ‘She will tolerate none but me.’ The hawk flapped its wings and screeched, and Feaveryear jumped back hastily. He tripped and nearly fell, windmilling his thin arms to keep his balance.

David laughed uproariously. ‘You look like a scarecrow caught in the wind, clerk.’

Hugh gently pushed the hawk’s spread wings back into a folded position. With his free arm he drew a leather hood from his doublet and put it over the bird’s head.

Feaveryear’s interest was undiminished. ‘Did you raise that bird, Master Hugh?’

‘No.’ Hugh fixed Feaveryear with those cool, unreadable eyes. ‘The bird is raised by a falconer. As a chick it is blinded by having its eyelids sewn together, so it comes to depend on people for food. When it is a year old its eyelids are unsewn and it is trained to hunt.’

‘But that is cruel.’

David slapped Feaveryear on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over again. ‘You are new to the ways of the country.’

Hugh turned to me, the watchful look in his eyes again. ‘You wished to take my deposition, I think, Master Shardlake?’

‘Yes, please. Feaveryear, will you fetch your master? Then we can begin.’

‘We will take the birds to their perches,’ Hugh said, ‘and get the greyhounds away. Mistress Abigail does not like them near the house.’ Again, that coldly formal reference to Abigail. The boys headed for the outhouses, and Feaveryear went indoors.

‘That David is a taunting little knave,’ Barak said. ‘Needs a good slap.’

‘He is childish, with no great brains. Yet all his father’s hopes must rest on him. As for Hugh – I think he left childhood behind long ago. Let us see if we can find out why.’



WHEN WE ARRIVED in Hobbey’s study Dyrick and Feaveryear were already present. A few minutes later Hugh walked in, confidently, almost defiantly. The afternoon sunlight emphasized the marks on his face and neck. I looked away, remembering Bess’s comment about his ruined handsomeness. It was not quite so bad as that, but bad enough.

‘Pray sit down, Master Hugh,’ Dyrick said. He reached across to the hourglass and turned it over. ‘To record time spent, for my bill of costs,’ he explained with a cold smile. Hugh sat and stared at me, slim, long-fingered hands at rest in his lap. I saw that Feaveryear looked embarrassed.

‘I think it best to come straight to the point,’ I began. ‘No beating the bushes with lawyer’s words, as they say.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We are here because of accusations made by Michael Calfhill, God rest him. He said that when he visited here earlier this year, he found monstrous wrongs had been done to you. Have you any idea what he might have meant?’

He looked me straight in the eye. ‘None, sir.’

A triumphant smile crossed Dyrick’s face. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘let us see. Tell me, what do you remember of the time when you and your sister became wards?’