Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(89)

‘Perhaps when I return we may discuss Toxophilus, and your other books.’

He looked up, his composure restored. ‘Yes, perhaps.’

‘I look forward to it.’

I left him clutching Emma’s cross.



AS I RODE along I thought again of Abigail saying she did not feel safe to have the hunt, her husband replying that he could not bear the isolation here any more. What were they frightened of? Was there some connection to our being shot at the day before? Whatever was being kept hidden at Hoyland, I felt Hugh knew at least something of it. Then there was the trouble with the villagers. I reflected that the chain of events at Hoyland was typical of a landlord seeking to destroy a village and take the land for his own purposes. I had seen the pattern many times at the Court of Requests. Village politics here was typical too: independent small landowners such as Ettis taking the lead, and some of the poor villagers being intimidated into selling their leases back to the landlord.

By the time I reached the turning for Rolfswood the sun was well up and it was becoming hot. I had expected a poor country track, but the road into Sussex was well maintained. I had ridden about a mile when I noticed a smell of burning, and remembered the charcoal burners from our ride down. To my right a wide path cut through a high bank into the forest. Curious, I urged the horse onto the path.

A few hundred yards in I came to a glade where a large, beehive-shaped clay structure stood, taller than a man, smoke rising from an opening at the top. Piles of small branches were set around the clearing. Two young men sitting on a mound of earth rose as I appeared.

‘Burning charcoal?’ I asked.

‘Ay, sir,’ one answered. Both had black faces from their work. ‘We don’t usually work in summer, but they want as much charcoal as they can get for the foundries these days.’

‘I understand they are casting cannon now.’

‘That’s over in the east, sir. But there is plenty of work for the small West Sussex foundries too.’

‘The war brings good profits,’ his friend added, ‘though we see little of them.’

‘I am heading for Rolfswood. I believe there used to be an ironworks there that burned down.’

‘Must have been a while ago. There’s no iron worked round here now.’ The man paused. ‘Would you take a drink of beer with us?’

‘Thank you, but I must get on my way.’ They seemed disappointed and I thought it must be lonely work out here, with only the charcoal pile for company.



IT WAS PAST THREE when I arrived at Rolfswood. It was a smaller place than I had expected, a main street with several good houses built of brick but not much behind except poor hovels. A straggling path led to a bridge across a little river, then across a field to an ancient-looking church. There was, I was pleased to see, a sizeable inn on the main street. Two carts passed me, full of small branches, new-cut and giving off a raw smell of sap.

I dismounted outside the inn. There I found a room for the night, which was comfortable enough. I went to the parlour to see what information I could raise; I had considered the story I would tell to explain my interest.

The parlour was empty save for an old man sitting alone at a bench. A big scent hound, a lymer, lay beside him. It raised its heavy, lugubrious face to look at me. I crossed to the serving hatch, and asked the elderly woman behind it for a beer. Her plump wrinkled face under its white coif looked friendly. I gulped down the beer, for I was sore thirsty.

‘Have you travelled far, sir?’ she asked.

‘From near Portsmouth.’

‘That’s a good day’s ride.’ She leaned her elbows comfortably on the counter. ‘What’s the news from there? They say the King’s coming.’

‘So I hear. But I have not been to Portsmouth. I am a London lawyer; I have some business at a house north of Portsdown Hill.’

‘What brings you to Rolfswood?’

‘A friend in London believes he may have relatives here. I said I would come and enquire.’

She looked at me curiously. ‘A good friend, to make such a long journey.’

‘Their name is Fettiplace. He heard from an old aunt they once had an iron foundry here.’

‘That’s gone, sir,’ she said gently. ‘The foundry burned down near twenty years ago. Master Fettiplace and one of his workers were killed.’

I paused, as though taking in the news for the first time, then said, ‘Had he any family?’

‘He was a widower. He had a daughter, whose story is even sadder. She saw the fire and lost her reason because of it. They took her away, I heard to London.’

‘If only my friend had known. He only recently learned he might have a Sussex connection.’

‘Their house and the land the foundry stood on were sold to Master Buttress, our miller. You’ll have passed the house in the main street, it’s the one with the fine carvings of animals on the doorposts.’

Sold, I thought. By whom? Legally, surely, it would have gone to Ellen. ‘No other Fettiplaces locally?’

‘No, sir. Master Fettiplace was from somewhere in the north of the county. He came here to build the foundry.’ She leaned out of the hatch, and called to the old man. ‘Here, Wilf, this gentleman is enquiring after the Fettiplace foundry.’ He looked up. The serving woman spoke to me quietly. ‘Wilf Harrydance used to work there. He’s a poor old fellow, buy him a drink and he’ll tell you all he knows.’