Heartstone

Leacon and Sir Franklin turned. Leacon gestured to the drummer, who ceased drumming. The company halted, and Leacon rode back to us. He gripped my hand tightly. 'Farewell, then.'

'Thank you for letting us ride with you.'

'Yes,' Dyrick added with unaccustomed grace. 'I think we would have had another two days' riding without you to speed us on.'

I looked into the captain's tired, haunted eyes. 'I am glad we met again,' I said sincerely.

'And I. We must move on now, it will be late when we reach Portsmouth.' Dyrick called a farewell to Sir Franklin, and he half-raised a gloved hand.

Some of the soldiers called goodbyes. Carswell waved. Leacon rode back to the head of the company.

'God go with you all,' I called out.

The trumpet sounded, the supply carts trundled past us, and the company marched away, the tramp of their footsteps fading as they rounded a bend. We turned into the lane.

THE FOUR OF US rode under the trees. All at once everything was silent, no sound apart from the chirking of birds. I was conscious of how tired I was, how dusty and smelly we all were. Suddenly the path ended at a high old stone wall. We passed through a gateway into a broad lawned area dotted with trees, a knot garden full of scented summer flowers to one side. Straight ahead stood what had once been a squat Norman church, with a wide porch and arched roof. But now large square windows had been put in at each side of the door and in the walls of what had once been the attached cloister buildings. Tall new brick chimneys rose from the cloister roof. I heard dogs barking in kennels somewhere behind the house, alerted by the sound of the horses. Then three men in servants' smocks appeared in the porch. They approached us and bowed. An older man with a short blond beard followed, wearing a red doublet and a cap which he swept off as he came up to Dyrick.

'Master Dyrick, welcome once more to Hoyland Priory.'

'Thank you. Your master had my letter?'

'Yes, but we did not think you would arrive so soon.'

Dyrick nodded, then turned to me. 'This is Fulstowe, Master Hobbey's steward. Fulstowe, this is Master Shardlake, of whom I wrote.' A bite in his tone at those words.

Fulstowe turned to me. He was in his forties, with a square, lined face, his short fair beard greying. His expression was respectful but his sharp eyes bored into mine.

'Welcome, sir,' he said quietly. 'These fellows will take your horses.' He turned to the porch. 'See, Master Hobbey and his family wait to greet you.'

On the steps four people now stood in a row, a middle-aged man and woman and two lads in their late teens: one stocky and dark, the other tall, slim and brown haired. All four seemed to hold themselves rigid as they waited silently to receive us.

Part Three

HOYLAND PRIORY

Chapter Seventeen

WE DISMOUNTED. Fulstowe gave Feaveryear a formal smile.

'You are well, master clerk?'

He bowed. 'Thank you, Master Fulstowe.'

Fulstowe looked at Barak. 'You must be Master Shardlake's clerk?'

'I am. Jack Barak.'

'The groom will show you both your quarters. I will have your masters' panniers taken to their rooms.'

I nodded to Barak. He and Feaveryear followed the groom, other servants leading the horses. Dyrick smiled. 'You will miss your amanuensis, Master Shardlake. Well, it is time you met our hosts and their ward.'

I followed him towards the steps, where the quartet waited. I saw that near the rear wall of the enclosed gardens a butts had been set up, a mound of raised earth with a round cloth target at the centre. Behind it was what looked like a jumble of gravestones. I followed Dyrick up the steps.

Nicholas Hobbey was a thin, spare man in his forties, with thick grey hair and a narrow, severe face. He wore a blue summer doublet of fine cotton with a short robe over it. He clasped Dyrick's hand warmly. 'Vincent,' he said in a clear, melodious voice, 'it is good to see you here again.'

'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.'