‘Because he knows these woodlands,’ I answered curtly. ‘Master Avery, there is something I would show you if you would follow me.’
I led the way to the place where the half-footprint was. ‘Yes,’ Avery said quietly. ‘He fired from here.’ He bent to a branch just in front of me; a twig was broken off, hanging by its stem. ‘See, this was in his way. He broke it, quietly enough not to disturb her.’ He looked at me. ‘I think this man was an experienced archer. Not one of the household servants or the villagers I have been training up. He – well, he hit the centre of his mark.’
‘Thank you.’ I led the way back to the glade. Abigail, who had been constantly fidgeting in life, sat horribly still. But as I stepped into the glade I saw someone else had arrived there. Hugh Curteys was in the act of picking up the flower Abigail had dropped. He placed it gently in her lap, then muttered something. It sounded like, ‘You deserved this.’
WHEN WE RETURNED to the clearing the stag had been brought in on the cart. It was left with the does, and a long procession of shocked guests and servants filed back to the house. David, still weeping, was supported by his father. Hobbey’s face remained blank with shock. Behind them Hugh walked with Fulstowe, saying nothing.
‘It could have been Hugh or David,’ Barak said quietly.
‘Or Fulstowe. Why, almost nobody from the hunt was back when Abigail left the clearing.’
Dyrick fell into step with us. ‘Avery’s wrong,’ he said. ‘It could have been someone from the village. So many young men practise archery nowadays. Older ones too. Well, we won’t be leaving here tomorrow,’ he added bitterly. ‘We’ll have to wait for the coroner. Me as Master Hobbey’s lawyer, you two as first finders. We’ll be here till the inquest. Damn it.’
Did he feel nothing for Abigail? I stared at him. ‘I want to see my children,’ he snapped.
You could have done it, I thought, you flounced off alone after Hobbey snapped at you. And you are an archer: you were talking about teaching your son.
Barak’s shoulders slumped. ‘I begin to wonder if I’ll ever see my child born now,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I must write to Tamasin.’
‘And I to Warner.’
We arrived back at the house. As we approached the steps to the porch, the front door banged open and Leonard Ettis marched out, a frown on his face. He stopped and stared at the procession, the weeping David supported by the pale, shocked Hobbey.
Fulstowe strode over to Ettis. ‘What are you doing here?’ he barked.
‘I came to see you,’ he retorted. ‘To find out if your men still intend to enter our woods this week. Or try to. But there was nobody here but that savage-mouthed old cripple sitting in the hall.’
‘Mind your tongue,’ Fulstowe snapped.
‘Oh yes, watch what I say.’ Ettis laughed. ‘It’ll be a different story when I lead the village militia to fight the French.’
Barak and I exchanged glances. ‘Priddis,’ I said. ‘I had forgotten all about him.’
‘It was the hunt today.’ Fulstowe looked narrowly at Ettis. ‘Surely you had not forgotten that?’
‘I thought you might be back and this matter can’t wait. We need an answer from you.’ He looked over the little crowd, stared again at Hobbey and David. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Mistress Hobbey is dead,’ Fulstowe replied bluntly.
Ettis stared. ‘What?’
‘Shot dead with an arrow by an unknown assailant. Which way did you come to the house, Ettis?’
The yeoman’s eyes widened. ‘You – do you accuse me?’
Corembeck stepped forward. ‘Which way did you come, Ettis?’
Ettis glared at him. ‘From the village.’
‘Not through the woods?’
‘No!’
‘Alone?’ Fulstowe asked.
Ettis took a step forward and for a moment I thought he would strike the steward. Then he turned and marched away down the drive. Dyrick looked meaningfully at Corembeck.
We walked into the hall, where Priddis and his son sat waiting. Fulstowe told them what had happened. I saw the old man’s eyes light up with greedy curiosity. For him, I realized, this was an unexpected piece of excitement.
I WENT UPSTAIRS to change for my ride with Edward Priddis. I felt guilty now for wanting to stay. Barak wanted so much to return to Tamasin. Looking out of the window, I remembered, sadly, Feaveryear and the two boys practising at the butts. David and Hugh had both disappeared to their rooms when we returned; I did not know who, if anyone, was with them.
When I went back downstairs Sir Quintin was still ensconced in his chair by the fireplace with his son, watching all that was going on with horrible amused interest. I asked Barak to stay in the great hall, and listen to all that was said. Edward rose and we went to fetch the horses. As we rode out, Edward’s manner was cool and distant, but civil enough.
‘This is a terrible thing for you to find here,’ I said.
He nodded seriously. ‘These are strange and dreadful times.’
‘What news of the French in Portsmouth?’ I asked.