‘I’m afraid not, sir. Court papers may only be taken out of the office for hearings. You may lean at the desk here.’ My hand went to my purse again, for leaning over that counter for any length of time would, I knew, hurt my back, but Mylling shook his head firmly. ‘I’m afraid that is the rule.’
So I leaned over the counter and looked through the papers. Nearly all dealt with the grant of Hugh and Emma’s wardship six years before; records of the application by Nicholas Hobbey, Gentleman, and valuations of the land from the local officers, the escheator and feodary. Hobbey had paid ￡80 for the wardship, and ￡30 in fees. That was a large amount.
There was also a copy of the earlier conveyance to Hobbey of the priory buildings and his minority share of the woodland he had bought from the Court of Augmentations. He had paid out ￡500 for those. There was a plan of the lands formerly under the nunnery’s ownership; I looked to see whether there were any valuable rented properties, but all the land, both Hugh’s and Hobbey’s, seemed to be just an expanse of woodland – apart from the village of Hoyland, which Hobbey had bought with the priory buildings. He was lord of the manor, giving him an increase in social status. Hoyland was quite a small village, I saw, thirty households so perhaps two hundred people. There was a schedule of tenancies and I saw that although some households owned their land freehold, most held it on short leases of seven to ten years. I thought, the amount of rent will be minimal, not much profit for anyone there. Hoyland Priory was described as being eight miles north of Portsmouth, ‘on the hither side of Portsdown Hill’. From the plan it lay very near the main London to Portsmouth road, ideal for transporting wood.
I stood up, easing my back. Hobbey had made a big investment, first in his portion of the land and then in the wardship. He had moved down there, so presumably he had sold his merchant’s business in London. A successful merchant deciding to set himself up as a country gentleman – it was a common enough picture.
I looked up. Mylling was glancing at me covertly from his desk. His eyes skittered away. ‘This wardship went through very fast,’ I said. ‘Barely two months from the original petition to the grant. Hobbey paid high fees. He must have wanted the wardship badly.’
Mylling got up and came over. He said in a low voice, ‘If he wanted it put through quickly he would have been expected to show his appreciation to Attorney Sewster and the feodary.’
‘Master Hobbey has lands in Hampshire next to the wards’ property. And a young son.’
Mylling nodded sagely. ‘That’ll be it. If he married the girl to his son that would unite their lands. Draw up a pre-contract of marriage while they’re still children. You know the gentry. Marry in haste, love at leisure.’
‘The girl died.’
Mylling inclined his head wisely. ‘Wardship has its risks like any other business. There’s still the boy’s marriage, though. He could make some profit from that.’ Mylling turned away as the outer door opened and a fat, elderly clerk brought in a file of papers, depositing it on the counter. ‘Young Master Edward’s wardship to his uncle is confirmed,’ he said. ‘His mother was overruled.’
Through the door I heard the sound of a woman and a little boy weeping. The clerk stroked the dangling sleeves of his robe. ‘His mother said the uncle is so ugly the boy runs away at the sight of him. Sir William told her off for insolence.’
Mylling called for Alabaster and he came over. ‘Draw the orders, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Alabaster smiled cynically at the court clerk. ‘No gratitude in Wards, is there, Thinpenny?’
The clerk scratched his head. ‘That there isn’t.’
Alabaster smiled again, a nasty smile I thought, then saw me looking and turned back to his desk. Thinpenny left and Mylling returned to his desk. I turned back to the Curteys documents. There was little more on the file: an exhibition setting out the amounts Hobbey undertook to pay for the children’s education – another outgoing, I thought – and then a short certificate recording the death of Emma Curteys in August 1539. Finally there were half a dozen orders from the last few years, ordering that Master Hobbey be permitted to cut down a limited amount of woodland belonging to Hugh, ‘the trees being mature and the demand for wood great’. Hugh’s profits, like his inheritance, were to be held by the Court of Wards. The amount to be cut down was to be agreed ‘between Master Hobbey and the feodary of Hampshire’. On each occasion sums between ￡25 and ￡50 had been remitted to court with a certificate endorsed by the feodary, one Sir Quintin Priddis. At last, I thought, the stink of possible corruption; there was nothing to prove that larger sums had not been split between Hobbey and this Priddis. But nothing to prove they had, either. I slowly closed the file and straightened up, wincing at a spasm from my back.
Mylling came over. ‘All done, sir?’
I nodded. ‘I wonder whether Master Hobbey will come to the hearing.’