Barak stared back at him evenly. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We have to try and find a place for the night.’
To my relief the ostler at the largest inn said three small rooms were available. We dismounted and walked stiffly inside, Barak and Feaveryear carrying the panniers. Feaveryear looked as though he would drop under the weight of the three he carried, and Barak offered to take one. ‘Thank you,’ Feaveryear said. ‘I am sore wearied.’ It was the first civil word we had had from either him or Dyrick.
I CLIMBED the stairs to a poky room under the rafters. I pulled off my boots with relief, washing the thick dust from my face in a bowl of cold water. Then I went downstairs, for I was ravenously hungry. The large parlour was crowded with carters drinking beer and wolfing down pottage at long tables. Most would have been on the road all day and they gave off a mighty stink. The room was dim, for dusk was drawing on, and candles had been set on the tables. I saw Barak sitting alone at a small table in a corner, nursing a mug of beer, and went to join him.
‘How’s your room?’ he asked.
‘Small. A straw mattress.’
‘At least you won’t have to share it with Feaveryear. We’d no sooner closed our door than he took off his boots, showing a pair of shins a chicken would think shameful, then knelt down by his bed and stuck his bum in the air. It gave me a nasty turn for a moment, until he began praying, asking God to watch over us on the journey.’ He sighed heavily. ‘If I hadn’t been insolent to that arsehole Goodryke I’d be with Tamasin tonight, not him.’
‘It’ll be more comfortable when we get to Hoyland Priory.’
He took a long swig of beer. ‘Watch that,’ I said quietly. I realized the sight of the soldiers had reminded him again of the fate he had so narrowly escaped.
‘Here’s looking forward to passing time with good company,’ he said with heavy sarcasm.
Dyrick and Feaveryear came in. ‘May we join you, Brother Shardlake?’ Dyrick asked. ‘The other company seems rather rough.’
We called for food and were served some pottage, all the inn had. It was flavourless, nasty-looking pieces of gristle floating on the greasy surface. We ate in silence. A group of girls entered, wearing low-cut dresses. The carters hallooed and banged on the tables, and soon the girls were sitting on their laps. Barak looked on with interest, Dyrick with cynical amusement and Feaveryear with disapproval.
‘Not enjoying the spectacle, Sam?’ Dyrick asked him with a smile.
‘No, sir. I think I will go upstairs to bed. I am tired.’
Feaveryear walked slowly away. I saw him look at the girls from the corner of his eyes. Dyrick laughed.
‘He can’t help hoping to see a pair of bubbies, for all his godliness,’ he said, then added sharply, ‘though Sam is keen and sharp enough to help ensure your case against the Hobbeys is shown for the nonsense it is.’
I looked over the room, refusing to rise to his taunts. One of the carters had his face buried in a girl’s bosom now. Then my attention was drawn by an officer in a soldier’s white coat, sword at his waist. He sat hunched over a pile of papers at the corner of a table, seemingly oblivious to the clamour around him. I stared harder, for I seemed to recognize that shock of curly blond hair, the regular features beneath. I nudged Barak.
‘That officer over there. Do you recognize him?’
Barak peered through the dim room. ‘Is it Sergeant Leacon? I’m not sure. But he was discharged from the army.’
‘Yes, he was. Come, let us see. Excuse us, Brother Dyrick, I think I recognize an old client.’
‘Some fellow you got lands for from his landlord?’
‘Exactly.’
Barak and I weaved our way among the tables. The soldier looked up as we approached, and I saw it was indeed George Leacon, the young Kentish sergeant we had met four years before in York. I had done Leacon an injustice then, but put it right by wresting his parents’ farm from a grasping landlord. Leacon had been in his twenties, but now he had lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look a decade older. His blue eyes seemed more prominent too, with a strange wide stare.
‘George?’ I asked quietly.
His face relaxed into the broad smile I remembered. ‘Master Shardlake. And Jack Barak, too.’ He rose and bowed. ‘What are you doing here? By Mary, it must be three years since I saw you.’
‘We are travelling to Hampshire on a case. You are back in the army?’
‘Ay. They recruited me last year to go to France. They needed men with military experience. Even more so now, with invasion threatened. I am taking a hundred Middlesex archers down to Portsmouth. You probably saw them in the meadow.’
‘Yes. They were putting up their tents. Who was the finely dressed old fellow on the horse?’