‘I’ve been gone a long time, but I remember the owner’s name: Fettiplace.’
My mind raced. Twenty years ago, the very time Ellen had been attacked and put in the Bedlam. Something else had happened in Rolfswood, as well as the rape. Two people had died. He burned!
My heart pounded. I turned abruptly from the hatch, and found myself looking straight at Feaveryear, who had been standing behind me, his greasy locks dangling over his sunburned brow.
Three days of irritation with Dyrick’s jibes and Feaveryear’s sour face boiled over. ‘God’s death, clerk,’ I cried. ‘Have you been eavesdropping?’
Feaveryear’s mouth dropped open. ‘No, sir, I was behind you in the queue. I came in for a beer.’
I looked around. ‘Where’s Dyrick? You are a spy, clerk!’
‘I am not, Master Shardlake.’ Feaveryear spoke hotly, his big Adam’s apple twitching. ‘Master Dyrick wanted to sleep, he sent me out and I came here. On my honour as a Christian, I heard you say something to that man about an ironworks that burned down, that is all.’
He seemed genuinely outraged. I saw how tired he looked, dark rings under his eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I should not have shouted. Come and sit down.’
Feaveryear followed me reluctantly to a place on a bench. ‘I apologize if I was mistaken,’ I said. ‘I have other business in Sussex, for another client.’
‘You are apologizing to me, sir?’ He looked surprised. ‘Then I thank you.’
There was silence for a moment, then I said, ‘The journey has been harder than I expected. The soldiers keep a fast pace.’
His face closed again, went sour and disapproving. ‘My master says it is all unnecessary.’
I wondered whether Dyrick had used Feaveryear to spy out our plans before the hearing. Perhaps he had even been to the Court of Wards and bribed Mylling. I remembered the corner boys, the sack over my head. ‘Well,’ I answered neutrally, ‘we shall see what we find.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘Have you worked for Master Dyrick long?’
‘Three years. My father worked in the kitchens at the Temple, he sent me to school and afterwards asked for a place for me as a clerk. Master Dyrick took me on. He has taught me much. He is a good master.’ Again that self-righteous look.
‘So you sometimes work at the Court of Wards.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He hesitated then added, ‘I see, like many, you think it a bad place.’
I inclined my head.
‘Maybe it is, but my master seeks only justice there, as in the other courts where he pleads.’
‘Come, Feaveryear. Lawyers take the cases that come to them, just or no.’ I remembered my conversation with the Lady Elizabeth.
Feaveryear shook his head firmly. ‘My master takes only cases that are just. Like this one. I am a Christian man, sir, I could not work for a lawyer who represented bad folk.’ He coloured. ‘I do not mean you do that, sir, only that you are mistaken in this cause.’
I stared at him. How could he believe that Vincent Dyrick, of all people, represented only the just? Yet he obviously did. I drew a deep breath. ‘Well, Feaveryear, I must go back to my inn, get some food.’
‘And my master asked me to find a barber.’
We went out into the street. Dusk was falling, candles lit in the windows. Some of the carters were bedding down in their wagons.
‘Probably all going to Portsmouth,’ I said. ‘Like our company of archers.’
‘Poor fellows,’ Feaveryear said sadly. ‘I have seen the soldiers look at me on the journey, I know they think me a weakling. Yet I think what they may be going to, and pray for them. It is wicked they have no preacher. Most of those men have not come to God. They do not realize that death in battle may be followed by a swift journey to Hell.’
‘Maybe there will be no battle. Maybe the French will not land.’
‘I pray not.’
I felt a drop of rain on my hand. ‘Here it comes.’
‘They will get wet in the camp.’
‘Yes. And I must get back to my inn. Goodnight, Feaveryear.’
‘Goodnight, Master Shardlake.’
‘Oh, and Feaveryear, there is a barber’s in the next street. Tell your master.’