‘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.’
David was a little under normal height, solid and stocky. He wore a dark brown doublet over a white shirt with a long lacework collar. His black hair was close-cropped. Black tendrils also sprouted at the collar of his shirt. Reverend Broughton had said David was an ugly child and he was on the verge of becoming an ugly man; his round face heavy-featured and thick-lipped, shaved close but still with a dark shadow on his cheeks. He had protuberant blue eyes like his mother, his only resemblance to either parent. He looked at me, his expression conveying contempt.
‘Master Shardlake,’ he said curtly, extending a hand; it was hot, damp and, to my surprise, callused.
I turned to the boy we had travelled over sixty miles to meet. Hugh Curteys was also dressed in dark doublet and white shirt, and he too wore his hair cropped close. I remembered Mistress Calfhill’s story of the time he had nits, and chased his sister round the room laughing. I was conscious of Emma’s cross round my neck, where I had worn it for safe-keeping on the journey.
Hugh was a complete contrast to David. He was tall, with an athlete’s build, broad-chested and narrow-waisted. He had a long chin and a strong nose above a full mouth. Apart from a couple of tiny brown moles his would have been the handsomest of faces were it not for the scars and pits of smallpox marking its lower half. The scarring on his neck was even worse. His upper face was deeply tanned, making the white scars below even more obvious. His eyes, an unusual shade of blue-green, were clear and oddly expressionless. Despite his obvious good health I sensed a sadness in him.
He took my hand. His grip was dry and firm. His hand was callused too. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said in a low, husky voice, ‘so you know Goodwife Calfhill.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I remember her. A good, fond old lady.’ Still no expression in those eyes, only watchfulness.