The steward Fulstowe had come up the steps and stood beside his master, observing us carefully. I had the odd sense he was watching the family to see how they performed, like a playmaster.
‘Two letters arrived for you this morning, Master Shardlake,’ he said. ‘They are in your room. One for your man Barak too. They were brought by a royal post rider on his way to Portsmouth, I think he had ridden through the night.’ He looked at me keenly. ‘One letter had the Queen’s seal on it.’
‘I am fortunate to have the Queen’s solicitor for a friend. He arranged to have correspondence sent on to me by the post riders. And collected too, from Cosham.’
‘I can arrange for a servant to take letters there for you.’
‘Thank you.’ I would make sure they were well sealed.
‘Master Shardlake is modest,’ Dyrick said. ‘He sometimes gets cases from the Queen.’ He looked meaningfully at Hobbey. ‘As I told you in my letter.’
Hobbey said smoothly. ‘Shall we go inside? My wife dislikes the sun.’
WE PASSED THROUGH what had once been the doors leading into the church. Inside was a curious smell, dust and fresh wood overlaying a faint, lingering tang of incense. The south transept had been converted into a wide staircase leading to the old conventual buildings, while the old nave had been transformed into an impressive great hall, the ancient hammerbeam roof exposed. The walls were bright with tapestries of hunting scenes. The old windows had been replaced by modern mullioned ones, and new ones had been added, making the hall well lit. A cabinet displayed bowls of Venetian glass and vases of beautifully arranged flowers. At the far end of the hall, though, the old west window remained, a huge arch with its original stained glass showing saints and disciples. Below it a large dining table was covered with a turkey cloth. An elderly woman servant was laying out tableware. A fireplace had been installed against one wall. This conversion would have taken time and much money; the tapestries alone were worth a considerable amount.
‘You have done more work since I last came, Nicholas,’ Dyrick said admiringly.
‘Yes,’ Hobbey answered in his quiet voice. ‘The west window needs plain glass put in, otherwise all is done save for that wretched nuns’ cemetery.’
‘I saw what looked like headstones by the far wall,’ I said. ‘Next to the butts.’
‘The locals will not pull them down for us. No matter what we offer.’ He shook his head. ‘Superstitious peasants.’
‘Played on by that rogue Ettis,’ Abigail said bitterly. I looked at her; she seemed strung tight as a bow, her clasped hands trembling slightly.
‘I will get someone from Portsmouth, my dear, as soon as things are quiet again there,’ Hobbey answered soothingly. ‘I see you admire my tapestries, Master Shardlake.’ He stepped over to the wall, Dyrick and I following. The tapestries were exceptionally fine, a series of four making up a hunting scene. The quarry was a unicorn, startled from its woodland lair in the first tapestry, chased by horsemen in the second and third, while in the last, in accordance with ancient legend, it had halted in a clearing and laid its horned head in the lap of a young virgin, who sat smiling demurely. But her allure was a trap, for in the trees around the bower archers stood with drawn bows. I studied the intricate weave and beautifully dyed colours.
‘They are German,’ Hobbey said proudly. ‘Much of my trade was along the Rhine. I got them at a good price, they came from a merchant bankrupted in the Peasant Wars. They are my pride and joy, as the garden is my wife’s.’ He ran the flat of his palm almost reverently over the unicorn’s head. ‘You should see how those villagers look at my tapestries when they come here for the manorial court. They stare as though the figures would leap off the wall at them.’ He laughed scornfully.
The boys had come close, David looking at the archers poised to shoot the unicorn. ‘Hard to miss at that range,’ he said dismissively. ‘A deer would never let you get that close.’
I remembered how Hugh’s and David’s hands had felt callused. ‘Do you boys practise at the butts outside?’
‘Every day,’ David answered proudly. ‘It is our great sport, better even than hawking. The best of manly pastimes. Is that not so, Hugh?’ He slapped Hugh on the shoulder, hard I thought. I noticed a suppressed anxiety in David’s manner. His mother was watching him, her eyes sharp.
‘It is.’ Hugh looked at me with that unreadable gaze. ‘I have a copy of Master Ascham’s new-printed Toxophilus that he presented to the King this year. Master Hobbey gave it to me for my birthday.’
‘Indeed.’ The book the Queen had told me Lady Elizabeth was reading. ‘I should like to see that.’
‘Have you an interest in archery, sir?’
I smiled. ‘An interest in books, rather. I am not built for the bow.’