Heartstone

Chapter Twelve

I ROSE SHORTLY after dawn on Wednesday, the first of July. I donned a shirt and light doublet, pulled on my leather riding boots and walked downstairs in the half-light. I remembered how, whenever I had set out on a journey before, Joan would be up no matter how early the hour, bustling around to ensure I had everything I needed.

At the foot of the stairs Coldiron and Josephine stood waiting, my panniers on the floor beside them. There was too much for me to carry alone and I had ordered Coldiron to walk with me to the river stairs, where I was to meet Barak.

Josephine curtsied. 'Good morning, sir,' Coldiron said. 'It looks like a fine day for travelling.' His eyes were hungry with curiosity; he thought I was going on royal business.

'Good morning. And to you, Josephine. Why are you up so early?'

'She can carry one of the panniers,' Coldiron answered. Josephine gave me a nervous smile and held up a small linen bag. 'There's some bread and cheese here, sir, some slices of ham. And a sweet pastry I got at market.'

'Thank you, Josephine.' She blushed and curtsied again.

Outside, it was already warm, the sky cloudless. I walked down a deserted Chancery Lane, Coldiron and Josephine behind me. Fleet Street was silent, all the buildings shuttered, a few beggars asleep in shop doorways. Then my heart quickened at the sight of four blue-robed apprentices leaning against the Temple Bar. They detached themselves and approached with a slow, lounging walk. All wore swords.

'Special watch,' one said as he came up. He was a thin, spotty youth, no more than eighteen. 'You're abroad early, sir. It's another hour till curfew ends.'

'I am a lawyer going to catch a boat at Temple Stairs,' I answered shortly. 'These are my servants.'

'My master is on important business,' Coldiron snapped. 'You lot should be in the army, not making trouble here.'

The apprentice grinned at him. 'What happened to your eye, old man?'

'Lost at the Battle of Flodden, puppy.'

'Come on,' I said. We crossed the street. Behind us one of the boys called out, 'Cripples!'

We passed into Middle Temple Lane. A thin, chill river mist surrounded us as we walked through Temple Gardens. Barak was waiting at the stairs, his own pannier at his feet. He had found an early boatman, whose craft was tied up; the lantern was lit, a yellow halo in the mist.

'All ready?' Barak asked. 'This fellow will take us to Kingston.'

'Good. How is Tamasin?'

'Tearful last night. I left home quietly without waking her.' He looked away. I turned to Coldiron. 'Put those in the boat. Barak's too.'

As Coldiron descended the steps I spoke quietly to Josephine. 'Dr Malton is in charge while I am away,' I said. 'He will be your friend.' I wondered if she understood I meant she could appeal to Guy against her father, but she only nodded, her expression blank as usual.

Coldiron reappeared, panting in an exaggerated way. Barak stepped down to the boat. 'Goodbye, Coldiron,' I said. 'Take care to do everything Dr Malton asks.' His eye glittered at me again in that nasty way. As I descended the slimy steps I knew he would have liked to pitch me in the water, on royal service or not.

ON THE RIVER the mist was thick. Everything was silent, the only sound the swish of the oars. A flock of swans glided past, quickly vanishing again. The boatman was old, with a lined, tired face. A large barge passed us, with a dozen men at the oars. Fifty or so young men sat in it, all in white coats with the red cross of England on the front. They were unnaturally quiet, their faces pale discs in the mist. But for the plashing of the oars it might have been a ship of ghosts.

The mist thinned as the sun rose, bringing a welcome warmth, and as we approached Kingston river traffic appeared. We pulled up at the old stone wharf. I looked across the river at the wooded expanse of Hampton Court Park. The Queen would already be preparing her household for the journey.

We walked down a short street to the marketplace. Dyrick had sent me a message to meet him and Feaveryear at an inn called the Druid's Head. Barak, who had shouldered two of the panniers, remained silent and thoughtful. I gave him an enquiring look. 'Thank you for getting me out of that mess,' he said quietly. 'That boat full of soldiers we saw, I could have been in one like that through my foolishness.'

'Well, thank goodness you are safe now.'

We entered the inn courtyard. There was a large stable, the doors wide open, several horses in the stalls. Next to it was a forge, where a sweating blacksmith hammered horseshoes at an anvil beside a glowing furnace. We turned into the inn. The parlour was almost deserted save for two men breakfasting at a table, their caps and two sets of spurs on the bench beside them. Dyrick and Feaveryear. We approached and bowed. Feaveryear half-rose, but Dyrick only nodded.

'Good, you're here,' he grunted. 'We should get started.'

'We left London at first light,' I answered pointedly.

'I travelled down last night, to meet Feaveryear and look at the horses. A man of countenance expects a reasonable horse.'

'We have four good horses, and a fifth for the panniers,' Feaveryear said smugly. Greasy hair hung over his forehead as usual. He looked tired, though Dyrick was his customary energetic self. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood up briskly.

'We should go. We need to reach Cobham tonight, nine miles away and I hear the Portsmouth road is full of soldiers and supply carts. Bring the panniers, Sam.' Dyrick reached for his cap and led the way to the stables. Barak smiled and shook his head, earning a look of rebuke from Feaveryear.

We entered the stable building. Dyrick nodded at the ostler. 'The others have arrived at last,' he said. 'Are the horses saddled and ready?'

'Yes, sir. We'll bring them into the yard.'

We went outside. The ostler and a boy led out five horses. They were all big, strong-looking beasts, with coats of brown and dappled grey. 'You have done well,' I said to Feaveryear.

'My master said not to spare the purse. It is five pounds for the return journey.'

'God's warts,' Barak breathed beside me.

'There's a premium on horses now,' the ostler explained.

'I suggest you pay the man, Brother Shardlake,' Dyrick said. 'You can reclaim it from your client when she loses. Or her pay-mistress.'

'I will pay half. That is what the court would expect. We can meet our own expenses till the outcome is known.'

Dyrick sighed, but fetched out his purse.

'Might we get to near Portsmouth in four days?' I asked the ostler.

He shook his head. 'You'll be lucky, sir. I'd plan on six or seven, the roads are so full.'

'There, Master Shardlake,' Dyrick said. 'I knew how it would be.'

We mounted, Dyrick and I in front and Barak and Feaveryear behind, the horse with the panniers secured to Feaveryear's horse with a line. As we rode into the street a rider sped into the inn yard, his horse's flanks sweating. I saw he wore the badge of the King's household. A harbinger, responsible for checking the King's route in advance of a royal journey.

WE RODE OUT of Kingston into the Surrey countryside. There were market gardens and cornfields on each side of the road, serving the insatiable demand of London, with the fenced-in woodland of Hampton Court behind them. Normally at this time of year people would have been garnering the hay and the cornfields would be turning yellow, but after the storms the half-flattened corn was still green. The people working in the fields must be praying for better weather. As the sun rose higher it became hot, and I was glad of my broad riding cap. The going was better than Dyrick had feared; the wide road was soft and full of deep ruts from loaded carts but the worst stretches had been repaired; the earth beaten flat, potholes filled with stones and layers of wattle fencing laid over muddy stretches. All our horses seemed strong and placid.

'We should make Cobham today,' I said to Dyrick.

'I hope so.'

'What is our route? I have never been to Hampshire.'

'Cobham tonight, Godalming tomorrow if we are lucky. Then across the Hampshire border the next day and on past Petersfield and Horndean.'

'Hoyland is seven or eight miles north of Portsmouth, I remember reading.'

'Yes. On the fringes of the old Forest of Bere.'

I looked at him. 'I gather you have visited Master Hobbey there before.'

'Yes. Though he usually consults me when he comes to London on business.'

'Is he still involved in the cloth trade?'

Dyrick looked at me sharply. 'No.'

'You spoke in court of his selling wood from Master Curteys' lands recently?'

Dyrick turned in the saddle. 'Impugning my client's integrity already, Brother Shardlake?' His voice took on its characteristic rasp.

'How Hugh Curteys' lands are managed is my concern.'

'As I said in court, some wood is being cut. It would be foolish not to take advantage of the market just now. But all is properly accounted for with the feodary.'

'Whose accounts I am not allowed to see.'

'Because that would impugn Sir Quintin Priddis's integrity as well as my unfortunate client's.' Again that undertone of anger. 'You will get the chance to talk to Sir Quintin, that should be enough for any reasonable man.'

We rode on in silence for a while. Then I said mildly, 'Brother Dyrick, we will be together for the next week or more. Might I suggest life would be easier if we could maintain some civility. That is normal practice among lawyers.'

He inclined his head, thought a moment. 'Well, Brother, 'tis true I am vexed by this journey. I was hoping to teach my son to improve his archery this summer. Nonetheless, the visit could be useful. Along with the lands he bought from the abbey, Master Hobbey obtained the manorial rights over Hoyland, the local village.'

'I know,' I said.

'We have been in correspondence about plans he has to acquire their commons, a tract of forest. The villagers will be compensated,' he added.

'Without their common lands most villages cannot survive.'

'So you have argued against me in court. But now I would ask you to give your word of honour not to involve yourself with the Hoyland villagers.' He smiled. 'What say you? For the sake of fellowship?'

I stared him down. 'You have no right to ask that.'

He shrugged. 'Well, sir, if you go hunting for clients among those villagers you cannot expect good relations with Master Hobbey.'

'I intend to hunt for nothing. But I will not be bounden to you in return for your civility. Either you will give that as a brother lawyer or you will not.'

Dyrick turned away, a sarcastic smile on his face. I looked back at Barak. I had heard him attempting conversation with Feaveryear, and overheard Feaveryear say, 'The Popish Antichrist,' in a sharp tone. Barak rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.

We continued to make good progress, halting once by a stream to water the horses. Already my thighs were becoming stiff. Dyrick and Feaveryear stepped a few paces away, talking quietly.

'This is going to be no pleasant journey,' I said to Barak.

'No. I heard your conversation with Master Dyrick.'

'I begin to think he is one who would start an argument with the birds in the trees were there no people around. What was that I heard Feaveryear say about the Antichrist?'

Barak laughed. 'Remember a while back we passed some men digging up a wayside cross?'

'Ay. There's few enough left now.'

'I said it looked like hard work for a hot day, to make conversation. Feaveryear said the crosses were papist idols, then started on about the Pope being the Antichrist.'

I groaned. 'A hotling Protestant. That's all we need.'

A FEW MILES outside Esher our rapid progress ended. We found ourselves at the end of a long line of carts, held up while repairs were carried out to the road ahead. Men and women in grey smocks, probably from the local village, were beating flat a low-lying stretch of road scored with deep muddy ruts. We had to wait over an hour before we were allowed to continue, more carts lining up behind us, Dyrick fuming in the saddle at the delay. The traffic was thicker now, and for the rest of the morning we had to weave our way slowly past carts and riders.

At last we made it into the little town of Esher, where we stopped at an inn for lunch. Dyrick was still in a bad temper, snapping at Feaveryear when he spilled some pottage on the table. The clerk blushed and apologized. It astonished me how much he put up with from his master.

THE AFTERNOON'S journey continued long and slow. There were more and more carts heading south, some full of barrels of food and beer, others loaded with carpentry supplies, cloth, and weapons—one with thousands of arrows in cloth arrowbags. Once we had to pull into the side of the road to allow a big, heavy-wheeled cart to pass us, full of barrels lashed tightly with ropes, a white cross painted prominently on the side of each. Gunpowder, I guessed. Later we had to allow a troop of foreign soldiers past, big men in brightly coloured uniforms, the yellow sleeves and leggings slashed to show the red material beneath. They swung confidently by, talking in German.

In the middle of the afternoon the sky darkened and there was a heavy shower, soaking us and turning the road miry. The ground was rising, too, as we left the Thames valley and climbed into the Surrey Downs. By the time we reached Cobham, a village with a long straggling main street by a river, I was exhausted; my legs and rear saddle-sore, the horse's sides slick with sweat. Barak and Dyrick both looked tired too, and Feaveryear's thin form was slumped over his horse's pommel.

The place was busy, carts parked everywhere along the road, many with local boys standing guard. Across the road, in a big meadow, men were hurrying about erecting white conical tents in a square. All were young, strong-looking, taller than the average and broad-shouldered, their hair cut short. They wore sleeveless jerkins, mostly woollen ones in the browns and light dyes of the poorer classes, though some were leather. Six big wagons were drawn up on the far side of the field, and a dozen great horses were being led down to the river, while other men were setting cooking fires and digging latrines. An elderly, grey-bearded man, in a fine doublet and with a sword at his waist, rode slowly round the fringes of the group on a sleek hunting horse.

'That looks like a company of soldiers,' I said. There were perhaps a hundred men in all.

'Where are their white coats?' Dyrick asked. Soldiers levied for war were usually given white coats with a red cross such as we had seen in the barge.

Looking over the field, I saw a stocky red-faced man of about forty, wearing a sword to mark him out as an officer, running over to where two of the young men were unloading folded tents from a cart. One, a tall rangy fellow, had dropped his end, landing it in a cowpat.

'You fucking idiot, Pygeon!' the officer yelled in a voice that carried clear across the field. 'Clumsy prick!'

'Soldiers, all right,' Barak said behind me.

'Heading south, like all the others.'

Dyrick turned on me with sudden anger. 'God's blood, you picked a fine time to land this journey on me. What if we end with the French army between me and my children?'

'Not very patriotic,' Barak muttered behind me.

Dyrick turned in the saddle. 'Mind your mouth, clerk.'

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?'

Leacon grimaced. 'Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of the company. One of the leading men in north Middlesex. He was a soldier in France in the King's first war thirty years ago. Unfortunately he is, between ourselves—' he hesitated, then said, 'a little old for command.'

'He is certainly not young.'

'They need a gentleman of substance to keep the soldiers in awe, but I was recruited to go up there, select a hundred good longbowmen, and be his deputy. I am a petty-captain now, promoted last year on the battlefield outside Boulogne.'

'Congratulations.'

He nodded, but something blank came into his face for a moment. He said, 'How do you fare?'

'The law keeps me busy.'

'It is good to see you again.'

'Remember Tamasin Reedbourne?' Barak asked.

'Indeed I do.'

'We are married,' he said proudly. 'And a baby due next month.'

Leacon shook his hand warmly. 'Then it is you that deserves congratulation.'

'How are your parents?' I asked.

'Both well, sir. Still on the farm that is theirs thanks to you. But getting older, they find the work hard now. I should take over, but—' he grimaced again—'it is easier to get into the King's army than out of it just now.'

'Truly spoken,' Barak agreed with feeling.

Leacon gestured at the papers in front of him. 'My suppliers' accounts, for the men's food. They are supposed to be settled in every town, and I have money to pay for them. But with this evil new coinage the local merchants charge more.' He pushed the papers aside with an impatient gesture.

'How many men are going to Portsmouth?' Barak asked. 'The roads are full.'

'Six thousand are there or on the way, with many more local militia all along the south coast ready to be called out if the French invade.'

'Jesu.'

'And most of the King's ships of war are there, fifty or sixty of them, so there are several thousand sailors too. I have to get my men to Portsmouth in four days. March on the Sabbath if need be.'

'And the King himself is coming to inspect them all.'

Leacon looked at us seriously. 'Word is the French fleet is thrice the size of ours, loaded with thirty thousand soldiers. There could be a hot time coming. My company may be going to the ships, to do battle if the fleets grapple together.' He shook his head. 'I sailed on a warship last year, but many of my men have never seen a body of water larger than the village pond. But we must do all we can to beat off the invasion, we have no choice.' Something weary and almost despairing had entered Leacon's voice. He looked as though he were about to say something more, then changed the subject. 'Is it just the two of you travelling down?'

'Wish it were,' Barak answered.

'No, we travel with another lawyer and his clerk. Not easy companions.' I turned to look at Dyrick, but he had gone. 'My fellow lawyer was keen to make the journey in four or five days but it does not seem we will do that. Today we have been forever held up behind carts.'

Leacon looked at me. 'Perhaps I can help there.'

'How so?'

'I have orders to get my men to Portsmouth by the fifth. It is hard marching. I have the right to order carts aside, command the roads. If you and your companions wish to ride in front of our baggage train, that would speed your journey.'

'We should be very grateful,' I said.

'We start at five tomorrow, I warn you.'

I exchanged a glance with Barak. He nodded eagerly. The sooner we got to Hoyland, the sooner we would return home. 'We will be there,' I answered. 'Thank you.'

'I am pleased to do something to return the favour you did my family.' Leacon looked reluctantly at his documents. 'But now, if you will forgive me, I need to make some sense of these figures, then get over to camp.'

'You're not staying at the inn?'

'No. I sleep with the men.'

'Then we will leave you.'

We headed for the door. One of the carters had a girl on the floor now, the others cheering him on.

'I will call at Dyrick's room and tell him the news,' I said.

'Maybe the arsehole will show a bit of gratitude.'

'I doubt that.' I turned to him. 'Jack, what has happened to George Leacon?'

He shook his head. 'I don't know. Trouble, I can tell you that.'

I glanced back. The soldier's blond head was bent over the papers again as he ran his finger down a column of figures. His other hand, which rested on the table, trembled slightly.

Chapter Thirteen

MY BACK AND LEGS were an agony of stiffness when I reached my room. I had called on Dyrick on the way; he had been sitting on his bed, papers from the case strewn over it and on his lap. He glared at me, but when I told him of Leacon's offer he was quick to accept. 'Well, your former client has come in useful,' he said, which I took to be his nearest approach to thanks.

It was long before I slept, the continued carousing downstairs and my aching limbs keeping me awake. Even after all was quiet I tossed and turned. When at length I drifted off I had a fearful dream: I was drowning, deep under water, hands at my throat keeping me under. I grasped at them but they were like steel. I looked at who was holding me and saw the hard face and cold eyes of Sir William Paulet, framed by a steel helmet.

I woke with a start, my heart still thumping with terror. I often had such dreams; two years before I had nearly drowned in a filthy sewer with a murderer for company, and once before that I had myself drowned a man who was trying to kill me. I crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Sunshine streamed in; from the long shadows I guessed it was near five.

Outside the tents were being loaded onto carts with other equipment under the supervision of the red-faced officer, whose barking at the men I could hear from my room. The big horses were already between the shafts, munching piles of hay. A little way off a couple of dozen men were practising their skills with the warbow, shooting at a doublet nailed to an oak tree at the far end of the field. Arrows arced through the air, the men shouting when someone hit the target—as most did, for they were all good shots. Leacon stood beside them, watching. I dressed hastily and hurried down to the parlour, deserted now save for Barak, breakfasting alone. I hurried across. 'Thank goodness you are still here.'

'The soldiers are still loading up. I've written a letter to Tammy, the innkeeper will give it to the next post rider going north.'

I breakfasted quickly, then we went outside. I saw a few of the soldiers did have white coats, including the red-faced man supervising the loading of the carts and a soldier who was strapping a drum round his middle. A trumpet hung from a baldric on his shoulder. We went over to Dyrick and Feaveryear, who were standing talking to the white-bearded man I had seen the night before.

'Ah, Brother Shardlake,' Dyrick said reprovingly, 'you have risen. I hope we will be off soon. Those carters will be sleeping it off with the whores. Captain Giffard here wants to be gone before them. Fourteen miles to Godalming today.' His tone was admonitory.

The white-bearded man turned to me. He wore a peacock-feather cap and a high-collared doublet with buttons patterned in gold leaf. His face was round, spots of colour in his cheeks, his blue eyes watery. I bowed. He gave me a haughty nod.

'You are the other lawyer my petty-captain has invited to travel with us? I am Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of this company.'

'Matthew Shardlake. I hope you do not mind us accompanying you, sir.'

'No, no. Leacon knows what he is doing.' He looked across to the archers.

'Those men shoot well,' I observed.

'They do, though hand-to-hand combat is the gentlemanly way to fight a war. But the archers won us Agincourt. Not much of an inn, was it?' he added. 'All that noise, those carriers. We must be gone. Please go and tell Leacon.'

I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, 'If you wish,' and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.

As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.

'Come, Llewellyn!' one of the men called. 'Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!'

The boy smiled broadly. 'Fuck you, Carswell!' A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.

Leacon leaned forward. 'Llewellyn,' he said quietly, 'step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty-degree angle, like we practised two days ago.'

'Yes, sir.' The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.

'More,' Leacon said. 'Make it six.' At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.

'That's how we'll feather them in the goddam Frenchies' bowels!' someone shouted, and there were more cheers.

Leacon turned to me. 'What do you think of my Goddams?' He smiled at my puzzled look. 'It's what English archers call themselves.'

'I have never seen such skill. George, Captain Giffard wants us to move off. I am sorry, I should have said at once, but I was so taken with that display.'

Leacon turned back to the men. 'No more, lads! We march!'

There was a grumbling murmur as the men set to unstringing their bows and I accompanied Leacon back to the road.

'Are your men all from the same district?' I asked.

'No. They come from all over north-west Middlesex. They're a varied bunch, sons of yeomen together with those of artisans and poor labourers. The commissioners are often accused of levying the dregs of the villages, but I was told to pick a company of strong, practised archers—principal archers we call them, and I have. Though there has been little time to train them to work together yet, most of the day is taken up with marching.'

'That fellow who shot last was remarkable, but he seemed young for service.'

'Tom Llewellyn is not nineteen, but he was the best archer I saw at the Views of Arms. A blacksmith's apprentice, son of a Welshman.'

'Are they willing recruits?'

'Some. Others less so. We had a few desertions in London, so we are four men short. And our company preacher was taken ill. We had no time to get a replacement.'

I laughed. 'You were unable to find a preacher in London? Now that does astonish me!'

'Not one willing to serve in the army, anyway.'

I nodded at the officer supervising the loading of the carts, which was now almost complete. He was still walking around, shouting and snapping.

'He is a choleric fellow.'

'Yes, Master Snodin, our whiffler. He is a seasoned veteran, he keeps the men well in order.'

'Ah.' I thought of Goodryke.

'He drinks, though, and gets in a fierce temper. I hope he does not have a seizure before we reach Portsmouth. He is the only other officer, apart from the vientinaries.'

'The what?'

'Companies are grouped into five sections of twenty, each with a corporal in charge whom I have nominated.'

'I was surprised not to see more men in uniform.'

He grunted. 'The store of white coats in the King's armouries has run out, and there has been no time to make more. Even the armour we have is a jumbled-up mixture. I'll swear some of it goes back to the wars between York and Lancaster, if not Agincourt.'

'I saw some ill-smelling padded jackets in one of the carts.'

Leacon nodded. 'Jacks. They give protection from arrows. But many have been shut up in church vestries for years and mice have nibbled at some. I am getting the men to mend them when they have time.'

I watched the men complete their loading. 'George,' I said, 'I understand our way goes near the Sussex border.'

'Yes, between Liphook and Petersfield. With luck we will reach there the day after tomorrow.'

'There is a small town on the Sussex side, Rolfswood. I have some business there.'

'I only know our stops along the road.' Leacon smiled. 'I'm a Kentishman, the less we know of Sussex clods the happier we are. You had best ask when we reach those parts.'

We had come up to the others. 'We must be off, Leacon,' Sir Franklin said.

'Nearly ready, sir.'

'Good. We should find our horses. And I want to talk to you about the men's buttons.'

'I thought we had settled that, sir.' A note of irritation had crept into Leacon's voice.

The captain frowned. 'We discussed it, sir, but did not settle it. Do you think I am of no good memory?'

'No, sir. But—'

'Come with me.' Sir Franklin turned and walked back to the inn, Leacon following, his straight-backed stride contrasting with Sir Franklin's slow, stiff-legged gait.

Dyrick shook his head. 'Buttons? What's that about? Silly old fool.'

We turned at the sound of shouting. The carts were loaded, and the recruits were fixing the large pouches containing their possessions to their belts, beside the long knives they all carried. Two soldiers by the carts had started fighting. The rangy fellow who had dropped the tent in a cowpat the previous evening and a big man with untidy fair hair were pummelling at each other with their fists. Other recruits gathered around eagerly.

'Come on, Pygeon. Don't let him get away with that!'

'What did you say to him now, Sulyard?'

The two men pulled apart, breathing hard, and circled each other. 'Come, Pygeon, you scabby freak!' the fair-haired fellow called out. 'Get your balance! Don't catch the wind with those great ears of yours or you'll fly up like a bird!'

There was more laughter. Pygeon was one of those unfortunates with large ears that stuck out from the side of his head. He had a narrow face and receding chin. He looked no more than twenty, while his opponent was some years older, with ugly, bony features, sharp malicious eyes and the taunting expression of the born bully. I was pleased when Pygeon caught him off guard, kicking out at his knee so that he howled and staggered.

The circle of onlookers parted as the red-faced whiffler Snodin pushed through, his face furious. He crossed to Pygeon and slapped him hard across the face. 'What the fuck's going on?' Snodin shouted. 'Pygeon, it's always you whenever there's trouble. You useless shit!'

'Sulyard won't let me be,' Pygeon shouted back. 'All the time insults, insults. I had to take it in our village but not now.'

Some in the crowd murmured agreement, others laughed. This infuriated the whiffler even more. His face grew almost purple. 'Shut up!' he bawled. 'You're King's men now, forget your damned village quarrels!' He looked malevolently over the crowd. 'This morning you can march in jacks and helmets. And Pygeon's section can wear the brigandynes. You can blame him.' There were groans from the men. 'Quiet!' Snodin shouted. 'You need to get used to them, you'll be wearing them when we meet the French! Front ten men, unload them!'

Ten men peeled quickly away from the crowd, ran up and unloaded the tight-fitting steel helmets from a cart, together with the jacks, and other jackets inlaid with metal plates that tinkled like coins: brigandynes, which I had heard could stop an arrow. Sulyard had got to his feet and, though limping slightly, gave Pygeon a victorious grin.

'The men must march in those?' I said to Barak.

'Looks like it. Rather them than me.'

Dyrick said, 'As the whiffler pointed out, they may have to fight in them. Look, here come Leacon and the captain. Come on, let's get moving.'

Leacon and Sir Franklin, mounted now, rode over to the whiffler. The three conversed in low tones. Leacon seemed to be disagreeing with the whiffler but Sir Franklin said, 'Nonsense! It'll teach them a lesson,' and concluded the discussion by riding back to the road.

The men donned the jacks, except for a group of twenty at the rear which included Sulyard and Pygeon as well as the young archer Llewellyn; they pulled on the brigandynes. Many of them were threadbare, like the jacks, some with the metal plates showing through. The section grumbled as they put them on; though Sulyard, who wore a new-looking brigandyne dyed bright red, the brazen studs holding the plates glinting, looked proud of what I guessed was a personal possession. The other men grumbled; the corporal, a heavy-set, keen-eyed young fellow with pleasant, mobile features, encouraged them. 'Come on, lads, it can't be helped. It's only till lunchtime.'

At a command from Snodin the soldiers drew up in rows of five. Sir Franklin, Leacon and the drummer took places at the front. The drummer began a steady beat and the men marched out of the field. I noticed again how young most were, almost all under thirty and several under twenty. All wore leather shoes, some old and battered. Snodin placed himself at the rear, in a position to watch the entire company. We four civilians mounted and took our places behind him; from the horse's back I had a view of his balding crown, with a glimpse of his blue-veined bottle nose when he turned his head. Behind us the carts creaked into position. As we made our way slowly down the empty main street of Cobham an old man leaned from the upper window of a house and called out, 'God be with you, soldiers. God save King Harry!'

I WAS BEGINNING to grow fond of my horse, named Oddleg for his one white foot. He was placid, walked at a steady, unvarying pace and had seemed glad to see me that morning. The company marched into the countryside to the rhythm of the drum, the tramp of marching feet accompanied by the rumble of cartwheels behind us, the hoofbeats of our horses and, immediately ahead, an odd coin-like jingling from the brigandynes. One of the soldiers began singing, and the others took up the ragged chorus of an obscene variation of 'Greensleeves', each verse more inventive than the last.

After a while Leacon signalled the drummer to stop. We were climbing into the Surrey Downs now, the road mostly well-drained chalk. The marching men threw up much dust, and soon we at the back were grey with it. The countryside changed, more land farmed on the old system, with huge fields divided into long strips of different crops. The wheat and vetches seemed further on here, less battered looking; the storms must not have reached this far south. Peasants stopped work to look at us, but without much interest. We would not be the first soldiers passing this way.

The singing petered out after a couple of miles. The pace flagged and the drummer sounded the marching beat again. I decided to essay another conversation with Dyrick. Despite his wide-brimmed hat, his sharp, lean face was starting to burn as those of ruddy-headed people will. 'Poor caitiffs,' I said, nodding at the men in brigandynes, 'see how they sweat.'

'They may have to do more than sweat when we get to Portsmouth,' he replied grimly.

'Ay. Better the King had never started this war.'

'Maybe 'tis time for a final reckoning with the French. I just wish you hadn't got me caught up in the middle of it all.'

I laughed suddenly. 'Come, Brother Dyrick, there must be some topic we can agree on.'

He gave me a hostile stare. 'I cannot think of one.'

I gave up. Although it was discourteous, I fell behind so I could converse with Barak. Feaveryear gave me a disapproving look.

WE MADE good progress; at a blast from the drummer's trumpet several carts, and once a gang of road menders, moved to the side of the road to let us pass. After two hours we stopped by a bridge to water the horses at the stream running under it. As we led the animals down to the water, the soldiers fell out and sat breakfasting in the road or on the verge, taking bread and cheese from the large pouches at their waists. The men in the jacks and brigandynes looked utterly weary.

'I don't think I could have stood up to this march like them,' Barak said. 'Five years ago, maybe. That arsehole Goodryke, he didn't care whether I'd make a good soldier or not. He just wanted to make an example of me.'

'Yes, he did.'

'That Snodin's another one. You can see he has it in for the jug-eared fellow.'

'He does.' I looked behind us, up the road. 'What's that?'

A plume of dust had appeared in the distance, men riding fast. Snodin ordered the recruits slumped in the roadway to move. Half a dozen riders passed us, all in the King's livery, heading south. At their head was a little man in a grey robe, his horse draped in a cloth of green and white, the royal colours. The party slowed to cross the bridge and I recognized the neat pale face of Sir Richard Rich.

Chapter Fourteen

AS THE MORNING wore on I found the journey increasingly wearying. For the marching men it was much harder, and I noticed those with old shoes were beginning to limp. In front of us dark sweat stains were visible on all the brigandynes now, outlining the metal squares sewn into the fabric. The soldiers slowed and the drum sounded to make them pick up the pace. Some were grousing by the time the trumpet sounded a halt just outside a village, beside a large pond fringed with willows. A couple of white-aproned old goodwives approached us and Leacon spoke to them, leaning down from his horse. Then he conferred briefly with the captain before calling back to the men.

'We stop here for lunch! The villagers have ham and bacon to sell. Purser, get some money! And the jacks and brigandynes can come off now!'

'Can we buy some women as well as food, sir?' It was the young corporal from the rear section. The soldiers laughed, and Leacon smiled.

'Ah, Stephen Carswell, never at a loss for a jest!'

'Hillingdon men are more used to donkeys than women!' the bully Sulyard shouted. He laughed loudly, showing a mouth half-empty of teeth.

The men fell out and sat at the roadside again, apart from a few who went to the carts and began unloading biscuit, cheese and a barrel of beer. I had to admire the smoothness of the company's organization. Leacon and the captain led their horses to the water, and we lawyers followed.

While the animals drank, Dyrick went to sit under the shade of a willow, Feaveryear following. Barak and I went over to where Leacon stood alone, watching his men. Some were straggling towards the village.

'Hard work, being in charge of a hundred men,' I observed.

'Ay. We have our grumblers, one or two rebellious spirits. Carswell there is our jester. A good man—I think he is one of those who will still joke as they march into battle.'

'That straw-haired fellow seems a nasty piece of work. He started the trouble with the other man this morning, you know.'

He sighed. 'Yes, Sulyard is a troublemaker. But Snodin dislikes poor Pygeon for his clumsy ways. Junior officers will sometimes take against a man for little reason.'

'You are right there,' Barak agreed feelingly.

'I think it was unjust,' I said.

Leacon gave me an impatient look. 'This is the army, Master Shardlake, not a law court. Snodin's job is to keep discipline and he may have to do that in battle, so I avoid gainsaying his decisions. Hard as he is, I need him. Sir Franklin is—well, you have met him.'

'What was that business about buttons earlier?'

'You may have noticed some soldiers have buttons on their shirts, while others tie them with aiglets. Sir Franklin believes only gentlemen should be allowed to wear buttons. It is, shall we say, something of an obsession.'

'Buttons?' Barak repeated disbelievingly.

'Yes. Not that he is altogether wrong, the men like keeping as many as they can of the social distinctions they had before. That is part of the trouble between Sulyard and Pygeon. They come from the same village—Pygeon is a labourer's son, Sulyard the son of a yeoman. Though only a second son.'

'Whose inheritance was ever what the cat left on the malt heap.'

'He was keen to join the company, and he is a good longbow-man.'

'Would there had never been need to recruit this army,' I said.

Leacon looked across to the village, then round to where a long field of strips crested the downland. People were hard at work weeding their rows. He spoke with sudden passion. 'We have to protect these people, Master Shardlake. That is why this army was levied. And now I must find where the captain has wandered off to.' He strode away.

'I think I offended him,' I said to Barak.

'He must know what people think of the war.'

'Yet in the end he is right about the need to defend ourselves. And he and his men are the ones who must do it.'

'Come on,' Barak said. 'Let's go to the village. I wouldn't mind a piece of bacon.'

THE VILLAGE had no real centre; longhouses of various sizes were jumbled together at odd angles, paths weaving between them. In front of the bakehouse, a low square building, a table was loaded with bacon and thick slices of ham. Several soldiers were arguing with the women who had come out to us and now stood behind it. Sulyard was at the centre of the argument, shouting. More villagers were coming out of their houses.

One of the old women was waving a coin at Sulyard with just the air of outraged fury I had seen in Cheapside ten days before. 'This is no proper coin!' she shouted. 'It's not silver! Shame on you, the King's soldiers trying to cheat us!'

Sulyard bawled back. 'It's one of the new coins, you doltish country mare! It's a testoon, a shilling!'

A tall old man stepped up to him, grim-faced. 'Don't you insult my wife, ape!' He gave Sulyard a little push. Another soldier stepped forward and shoved him back.

'Don't you push Sulyard! Ape he is, but he's our ape!'

Carswell, the corporal, raised his hands. 'Come, lads. Don't make trouble, or we'll end marching in the jacks all day.'

'These clods don't understand the coinage!' Sulyard said with a mocking laugh. The growing crowd of villagers murmured ominously. Barefoot children looked on excitedly.

'Please,' Carswell called out, 'be calm! Our ape speaks true, these are the new coins of the realm!' Sulyard gave him a nasty look.

'Then pay in the old ones!' a young man called out.

The young archer Llewellyn stepped forward. 'They're all spent. Please, Goodwife, we've had scarce anything but bread and cheese for three days.'

The old woman folded her arms. 'That's your problem, my pretty.'

'We should send that old woman against the damned French,' Sulyard shouted. 'They'd flee at the sight of her.'

A couple of villagers, older men, stepped forward. Carswell looked round desperately, then saw me. He pointed. 'See, we have a gentleman with us, a lawyer. He'll confirm what we say.'

The villagers gave me hostile looks. I hesitated, then said, 'There is indeed a new coinage.'

'So soldiers take hunchback lawyers with them now to cheat folks!' Nothing could mollify the old woman. The villagers growled agreement.

I stepped forward. 'See, the coins have the King's head on them.'

'It's not silver!' the old woman shrieked in my face. 'I know how silver looks and feels!'

'It's mixed with copper. They are worth eightpence of the old money in London.'

'Ninepence!' one of the soldiers called out hopefully.

'Eightpence,' I repeated firmly.

The old woman shook her head. 'Don't care. Don't want that rubbish!'

'Come, Margaret,' one of the old men said. 'We killed Martin's pig to get this meat, we need to sell it.'

I took my purse. 'I'll pay, in the old money. Then the soldiers can repay me, eightpence for a new testoon.'

There was a murmur of agreement among the villagers. The old woman still looked suspicious, but said, 'You can have the lot for four shillings in proper silver. It should be five given the insults I've had, but we'll say four.'

It was a hard bargain, but I nodded agreement. The tension, which had been singing in the hot midday air, relaxed as I handed over a dozen silver groats, which the old woman examined ostentatiously before nodding and waving a hand at the meat. The soldiers took portions. The villagers returned to their houses, giving us hostile looks over their shoulders.

Carswell collected money from the recruits, then approached me. 'Thank you, sir, on behalf of the men. Here is their money. If we'd got into a fight we'd have been in the shit with the officers.' He hesitated, then added, 'It would be a favour if you did not mention this to Captain Leacon.'

'Ay,' Tom Llewellyn added. 'We know you are his friend.'

I smiled. 'Word has travelled fast.'

Sulyard swaggered by, giving us a dirty look. I noticed he wore pearl buttons on his jerkin, and remembered what Leacon said about the differences in the soldiers' clothes. He said, 'You stopped a promising fight brewing there, Carswell, you dog-hearted scut.'

'With old people and children?' Carswell asked. Sulyard was now attracting hostile looks from some of the other soldiers. He turned and swaggered away.

'Sorry about him, sir,' Carswell said. 'Come on, Welshy, let's get back.'

I looked at Llewellyn curiously. 'You are not Welsh, by your voice?'

'No, sir. But my father is. He trained me to the warbow,' he added proudly. A shadow crossed his face. 'Though I like my work at the forge too.'

Carswell nudged him. 'And your girly, eh? He's to be married at Christmas.'

'I congratulate you.'

'But where shall we be at Christmas?' Llewellyn asked sadly.

'We'll beat those Frenchies,' Carswell said confidently. 'You'll be happily in bed with your Tessy come Twelfth Night. If they have beds in Yiewsley village: I've heard you all still sleep with the cows.'

'No, that's Harefield men, like Sulyard.' Llewellyn looked at me. 'There are four of us here from our village.' He shook his head sadly. 'When we left, the girls garlanded us with flowers, everyone stood cheering as a lute player led us down the road. A far cry from our reception here.'

'Come on,' Carswell said. 'Let's get this bacon back to camp, before I start drooling.'

They walked away. 'That's got us well in with the troops,' Barak said.

'Jesu knows we need some friends on this journey.'

He looked at me. 'That was Richard Rich back there on the road, wasn't it?'

'Yes. Probably on his way to Portsmouth. The sooner we get to Hoyland Priory and back again, the better.'

AFTER LUNCH the company rested for an hour, sitting out the hottest part of the day. Then the soldiers were called back into line.

We marched on steadily. By the time we reached Guildford, late in the afternoon, some of the recruits were drooping with exhaustion. We marched through the town without stopping, a few small boys running alongside and cheering, but most of the townsfolk barely looking at us; many companies of soldiers would have passed through these last weeks.

Not long after we mounted a crest of sandstone hills, then descended into a river valley. It was about six o'clock, the sun starting to sink. We saw Godalming at last, cradled by the hills and dominated by the tall spire of a large church. A man stood at the gate of a meadow, looking at us expectantly. At a signal from Leacon, the men fell out and sank exhausted to the roadside. Leacon rode back to us.

'I am leaving Snodin in charge of the men,' he said. 'That is the field allotted them to camp in tonight. I am riding into town with the purser to buy rations and see if I can find some new shoes. Some of the men are limping badly.'

'That they are.'

'I'll probably have to pay a high price. How merchants are profiting from this war. I'll return to stay with the men, but you and your friends may as well ride in with me and find an inn. We can pick you up on the main road as we march through tomorrow. At six, we have to keep up the pace.'

'We'll be ready,' Dyrick answered, though he was as tired and dusty as I.

WE RODE INTO Godalming. Leacon and his purser left us to find the mayor, and we went to look for an inn. Most were full, but we found places at last. Barak and Feaveryear would have to share a room again. I went up to my chamber, took off my boots and lay down on the mattress, a feather one this time. I was almost asleep when there was a knock at the door and Barak entered.

'Come with me into town,' he begged. 'Let's find somewhere else to eat. I can't bear a whole evening with Feaveryear.'

I heaved myself to my feet, wincing at my sore back and thighs. 'Nor I with Dyrick.'

We found another inn, with better food than the night before. It was a companionable meal without Dyrick and Feaveryear. But as we stepped out into the street again I felt an urge to be alone for a while; I had been constantly in company for two days.

'I think I will look at the church,' I said.

'A spot of prayer?'

'Churches are good for contemplation.'

He sighed. 'Back to nestle with Feaveryear, then.'

I walked up the main street and into the church. The hushed space reminded me of childhood days, for this was as traditional a church as the law allowed. The evening sun shone straight in through the brightly stained west window, making the interior a dim red. A chantry priest recited Masses for the dead in a side chapel.

I walked slowly down the nave. Then I saw, in another side chapel, bent before the altar rail, a figure in a dusty white coat. George Leacon. He must have heard my footsteps stop for he turned round. He looked utterly weary.

'Forgive me,' I said quietly. 'I came to look at the church.'

He smiled sadly. 'I was trying to communicate with my Maker.'

'I remember at York you were working hard at reading the Bible.'

'I still have that bible.' He looked at me, his face anguished now. 'These days it strikes me how full of war the Bible is. The Old Testament, at least, and the Book of Revelation.'

I sat on the altar-rail steps. After that long day in the saddle I doubted I could kneel. 'Yes,' I agreed.

'I need to get away from images of war.' Leacon's tone was suddenly fierce. 'I read the New Testament, I pray for images of battle to stop crowding into my head, but—they will not.'

I wondered again at how the open boyish face I remembered had become so thin, so stark. 'You said you were in France last year,' I prompted gently.

'Ay.' He turned so he was sitting beside me. 'Those recruits, they have no notion what war is. When you knew me four years ago, Master Shardlake, I had had an easy form of soldiering. Garrison duty on the northern border or in Calais, or guarding the King's palaces. No war, only border ruffles with the Scots. Yes, I saw reivers there brought back dead for their heads to be displayed on Berwick Castle. But I had never killed a man. And then, you remember, I was dismissed.'

'Unjustly.'

'And so I returned to my parents' farm, which you saved for us in that court action.'

'I owed you a debt.'

'That was a good life, if a hard one. But my parents grew older, they could do less work and we had to hire labourers. Then, in the spring of last year, my old captain came. He said the King was going to invade France and they needed all the soldiering men they could get. The pay was good and I agreed.' He looked at me intently. 'I had no idea what it would be like. Does that not sound stupid, childish, coming from one who was a professional soldier?'

'What happened?'

Leacon now spoke with a sort of quiet, desperate fervour. 'I sailed first to Scotland with Lord Hertford's fleet. Did you know, the King ordered him to wage a war that would spare neither women nor children? Lord Hertford did not want to, but the King insisted. We landed at a place called Leith and sacked it, burned every house to the ground and set the women and children running into the countryside. My company stayed there so I saw no more action then, but the rest of the army went to Edinburgh and did the same, razed everything to the ground. The men came back laden with booty, anything of value they could take from the houses. The boats were so laden it was feared some might sink. But spoil is part of war—without hope of gain soldiers are reluctant to march into enemy country.'

'And now the Scots threaten to invade us, with the soldiers the French have sent them.'

'Yes. King Francis wants England humbled for good.' Leacon ran a hand through his curls. 'We sailed straight from Scotland to France. In July, just a year ago. I was in charge of a half-company of archers. They are all dead now.'

'All?'

'Every one. We landed in Calais and marched straight to Boulogne. The countryside between had already been ravaged by foraging soldiers. As in Scotland the fields had been trampled, villages burned. I remember local people standing by the road, old people and women and children in rags, everything they owned taken or destroyed. Starving in the rain, there was nothing but rain and cold winds in France last year. I remember how pale their faces were.' His voice fell almost to a whisper. 'There was a woman, a baby in one skinny arm, holding out the other for alms. As I marched past I saw her baby was dead, its eyes open and glassy. Its mother hadn't realized yet.' Leacon stared at me fixedly. 'We were not allowed to stop. I could see it affected the men but I had to encourage them, keep them marching. You have to, you have to.' He stopped, with a great sigh. 'And the French will do the same if they land, for revenge. Their captains will cry, "Havoc," and it will be the turn of their men to take booty from us.'

'All because the King wanted glory,' I said bitterly.

A spasm of disgust crossed Leacon's face. 'We marched right past Henry when we reached the outskirts of Boulogne. He was in his camp, all the splendid tents up on a hill. I saw him, a huge figure encased from head to foot in armour, sitting on the biggest horse I ever saw, watching the battle. Well out of range of the French cannons pounding our men from the city, of course.' Leacon swallowed hard, then continued. 'Our company marched uphill, under fire from the French—Boulogne is on a hill, you see. All our forces could do was hunker down under mud embankments, firing back into the town with our cannon, moving forward by inches. I saw Boulogne turned to rubble.' He looked at me, then said, 'You will not know what it is like to kill a man.'

I hesitated. 'I did kill a man once. I had to or he would have killed me. I drowned him, held him under the water of a muddy pond. I still remember the sounds he made. Later I was nearly drowned myself, in a sewer tunnel flooded with water. Ever since I have been terrified of drowning, yet felt it would be a kind of justice.'

'There is no justice,' Leacon said quietly. 'No meaning. That is what I fear. I beg God to take my memories from me but he will not.' He looked at the richly gilded statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar, her expression quiet, contemplative, immeasurably distant. He resumed his terrible story.

'When the part of Boulogne nearest us was blown almost to dust we were ordered to advance. The King had gone home by then; it was September, wetter and muddier than ever. Hundreds of us struggled uphill through the mud, French cannon firing down on us all the time. Then, when we got closer, their archers and arque-busiers fired from among the tumbled stones. The nearer we got to the town the more men fell. My company of archers shot many French cannoneers and archers. But we were a target ourselves, and many of my men were blown to fragments by the cannons.' He laughed suddenly, wildly, a terrible sound echoing round the dark church. 'Fragments,' Leacon repeated. 'A little word for such a meaning. All that great muddy slope covered with hands and bits of legs, great joints of meat in scraps of uniform, pools of bloody slime among the mud and tumbled stone. A friend's head in a puddle, still with the helmet on.' He cast his head down, gave a mighty sigh, then looked up.

'Enough survived to climb the rubble into the town. Then it was hand-to-hand fighting, swords and bills, hacking and crunching and blood everywhere. The French—and they are brave men, as good as ours—retreated to the upper part of Boulogne and held out another week. I was wounded slightly in my side, I passed out and woke shivering in pain in a leaky tent, trying to keep rats away from my wound.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'They said I had been a brave soldier and promoted me to petty-captain.'

'Brave indeed, in a situation so terrible I can barely imagine.'

'It isn't the fighting in the town I remember most,' Leacon said. 'Though I killed several Frenchmen then and was myself in mortal danger. It's that hill below, like the inside of a slaughterhouse. So many dead. Many nights I dream I am there again. I struggle through that landscape, looking for pieces of my men, trying to identify them so I can put them together again.' He took a deep breath. 'If we fight the French ships, if we board, that will be hand-to-hand fighting. I got Snodin to address the men on the second day, tell them what it might be like. I know he was at Boulogne too. I could not bring myself to do it.'

I could think of nothing to say. I put my hand on his arm.

'I'm a fine fellow to lead soldiers, eh?' He laughed bitterly. 'When I am like this within?'

'You lead them well. I can see they respect you.'

'They would not if they could see how I really am. I can control myself for most of the time. But then I think of what I may be leading those men and boys to. Some like Sulyard are keen to fight, but even they have no conception what it will be like.'

'George, if you were not leading them it might be someone with less care for his men, who would not trouble to get good shoes for them.'

'I hate the drums.' There was desperation in Leacon's voice now. 'When we marched uphill at Boulogne the companies were always led by drummers, beating as loud as they could to compete with the cannon. I hate the sound, I always hear it in my dreams.' He looked at me. 'If only I could go home, to the farm. But I can't, we are all sworn in. You should thank God, Master Shardlake, that you are a civilian.'

Chapter Fifteen

THAT NIGHT I slept deeply. When the innkeeper woke me at five I had a vague memory of a dream involving Ellen, which left me with a heavy, troubled feeling.

The four of us were waiting on our horses outside the inn when the company marched through. Dyrick was in one of his sulky moods again, perhaps because I had abandoned him the night before. Sir Franklin rode at the head of his men with a haughty expression, Leacon with his face set and closed.

We took our places at the rear as the soldiers tramped south once more. Many of the recruits looked dull-eyed with the long boredom of the march; but several who had been limping now wore new shoes. The whiffler Snodin was again marching just in front of me; he reeked like a beer keg.

Soon after leaving Godalming, we crossed the border into Hampshire. We were in the western fringes of the Weald, mostly flat, forested country, massive old oaks among elm and beech. Areas of hunting ground were fenced in with high, strong wooden palings. We marched through tunnel-like lanes where the trees sometimes met overhead, a green dimness with spatters of bright sunlight on the road. A rich loamy smell came from the woodland. Once I saw a dozen bright butterflies dancing in a patch of sunlight. On the march there had been a constant sound of birds flapping away at our approach, but the butterflies ignored us as we passed, many of the men turning to watch them.

Again we halted near midday, in a broad, wooded lane near a stream. The horses were led to the water and the men crowded round the carts to receive the rations bought at Godalming. I heard complaints that there was only fruit and bread and cheese again, though a fat man who was the company purser pleaded the limited buying power of the new coins. One man called out, 'We've got our bows, let's hunt our own supplies. Come on, Goddams, let's get some rabbits or partridges, maybe a deer!'

There were shouts of agreement. Sir Franklin, like Leacon still mounted, turned and stared with an outraged expression. Leacon dismounted hastily and went up to the men.

'No!' he called out. 'This land is fenced, it's the hunting ground of some gentleman or even the King! I won't have you breaking the law!'

'Come, Captain!' someone called out. 'We're country lads, we can soon catch something.'

'Ay! Master Purser's keeping us short. We can't fight on empty bellies!'

'And what if you meet a forester?' Leacon asked.

To my surprise Pygeon spoke up, his words tumbling over each other in his nervousness. 'God made the forests and game to serve man, sir, not to be fenced in for the sport of those who have full bellies!' There were more shouts of agreement, and for the first time I sensed a challenge to Leacon's authority. The whiffler Snodin marched across, purple-faced. 'Rebellious bastard!' he shouted right in Pygeon's face, adorning it with spittle.

'Drunken old cunt,' I heard Sulyard murmur. Several men laughed. Leacon stared them down. Many lowered their eyes but not all. Some crossed their arms and looked defiant.

'Maybe you're right!' Leacon said loudly. 'I'm a poor farmer's son myself, I've no time for enclosers of land! But if you take game and meet a forester then you'll hang, soldiers or no. And that'll be a fine thing to be said of a company of the warbow! I promise when we get to Liphook I'll make sure you get a good meal, if I have to hold Master Purser upside down and shake the last groat from his doublet!'

'Can I help you shake him, Captain?' Carswell called. As in the village the day before, his humour broke the tension and the men laughed.

After eating, many of the men went to a spot on the wattle fence enclosing the hunting park, ostentatiously pissing against it. After my own repast of bread and bacon, I walked over to where Leacon sat. He had handled the angry soldiers skilfully, and it was hard to realize this was the same man as the agonized figure I had spoken with the night before. 'How are you and your friends bearing up with the ride?' he asked. I sensed a new reserve in his voice.

'Stiff and sore, but that is only to be expected.'

'Your colleague's young clerk finds it hard, I think.'

'Feaveryear is managing. Just.' I looked at Leacon keenly, wondering if he regretted his confidences. 'A couple of men were arguing just now over whether a bowl was theirs or the King's,' I said to make conversation.

'Yes, some brought their own but many had to have bowls and spoons issued from the stores. A wooden bowl may be a prized possession in a poor family. It is the same with the bows: only those with good ones, like Llewellyn, were allowed to bring their own. Most are standard issue from the armouries. It is the poorer men who hadn't equipment to bring, and yet their pay will be docked. Strange, is it not?' He smiled mirthlessly.

Dyrick came up to us, nodding to Leacon before addressing me. 'Master Shardlake, I would speak with you confidentially, if I may.'

We sat together at the side of the road. The rest of us were tanned now, but Dyrick's face was still red, sunburned skin peeling off one cheek above the coppery stubble on his lean face. He said, 'Master Hobbey has turned part of the priory lands into a hunting park. Only a small one, but well stocked with game.' He gave me one of his hard looks. 'He is to hold his first hunting party in ten days' time. Many local gentlefolk will be present. It will be an important event for my client.'

'I hope we shall be gone by then.'

'But lest we are not, I trust you will not tell any of the local society the purpose of our visit.'

'As I said about the villagers, Brother Dyrick, I look to make no trouble for Master Hobbey. But I will make no commitments about what I may say or do.'

'I shall be watching you carefully, Brother Shardlake.' Dyrick's expression was intent, his green-brown eyes locked on mine. 'My client has come far, from wool merchant to country gentleman. Perhaps one day he may be Sir Nicholas. I will not see his prospects harmed.'

'All I want is to ensure Hugh Curteys' lands and welfare are properly looked after. Why can you not realize that?'

'You will soon see that they are.'

'Then all will be well, Brother.'

There was silence for a moment, then Dyrick asked, 'Have you ever hunted?'

'When I was young, once. Though it was not to my taste, the beasts harried along to their deaths. They have no chance.'

Dyrick laughed scoffingly. 'There speaks the Court of Requests lawyer. Even deer get your sympathy. Well, it will be my first hunt if we are still there, though like you I hope we will not be.' He grunted. 'I did not come from the class that hunts. I am the son of a poor clerk—I have had to struggle up the ladder of life. From Church school to a scholarship at the Temple, to a lowly job as a lawyer at the King's court—'

'You worked at court? Perhaps you met people I know. Robert Warner, for example?'

'The Queen's solicitor? No, I had a grubbing clerkly job. I left to test my wits in litigation.' He looked at me hard again. 'Master Hobbey comes from lowly origins too. But I hear your father was a rich farmer, Brother Shardlake.' There was a sneer in his voice.

'Not so rich, a yeoman only. And I was told my grandfather's grandfather was a serf. That is where most of us have come from in the end.'

'I admire those who come from nothing and aim high.'

I smiled. 'You are one of our "new-made men", Brother Dyrick.'

'And proud of it. In England we are not slaves like the French.'

We looked at the soldiers. A little group with Sulyard at its centre were talking in low voices and laughing unpleasantly, mocking someone no doubt, and Barak had struck up a conversation with Carswell and the Welsh boy. Dyrick stood, brushing grass from his rear. 'Another thing,' he added, 'your man Barak, like Feaveryear, will be expected to stay out of the house. Master Hobbey does not approve of over-familiar servants.'

He walked away. I watched him, reflecting with a sardonic smile that new-made men are often the worst snobs.

DURING THE afternoon clouds began rolling in from the west and it turned cooler. I saw Leacon looking at the sky. A fierce downpour such as had been common in June would soon turn the road from dust to mud. Leacon nodded at the drummer, who began a fast beat to get the men to pick up their pace.

We stopped briefly on another woodland road at about four to water the horses at a pond and give them some rest. Beer was passed round and I took the chance to tell Barak of my conversation with Dyrick.

'Hobbey will probably lodge Feaveryear and me in the woodshed.' He nodded to where the clerk sat on a bank a little way off, reading a psalter.

'I think we'll need three days to take depositions and see what case Hugh Curteys is in. Then we get ourselves back.'

'What if they are doing something nasty to him?'

'Then we will bring him back with us, and Dyrick can—'

'Fuck himself with a red-hot poker. I heard one of the lads telling in detail how he'd do that to Snodin.'

'Look at that!' We turned at the sound of a shout. One of the soldiers was pointing over the trees to the east. 'A forest fire.' I saw a column of smoke rising up a mile or so away. It grew denser, and I caught the first smell of smoke.

'It's not a fire,' young Llewellyn said. 'It's charcoal burners. We're on the western fringes of the iron-working area here.'

I looked over at him curiously. 'How do you know?'

'I've been there, sir. When I finish my apprenticeship I plan to move to Sussex to work. Anyone with skill at the forge can command good money in the blast furnaces. I went to Sussex last year to look for opportunities—there are ironworks everywhere, making everything from arrowheads to decorated firebacks. I went to Buxted, where they cast cannon. What a place.' He shook his head in wonder. 'Dozens of men working in huge buildings. You can hear the noise miles away, but the wages are good.' He bent and picked a blade of grass, slowly tearing it. 'Tess and my parents do not wish me to go.' He looked at me seriously. 'But it is a way for a man like me who cannot write to better himself. Is that not a good thing to do?'

'I suppose so. But for those around you, perhaps not. Though it is easy for me to say.'

'I will do it.' He frowned and picked another blade of grass.

'So we are near the Sussex border?' I asked.

'Yes. The ironworks here in the west are fewer and more old-fashioned, but there is still plenty of work for them.' He turned and looked at me, the light blue eyes in his tanned face anxious. 'Do you not think my idea a good one, sir?'

'I hear the foundries are dangerous places to work.'

'Less dangerous than soldiering,' Llewellyn answered with feeling.

TOWARDS SIX the company halted outside the little town of Liphook, where a local man waited beside our allotted meadow. The soldiers marched in and began unloading the tents under Snodin's supervision. The clouds above were still heavy and thick, the air cool, but it was not yet raining. Leacon told us he was sleeping with the company again, but advised us to find an inn; the man whose field it was had assured him there would be heavy rain before the evening was out. Leacon's manner towards me still had that new remoteness, which saddened me.

'You don't let the men into the towns?' I asked him.

'No. Strict orders. They'd just get drunk and there is always someone who will cause trouble.'

'What of Sir Franklin?'

'He'll stay with the men. He believes it's a captain's place, though sleeping in a tent gives him gout. Now I should go and supervise things; I will come into town with the purser later, and try to get some decent food for the men. Meet us in the town square tomorrow morning at seven. Leave your horses in camp if you like,' he said. 'We'll bring them.'

'Seven. A late start, then.'

'I have promised the men a shave before we leave tomorrow morning. One of the recruits is a barber.'

'I could do with one too.'

'For archers it is a point of pride. Long hair and a beard may get in the way if you are drawing arrows at the rate of half a dozen a minute.'

'Perhaps we might meet in Liphook later, for a drink?'

'No, I had best return with the supplies. Goodnight.' He walked away.

LIPHOOK WAS small, a village rather than a town, and there were only two inns. As at Cobham, there were carts everywhere. There was only one room at the better inn, which I let Dyrick and Feaveryear take. A small bribe secured Barak and I a little room at the other. Barak flopped down on the bed, sending up a cloud of dust from his clothes.

'I wonder if Dyrick will let Feaveryear crouch praying in their room. Dear God, I hope Master Hobbey doesn't make me share with him.'

'Maybe he will convert you to his saintly ways.'

'Let's hope we find Hugh Curteys happy as a pig in muck.'

'Amen to that.' I stretched my legs. 'God's death, I swear I heard the bones creak.' I hesitated, then said, 'I think I will go for a walk, stretch my legs. And see if I can find a barber.'

Barak looked up in surprise. 'Are you not going to rest?'

'I will be back later.' I went out quickly, uncomfortable that I had not told the truth. I had decided Liphook was a good place to begin my enquiries about Ellen. Having sworn not to involve Barak, I had not mentioned her name since we left London. Nor had he, though I knew he would not have forgotten my intention to investigate her past.

I DECIDED to ask first at the larger inn. I paused, though, at a barber's shop in a side street and had a shave. Dyrick, had mentioned earlier that he would look for a barber in Liphook and I found myself hoping he would not find it; let him turn up at Hoyland Priory looking unkempt. I shook my head: his endless competitiveness was infecting me.

The inn parlour was busy and I had to elbow my way to the serving hatch, where a plump, weary-looking man stood handing out mugs of beer. I waited my turn, ordered a beer, then laid a groat on the bar and leaned forward. 'I am looking for information about a place over the Sussex border,' I said quietly. 'Rolfswood.'

He looked at me curiously. 'I come from near there.'

'How far is it?'

'You need to get off the Portsmouth road south of Horndean, then take the road east about five miles.'

'Is it a big place?'

'No. A little market town.' He looked at me curiously. 'What d'ye want at Rolfswood? Not much there since the ironworks went.'

'They work iron there?'

'Used to. There's a small seam to the north. There was a little bloomery furnace in Rolfswood, but since it burned down the ore gets taken east.'

'Burned down?' I remembered Ellen's face, her words: He burned! The poor man, he was all on fire!

'When I was a young man the owner and his assistant were killed. It must be twenty years ago.'

'An accident while they were—what is it—casting?'

The potman took the groat, then leaned over the bar. 'No. It was during the summer, the old bloomery foundries only operate in the winter. What's your interest, sir?'

'Can you remember the names of the people who were killed?'

'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.'

IT WAS POURING with rain by the time I reached my inn, another summer storm. Dressed as I was in only shirt and jerkin, I was soaked through. The man I had bribed to get us a place at the inn invited me to come through to the kitchen and sit by the fire, hoping no doubt for another coin. I was glad to take up the offer; I needed somewhere to think hard about what the man at the other inn had told me.

I stared into the flames as they rose. A foundry had burned down in Rolfswood two decades before, and two men had died. From her words at the Bedlam Ellen had seen a fire, seen at least one man burn. Could this have been some accident she witnessed that had driven her out of her wits? But then where did the attack on her fit in? Despite the fire I felt chilled. What if the deaths of the foundrymaster and his assistant had not been accidental? What if Ellen had seen murder and that was why she was hidden away in the Bedlam? It began to seem that Barak had been right to warn me of danger.

The thought crossed my mind of not journeying to Rolfswood after all. I could return to London and leave things as they had always been. Ellen had been safe, after all, for nineteen years; if I meddled with murder I could bring danger down on her again.

The flames in the fireplace were growing higher. Suddenly they lit, from below, some words on the fireback that made me start back and almost fall from my stool.

Grieve not, thy heart is mine.

A middle-aged woman pouring ingredients for a pottage into a bowl at the kitchen table looked at me in surprise.

'Are you all right, sir?' She hurried across. 'You have gone very pale.'

'What is that?' I asked, pointing. 'Those words, there, do you see them?'

She looked at me oddly. 'You often get words and phrases carved on firebacks in these parts.'

'What does it mean? Whose heart?'

She looked more worried than ever. 'I don't know, maybe the maker's wife had died or something. Sir, you look ill.'

I was sweating now, I felt my face flush. 'I just had a—a strange turn. I will go upstairs.'

She nodded at me sympathetically. ' 'Tis the thought of all those Frenchies sailing towards us, it makes me feel strange too. Such times, sir, such times.'

Chapter Sixteen

THE NEXT DAY, our fourth on the road, was uneventful. It was hot and sunny again, the air muggy. Fortunately the rain had not lasted long enough to damage the roads. We passed through more country of wood and pasture, reaching Petersfield towards midday and halting there to rest.

We moved on through a countryside that was starting to change; the ground beneath us chalky, with more open fields, rising steadily as we climbed into the Hampshire Downs. There was ever more activity on the highway, many carts that stopped to let us pass at the sound of our drummer's trumpet. Once we saw a company of local militia training in a field; they waved at us and cheered. I began to notice tall structures on hilltops, thick posts supporting piles of wood soaked in tar, always with a man standing guard—the beacons that would be lit should the enemy fleet be sighted, which I knew ran in a chain across the coastal counties.

At one point a post rider in royal colours passed us, and for once it was the soldiers' turn to pull aside. Barak's eyes followed the rider as he disappeared in a cloud of dust; I guessed he was wondering when a letter might come from Tamasin. He gave me a quizzical look. Last night he had noticed my agitated state on my return to our room, but had seemed to believe me when I said I was only chilled from my soaking. I remembered the fireback and suppressed a shiver. It had been an extraordinary thing to see just when I had been thinking of abandoning my investigations into Ellen's past. I did not believe in omens, but it had unsettled me deeply.

Towards six we halted again outside a field. As on previous evenings a local man had been posted to wait for us, a pile of brushwood beside him for the soldiers' bedding. The drummer had sounded a slow, steady beat for the last hour, for the men were tired. Looking ahead to the front of the column, I saw that Leacon's shoulders were held tight, his head hunched down. He spoke to the man by the field, ordered Snodin to lead the men in, then rode back to us.

'I am afraid, gentlemen, you must spend the evening in camp. We are outside Buriton: the man tells me it is full to bursting with travellers and carters. No chance of a place at the inn.'

'You mean we'll have to sleep in this field?' Dyrick asked in outraged tones.

'You can sleep in the roadway of you like, sir,' Leacon answered shortly, 'but I will offer you a place in our camp if you wish.'

'We should be grateful,' I said.

'I will see if I can find a tent for you.' Leacon nodded to me and rode off. Dyrick grunted. 'We should arrive at Hoyland tomorrow morning, with luck. I'll be glad to get away from these stinking soldiers.'

'And you were telling me how you sprang from common stock, Brother Dyrick. After this journey we all stink the same.'

AN HOUR LATER I sat on the tussocky grass outside our tent, massaging my tired legs. Blankets had been provided from the carts, but it would be a hard night lying on the earth. I was glad the journey was nearly over; I had found the fast, steady pace increasingly taxing.

I looked across the tented camp. The sun was setting, the men sitting in little groups around their tents, some of them mending their jacks. I was impressed anew by the skilled organization of the company. On the edge of the field I saw Dyrick walking slowly with Sir Franklin, the older man limping. I had noticed Dyrick took whatever chance arose to talk to him, though he ignored Leacon. No more determined social climber than a new man, I thought. Perhaps this characteristic had drawn him to Nicholas Hobbey; like attracting like.

Leacon was walking from group to group, stopping for a word with the men. Unlike Sir Franklin he made a point of being with the soldiers, listening to their complaints. Snodin, I saw, was sitting in front of a tent on his own, drinking slowly and steadily from a large flagon of beer, frowning at anyone who looked at him. On the edge of the field Barak sat round a campfire with a dozen soldiers from the rearward section. I envied his ease with the young men; since the encounter in the village most had been pleasant enough to me, but with the cautious reserve due to a gentleman. Carswell, the corporal, was there with the Welsh boy Llewellyn. I had noticed the two seemed to be friends, though they were quite unalike: young Llewellyn was a fine lad but with little humour, while Carswell was brimming with it. But every jester needs his foil. Sulyard, the troublemaker, was sitting there, wearing his brightly dyed brigandyne. He cuffed his neighbour on the head and spoke, in loud slurred tones I could hear across the field.

'You call me master.'

'Piss off, you lumpish puttock!'

I decided to go and join them; I still liked to keep an eye on Barak when there was drink around, for all he would call me an old hen, and I had a couple of questions for Llewellyn.

As I crossed the field, I noticed Feaveryear sitting with Pygeon outside a tent. That poor young fellow, how his ears stuck out. Feaveryear was talking animatedly, though Pygeon was carving something on his knife handle, peering at it closely in the fading light. As I watched, Feaveryear got up and walked away. Pygeon gave me a hostile look.

'Have you come to convert me too, sir?'

'I do not know what you mean, fellow.'

'Yonder clerk would have me deny the blood of Christ is in the Eucharist. He should be careful, men have been burned for less. We cleave to the old ways in Harefield.'

I sighed. If Feaveryear was starting to preach his radical views to the soldiers, it was as well we would part company with them on the morrow. 'No, Pygeon,' I said. 'I am no preacher of any doctrine.' He grunted and returned to his carving. The knife was one of the long ones carried by all the soldiers, serviceable equally as tool and weapon. I saw what he was carving, MARY SAVE OUR SOULS, in lettering of remarkable intricacy and skill.

'That is well done,' I said.

'I look to the Virgin to save us if we come to battle.'

'I am going to join the men by the fire,' I said. 'Will you come?'

Pygeon shook his head and bent again to his carving. I wondered if he feared more mockery from Sulyard. I went across to the fire, lowering myself gingerly to the earth next to Llewellyn and Carswell. I saw the men were slowly roasting a couple of rabbits and a chicken.

'A mug of beer, sir?' Carswell offered. I took it and glanced at Barak, but he was deep in conversation with some of the other men.

'Thank you. What are you cooking? If you've been poaching you had best make sure Captain Giffard does not see you.'

He laughed. 'The local man said we could hunt some rabbits. There's too many of them round here, they're eating the crops. Some of the men had a little practice with their bows in the woods.'

'That looks like a chicken. Not taken from some farm, I hope.'

'No, sir,' Carswell answered, his face suddenly solemn. His features, unremarkable enough, had the mobility of a comic. 'That's a type of rabbit they have down here.'

'It's got wings.'

'Strange place, Hampshire.'

I laughed, then turned to Llewellyn. 'There is something I would ask you,' I said, in a low voice so Barak would not hear.

'Yes, sir?'

'You spoke yesterday about the ironworks in the Weald. What is the difference between the new furnaces and the old ones—the bloomeries, I believe they are called.'

'The new blast furnaces are much bigger, sir, and the iron comes out molten, rather than in a soft lump. The blast furnaces cast it into prepared moulds. They have started to mould cannon.'

'Is it true the bloomeries do not operate in summer?'

'Yes. They mostly employ local people who work the fields in summer and the foundries in winter. While the new furnaces often have dozens of men who work all year round.'

'So a bloomery furnace is empty all summer?'

'Probably they would have a man there to keep an eye on things, taking supplies of charcoal and the like ready for the winter.'

I saw Barak looking across at me. 'Thank you, Llewellyn,' I said.

'Thinking of leaving the law for the iron trade, sir?' Carswell called after me as I went to sit next to Barak. The light was fading fast, and an extraordinary number of moths had appeared, grey-white shapes wheeling and circling in the dusk.

BARAK LOOKED AT me shrewdly. 'What were you muttering to Llewellyn about? Wouldn't be anything to do with Ellen, would it?'

'Let's concentrate on Hugh Curteys for now,' I answered snappishly.

'You've found where Rolfswood is, haven't you? You're going to go there and nose around if you get the chance.'

'I'll have to see.'

'I think you should leave well alone.'

'I know what you think!' I burst out with sudden anger. 'I'll do what I think best!'

There was another raucous laugh from Sulyard. 'Lovers' tiff !' he called out, staring at Barak and me. He was very drunk, gobbling and tumbling his words, his face alight with malice.

'Shut your face, or I'll shut it for you.' Barak half-rose, his look threatening.

Sulyard pointed at me. 'Hunchbacks bring bad luck, everyone knows that! Though we're probably fucked already, with a dozy old captain and a tippling whiffler to fight under.'

I looked round the circle of faces; a swirl of smoke made my eyes sting. The men looked away uncomfortably. Sulyard rose unsteadily to his feet and pointed at me.

'Don't you give me the evil eye! You—'

'Stop it!' Everyone turned at the shout. Pygeon had followed me and stood some feet off. 'Stop it, you fool! We're all in this together! You're not in the village any more. You can't steal game and ducks from poor folk as you like, spend your days telling people to call you master!'

Sulyard roared, 'I'll have your balls!' Pygeon stood uncertainly as Sulyard, shaking off the restraining hand of another soldier, reached for his knife.

Then a tall, white-coated figure appeared and hit Sulyard a mighty smack across the face. He staggered, rallied, and reached for his knife again.

Leacon faced him. 'Strike me, you foul-mouthed rogue, and it's mutiny!' he shouted, then added more softly, 'but I'll deal with you man to man if that's what you want.'

Sulyard, a trickle of blood dripping from a cut, let his arms fall to his sides. He stood swaying, like a puppet with the strings cut. 'I meant no mutiny,' he said. He swayed again, then yelled out, 'I want only to live! To live!'

'Then stay sober and work with your fellows. That's a soldier's best chance of surviving.'

'Coward!' someone shouted from the dark. Sulyard turned to the voice, hesitated, then stumbled off into the dark. Leacon turned back to his men. 'He'll probably fall over soon. Someone go and find him in a while, dump him in his tent. He can apologize to Master Shardlake in front of you all tomorrow morning.' He turned away. I followed, catching him up.

'Thank you for that, George. But no public apology, please. He would not mean it and I would not wish to leave the company on such a note.'

Leacon nodded. 'Very well. But there should be some restitution.'

'Such things have happened to me before. They will again.' I hesitated, then added, 'He is frightened of what may come.'

Leacon looked at me. 'I know. As we near Portsmouth a lot of them are becoming apprehensive. But what I said was true: if it comes to battle, discipline and working together are everyone's best chance of survival. Though it is a matter of chance and chaos in the end.' He was silent a moment, then said, 'This afternoon, those drums made me want to scream.' He paused again. 'Master Shardlake, after what I said at Godalming, do you—do you truly think me fit to lead? I will have to, Sir Franklin will be no use. He is good for pulling the men into line—last night a bunch of them got to drinking and rowdiness, and a few words from him shut them up. But you have seen him—he is too old to lead men into battle.'

'I told you last night, you are as fine a leader as any they could have.'

'Thank you,' he answered quietly. 'I feared you thought otherwise.'

'No. On my soul.'

'Pray for us, after we part.'

'Right readily. Though it is long since I felt God listens to my prayers.'

IT WAS STRANGE passing the night in a tent with Dyrick. He snored mightily, disturbing my sleep. Next morning we all rode out, saddle-sore, and I, painfully conscious of my aching back. It was our final day's journey. Sulyard's face was heavy as a bladder from his drinking the evening before. As he took his place in the ranks some of the soldiers gave him unpleasant looks—I guessed because he had shown his fear. Snodin, though, looked no worse than usual—the sign of a true drunkard.

We set off again. The tramp of marching feet, the rumble of the carts behind us, the dust rising up and covering us, had become a familiar daily routine. But this was the last day; the soldiers would go all the way to Portsmouth, but according to Dyrick we had only a few miles to travel before passing a village called Horndean and turning off to Hoyland.

It was another hot, sultry day. The soldiers sang through most of the morning, more bawdy versions of courtly love songs, so inventive in their obscenity they made me smile. We passed into forested country again, interspersed with stretches of downland and meadow and the occasional village, where people were going to church for Sunday service. The soldiers ceased their bawdy songs out of respect.

Then, two miles on, where the road narrowed and ran between high forested banks, we found an enormous cart that had lost a wheel and turned over, blocking the road from side to side. It had been carrying a huge iron cannon, fifteen feet long, which had slipped the thick ropes securing it and lay on the ground. The four great horses that had been pulling it stood grazing by the bank. The carter persuaded the soldiers to stop and help repair his vehicle; the cannon had come from Sussex and, he said, should have been taken to Portsmouth by sea.

While some of the men lifted the empty cart and others put the spare wheel on the axle and tried to tighten it, the rest of the company fell out, finding places to sit on the banks of the narrow lane. Dyrick strolled up and down with Feaveryear, looking at the wood, then came over to where Barak and I sat.

'May we join you?' They sat down. Dyrick waved a gloved hand at the trees. 'This land, like Master Hobbey's, is part of the ancient Forest of Bere. Do you know its history?'

'Only that it is an ancient royal forest from Norman times.'

'Well done, Brother. But little used: successive kings have preferred the New Forest. Bere Forest has been shrinking little by little for centuries, cottagers establishing the squatters' rights you are so keen on, hamlets growing into villages, land sold off by successive kings or granted to the Church like the Hoyland Priory estate. It comprises miles and miles of trees like this.'

I looked up into the forest. The growth here seemed very old, huge oaks and elms, the green undergrowth below heavy and tangled. Despite the days of hot weather a damp earthy smell came from it.

There was a crash from the cart: the new wheel had been fixed, but as soon as the men released their hold it fell off again, the cart lurching once more onto its side. Dyrick groaned. 'We shall be here all day.' He stood up. 'Come, Feaveryear, help me adjust my horse's harness.' He walked away, Feaveryear rising hastily to follow him.

'He doesn't want his little clerk telling us his secrets,' Barak said scoffingly. 'He need not fear. Feaveryear is loyal as a dog.'

'Have you got to know him any better?'

'All he seems willing to talk about is his salvation, the wickedness of the world, and how this journey is a waste of his honoured master's time.'

We looked up as Carswell approached us, a serious expression on his face. He bowed. 'Sir, I am sorry for the trouble last night. I wanted you to know, few think like Sulyard.'

'Thank you.'

He hesitated. 'May I ask you something?'

'If you wish.' I waved a hand to the bank beside me. I smiled encouragingly, expecting some legal query.

'I hear the London lawyers have their own band of players,' he said unexpectedly.

'Plays are often performed at the Inns of Court, but no, the actors' companies are independent bodies of men.'

'What sort of people are they?'

'A roistering lot, I believe, but they must work hard or they could not perform as they do.'

'Are they well paid?'

'No, badly. And life is hard in London these days. Have you a wish to be an actor, Carswell?'

His face reddened. 'I want to write plays, sir. I used to go and see the religious plays when they were allowed and as a boy I wrote little playlets of my own. I learned to write at the church school. They would have had me for a scholar, but my family is poor.'

'Most plays today are full of religious controversy, like John Bale's. It can be a dangerous occupation.'

'I want to write comedies, stories to make people laugh.'

'Did you write any of the naughty songs you sing?' Barak asked.

'Many are mine,' he said proudly.

'Most comedies in London are foreign,' I said. 'Italian mainly.'

'But why should there not be English ones too? Like old Chaucer?'

'By God, Carswell, you are a well-read fellow.'

'Archery and reading, sir, those were always my pastimes. To my parents' annoyance; they wanted me to work on the farm.' He pulled a face. 'I needed to get away, I was happy to join up. I thought once this war is over I might come to London. Maybe earn my bread with some players, learn more about how plays are made.'

I smiled. 'You have thought this out, I see. Ay, we need some English comic writing today if ever we did.'

We were interrupted by Snodin marching across. 'Come, Carswell,' he snapped. 'We're going to have some archery practice in a field down the road. Leave your betters alone, you mammering prick.'

'He's doing no harm,' Barak said.

Snodin narrowed his eyes. 'He's a soldier and he'll do as I say.'

'Yes, Master Snodin.' Carswell hastily got up and followed the whiffler. I called after him, 'Ask for me at Lincoln's Inn when you return.'

'There's an unusual fellow,' I said to Barak. 'And you should be careful of antagonizing another officer. One was enough.'

'Arsehole. As for Carswell, you'd do better not to encourage him. Half those actor folk drink themselves into the gutter.'

'You are in a poor humour today. Missing Tamasin?'

'I wonder how she is faring all the time.' He looked at me. 'And I wonder what you are planning to do about that Ellen.'

I did not reply.

IT WAS AFTERNOON, and we had eaten by the roadside, before the cart was finally repaired. It took twenty men with ropes to reload the cannon. The cart pulled in to the side of the road to let the company past. We continued south, ever deeper into the Forest of Bere.

I made my way up to the head of the company, where Leacon rode with Sir Franklin. 'George,' I said, 'we will be parting shortly.'

'Ay. I am sorry for it.'

'And I. But before we go I wonder if I could ask another favour.'

'I will help if I can. What is it?'

'If Portsmouth is full of soldiers, I imagine a good proportion of those who served professionally in the past will be there.'

'Yes. Portsmouth is becoming the focus of all the military activity.'

'If you get the chance, I wonder if you could ask whether anyone ever heard of a man called William Coldiron. He is my steward, for the time being at least.' I told him the story of Coldiron and Josephine, how from what I had overheard in the tavern it seemed he had never married. 'If anyone knows his history, I would be interested to hear it. I do not believe his tales of killing the King at Flodden, but certainly he has been a soldier.'

'I will ask if I get the chance.'

'If you do, maybe you could write to me at home.'

'I will. And if you should come to Portsmouth while you're here, look for me. Though I will have a busy time keeping these fellows in order. I hear the town is chaos, full of foreign soldiers and sailors. The company will be pleased to see you too.'

'They do not all think me an unlucky hunchback?'

'Only a few joltheads like Sulyard.'

'Thank you. That means a lot.'

I rode back to the rear of the company. The road began slowly ascending and the pace slowed. I was half asleep in the saddle when Dyrick roughly shook my arm.

'We turn off here.'

I sat up. To our right a narrow lane led into deep, shadowed woodland. We pulled aside. I called out, 'George! We leave you here!'

Leacon and Sir Franklin turned. Leacon gestured to the drummer, who ceased drumming. The company halted, and Leacon rode back to us. He gripped my hand tightly. 'Farewell, then.'

'Thank you for letting us ride with you.'

'Yes,' Dyrick added with unaccustomed grace. 'I think we would have had another two days' riding without you to speed us on.'

I looked into the captain's tired, haunted eyes. 'I am glad we met again,' I said sincerely.

'And I. We must move on now, it will be late when we reach Portsmouth.' Dyrick called a farewell to Sir Franklin, and he half-raised a gloved hand.

Some of the soldiers called goodbyes. Carswell waved. Leacon rode back to the head of the company.

'God go with you all,' I called out.

The trumpet sounded, the supply carts trundled past us, and the company marched away, the tramp of their footsteps fading as they rounded a bend. We turned into the lane.

THE FOUR OF US rode under the trees. All at once everything was silent, no sound apart from the chirking of birds. I was conscious of how tired I was, how dusty and smelly we all were. Suddenly the path ended at a high old stone wall. We passed through a gateway into a broad lawned area dotted with trees, a knot garden full of scented summer flowers to one side. Straight ahead stood what had once been a squat Norman church, with a wide porch and arched roof. But now large square windows had been put in at each side of the door and in the walls of what had once been the attached cloister buildings. Tall new brick chimneys rose from the cloister roof. I heard dogs barking in kennels somewhere behind the house, alerted by the sound of the horses. Then three men in servants' smocks appeared in the porch. They approached us and bowed. An older man with a short blond beard followed, wearing a red doublet and a cap which he swept off as he came up to Dyrick.

'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.