'All the time,' he said with feeling.
We rode on, towards Portsdown Hill.
Chapter Twenty-nine
WE ARRIVED AT Hoyland towards seven, exhausted. I washed and combed myself thoroughly to rid myself of the fleas and lice I had picked up, then lay on my bed thinking about Ellen and Hugh. I could see no way out of either impasse.
I was so tired I slept deeply that night. The next day passed peacefully enough. At meals Abigail barely spoke; she seemed listless, defeated. Dyrick was his usual sharp, aggressive self. Hobbey was guarded, Hugh civil enough, seeming indifferent now to my presence. David, though, was in a strange mood, quiet and restive. A couple of times I caught Fulstowe casting sharp looks at the boy. During the day everyone except Abigail was out, making final preparations for the hunt.
In the afternoon I took a walk in the grounds to try and clear my head, for I thought endlessly of Ellen and who could have started that fire, my mind fairly spinning with it all. In Abigail's garden the flowers drooped in the endless sultry heat.
THAT EVENING came the first of the events that was to change the life of the Hobbey family for ever.
I was sitting at the table in my chamber, trying to work out the costs that might be awarded against us at the next hearing. They were considerable. The light was beginning to fail. I was vaguely aware that outside the boys were at the butts again, I could hear them through the open shutters. Then I heard a sudden anguished cry. 'No!'
I rose and looked out of the window. To my amazement Feaveryear was running across the lawn. Hugh and David stood looking at him, too far away for me to make out their expressions. Feaveryear ran as though the devil were after him. He disappeared from view, then I heard running footsteps on the stairs, and a frantic knocking on Dyrick's door.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, yet another hot, close July day, we all walked to church. Hobbey led the little procession. Abigail was on his arm, in her best clothes but with her head cast down. Then came Dyrick, Barak and I, followed by Fulstowe at the head of the servants. Barak had not wished to go but I had roused him out, saying we should give no cause for criticism. To my surprise, though, Feaveryear was absent.
'Is young Feaveryear unwell?' I asked Dyrick. He had been frowning to himself, preoccupied.
He gave me a sharp, sidelong look. 'I've sent him back to London. There was a letter waiting when we returned from Portsmouth, about a case. I sent him back to deal with it early this morning. There's no point us both wasting our time here,' he said, as ever making a point against me.
'We have had no letters. Barak hoped there might be one from his wife.'
'It came by special messenger from London. It concerns an important case.'
'I thought I saw Feaveryear running across the lawn last night.'
He gave me another sharp look. 'I had called him.'
It was a long walk to the church in the neighbouring village of Okedean. Long too, on their one day of rest, for the Hoyland villagers we passed, who had used the priory church when the nuns were there. Ettis, a pretty wife and three children at his side, crossed our path at the end of a country lane. He bowed and stood aside to let us pass. Abigail gave him a look of hatred.
OKEDEAN CHURCH was small, crowded with the people of both villages. Here, as in Reverend Seckford's church, they evidently cleaved as much as possible to the old ways, the church smelling heavily of incense, saints still in their niches. I wondered what Hugh's parents, the reformers, would have made of it. Hobbey, Dyrick and I took places at the front of the congregation in accordance with our rank, next to a stocky, middle-aged man and his haughty-looking wife, whom Hobbey introduced to us as the owner of the neighbouring manor, Sir Luke and Lady Corembeck. Sir Luke, Hobbey said proudly, was a justice of the peace who would be attending his hunt tomorrow. For the first time I heard deference in his voice.
The vicar gave a sermon calling on all to pray and work for the defence of the country, for the men to attend practice with the local militia. I looked at the Doom painting behind him, Christ on a throne in judgement, his face serene, angels guiding the virtuous to heaven while below the pale and naked sinners tumbled into a lake of fire. I remembered Feaveryear saying soldiers and sailors who died in battle without finding salvation must end in Hell. What had he been running from last night? Where was he?
After the service Hobbey paused for some more words with Sir Luke in the doorway, the servants and villagers walking past us. Lady Corembeck addressed Abigail a couple of times, but she answered in monosyllables, sunk in apathy. At length Hobbey parted from the Corembecks with much bowing, and we walked down the path to the lych gate. Then we saw that a group of about thirty Hoyland villagers were waiting just outside the church, whole families blocking our way. Ettis was at their head. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Hobbey.
Ettis walked over to stand boldly in front of him, his square face set hard. Fulstowe stepped to Hobbey's side and put his hand to his dagger.
'No need for that, Master Fulstowe,' Ettis said quietly. 'I want only to say something to your master.' He indicated the villagers behind him. 'See those people, Master Hobbey. Look hard, you will see some that your steward here has been pressing to abandon their land. My support is growing. We intend to bring a case in the Court of Requests.' Dyrick looked at me suspiciously. Ettis continued, 'So be warned, sir, keep your men off our woodlands, for they will shortly be subject to legal proceedings. I tell you this before all these people here assembled, including Sir Luke Corembeck, our justice of the peace.'
Abigail marched up to him. 'Churl and knave to torment us so!' she shouted, right into his face.
Ettis stared back at her with contempt. Then David ran past his mother and stood before the villagers, his face red. 'Hedge-pigs! Lumps! Cattle! When I am lord here I will drive you all out, you will all beg, beg!'
Some of the villagers laughed. 'Get back to the nursery!' one shouted.
David looked round in helpless frustration. Then he gave a strange, puzzled frown. His limbs started to jerk, little flickering spasms, his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed on the ground. The villagers took a step back; there were frightened murmurs from some of the women. Abigail put her hands to her cheeks and uttered a gasping groan. On the ground David was twitching wildly now, like a puppet.
'What's he doing?' someone called out.
'He's possessed, get the priest!'
Then someone said, 'It's the falling sickness,' and Abigail groaned once more.
It was; I had seen it in London. That dread disease where those afflicted seem normal most of the time but can be struck down, out of the blue, to lie jerking on the ground. Some believed it a type of madness, others a form of possession.
Abigail sank on her knees and tried to still her writhing son. 'Help me, Ambrose, for pity's sake!' she cried. 'He'll bite his tongue!' I thought, so this has happened before.
Fulstowe unbuckled his dagger from his belt and thrust the leather scabbard between David's teeth. His lips were flecked with white foam now. I saw Dyrick looking on, astonished. Hobbey stared at his son, then at the watching crowd. He called out, in a voice full of rage and pain, 'Well, you have seen! Now in God's name go, leave us!' Next to him, Hugh stood looking blankly at David. No pity, nothing.
The villagers did not move. A woman said, 'Remember that carpenter who came to live in the village—he had the falling sickness!'
'Ay, we stoned him out!'
Sir Luke Corembeck came to life. 'Disperse, I order you!' he called.
People began to move away, though they looked back at David, with fear and loathing. He lay still a moment, then sat up, groaning. He looked up at his mother. 'My head hurts,' he said and began to cry.
Hobbey came over to him. 'You had an attack,' he said gently. 'It is all right, it is over.'
'They all saw?' David asked in horror. His face wet with tears, he looked wildly round. Hobbey and Fulstowe
