helped him to his feet. Hobbey clasped his son's arm.
'I am sorry, David,' he said gently. 'I feared this would happen one day. It was the fault of Ettis and his people.' He turned to Sir Luke. 'Thank you, sir, for dispersing them.' At that moment I had to admire Hobbey's dignity. He swallowed hard, then continued, 'I fear, as you have seen, my son has the falling sickness. It comes on seldom, a little rest and he will be as normal again.'
'Ettis and his churls caused this,' Sir Luke said. 'Jesu, it is a fine day when yeomen defy gentlemen.'
We followed the family back down the lanes, Fulstowe and Hugh each with an arm under David's shoulders. I knew this was very serious for the family; among both gentry and villagers David would now be seen as tainted. I gestured to Barak to hang back.
'What about that?' he asked.
'My guess is they've been hiding this for years. Dyrick didn't know—he was amazed. Dear God, that couldn't have happened in a more public way. David Hobbey may be a churl, but he didn't deserve that. By the way, I think there is more to Feaveryear's going than Dyrick said.' I told him what I had seen from the window the previous evening. 'I saw him running as though he'd seen the devil. And Dyrick looks very worried about something.'
'Maybe David had an attack yesterday, too.'
'No. He was standing at the butts with Hugh. Whatever happened, Feaveryear ran to tell Dyrick about it. And now he's gone.'
'When Abigail said after Lamkin was killed that you couldn't see what was before your eyes, she must have meant David.'
I shook my head. 'No. She meant something else. She of all people wouldn't draw my attention to David's condition.' I looked at the group ahead of me: Abigail hovered behind her son. 'Feaveryear's lodging is hard by yours. Did you hear him go?'
'I heard a door slam just after dawn, then his quick little steps. I thought he was going for an early prayer.'
'What made him run like that, I wonder?' I knew his disappearance was important, but not why.
Chapter Thirty
THE WOOD WAS delightfully peaceful in the early morning. The birds sang lustily in the trees; a squirrel watched me from the branch of a beech, its bushy red tail bright against the green leaves. I was sitting on a fallen log beside an oak tree in a little glade, comfortable in the loose jerkin and shirt I had donned for the hunt. Behind me, though, I could hear the murmuring voices of the breakfast party on the the other side of the trees, while stealthy rustlings deeper in the park indicated Master Avery and his men were checking the deer tracks. But I had had to get away from them all, just for a minute. Soon enough we would be riding pell-mell through the hunting park. I reflected on all that had happened on the previous day.
WHEN WE HAD returned from church David had been taken upstairs to lie down, protesting all the while that he was quite recovered. Hobbey asked Dyrick to follow him to his study. I was on my way upstairs when Dyrick appeared once more and asked if I would attend Master Hobbey.
The master of Hoyland Priory sat at his desk, his face grave. He asked me quietly to sit. He picked up the hourglass from his desk and turned it over, sadly watching the grains run through. 'Well, Master Shardlake,' he said quietly, 'you have seen that my son has—an illness. It is something we have tried to keep to ourselves. It has been a great strain on my wife; seeing him in a fit strikes her to the heart. Apart from the family only Fulstowe knew. Mercifully David has never had an attack in front of the servants. We kept it even from Master Dyrick.' He smiled sadly at his lawyer. 'I am sorry for that, Vincent. But now everyone knows. Ettis and his crew will be mocking David in the village tavern tonight.' He put down the hourglass and clenched his hand into a fist.
I spoke quietly. 'Hugh, I take it, has known about David for some time.'
'David had his first attack shortly after Hugh and Emma came to us, when we were still in London.'
'And yet still you wanted Emma to marry David. To marry a ward to someone with such a disability as the falling sickness is not allowed.'
Dyrick said curtly, 'The girl died.' He looked anxiously at Hobbey, as though he might give away more than he should. But what more could there be?
I asked Hobbey, 'Hugh has kept it secret all this time?'
He nodded. His eyes were watchful now. 'He agreed he would tell nobody. And he never has.'
'It seems a hard thing to impose on the boy.'
'The fact he has kept silent surely indicates his loyalty to this family,' Dyrick put in.
'But for you coming, but for this business—' Hobbey's voice trembled angrily for a moment, but he quickly brought himself under control—'it has all put my wife and son under great strain. I think that is why David's attack came now.' He gathered himself. 'I would ask you, as a matter of charity, not to report this to the Court of Wards, not to spread our secret throughout London.'
I studied him. There was a quiet desperation in Hobbey's face, his mouth trembled for a second. 'I will have to consider,' I said.
Hobbey exchanged a look with Dyrick. He sighed. 'I should go, there are arrangements regarding the hunt.'
'You are sure it is still wise to go ahead with that?' Dyrick asked.
'Yes. I will hold my head high,' Hobbey added with a touch of his old firmness. 'Face them. And you must come, Vincent, as my lawyer it would be expected. Master Shardlake,' he said, 'will you attend too?'
I hesitated, realizing this was a change of tactics, an attempt to ingratiate himself with me. Then I nodded. 'Thank you. It may ease me of the stiffness I feel after all my days of riding.'
Hobbey stood. 'Bring your clerk, if he wishes to come.' He looked utterly exhausted. 'And afterwards, Sir Quintin and his son will be arriving. I must arrange hospitality for them.'
I WENT TO my room and sat down heavily on the bed. Should I report David's condition to the Court of Wards? I had no wish to. But just how far had living with this tense family and its secret affected Hugh? After a few moments' more thought, I walked up the corridor and knocked at Hugh's door. After a moment he opened it. 'Master Shardlake,' he said quietly. 'Come in.'
I followed him into the tidy room. It was dim, the shutters half-drawn against the bright afternoon light. A book lay open on his desk, More's
'You have been giving More another try?' I asked.
'Yes, last night. I fear, Master Shardlake, I still find him a dreamer. And Sam Feaveryear said he burned many good men as heretics while he was Lord Chancellor.'
'Yes, he did.'
'Then who was he to condemn the violence of war?'
I thought, this boy could make a scholar. I said, 'Feaveryear has gone.'
He crossed to the window and looked through the shutters. 'Yes, I got used to seeing his strange little face about. I am told Master Dyrick has sent him back to London.'
'An urgent case, apparently. He left this morning.' I hesitated. 'I saw him running across the lawn yesterday evening.'
Hugh turned, his face expressionless. 'Master Dyrick had shouted for him.'
'I did not hear him call. I thought I heard someone shout, 'No!' '
'You must have misheard, sir. Master Dyrick came out and called. His master's call would always bring poor Sam running.' He looked at me, his blue-green eyes keen. 'Was that why you came to see me?'
'No.'
'I thought not.'
'David's secret is out.'
'I wish it were not.'
'Master Hobbey told me you and your sister learned of his condition shortly after you came to the
