C.J. Sansom - Heartstone

'But why would Emma keep up the pretence now? Jesu, he—or she—wants to go and be a soldier!'

I said angrily, 'Perhaps by now she scarcely knows who or what she is.'

'Listen. I know it fits, but you'd better be sure—'

I said sadly, 'I looked at Hugh properly for the first time, on the steps when we arrived. Full in his scarred face. Then I saw he could easily be a girl.'

Barak turned to me. 'Did Hugh—Emma—kill Abigail?'

He spoke too loudly. The slim, lithe figure at the butts had just risen to fire another arrow. He—or rather she—lowered the bow and turned to face us. We stood quite still for a moment, all three of us, like some strange tableau. Then, in seconds, the person we had known as Hugh had strung an arrow to the bow, raised it and taken aim at my chest. I knew there was nothing Barak or I could do; before we could run a few paces Emma Curteys could loose the arrow, string another, and shoot us both dead.

I raised my arms, as though I could ward off that steel-tipped shaft. 'Don't!' I shouted. 'You will gain nothing!'

I could not see her face properly at that distance; it was shaded by the hat, which I realized now was one of the many ruses, like putting her hand to her scars, that Emma had developed over the years to prevent people looking her fully in the face. I saw the bow move slightly and stepped back with a cry, but then I realized it was trembling, shaking slightly from side to side in her hand though she still aimed at me.

'Run!' Barak cried.

I seized his arm. 'No! Don't do anything sudden!' I called out to Emma. 'I'm your friend!' I called steadily. 'Haven't you realized that? I will help you!'

Still she stood, the bow trembling gently. The whole thing can only have lasted ten seconds but it seemed like an age. Then I saw a figure on the edge of my vision, a dark solid shape running towards the archer.

'Hugh!' David shouted out—he still called her Hugh—'stop! It can't help you! They know, it's over! Put the bow down!'

Emma turned, pointing the bow at David as he ran towards her. The arrow hit him in the side, its force sending him staggering. He toppled over onto the lawn, moaned once, then was silent. Then, no doubt drawn by the shouting, Fulstowe appeared in the doorway. David had lied, he was in there after all. He stepped out. A gaggle of servants followed as Fulstowe began walking towards David. Emma reached back, flicked another arrow on to her bow, and aimed at the steward. Fulstowe stopped dead in his tracks. One of the women servants screamed. I thought Emma would shoot Fulstowe down but instead she retreated backwards, step by step, to the gate, still keeping him covered. Only once did she glance across to where David lay on the lawn, quite still now. All this time she had not uttered a single word.

She backed out of the gateway, then turned and ran. Fulstowe and some of the other servants raced over to where David lay. Someone screamed, 'Murder!'

DAVID, THOUGH, was not dead. From where he lay on the grass I heard a faint, desperate moan. Fulstowe turned from the gate and ran across to him, Barak and I following. Blood was pouring from the wound in David's side, from which the arrow shaft protruded obscenely.

'Help me,' he whimpered.

'Still, lad,' Barak said gently.

The steward shouted to the servants who had gathered at the side of the lawn. 'Quick! Someone ride to fetch the Cosham barber-surgeon! And tear up some sheets!'

I shouted, 'My horse is ready saddled, tied up outside the back gate. Take it!'

Fulstowe looked wildly at me. 'What the hell happened? Why are you here?'

'Hugh shot David. I think he might have killed us had David not intervened.'

'What?'

'Leave me go!' I heard a shrill, desperate voice from the doorway. Hobbey stood there, Dyrick holding his arm. He threw Dyrick off, ran across to David and knelt beside him. He began tenderly stroking his dark head, tears streaming down his cheeks. The boy lifted a hand with difficulty and his father clutched it.

I felt a hand seize my own arm, nails digging into it, and looked up into Dyrick's furious face. 'God's nails,' he snarled. 'What have you done?'

'Found out the truth,' I answered quietly. 'That Emma Curteys has been impersonating her dead brother. It's all over now, Dyrick.'

'I didn't know!' he blustered. 'All these years, they made a fool of me too. I knew nothing until—'

'Until Lamkin died, and you demanded Hobbey tell you what it was Abigail said I could not see that was in front of me. Then Feaveryear guessed.'

An angry spasm twisted Dyrick's sharp features. 'The stupid lad formed a passion for Hugh, that sent him wailing and praying to God for forgiveness. Then he realized the truth, he said he kept looking at Hugh closely and one day he understood.'

'You should have withdrawn from acting for Hobbey then.' I looked at him with scorn. 'But you couldn't bear to be made to look a fool, could you? Couldn't bear the revelation of how you had been gulled?'

'You sanctimonious bent churl!' Dyrick launched himself at me, pummelling at me with hard bony fists, even as Hobbey wept over his son. Then he was sent sprawling down on the lawn. Barak stood over him.

'You preening shit,' he said. 'You're finished. Now shut your weasel mouth or I'll give you the beating I've dreamed of for weeks!'

Dyrick lay on his back, red and gasping, his robe spread out beneath him. I looked to where Hobbey still knelt over David; he had not even turned round. 'My poor son,' he said gently. 'My poor son.'

THE BARBER-SURGEON arrived shortly after. Helped by Fulstowe he took David inside, Hobbey and the servants following. Dyrick went with them. Barak and I stayed in the great hall. I asked a servant to tell Dyrick I wanted to talk to him as soon as possible. We sat down at the table, silent, shocked, waiting.

'Where do you think Emma will go?' Barak asked.

'My guess is Portsmouth, to try and enlist. I think, God help me, she may seek to end all this in a blaze of glory.'

'Did she kill Abigail?'

I shook my head. 'I think today was the first time she lost control. No, that was someone else.'

He said, 'If I hadn't raised my voice—'

We looked up at the sound of footsteps. Fulstowe approached us, pure hatred in his eyes. 'Master Hobbey would speak with you.'

I nodded assent. 'Come, Barak.' I wanted a witness to this.

We followed the steward to Hobbey's study. Hobbey sat slumped at his desk, his thin face grey, staring unseeingly at the hourglass. Dyrick sat in a chair next to him. Fulstowe stood by the window, watching, as Dyrick said to me, 'Master Hobbey wishes to talk to you. Know it is against my advice—'

'Your advice,' Hobbey said quietly. 'Where has that brought me? Since that first day you told me the children's wardship was worth paying for.' He looked at me; his eyes were sunk deep in his skull. 'David will live. The barber-surgeon has taken the arrow out. But he thinks David's spine is injured. He cannot move his legs properly. We must get a physician.' His voice broke for a moment. 'My poor boy, what a hard path I gave him to tread in this world. Harder than he could bear.' He looked at me. 'You are not my nemesis, Master Shardlake. I have been my own. I caused the destruction of my family.' He closed his eyes. 'Vincent says you know what we did.'

'Yes,' I answered gently. 'I realized only this morning.'

'We have told everyone there was an accident at the butts, that Hugh was frightened by what happened and has run away. I think they believed us.' He paused. 'Unless you tell them something different.'

I said, 'It was David who shot at Barak and me that day, wasn't it? I think he was even following me the night I arrived.'