C.J. Sansom - Heartstone

'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?'