Heartstone ms-5 Read online

  'This gentleman's here to speak to you, sir,' the sailor answered humbly. 'He says it's urgent.'

  'Sir,' the cook said, 'there are three barrels of stockfish left, we can try cracking one open.'

  'Do it,' West snapped. He was still looking at me, his face red and mottled from the heat and steam. The cook beckoned to one of the men stirring the pottage, and they went out through a sliding door. West turned to me, anger in his deep-set eyes.

  'Sir,' I said. 'I have come from your mother—'

  'My mother! You—' He broke off, conscious of curious glances from Morgan and the remaining man. 'Wait a minute,' he said. I stood silently, listening to grunts and bangs from the other side of the door. Then the cook and his assistant rolled a heavy barrel into the galley. They set it quickly upright and the cook opened the lid with a chisel. I saw a white mass of fish within, the gleam of salt. The cook reached in with a skinny arm, pulled out a handful of fish and sniffed it. 'This is still fresh,' he said with relief.

  'Get rid of the pork and start cooking the fish,' West said. 'Have you any fresh water barrels left in there?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  West turned to Morgan. 'Go up, tell Master Purser what we're doing. Say we must get those fresh supplies on board tonight: there's hardly anything left.' He watched Morgan as he climbed back up the ladder, then bent and took a candle holder from the floor, lighting it with a taper. He gestured to the ladder. 'Now, Master Shardlake,' he said grimly, 'let us go up and talk.'

  * * *

  I FOLLOWED West up to the storage deck. As we stepped off the ladder, I heard rats pattering away from us. West stepped a few feet away from the hatch, set the candle atop a barrel and stood facing me. In the dim light I could not see his expression. Around me I saw chests and boxes piled one on another in the partitioned sections. Away from the stifling heat the sweat dried instantly on my face, leaving me cold. The ship shifted slightly and I grabbed at the ladder to steady myself.

  'Well?' West asked.

  'Something has happened at Rolfswood.' I told him of the discovery of Master Fettiplace's remains, his mother's visit to me and what she had said about the lost letter to Anne Boleyn.

  'So the letter is to be made public at last,' West said when I had finished. His voice was steady, angry. I wished I could see his face properly.

  'There will have to be a new inquest,' I said quietly. 'Your mother told me the story of the letter must be revealed to protect you.'

  He laughed, bitterly. 'They cannot call me away to an inquest now. In case you have not noticed, Master Shardlake, I have business. I may die here soon. Protecting people like you. For my sins,' he added bitterly.

  'I know as well as you what may be coming,' I answered earnestly. 'That is why I came tonight, to ask what happened at Rolfswood nineteen years ago. Master West, who was your friend that stole the letter?'

  He darted forward then, grabbing me and slamming me against the side of the ship. He was very strong; a sinewy forearm pressed my neck against the hull. 'What is your interest in this?' he said with savage intensity. 'This has to be personal for you to follow me here. Answer!' He lightened the grip on my throat just enough to allow me to speak. Close to, I saw his deep-set eyes were burning.

  'I want to find out exactly what happened to Ellen Fettiplace that night.'

  'Do you know where she is?' West asked.

  'Do you?'

  He did not answer, and I realized then he knew Ellen was in the Bedlam. The fight seemed to go out of him suddenly and he stepped away. He said, bitterly, 'My friend betrayed me that day. Then I discovered what had happened to Ellen. It was because of both those things that I went to sea.'

  'Tell me who your friend was. Now, while there is still time.'

  'Are you working for someone at court?' The aggression had returned to his voice. 'Who is interested in reviving that old story?'

  'I am not. I swear, my concern is only with what happened at Rolfswood. Was the man's name Robert Warner?'

  West stared at me. 'I never heard that name.' He hesitated a long moment. 'My friend was called Gregory Jackson.'

  'A lawyer in the Queen's household?'

  'The King's. But he was in the Queen's pay.'

  'What happened to him, Master West?'

  'He is dead,' West answered flatly. 'Years ago, from the sweating sickness.'

  I stared at him. Was he lying? I did not trust that long pause before he gave the name; he should have remembered it instantly. West had stepped back from the candlelight, his face dim again. I asked once more, 'Do you know what happened to Ellen Fettiplace?'

  'I have never seen her since that day.' His voice had taken on a dangerous edge again.

  'What's going on here?' We both turned at a sharp, angry voice from the ladder. A man had climbed down, a middle-aged officer in a yellow doublet. He glared at me, then at West, who had straightened up and stepped away from me. 'Master Purser,' West said with a bow.

  'I had your message from Morgan. I've got the crew banging spoons against their plates and mewling for food.'

  'There's a barrel of good stockfish cooking now. It's all that's left. The pork was bad. We must get those fresh supplies tonight.'

  The purser looked at me. 'Are you the lawyer with the message?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Delivered it?' He looked at West, who had composed his face.

  'I have—'

  'Then get out. They shouldn't have let you on board.'

  'I—'

  'God's death, get out! Now!'

  * * *

  ON DECK the men sat with bowls and spoons in their laps, faces sullen. Officers now patrolled the deck. As I watched, the master appeared from a doorway in the forecastle. He stood on the walkway above us, blew his whistle shrilly, and shouted down in a loud clear voice: 'Men! Your food is coming! The pork was bad, but there's stockfish cooking! More stores will be brought across tonight! And I have had word that when the King comes to Portsmouth tomorrow he is coming to inspect the Mary Rose! He is to dine on the Great Harry, then come here afterwards. All know the Mary Rose is his favourite ship! So come, lads, cry "God save King Harry!"'

  The sailors looked at each other, then ragged cries of 'God save King Harry!' sounded along the deck. Some of the foreign sailors, not understanding, looked at each other in puzzlement. 'Hail the King, dogs!' someone shouted at them. The master stepped across the walkway to the aftercastle. I made my way to Leacon, who stood watching by the blinds. He gave me my robe; I was glad to put it on, feeling chilled in the night air after the heat of the galley.

  'What's the matter, Matthew?' he asked. 'You look as though you'd seen a ghost.'

  'For a moment I thought I was in Hell, down in that galley.'

  'I hope they really do have some food.'

  'They do.' I heard the master's voice from high up in the aftercastle, more cheers for the King.

  'And you?' Leacon asked. 'Did you find Master West? Did you get the answers you sought?'

  I sighed. 'Only some. The purser arrived and ordered me off. I got enough answers to worry me, though.'

  He looked at me seriously. 'I have to get back to camp.'

  'Of course. There is no more I can do here.'

  Leacon leaned through the blind, signalling to the boatman below. He helped me clamber through. I found my footing on the rope ladder and we descended to the boat. The boatman pulled out again, over the moonlit sea. I looked back at the Mary Rose, then across to the Great Harry. 'Now we know what they were doing with that pig,' I said. 'Practising lifting the King aboard. He'd never get up a ladder.'

  'No. The master did well to marshal the sailors then, that was a nasty mood developing on deck. By Mary, the people organizing the supplies—cheating merchants, corrupt officials.'

  Like Richard Rich, I thought.

  'Best the French come soon and make an end of this waiting,' Leacon said passionately. 'Get it over, one way or the other.'

  I looked at his troubled face, but did not reply. Whe
n we reached the wharf again it was a relief to climb back on land. A group of ragged-looking men were being led up Oyster Street by constables armed with staves. One was protesting angrily. 'I've a job at the warehouse!'

  'I've seen you begging by the churchyard. All beggars out of Portsmouth tonight!'

  I looked at Leacon. 'Remember the beggars thrown out of York before the King arrived there?'

  'I do.' He called over to the man in charge. 'Do you know what time the King arrives tomorrow?'

  'At nine. He is riding down from Portchester, across Portsea Island and through the town gate. With Admiral Lord Lisle and all the Privy Council. He will be taken out to the ships, then spend the night at the royal tents.'

  'Will the Queen be with them?' I asked.

  'No women in the party, I'm told. Now sir, if you please I have to see to these rogues from the city.' Leacon took a long, deep breath, then reached out his hand. 'This is where we must part, Matthew.'

  'Thank you, George. Thank you for everything.' There was a moment's silence, then I said, 'When this is over, come to London, stay with me a while.'

  'I will. My good wishes to Jack.'

  'Good luck, George.'

  'And you.' I looked into his drawn face. He bowed, then turned and marched quickly away, leaving me with sadness in my heart. As I walked back to the inn, I forced my mind back to the information West had given me, what it meant and where it led.

  * * *

  BARAK LAY ON his bed, re-reading his letters from Tamasin. I pulled off my boots and sat on the side of my own bed, wondering how to tell him what I had decided.

  'George Leacon sends his good wishes,' I told him. 'I have said farewell. The King will be in Portsmouth at nine tomorrow. He is going on the ships.'

  'We must be gone before then,' Barak answered firmly.

  'Yes, we must.'

  'Did you get on the Mary Rose?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's it like?'

  'Extraordinary. Beautiful and terrifying.'

  'You saw West?'

  'Yes.' I rubbed my neck. 'He was angry with me, he grabbed at me.'

  'I told you it was dangerous,' he said impatiently.

  'There were people near. In fact the purser interrupted us and ordered me away before I found out all I needed.'

  'Did you get the name of that friend of his?'

  'I asked him straight out if the other man was Warner, but he denied it. He gave me a name I have never heard of. I fear he was making it up. Jack, I am sure West knows Ellen is in the Bedlam.'

  'If the story of the letter was true, why keep the man's name secret now?'

  'Perhaps because they raped Ellen together.'

  He lay back on the bed. 'More imagining.'

  'If only that purser hadn't interrupted us—'

  'Well, you did what you could. Now let's get back to London.'

  'Tomorrow I am going first to Portchester Castle. I have to see the Queen. And Warner. She is not accompanying the King, it is an ideal opportunity. I am going to find out if Warner was at Rolfswood that day.'

  He sat up. 'No,' he said quietly. 'You are going to let this go and come back to London.'

  'What if it was Warner that betrayed me to Rich? An agent of Rich's in the Queen's household!'

  'Even if that's true, you know everyone at court spies on each other. And if it's not true, you could lose Warner's friendship and patronage.'

  'I owe the Queen. If one of her trusted advisers is in Richard Rich's pay—'

  'You don't owe the Queen,' he answered with slow intensity. ' She owes you. She always has: you saved her life, remember? I wish you had never let her drag you back anywhere near the court.' His voice rose. 'Go to Portchester? It's mad. What if Rich is there?'

  'All the privy councillors are going to the tents. But the Queen is staying behind, so her household will be too.'

  'What would you say to Warner anyway?'

  'Ask some hard questions.'

  'This isn't courage, you know. It's wilful, blinkered stubbornness.'

  'You don't have to come.'

  He looked at me and I saw he was utterly weary, tired beyond belief. He said quietly, 'That's what you said about coming back here today. But I came, just like I've come almost everywhere on this damned journey. You know why? Because I was ashamed, ashamed from the moment we met those soldiers on the road, of how I'd dodged their fate. But I'm not so ashamed I'll follow you into that lion's den. So there, that's it. If you go to Portchester Castle, this time you go alone.'

  'I didn't know you felt—'

  'No. I've just been useful to have around. Like poor Leacon.'

  'That's not fair,' I said, stung.

  'Isn't it? You used him twice to get you to West, though he has a company of soldiers to lead. But there are only so many favours a man can call in from anyone.' He turned away and lay back down.

  I sat in silence. Outside two drunks were walking down the streets, shouting, 'King Harry's coming! The King's coming, to see off the Frenchies!'

  Chapter Forty

  BARAK AND I SPOKE LITTLE during the remainder of the evening, only discussing the practicalities of the morrow's journey with uncomfortable, restrained politeness. Now I fully understood how reluctant he had been to support me in each successive stage of what he increasingly saw as my folly: he seemed to have given up arguing with me, which disturbed me more than any harsh words. We went early to bed, but it was long before I slept.

  We had asked the innkeeper to be sure and wake us at seven, but the wretched man forgot and did not call till past eight. Thus one of the most crowded and terrible days of my life began with Barak and I struggling hastily into our clothes, pulling on our boots, and hurrying breakfastless to the stables. When we rode out into Oyster Street it was already lined with soldiers, helmets and halberds brightly polished, waiting for the King. A sumptuous canopied barge was drawn up at the wharf, a dozen men resting at the oars. Out at sea the ships stood waiting, great streamers in Tudor green and white, perhaps eighty feet long, fluttering gently from the topmasts.

  To save time we avoided the main streets, riding up a lane between the town fields to the gate. It was another beautiful summer morning, Saturday, the 18th of July. All around soldiers waited outside their tents in helmets and jacks and, occasionally, brigandynes, captains on horseback facing the road in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets that reminded me of that first muster in London near a month ago.

  'Is the King coming this way?' Barak asked.

  'I would think he'll go down the High Street. But they all have to be ready.'

  'Shit!' he breathed. 'Look there!' He pointed to a bearded man standing to attention beside a mounted captain, halberd held rigid, frowning with solemn importance.

  I stared. 'Goodryke!' Barak averted his head from the whiffler who had tried so hard to conscript him, and we rode swiftly past.

  * * *

  WHERE THE town streets converged at the gate there was a milling throng. Many were on horseback, merchants by their look. They were trying to get through, but soldiers were pressing them back. 'I've to fetch five cartloads of wheat in today,' a red-faced man was shouting. 'I have to get out on the road to meet them.'

  'It's to be kept clear for the King. No one enters or leaves till he has passed through. He'll be here in a few minutes.'

  'Damn!' I breathed. 'Come, let's get to the back of the crowd.' I tried to turn Oddleg round, but people were packed too closely together. 'He's coming!' A captain shouted from the gate. 'Everyone stay where they are!'

  So we sat waiting. Looking down the High Street, I saw behind the soldiers facing the road hundreds of townsfolk, some holding up English flags. Brightly coloured wall hangings and carpets hung from the first-floor windows of the houses, and there were even people standing on the roofs. I looked behind me at the crowd and saw, at the back, Edward Priddis and his father on horseback. They stared at me, Edward stonily and Sir Quintin balefully. I turned away and looked up at the walkway atop
the town walls, crowded with soldiers. I patted Oddleg, who, like many of the horses in the tense crowd, was nervous.

  A soldier on the walls cupped his hands and shouted down, 'He comes!' I pulled my cap forward to hide my face as the soldiers cheered. There was a sound of tramping feet and a company of pikemen marched in through the gate. A group of courtiers followed, in furs and satins, Rich among them. Then the unmistakable figure of the King rode slowly in, his gigantic horse draped in a canopy of cloth of gold. He wore a fur-trimmed scarlet robe set with jewels that glinted in the sun, a black cap with white feathers on his head. When I had seen him four years before he had been big, but now his body was vast, legs like tree trunks in golden hose sticking out from the horse's side. Beside him rode Lord Lisle, stern as when I had seen him at the Godshouse, and a large man whom I recognized from York as the Duke of Suffolk; his beard now was long, forked and white; he had become an old man.

  Cheers rose from the streets, and a crash of cannon from the Camber sounded a welcome. I risked a glance at the King's face as he passed, fifteen feet from me. Then I stared, so different was it from four years before. The deep-set little eyes, beaky nose and small mouth were now surrounded by a great square of fat that seemed to press his features into the centre of his head. His beard was thin, and almost entirely grey. He was smiling, though, and began waving to the welcoming crowds, tiny eyes swivelling keenly over them. In that grotesque face I thought I read pain and weariness, and something more. Fear? I wondered whether even that man of titanic self-belief might think, as the French invasion force approached, what will happen now? Even, perhaps: What have I done?

  Still waving, he rode away down the High Street, towards the barge that would take him to the Great Harry.

  * * *

  HALF AN HOUR passed before the King's entire retinue had entered the town and we were able to ride out. From the seafront more cannon resounded as the King arrived at the wharf. Beyond the gate the soldiers lining the road were now falling out of line, wiping sweat from their brows.