Heartstone

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Food is ever the main concern among the soldiers too,’ Leacon said. He looked at the barefoot sailors. ‘Food and shoes, though you sailors don’t seem to worry about those.’

  ‘The soldiers should go barefoot like us, then they wouldn’t slip and slide whenever they come on board.’

  The Mary Rose moved slightly with the breeze, and I almost stumbled again. On the walkway above me two sailors, carrying a long heavy box between them, barely checked their stride as they walked across. They disappeared through a doorway into the aftercastle. Our sailor, bored with us, moved away.

  ‘I can see why your men were intimidated,’ I said quietly to Leacon. ‘I’ve been on ships before, but this – ’

  He nodded. ‘Ay, though I don’t doubt their courage in the rush of battle.’ I looked up again at the aftercastle. I saw more netting there on the top deck, secured to a central spar, dimly illumined by light from lamps below. Someone up there was strumming a lute, the sound drifting down. Leacon followed my gaze. ‘We practised on the aftercastle of the Great Harry today, firing through the blinds on the top deck. It was hard to get a good shot.’

  ‘The sailors seem in a poor humour.’

  ‘They’re hard to discipline, they’ve been dragged together from all over the realm and beyond. Some are privateers.’

  I smiled. ‘Are you showing your prejudices, George?’

  ‘They didn’t mind showing theirs earlier, laughing at my men.’

  A thin wiry man in a striped jerkin picked his way towards us; he carried a horn lantern whose light was brighter than the sailors’, a good beeswax candle inside. He bowed briefly, then addressed Leacon in a Welsh accent. ‘You have business with Master West, Captain?’

  ‘This man does. He needs to speak with him urgently.’

  ‘He’s down in the galley with the cook. You’ll have to go to him, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Can you take me?’

  He looked at me dubiously. ‘The galley is down in the hold. Can you manage it?’

  I answered sharply, ‘I got up on the ship, didn’t I?’

  ‘Your robe will suffer, sir. Best take it off.’

  Leacon took it. ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ he said. ‘But please do not be long.’

  I stood in my shirt, shivering slightly. ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the sailor said. ‘It’s warm enough where we’re going.’

  He led the way along the deck to the forecastle. As I followed I tripped beside a group of card players, accidentally sending a tiny dice flying; a man retrieved it with a quick scooping motion. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. He looked at me with hard hostility.

  Just before the aftercastle we reached an open hatch where a wide ladder descended into darkness. The sailor turned to me. ‘We go down here.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Morgan, sir. Now, please follow me down carefully.’

  He put his feet on the ladder. I waited till the top of his head disappeared, then began to descend.

  I had to feel carefully for the rungs in the semi-darkness, and thanked God the ship was barely stirring. It grew hotter. Water dripped somewhere. At the foot of the ladder there was some light, more lanterns hanging from beams. I saw it was the gundeck. Well over a hundred feet long, it ran below the castles, almost the whole length of the ship. Further down the gundeck some areas were partitioned off into little rooms, the backs of cannon projecting between them. To my surprise there was enough headroom to stand. I looked down at the cannon on their wheeled carriages. The nearest was iron; the one next to it bronze, stamped with a large Tudor rose, a crown above, gleaming with an odd sheen in the lantern light. A harsh smell of powder mixed with the cooking smell; pods of broom and laurel leaves tied against the walls to sweeten the air had little effect.

  Men were checking stone and iron gunballs for size against wooden boards with large circular holes, then stacking them carefully inside triangular containers beside each cannon. Two officers looked on: one bearded and middle-aged, a silver whistle round his neck on a silk sash, the other younger. ‘This job should have been finished before dark,’ the older officer growled. He saw us and stared at me, raising his chin interrogatively. Morgan bowed deeply.

  ‘This gentleman has a message from shore, sir, for Master West. He is down in the galley.’

  ‘Don’t get in the men’s way,’ the officer told me curtly. Morgan led me some way down the gundeck. We came to another hatch, with a ladder leading down. ‘This goes right down to the galley, sir,’ Morgan said.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The master. He’s in charge of the ship.’

  ‘I thought that was the captain.’

  Morgan laughed. ‘Captain Grenville doesn’t know the Mary Rose, though at least he’s a seaman, unlike some of the captains. Most are knighted gentlemen, you see, to put us in awe.’ Like Sir Franklin with the soldiers, I thought.

  Morgan stepped to the ladder and began nimbly descending again. I followed.

  We passed another deck, full of stores in partitioned areas. I made out barrels and chests, coils of immensely thick rope. Billows of hot steam rose up from below now. The ship shifted slightly, groaning and creaking, and one of my feet almost slipped. A red glow was visible underneath us, accompanied by a wave of heat, the smell of bad meat increasingly powerful. I glanced down at Morgan; his face was redly illuminated from below. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘St David’s, sir. I have a fishing boat, or did till I was enlisted like half west Wales. Though they still haven’t enough sailors, a third of the crew are Spaniards or Flemings.’

  ‘How many sailors on board?’

  ‘Two hundred. And three hundred soldiers if we go to battle, so we’re told. Too many, some say enough to overset the ship if they all go on those high castle decks.’

  We passed through another hatch, my arms aching now. Then we were in the hold. Thick, stinking steam made me gasp and almost retch, and my face was instantly covered in sweat. There was, too, a rotten salty smell that I guessed came from the beach pebbles used as ballast. I saw, to my left, two large brick kilns, set on a brick flooring, yellow flames dancing underneath bubbling vats of pottage in which thick pieces of grey flesh floated. The flames, the bubbling cauldrons and the sweating walls made it look like some radical preacher’s vision of Hell. Two young men, stripped to the waist, stirred the vats. One broke off to feed a piece of wood from a little pile into one of the fires. On the other side of the vats two men in their shirts were examining something in a ladle. One was Philip West, the other, I guessed, the cook.

  The cook said, ‘We can’t serve this up, sir. We should put it overboard and try to find a barrel of stockfish that isn’t tainted.’

  ‘Are there any left?’ West answered with angry impatience. ‘We should have had a week’s supply of new barrels delivered today! But you’re right, we can’t give the men this. It’s rotten.’ Then he saw me; his face took on an expression of astonishment and something like horror. He stepped forward. ‘What’s this?’ he barked at Morgan.

  ‘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. When 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 s
pend 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?’