Heartstone

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘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.

  ‘Christ’s blood, he’s aged,’ Barak said. ‘How old is he now?’

  I calculated. ‘Fifty-four.’

  ‘Is that all? Jesu. Imagine the Queen having to sleep with that.’

  ‘I prefer not.’

  ‘That I believe.’ He ventured a smile and I smiled sadly back, glad the ice was broken.

  We crossed the bridge to the mainland and rode quickly to the little town of Cosham. There on
e road continued north, past Hoyland and on to London, while another forked left to Portchester Castle. We halted. Barak said quietly, ‘Let’s ride on, get home.’

  ‘No. I am still going to Portchester. An hour to ride there and back, an hour or two at the castle. I’ll try and catch you up tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m still not coming.’

  ‘I understand. You think me mad, I know.’ I tried to smile.

  ‘I’ll wait for you at the inn over there till three,’ he said. ‘But if you’re not back by then I’ll ride on.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  So I turned and rode west. I passed along the coastline for a couple of miles; slowly the high white Roman walls of Portchester Castle, set on a peninsula protruding into the head of Portsmouth Haven, became clearer. Twice I passed a company of soldiers heading in the opposite direction.

  The castle, an almost perfect square of high stone walls surrounded by a moat, enclosed a site of several acres. In the centre of the walls was a large gatehouse, and at the western end an enormous square keep, immensely solid. A group of soldiers in half-armour, with swords and halberds, stood guard before the drawbridge in front of the gatehouse. I handed the letter I had written to Warner the previous night asking for an interview, to a young officer, a petty-captain I guessed. He looked at me interrogatively. ‘I understand the Queen and her household have remained at Portchester,’ I said.

  ‘They’re here.’

  ‘I have been engaged on a piece of legal business for the Queen at Portsmouth. There has been a development and I need to speak with Master Warner.’

  The captain stared. ‘I’d have thought they’d be too busy there to bother with lawyer’s quibbles.’

  ‘This matter started before the present crisis. I think Master Warner will want to see me.’

  He grunted disapproval, but beckoned a young soldier across, gave him the letter, and told him to find Warner. The soldier ran off to the drawbridge.

  ‘Did you see his majesty enter Portsmouth?’ the petty-captain asked.

  ‘He arrived just before I left. He had a fine welcome.’

  He jerked his head back at the castle behind him. ‘We may have to defend this place from the French. They say there’s thirty thousand of them.’ He laughed bitterly, muttered ‘Lawyer’s quibbles,’ again. We waited in silence, the hot sun beating down on us, till the young soldier ran back. ‘He’ll see the lawyer, sir,’ he told the officer.

  ONE OF THE soldiers took the horse, and the officer, with ill grace, led me across the drawbridge. We passed through the big gatehouse, guarded by more soldiers, which gave entrance to the castle and came out into a huge open space where there were yet more soldiers’ tents. Men were drilling and practising with their bows on the cropped grass. Ahead of me was an enormous storehouse. The door was open and I saw it was near empty; most of the stores would have been taken to Portsmouth. A path ran straight across the enclosure to another gate on the opposite side, giving on to the harbour. Soldiers patrolled the walls and I saw the dark shapes of cannon; if the French managed to enter the harbour they might try to land here.

  We turned left towards the tall inner keep; it was surrounded by a complex of smaller buildings, closed off by internal walls and protected by a continuation of the moat. The petty-captain had to explain his mission to the guards stationed there before he was allowed to lead me across the inner moat into a central yard. With the King away few people remained there. We passed through a high ornate door, then climbed a flight of steps to a great hall with a splendid hammerbeam roof. I was handed on to an official who led me down a narrow corridor into a small antechamber, telling me to wait. There were some cushioned chairs; I sat down wearily. It was quiet; a clock on the buffet ticked steadily. The sun streamed in through an arched window.

  The door opened and Warner entered, my letter in his hand. He looked agitated. ‘Matthew, what is this?’ he asked. ‘I hope it is urgent.’

  I stood and bowed. ‘It is. I need to speak with you, Robert.’

  ‘Why are you still here?’ he asked sharply. ‘The Queen recommended you to leave. You know the King is here?’

  ‘I saw him enter Portsmouth two hours ago.’

  ‘Please tell me nothing more has happened at Hoyland Priory. The Queen was most concerned to learn of that woman’s death.’

  ‘A man has been arrested for Abigail Hobbey’s murder, a local yeoman. I believe he is innocent.’

  He waved a hand impatiently. ‘The Queen cannot deal with that now.’

  ‘And I have been warned to drop the Curteys case. By none other than Sir Richard Rich.’

  I watched carefully for Warner’s reaction, but he only looked surprised. ‘What on earth has Rich to do with Hoyland?’

  ‘I do not know. But I remember the day I came to Hampton Court to see the Queen, Rich was standing in a doorway in Clock Court when I left her. With Sir Thomas Seymour. They took the opportunity to bait me a little, but I thought the meeting was ill chance. Now I am not so sure.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can make nothing of this.’

  I continued, ‘I believe I mentioned I wished to take the opportunity to look into another matter down here.’

  ‘You did.’ He frowned. ‘If there is a connection to the Hugh Curteys case, you should have told the Queen.’

  ‘I have only recently discovered there may be a link. A man called Sir Quintin Priddis.’

  ‘Matthew, the Queen cannot be troubled with this now,’ he said sharply. ‘The King needs her full support. You were told to leave—’

  I said quickly, ‘I have been investigating how a woman called Ellen Fettiplace came to be placed in the Bedlam nineteen years ago, despite there being no certificate of lunacy. Sir Quintin Priddis was involved. My trail led me to a town near the Sussex border, Rolfswood, where the body of her late father was recently discovered. It looks like murder. I have been talking to the man who was to marry her. He is now assistant purser on the Mary Rose. His name is Philip West.’

  I watched Warner’s face as I recited those names, but he still only looked puzzled and annoyed. ‘Master West told me an extraordinary tale,’ I continued. ‘When he was young he was at court. He was favoured by the King and chosen to take a letter from Petworth to Hever Castle, the same summer of 1526 that Ellen’s father disappeared and she went to the Bedlam. The letter was stolen by the man West was travelling with, a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon’s service.’

  ‘What is all this to do—’

  I continued relentlessly. ‘He believes the lawyer was a spy for Catherine of Aragon and took the letter to her. It may have given her early warning of the King’s intention to divorce her. West told the King the letter was lost, not stolen. He told me the man who stole it was named Gregory Jackson, and that he is dead, but I have wondered whether West might have been lying.’

  Warner stared at me; then he reddened and his face grew hard. ‘What are you saying?’ I did not answer. ‘You know I was a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon’s household then.’ He said quietly, ‘You think it might have been me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Very well.’

  He turned round and walked to the door. ‘Wait here,’ he said. Before I could move he had gone, closing the door. I heard him call out to a guard to watch it.

  FOR HALF AN HOUR I waited and sweated. And I thought, Barak was right, I have become obsessed; if he had come here with me, I would have led us both into danger. When the door opened I jumped involuntarily, my heart in my mouth. Warner was there, two guards with halberds behind him. ‘Come with me,’ he said abruptly. I went out, the guards taking positions behind me.

  Warner led me downstairs, our feet clattering on stone flags, and I thought with horror, this is a castle, it will have dungeons. But he stopped on the ground floor, took me along a corridor and then opened a door that led, to my surprise, into a small, secluded garden surrounded by trees. Vines hung from trellises and flowers grew in little banks by the walls. There, shaded by a trellis, the Queen sat,
the spaniel Rig on her knee, two maids-in-waiting standing behind her. She wore a dress in her favourite crimson and a hood patterned with flowers, tiny diamonds sewn into the petals. She looked up at me and I saw her face was tight with strain, dark circles under the eyes. Her body was tense, rigid, her face angry. I bowed deeply.

  ‘Matthew!’ The Queen’s tone was low, hurt. ‘Master Warner tells me you have accused him of being in the pay of that scoundrel Richard Rich.’

  I turned to Warner, who gazed back at me steadily. ‘I made no accusation, your majesty. But I feared—’

  ‘He has told me. It sounds scant reason to come here and accuse him. Now, of all times.’

  ‘Your majesty, my concern was for the integrity of your household.’

  The Queen closed her eyes. ‘Oh, Matthew, Matthew,’ she said. She looked at me again, steadily. ‘Have you told anyone else this story?’

  ‘Only Barak.’

  ‘Well, it is true at least that this man West lied to you.’ The Queen gestured wearily to her lawyer. ‘Tell him, Robert.’

  Warner said coldly, ‘There was indeed a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon’s household named Gregory Jackson. He worked for me, in fact. But he died in 1525, the year before West lost this letter. From the sweating sickness. I remember, I went to his funeral. So the man West and his mother spoke of could not have been Jackson. But nor was it me. Queen Catherine of Aragon had her spies, certainly, who would try to ferret out whatever they could about the King’s mistresses. But they were mostly servants in the King’s household. And on my oath I was no spy, I was a lawyer then as I am now. And I have no connections with Richard Rich, no dealings with that man if I can avoid it. I thought it best to lay your – insinuation – directly before the Queen.’

  ‘And I trust Robert.’ The Queen’s voice rose. ‘Do you think me a fool, Matthew, not to be sure whom I can trust in my service, when I know what can happen to queens in this country?’

  I looked between her and Warner, saw the anger in both their faces. I realized I had been wrong. ‘I apologize most humbly, your majesty. And to you, Master Warner.’