Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  'You know, I sometimes wonder if friend Bealknap is quite sane. Two years now he has made a fool and mock of himself by avoiding me, and now you too.'

  'And all the while he gets richer. They say he sold some of that gold he has to the Mint for the recoinage, and that he is lending more out to people looking for money to pay the taxes, now that lending at interest has been made legal.'

  'There are some at Lincoln's Inn who have needed to do that to pay the Benevolence. Thank God I had enough gold. Yet the way Bealknap behaves does not show a balanced mind.'

  Barak gave me a penetrating look. 'You've become too ready to see madness in people. It's because you give so much time to Ellen Fettiplace. Have you answered her latest message?'

  I made an impatient gesture. 'Let's not go over that again. I have, and I will go to the Bedlam tomorrow.'

  'Bedlamite she may be, but she plays you like a fisherman pulling on a line.' Barak looked at me seriously. 'You know why.'

  I changed the subject. 'I went for a walk earlier. There was a View of Arms in Lincoln's Inn Fields. The officer was threatening to make pikemen of those who hadn't been practising their archery.'

  Barak answered contemptuously, 'They know as well as anyone that only those who like archery practise it regularly, for all the laws the King makes. It's hard work and you've got to keep at it to be any good.' He gave me a serious look. 'It's no good making laws too unpopular to be enforced. Lord Cromwell knew that, he knew where to draw the line.'

  'They're enforcing this. I've never seen anything like it before. And yesterday I saw the constables sweeping the streets for the beggars and vagabonds the King's ordered to be sent to row on the galleasses. Have you heard the latest word—that French troops have landed in Scotland and the Scots are ready to fall on us too?'

  'The latest word,' Barak repeated scoffingly. 'Who sets these stories running about the French and Scots about to invade? The King's officials, that's who. Maybe to stop the people rebelling like they did in '36. Against the taxes and the debasement of the currency. Here, look at this.' His hand went to his purse. He took out a little silver coin and smacked it down on the desk. I picked it up. The King's fat jowly face stared up at me.

  'One of the new shilling coins,' Barak said. 'A testoon.'

  'I haven't seen one before.'

  'Tamasin went shopping with Goodwife Marris yesterday in Cheapside. There's plenty there. Look at its dull colour. The silver's so adulterated with copper they'll only give eightpence worth of goods for it. Prices for bread and meat are going through the roof. Not that there is much bread, with so much being requisitioned for the army.' Barak's brown eyes flashed angrily. 'And where's the extra silver gone? To repay those German bankers who lent the King money for the war.'

  'You really think there may be no French invasion fleet at all?'

  'Maybe. I don't know.' He hesitated, then said suddenly, 'I think they're trying to get me for the army.'

  'What?' I sat bolt upright.

  'The constable was going round all the houses in the ward last Friday with some soldier, registering all men of military age. I told them I'd a wife and a child on the way. The soldier said I looked a fit man. I flipped my fingers at him and told him to piss off. Trouble is Tamasin told me he came back yesterday. She saw him through the window and didn't answer the door.'

  I sighed. 'Your over-confidence will be the end of you one day.'

  'That's what Tamasin says. But they're not taking married man with children. Or at least, not many.'

  'The powers that be are serious. I think there is going to be an invasion attempt, or why recruit all these thousands of soldiers? You should take care.'

  Barak looked mutinous. 'None of this would be happening if the King hadn't invaded France last year. Forty thousand men sent over the Channel, and what happened? We were sent running back with our tails between our legs, except for the poor sods besieged in Boulogne. Everyone says we should cut our losses, abandon Boulogne and make peace, but the King won't. Not our Harry.'

  'I know. I agree.'

  'Remember last autumn, the soldiers back from France lying in rags, plague-ridden, on all the roads to the city?' His face set hard. 'Well, that won't happen to me.'

  I looked at my assistant. There had been a time when Barak might have seen war as an adventure. But not now. 'What did this soldier look like?'

  'Big fellow your age with a black beard, done up in a London Trained Bands uniform. Looked as if he'd seen service.'

  'He was in charge of the View of Arms. I'd guess a professional officer. No man to cross, I'd say.'

  'Well, if he's viewing all the mustered men, hopefully he'll be too busy to bother any more with me.'

  'I hope so. If he does return, you must come to me.'

  'Thank you,' he said quietly.

  I reached for the letter on the corner of my desk. 'In return, I'd like your view on this.' I handed it to him.

  'Not another message from Ellen?'

  'Look at the seal. It's one you've seen before.'

  He looked up. 'The Queen's. Is it from Master Warner? Another case?'

  'Read it.' I hesitated. 'It worries me.'

  Barak unfolded the letter, and read aloud.

  'I would welcome your personal counsel on a case, a private matter. I invite you to attend me here at Hampton Court, at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.'

  'It's signed—'

  'I know. Catherine the Queen, not lawyer Warner.'

  Barak read it again. 'It's short enough. But she says it's a case. No sign it's anything political.'

  'But it must be something that affects her closely for her to write herself. I can't help remembering last year when the Queen sent Warner to represent that relative of her servant who was accused of heresy.'

  'She promised she would keep you out of things like that. And she's one who keeps her promises.'

  I nodded. More than two years before, when Queen Catherine Parr was still Lady Latimer, I had saved her life. She had promised both to be my patron and never to involve me in matters of politics.

  'How long is it since you saw her?' Barak asked.

  'Not since the spring. She granted me an audience at Whitehall to thank me for sorting out that tangled case about her Midland properties. Then she sent me her book of prayers last month. You remember, I showed you. Prayers and Meditations.'

  He pulled a face. 'Gloomy stuff.'

  I smiled sadly. 'Yes, it was. I had not realized how much sadness there was in her. She put in a personal note saying she hoped it would turn my mind to God.'

  'She'd never put you in harm's way. It'll be another land case, you'll see.'

  I smiled gratefully. Barak had known the underside of the political world from his earliest days, and I valued his reassurance.

  'The Queen and Ellen Fettiplace in one day!' he said jokingly. 'You will have a busy day.'

  'Yes.' I took the letter back. Remembering the last time I had visited Hampton Court, the thought of presenting myself there again set a knot of fear twisting in my stomach.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when I finished my last brief and sanded my notes. Barak and Skelly had already left and I set off up Chancery Lane for my house nearby.

  It was a perfect summer evening. Two days ago had been Midsummer's Day, but the normal celebrations and bonfires had been curtailed by royal proclamation. The city was under a curfew now, with extra watches set through the night, for fear lest French agents set it alight.

  As I reached my house, I reflected that these days I no longer felt the uplift on coming home I had when Joan was alive; rather, a worm of irritation stirred. I let myself in. Josephine Coldiron, my steward's daughter, was standing on the rush matting in the hall, hands clasped in front of her and a vacant, slightly worried expression on her round face.

  'Good afternoon, Josephine,' I said. She curtsied and bobbed her head. A tendril of unwashed blonde hair escaped from under her white coif, dangling over her brow. She b
rushed it away. 'Sorry, sir,' she said nervously.

  I spoke gently, for I knew she was afraid of me. 'How is dinner progressing?'

  She looked guilty. 'I haven't started yet, sir. I need the boys' help to prepare the vegetables.'

  'Where are Simon and Timothy?'

  Josephine looked alarmed. 'Er, with Father, sir. I'll fetch them and get started.'

  She scurried into the kitchen with her quick, tiny steps, like an agitated mouse. I crossed to the parlour.

  Guy, my old friend and current house guest, sat on a chair looking out of the window. He turned as I came in, venturing a weak smile. Guy was a physician, a man of some status, but that had not stopped a gang of apprentices on the lookout for French spies from wrecking his house down near the Old Barge one night two months ago, tearing to shreds the medical notes he had made over the years and smashing his equipment. Guy had been out, or he might have been killed. No matter that Guy's ancestry was Spanish; he was a well-known foreigner with a dark face and a strange accent. Since I had taken him in he had sunk into a deep melancholy that worried me.

  I laid my satchel on the floor. 'How now, Guy?'

  He raised a hand in greeting. 'I have been sitting here all day. It is strange; I thought if ever I was without work time would pass slowly, but it seems to race away without my noticing.'

  'Barak says Tamasin is feeling the heat.'

  I was pleased to see interest come into his face. 'I am seeing her tomorrow. I am sure she is well, but it will reassure them. Him, rather. I think Tamasin takes it all in her stride.' He hesitated. 'I said I would see her here, I hope that was not presumptuous.'

  'Of course not. And you are welcome here as long as you wish, you know that.'

  'Thank you. I fear if I go back home the same thing will happen again. The atmosphere against foreigners grows more poisonous every day. Look out there.' He pointed through the diamond-paned window to my garden.

  I moved over and looked out. My steward William Coldiron stood on the path, hands on his skinny hips and a fierce expression on his cadaverous, grey-stubbled face. My two servant boys, tall fourteen-year-old Simon and little twelve-year-old Timothy, paraded stiffly up and down in front of him across the garden, each with a broomstick over his shoulder. Coldiron watched them keenly from his single eye—the other was covered with a large black patch. 'Right turn,' he shouted, and the boys obeyed awkwardly. I heard Josephine call from the kitchen door. Coldiron looked up sharply at the study window. I opened it and called 'William!' sharply.

  Coldiron turned to the boys. 'Get indoors and get master's dinner ready,' he shouted at them. 'Making me waste time giving you drilling lessons!' The boys looked at him, outrage on their faces.

  I turned to Guy. 'God's death, that man!' Guy shook his head wearily. A moment later Coldiron appeared in the doorway. He bowed, then stood stiffly to attention. As ever, I found his face difficult to look at. A long, deep scar ran from his receding hairline to his eyepatch and continued down to the corner of his mouth. He had told me when I interviewed him that it was the result of a sword thrust received at the Battle of Flodden against the Scots over thirty years before. I had sympathized, as I always did with those who were disfigured, and that had influenced me in taking him on, though there was also the fact that, with two large instalments of tax due to the King, I had to be careful with money and he did not demand high wages. In truth I had not much liked him even then.

  'What were you doing out there with the boys?' I asked. 'Josephine says nothing has been done to prepare dinner.'

  'I'm sorry, sir,' he answered smoothly. 'Only Simon and Timothy were asking me about my time as a soldier. God bless them, they want to do what they can to defend their country from invasion. They pestered me to show them how soldiers drill.' He spread his hands. 'Wouldn't let me alone. It stirs their blood to know I fought the Scots last time they invaded us, that I was the man who cut down King James IV.'

  'Are they going to defend us with broomsticks?'

  'The time may be coming when even such callow boys may need to take up bills and halberds. They say the Scots are up to their old pranks again, ready to march on us while the French threaten us from the south. I believe it, I know those redshanks. And if foreign spies set fire to London—' He gave Guy a sidelong look, so quick it was barely noticeable, but Guy saw it and turned away.

  'I don't want you drilling Timothy and Simon,' I said curtly, 'however great your knowledge of the arts of war. Those of housekeeping are your work now.'

  Coldiron did not turn a hair. 'Of course, sir. I won't let the boys press me like that again.' He bowed deeply once more and left the room. I stared at the closed door.

  'He made the boys go out and drill,' Guy said. 'I saw it. Timothy at least did not want to.'

  'That man is a liar and a rogue.'

  Guy smiled sadly, raising an eyebrow. 'You do not think he killed the Scottish King?'

  I snorted. 'Every English soldier who was at Flodden claims he did it. I am thinking of dismissing him.'

  'Perhaps you should,' Guy said, uncharacteristically for he was the gentlest of men.

  I sighed. 'It's his daughter I feel sorry for. Coldiron bullies her as well as the boys.' I passed a hand over my chin. 'I am due to visit the Bedlam tomorrow, by the way, to see Ellen.'

  He gave me a direct look, his face as sad as any man's I have seen. 'By going there every time she says she is ill—well, it may not be to the benefit of either of you in the long run. Whatever she is suffering, she lacks the right to summon you at will.'

  * * *

  I LEFT EARLY next morning to visit the Bedlam. The night before I had finally come to a decision about Ellen. I did not like what I planned to do, but could see no alternative. I donned my robe and riding boots, collected my riding crop and walked round to the stables. I had decided to ride across the city, and my way lay down the broader, paved streets. Genesis was in his stall, nose in the feed bucket. Timothy, whose duties included the stable, was stroking him. As I entered, the horse looked up and gave a whicker of welcome. I patted his cheek, running my hand down his stiff, bristly whiskers. I had had him five years; he had been a young gelding then, now he was a mature, peaceful animal. I looked down at Timothy. 'You have been mixing those herbs with his fodder as I asked?'

  'Yes, sir. He likes them.'

  Seeing Timothy's smiling, gap-toothed face, I felt a clutch at my heart. He was an orphan, with no one in the world outside my household, and I knew he felt Joan's loss deeply. I nodded, then said gently, 'Timothy, if Master Coldiron sets you and Simon to play at soldiers again, you are to tell him I said no, do you understand?'

  The boy looked worried, shifted from foot to foot. 'He says it's important for us to learn, sir.'

  'Well, I say you are too young. Now, fetch the mounting block, there's a good lad.' I said to myself, that man will go.

  * * *

  I RODE DOWN Holborn Hill and through the gate in the city wall at Newgate, the grim, smoke-blackened stone of the jail hard by. Outside the entrance to the old Christ's Hospital two halberdiers stood to attention. I had heard it was being used, like other former monastic properties, to store the King's weapons and banners. I thought again of my friend Roger's plans for the Inns of Court to found a new hospital for the poor. I had tried to carry on his work after his death, but the weight of taxation for the wars was such that everyone was pinching and sparing.

  As I passed the Shambles a blizzard of small goose feathers swept out from under a yard door, causing Genesis to stir anxiously. Blood, too, was seeping into the street. The war meant a huge demand for arrows for the King's armouries, and I guessed they were killing geese for the primary feathers the fletchers would use. I thought of the View of Arms I had witnessed the previous day. Fifteen hundred men had already been recruited from London and sent south, a large contingent from the sixty thousand souls in the city. And the same thing was going on all over the country; I hoped that hard-faced officer would forget about Barak.

&n
bsp; I rode on into the broad thoroughfare of Cheapside, lined with shops and public buildings and prosperous merchants' houses. A preacher, his grey beard worn long in the fashion now favoured by Protestants, stood on the steps of Cheapside Cross, declaiming in a loud voice. 'God must favour our arms, for the French and Scots are naught but the Pope's shavelings, instruments of the devil in his war against true Bible faith!' He was probably an unlicensed radical preacher, of the sort who two years ago would have been arrested and thrown in prison, but encouraged now for their hot favouring of the war. City constables in red uniforms, staffs over their shoulders, patrolled up and down. Only the older constables were left now, the younger ones gone to war. They looked constantly over the crowd, as though their rheumy eyes could spot a French or Scottish spy about to—what, poison the food on the stalls? There was little enough of that, for as Barak said much had been requisitioned for the army, and last year's harvest had been poor. One stall, however, was filled with what to my astonished eyes looked like a heap of sheep droppings until, riding closer, I saw they were prunes. Since the King had legalized piracy against the French and Scots all sorts of strange goods from impounded ships had turned up on the stalls. I remembered the celebrations in the spring when the pirate Robert Renegar had brought a Spanish treasure ship up the Thames, full of gold from the Indies. Despite Spanish fury he had been feted at court as a hero.

  There was an angry tone, different from the usual haggling, in the many arguments going on up and down the market. At a vegetable stall a fat, red-faced woman stood waving one of the testoons in the stallholder's face, the white wings of her coif shaking with anger.

  'It's a shilling!' she yelled. 'It's got the King's majesty's head on it!'

  The weary-looking stallholder slapped his hands down and leaned forward. 'It's nearly half copper! It's worth eightpence in the old money, if that! It's not my fault! I didn't make this evil coinage!'

  'My husband got paid in these! And you want a penny a bag for these scabby things!' She picked up a small cabbage and waved it at him.