Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  It was dark by the time I concluded; Seckford had lit candles in his parlour. He had prevailed on me to share a jug of beer; I had drunk one mug to his three. When I finished the story he sat with bowed head, plump hands trembling on his lap. Then he looked up. 'This King has had three wars against France, and lost all of them. All for his own glory. You know, the Church has a doctrine called just war. St Thomas Aquinas wrote on it, though the doctrine is much older than that. A State going to war must have tried all other options, must have justice on its side and have an honourable purpose in mind. None of Henry's wars has been like that. Though he claims to be God's representative on earth.'

  'Which wars do have justice on their side, Master Seckford?'

  He raised his cup to his lips with a shaking hand. 'Some, perhaps. But not this King's.' He spoke with sudden anger. 'Blame him, blame him for the men dead on the Mary Rose, the soldiers and the women and children in France. And even for Philip West, may his sins be forgiven.'

  'I keep seeing my friend's face, all the other soldiers, I see them crashing into the water. Over and again.' I smiled wryly. 'A woman I admire greatly tells me to seek refuge in prayer.'

  'You should.'

  I burst out, 'How can God allow such things to happen? How? I think of that ship going down, of the savagery Reformers and Catholics show to each other, of Emma and Hobbey and David and sometimes—forgive me, but sometimes I think God only laughs at us.'

  Seckford put down his cup. 'I understand how people can think like that nowadays. And if God were all powerful, perhaps you would be right. But the Gospels tell a different story. The Cross, you see. For myself I think Christ suffers with us.'

  'What is the good of that, Reverend Seckford? How does that help?'

  'The age of miracles is long gone. See—' He picked up his mug again. 'He cannot even stop me drinking, though I would like Him to.'

  'Why?' I asked. 'Why can he not?'

  He smiled sadly. 'I do not know, I am only a drunken old country priest. But I have faith. It is the only way to live with the mystery.'

  I shook my head. 'Faith is beyond me now.'

  Seckford smiled. 'You do not like mysteries, do you? You like to solve them. As you have solved the mystery of Ellen.'

  'At such cost.'

  He looked at me. 'You will take care of her?'

  'I will do all I can.'

  'And that poor girl Emma, and the wreckage of that Hobbey family?'

  'So far as possible.'

  Seckford leaned forward, placed his trembling hand on my arm. ' "Faith, Hope and Charity," ' he quoted. ' "But the greatest of these is charity." '

  'That is an old-fashioned doctrine nowadays.'

  'The best, nonetheless, Master Shardlake. Remember me to Ellen when you see her. And tonight I shall light candles in the church for your friend George Leacon and his men. I shall make it a blaze of colour for them.'

  He laid a shaking hand on mine. But I found it poor comfort.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  BARAK AND I ARRIVED back in London five days later, on the afternoon of the 27th of July. We had been away almost a month. We had returned the horses at Kingston and made the final leg of the journey, like the first, by boat. Even the tidal swell of the river made me feel uneasy, though I tried to hide it.

  We walked up through Temple Gardens. Dyrick would be back in his chambers soon; if Emma appeared I would have to liaise with him to get Hugh's—as the court supposed Emma to be—wardship transferred to me. But if she were never seen again I could do nothing.

  Fleet Street and the Strand presented the same aspect as when we had left; groups of corner boys in blue robes boldly scrutinizing passers-by; posters pasted to the buildings warning of French spies. The boatman had told us more soldiers were being sent south; the French were still in the Solent.

  Barak invited me to come to his house to see Tamasin, but I knew he would rather greet her alone so I said I must go to my chambers. We parted at the bottom of Chancery Lane. He promised to be in chambers the following morning. I walked on, turning in at Lincoln's Inn gate. I wanted to see how things fared there, and also to consider how I would tackle Coldiron when I returned home.

  * * *

  GATEHOUSE COURT was hot, dusty-smelling in the summer sun. Barristers and clerks walked to and fro within the square of red brick buildings. Here there was no sign of war. I felt myself relax at the old familiar scene as I walked to my chambers. I had sent Skelly a note from Esher saying I would shortly be back, and he rose to greet me with a smile.

  'Are you well, sir?' From the hesitation in his voice I could tell the strain of what I had been through showed on my face.

  'Well enough. And you? Your wife and children?'

  'We are all in good health, thanks be to God.'

  'Everything well here?'

  'Yes, sir. A few new cases are in, to come on in the new term.'

  'Good.' I sighed. 'I want to encourage some new work.'

  'We heard about the French trying to invade the Isle of Wight, the loss of the Mary Rose in front of the King himself. They're sending another fifteen hundred men down from London—'

  'Yes, the road to Portsmouth was busy with men and supplies on our way back.'

  'Nobody seems to know what will happen next. The ship Hedgehog blew up in the Thames the same day the Mary Rose sank; some say she was blown up by French spies, though others blame the stock of gunpowder she carried not being supervised properly—'

  'I would guess that is more likely. Were many killed?'

  'A good many. Sir, are you all right?' He darted forward as I grasped at a corner of a table, for the floor had seemed to shift beneath my feet.

  'Tired, that is all. It has been a long journey. Now, are those new papers in my office? I should look at them.'

  'Sir—' Skelly asked.

  I answered impatiently, 'Yes?'

  'How is Jack? Is there any news of his wife? I think his baby is due soon.'

  I smiled. 'Jack is well, Tamasin too I believe. I left him going to her.'

  I went into my office, shut the door, and leaned against it. Sweating, I waited for the feeling that the ground was moving to stop.

  * * *

  I LOOKED OVER the new papers, then turned my mind to the subject of Coldiron and Josephine. I was still considering how to tackle him when there was a knock at the door. Skelly came in and closed it.

  'Sir, there's a young man to see you. He called two days ago, asking for you. He says he knows you from a place called Hoyland. Though he—'

  I sat bolt upright. 'Show him in,' I said, trying to keep the excitement and relief from my voice. 'Now.'

  I sat behind my desk, my heart beating fast. But it was not Emma that Skelly ushered in, it was Sam Feaveryear. He stood before me, brushing a lock of greasy hair from his forehead in that familiar gesture. I fought down my disappointment.

  'Well, Feaveryear,' I said heavily, 'have you brought a message from your master?'

  He hesitated, then said, 'No, sir. I have decided—I will work for Master Dyrick no more.'

  I raised my eyebrows. Feaveryear said, in a sudden rush of words, 'I did wrong, sir. I found something out at Hoyland. I let Master Dyrick send me away, but I should have told you. It has been on my conscience ever since. Hugh was really—'

  'I know already. Emma Curteys.'

  Feaveryear took a deep breath. 'When I met Hugh there was something—something that attracted me to him.' He began twisting his thin hands together. 'I thought—I thought the devil was tempting me to a great sin. I prayed for guidance, but I could not stop how I felt. He did not like me looking at him, but I could not help myself. Then one day, I realized—'

  'And told Dyrick.'

  'I thought he would do something for—for the girl. But he said the matter was his client's secret and must be protected, and sent me away. I thought, I prayed, and I realized—it cannot be right, sir, what has happened to her.'

  I spoke sharply. 'The family made her impers
onate her dead brother for years, for gain. Now she has run away, and nobody knows where she is.'

  'Oh, sir.' He gulped. 'May I sit down?'

  I waved him to a stool. He collapsed onto it, the picture of misery.

  'Do you know,' I asked, 'what happened to Abigail Hobbey?'

  'Yes,' he replied in a small voice. 'My master wrote. He said the man Ettis had been arrested for her murder.'

  'He has been released. It was not him.' I leaned forward and said angrily, 'Why did you not tell anyone about Hugh?'

  'I could not be disloyal to my master. But I have been thinking and praying, and when Master Dyrick wrote saying he was returning tomorrow I realized—' Feaveryear looked at me with pleading intensity. 'He is not a good man, is he?'

  I shrugged.

  'I—I wonder, sir, whether perhaps I could come and work for you. You are known as a good lawyer, sir, a champion of the poor.'

  I looked at Feaveryear's miserable face. I wondered how far his coming to me had been motivated by conscience, how much by the desire to get an alternative post. I could not tell.

  'Feaveryear,' I said quietly, 'I have no room for another clerk. My advice to you is to seek work from some crusty old cynic of a lawyer, who will take whatever work he is given and not fall prey to the illusion that whoever he acts for must always be in the right. An illusion, I regret, I have sometimes had too. Then, perhaps, without someone's shadow to hide behind, you will grow up at last.'

  He lowered his head, looked disappointed. I said more gently, 'I will see if I can find such a lawyer who might need a clerk.'

  He looked up, sudden resolution on his face. 'I will not work for Master Dyrick again. Whatever happens, I will not go back to him.'

  I smiled. 'Then there is hope for you, Feaveryear. I will see what I can do.'

  * * *

  SOON AFTER I left and walked the short distance to my house. I let myself in and stood in the hall. I heard the boys' voices from the kitchen. I remembered Joan and felt a deep pang of sadness. Then I became aware of someone looking at me from the top of the stairs. I stared up at Coldiron. He began descending with his light step, his eye alight with curiosity. 'Sir,' he said, 'welcome back. Did you see anything at Portsmouth? I heard there was a battle, the French seen off in front of the King himself.'

  I did not reply. He came to the foot of the stairs and stopped. He looked at me uncertainly, sensing something. He said, 'They're sending more men out of London. Young Simon still wants to join up if the war goes on.'

  'Over my dead body,' I answered quietly. 'Where is Dr Malton?'

  'In the parlour. I—'

  'Join us in fifteen minutes.' I turned away, leaving him uneasy.

  * * *

  IN THE PARLOUR Guy sat reading. He looked up at me in delighted surprise, got to his feet and came over, grasping me by the arms. I was pleased to see he seemed more like his old self, the weary sadness less marked in his brown face.

  'You are back at last,' he said. 'But you look tired.'

  'I have seen terrible things, Guy, worse than you can believe. I will tell you later.'

  He frowned. 'Is Jack all right?'

  'Yes. He has been a rock these past weeks. He has gone on to Tamasin. How is she?'

  He smiled. 'Large, and tired, and irritated. But everything goes well. About ten days now till she is due, I would say.'

  'And you?'

  'I feel better than for a long time. You know, my energy seems to be returning. I want to go back to my house, start practising again. And if the corner boys return—well, it is in God's hands.'

  'I am heartily glad.'

  'You know what has helped me? Keeping Coldiron in order. By Jesu, he was an insolent rogue that first week. But I did not let him get away with his tricks. I called him out for his insolence, as I said in my letter. Then he was quiet and obedient for a while, but last week he got angry with Josephine again—'

  'You said.'

  'He set about her with a ladle. I took it off him.'

  'Good. I have asked him to come in here shortly. But first I have something to tell you about him, something I did not trust to a letter in case the rogue opened it.'

  I related what the soldier in Portsmouth had told me about Josephine's origin, and Coldiron's desertion after stealing his company's funds. 'He is a wanted man,' I concluded.

  'It does not surprise me,' Guy said quietly. 'What are you going to do?'

  I answered grimly, 'You will see.'

  A few minutes later there was a knock and Coldiron entered. He took up a military stance in the middle of the floor. I said, 'Well, Coldiron. Or, I should say, William Pile.'

  He did not move, but his stance stiffened.

  'I met an old comrade of yours in Portsmouth. Someone you used to play cards with. One John Saddler.'

  Coldiron took a deep breath. 'I remember Saddler. A dishonourable fellow. Soldiers with a grievance tell lies readily, sir.'

  'He was at Flodden with you, when you were a purser in the rear. He remembered how later you took Josephine from France when she was a small girl.'

  He gulped, his Adam's apple moving up and down in his stringy throat. His voice rose. 'Lies,' he said. 'Lies and slander—yes, slander. I rescued Jojo from a burning French village, I saved her life.'

  'No, you didn't. You took her like a chattel when you decided to desert, having stolen your company's money. A hanging offence.'

  'It's all lies!' Coldiron shouted. He swallowed, brought himself under control. His voice turned wheedling. 'Why would you believe Saddler, sir? A vicious liar. Old soldiers never get any justice,' he added pathetically.

  'Easy enough to make enquiries. Then you will get the justice you deserve.'

  His face took on a hunted look. 'Does Josephine know who she really is?' I asked sharply.

  'She remembers the burning village, her life in camp. She knows I gave her a life, a place in the world. I rescued her, I'm all she has. I treated her as my daughter.'

  'Guy,' I said, 'would you do me a small favour? Go and fetch Josephine.'

  Coldiron turned to him as he went to the door. 'Sir,' he said pleadingly, 'you don't believe these lies?'

  Guy did not answer. When he had gone Coldiron and I stood facing each other. He licked his lips. 'Sir, please don't report this. If it came to a trial they might believe Saddler's lies.'

  'They will be able to check what he says with the company records. Then we will have the truth.'

  'Just let Josephine and me go,' he said pleadingly. 'We'll leave, as soon as you like. Though I'm an old man, injured in the King's service—'

  'Injured when you were caught cheating at cards, I heard.'

  His face twisted with anger for a moment, but he said no more. The door opened again and Guy came in. Josephine trailed after him, looking afraid.

  'Sir,' she said at once. 'Have I done something wrong? Father—'

  'Shut your face, Jojo,' Coldiron told her warningly. 'Keep quiet.'

  I said, 'Josephine, you are not in trouble. But I know William Coldiron is not your father. Coldiron is not even his real name.'

  Josephine had been shifting nervously from foot to foot but now she became very still, her face watchful, eyes narrowed. And I realized her stupidity and clumsiness were largely an act. A part she had grown used to playing for Coldiron over the years, as Emma Curteys had learned to play the part of her brother. No doubt that was how Coldiron liked her to be—silly, clumsy, dependent.

  'When I was in Portsmouth,' I continued. 'I learned some things about Master Coldiron. How he really got his injury—'

  'It was at Flodden, sir,' she said.

  'Lies. And he deserted from his company years later, when he took you.'

  She looked at Guy. He nodded. She turned to Coldiron. 'You said you had to leave, Father, the men were going to do bad things to me and you wanted to protect me—'

  'I said shut up,' Coldiron hissed, 'you stupid clumsy French mare.'

  She stopped speaking at once. 'I am g
oing to let you go, Coldiron,' I said. 'I will not report your crimes—I would not have your disgrace visited on Josephine. Go now. But you, Josephine, I would like you to stay and work for me. If you want to.'

  Her lip trembled. 'But sir, you know—Dr Malton knows—how useless I am.'

  'You are,' Coldiron said hotly. 'You need me to look after you, stop you messing everything up.'

  I turned to her. 'That is not true.'

  'We will look after you, Josephine,' Guy said gently. She looked between us, then her face crumpled and she raised her hands to her face, sobbing. Guy walked over and patted her shoulder.

  'Leave her alone, you brown shit!' Coldiron shouted out. 'And you, you crookback bastard! You've always been against me; you hate soldiers, any real men, that aren't weaklings and cripples and cowards—'

  Suddenly I lost all reason. I ran at him. Coldiron jerked away in surprise as I grasped him by the shoulders, turned him round and marched him into the hall. Simon and Timothy had heard the raised voices and were standing in the kitchen doorway, open-mouthed.

  'Tim!' I shouted. 'Open the door!'

  Coldiron howled, 'No, not in front of the boys! No!' He struggled as Timothy ran and threw open the door. I propelled Coldiron through it. He went flying, landing face down on the ground at the bottom of the steps. He howled like a stuck pig, then turned and stared up at me. As I slammed the door in his face the best thing was that just behind me Coldiron saw Simon and Timothy laughing and clapping their hands.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I RETURNED TO the parlour. Josephine sat at the table, calmer now, Guy beside her. She looked up at me, a direct look rather than her usual averted gaze. 'Is he gone, sir?' she asked tremulously.

  I breathed hard. My shoulders were hurting now. 'Yes, he is.'

  Guy asked gently, 'Do you remember your last name, Josephine, from when you were small?'

  'No.' She bowed her head. 'But I remember the village, the house burning.' She looked up at me. 'I remember some of the soldiers in the camp were kind. But then he took me away.' Then she gave a deep sigh. 'How will I manage without him?'