by C. J. Sansom
‘I have preparations to make for the hunt. And I want you boys back home. Apart from anything else, these scabby crowds will be alive with fleas.’
I wondered if the boys would argue further, but Hugh merely shrugged. David looked surly.
We rode on down the High Street, past the church, a solid Norman building with heavy buttresses. At a little distance I saw the walls of what looked like a former monastic house; tall, narrow buildings were visible over the wall, and the round tower of a large church.
‘That is the old Godshouse,’ Hobbey said. ‘It was a monastic hospital, and lodging for travellers. It is being used as a meeting place now, and a storehouse for military equipment. We must turn here.’
We had halted in a broad space where several streets met. Opposite us the walls ended at a large square tower. Bronze and iron cannon pointed out to sea, the sun glinting on the bronze barrels. Some soldiers were drilling on a wide platform. Hugh and David looked at them with keen admiration. We turned right into a paved street fronting a little tidal bay almost enclosed by a low, semi-circular spit of land. ‘That little harbour is the Camber,’ Hobbey said. ‘God’s death, it smells foul today.’
‘The marshy spit is the Point,’ Hugh added.
‘If we ride down to the other end we can see the ships across the Point,’ Hobbey said. ‘Come, let us get on.’
It took only a few minutes to ride down Oyster Street. The town wall continued along the eastern half of the spit opposite us, ending in a high round tower topped with more heavy cannon. Oyster Street was full of shops and taverns. Labourers stood outside, drinking beer. We rode carefully past soldiers and sailors, carters and labourers, and numerous merchants engaged in busy argument. At the far end of the street the circular spit of land ended at a narrow opening to the sea. Opposite the opening, at the end of Oyster Street, a broad stone jetty stood surrounded by warehouses. Goods were being carried in constantly from carts that pulled up outside, while other men brought out supplies and loaded them onto little supply boats.
We rode to the jetty, passing a group of well-dressed merchants disputing the price of biscuit with an official. Hugh’s gaze was drawn by two labourers carrying a long, slightly curved box carefully to the jetty.
‘A longbow box,’ he said wistfully.
WE HALTED a little beyond the jetty, where a walkway ran under the town walls. From here we could see across the narrow harbour entrance to the Gosport shore. There several more forts stood, mightily armed with cannon.
Hugh waved an arm across the wide vista. ‘See, Master Shardlake, the harbour is protected on all sides by guns, from the Round Tower over to the Gosport forts.’
But my attention had been drawn by a sight even more extraordinary than we had seen in Portsmouth Haven – the forest of high masts in the Solent. Perhaps forty ships stood at anchor, varying in size from enormous to a third the size of the ones we had seen in the Haven. The upper parts of the bigger ships were brightly painted with shields and other emblems, and their decks all bristled with cannon. One large ship was furling its giant sails; a drumbeat sounded across the water as men laboured at the rigging.
Then, as we watched, an extraordinary vessel sped up the Solent towards them. Near two hundred feet long, it had only one mast. The sail was furled, and it was propelled by two dozen giant oars on each side. A large cannon was mounted at the front, and there was an awning at the back, decorated in cloth of gold that sparkled in the sun. There an overseer stood, beating time on a drum. I saw the heads of the rowers moving rapidly to and fro.
‘Jesu, what is that?’ Dyrick asked, his voice hushed for once.
‘I heard the King had built a great galley,’ Hobbey answered. ‘It is called the Galley Subtle.’
I thought, according to Leacon the French have two dozen.
‘Beautiful,’ Hugh said quietly. The huge galley changed course, moving past the moored warships towards the mouth of the harbour, leaving a long ribbon of churning white wake.
‘There, Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘Something to tell your friends in London when you get home. Maybe the sight will be some compensation when you see my bill of costs!’
‘If we get home,’ Barak murmured in a low voice.
Hobbey turned his horse. ‘Now, boys, we must go back to Hoyland.’
‘Do we have to?’ David asked.
‘Yes. We can ride up one of the side streets, it will be quieter. Until later, Master Shardlake.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘And as Vincent said earlier, you saw what Sir Quintin Priddis thought of this matter. I hope and expect it will all be over on Monday. Come, boys.’
HOBBEY AND his party rode away, leaving Barak and me on the walkway. ‘It must be almost twelve,’ I said.
‘Let’s get on, then.’ The sight of all the ships seemed to have disturbed him. We rode back towards the jetty.
‘Hobbey wants this hunt so much,’ I mused. ‘Yet Abigail said it is not safe. And we still have no clue why—’
He cut across me, his tone sharp, anxious. ‘What happened with Rich?’
I told him, adding, ‘It is odd he should be waiting there, just like at Whitehall. And with Paulet of all people.’ I hesitated. ‘And Richard Rich is one who could easily engage some corner boys to set on somebody.’
To my surprise Barak turned his horse round, blocking my way. It whickered nervously, and Oddleg jerked his head back.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Trying to make you listen!’ Barak’s eyes glistened with anger. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. You see Richard Rich and now you try to tangle him in this. The army is here, all the King’s ships are here, nearly everyone important is coming here. Rich is on the Privy Council and Paulet is governor of Portsmouth. Where the hell else would they be? There is nothing to this. Hugh is safe and well and if Mistress Hobbey sees bogles under the bed, who gives a rat’s arse?’
I was surprised by the force of his outburst. I said stiffly, ‘I think Hobbey and Priddis have been creaming the profits off Hugh’s woodland for years.’
Barak grabbed his cap and threw it on the dusty road in frustration. ‘But you can’t prove it, and Hugh doesn’t give a shit anyway! And why in Jesus’s holy name would Richard Rich care twopence about the affairs of a small estate in Hampshire? God’s death, Mistress Hobbey is not the only one seeing bogles everywhere.’
Barak had been angry with me before, but never like this. ‘I only want to ensure Hugh is safe,’ I said quietly. ‘And you have no need to speak to me like that.’
‘You can surely see that he is safe. The little shit.’
‘Why do you call him that?’
‘Didn’t you see him back there, calling that galley thing beautiful. Who were the oarsmen, eh? People picked up off the London streets, like those Corporal Carswell said are brought ashore as corpses. I was on the streets as a child and if I learned anything it was how damned hard it is for any human creature to cling onto this earth. Plenty don’t, they get struck down by disease like Joan, or like my first baby that never even saw the light of day. But people like Hugh just want to bring more blood and death. But he’s safe enough, living in that damned priory, waited on hand and foot.’
‘He would serve in the army if he could!’
‘Damn the army! And damn him! We need to get out of here, get home before the fucking French come and blow all those ships to fragments!’
I looked at him. My mind had been so concentrated on Hugh and Ellen that I had forgotten what was going on around us. ‘Very well,’ I said quietly. ‘Unless I find some evidence of serious wrongdoing against Hugh, we will leave on Tuesday, after Priddis and his son have visited. Perhaps you are right. But I want to see what Leacon has to say about Coldiron and this man West.’
‘You’d leave Ellen’s matter alone too if you’d any sense. Who knows what you may stir up? But so long as we leave on Tuesday.’
I raised a hand. ‘I said so. Unless I find this monstrous wrong Michael said had been done
to Hugh.’
‘You won’t. There isn’t one.’
Barak turned his horse round and we went past the jetty, back into Oyster Street. Two soldiers, unsteady with drink, shoved a labourer aside. He turned and let out a stream of angry curses. Barak pointed at an inn sign, the royal lion of England painted bright red.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this done.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
BARAK FOUND an ostler to take the horses, and we entered the inn. The interior was hot, noisy, the floor covered with filthy straw. A group of carters were arguing loudly over whether hops or corn were harder to carry; a circle of Italians in striped woollen jerkins sat dicing at a table. Leacon waved to us from a small alcove by the window, where he sat with Tom Llewellyn and an older man. I asked Barak to fetch half a dozen beers from the hatch, and went over to them. Leacon had removed his half-armour and helmet, which lay on the straw beside him.
‘A useful meeting?’ I asked.
‘Not very. They still haven’t decided whether we are to be posted on the ships or on shore to repel the French.’
‘Pikemen are more use on the shore,’ the older man said.
Leacon clapped Llewellyn on the shoulder. ‘Tom here tried his Welsh with two captains from Swansea.’
‘I’m glad my father was not there to see me stumble,’ the boy said ruefully.
‘Now, Master Shardlake,’ Leacon said, ‘I have found your Philip West. He is assistant purser on the Mary Rose. And the ships’ officers too are meeting this morning. At the Godshouse.’
‘We saw the Godshouse as we rode in.’
‘I will take you there afterwards. But first let me introduce Master John Saddler. He is whiffler to a company of pikemen here.’
I nodded to Saddler. He was short and stocky, with small, hard blue eyes and a lantern jaw framed by a short grey beard. I sat, removing my cap and coif with relief. Barak joined us with the drinks and passed them round.
‘Now, sir,’ Leacon addressed Saddler. ‘Tell my friend what you know of that good man William Coldiron.’
Saddler studied me, his eyes coldly speculative. ‘That’s not his real name, if it’s the man I knew. Though he had good reason to change his name. He was christened William Pile. Captain Leacon here has been asking all the old veterans if they’d heard of him. It was the description I recognized. Tall and thin, around sixty now, an eye out and a scar across his face.’
‘That’s Coldiron.’
‘How do you know him, sir?’ Saddler asked curiously.
‘I have the misfortune to have him for my steward.’
Saddler smiled, showing stumps of discoloured teeth. ‘Then watch your silver, sir. And when you return home, ask him what he did with our company’s money when he deserted.’
‘Deserted? He told me he was at Flodden and killed the Scottish King.’
Saddler laughed. ‘Did you believe him?’ he asked, mockery in his voice.
‘Not for a second. Nor would I continue to employ him, for he is a lazy, lying drunkard, but I feel sorry for his daughter that came with him.’
Saddler’s eyes narrowed. ‘A daughter? How old would she be?’
‘Mid-twenties, I would say. Quite tall, blonde. Her name is Josephine.’
Saddler laughed. ‘That’s her! That’s our old mascot.’
‘Your what?’
Saddler leaned back, folding his arms over a flat stomach. ‘Let me tell you about William Pile. He was a Norfolk man, like me. We were both levied into the army for the war against the Scots, back in 1513. We were in our twenties then. William was at Flodden, that’s true, but unlike me he wasn’t standing on that moor as the Scotch pikemen ran down the ridge at us. William Pile’s father was an estate reeve and got him a job working in the stores. He was well in the rear that day, as always. Killed the Scottish King, my arse.’ He smiled coldly. ‘And that’s just the beginning. After the 1513 war, which got us fuck all like every war this King’s made, we both stayed in the army. Sometimes we’d be with the garrison at Berwick, sometimes in Calais. Boring times mostly, hardly any action. That suited William, though. He liked to spend his days drinking and dicing.’
‘So, you knew Coldiron – Pile – well?’
‘Surely. Never liked the old shit, but I used to marvel at how he got away with things. We served together for years, I was promoted to whiffler, but William stayed an army clerk, no ambition beyond creaming what he could from the men’s rations and cheating at cards. He’d no prospect of marrying, not with that face. Let me guess, he told you he got his injuries at Flodden.’
‘That’s right.’
Saddler laughed sardonically. ‘This is what really happened. One evening in Caernarfon Castle William was playing cards. There was a big Devon fellow with us, six feet tall and with a vile temper when he was drunk, which they all were that night or William would have been more careful in his cheating. When the Devon man realized he’d been done out of a sovereign, he stood up, grabbed his sword and slashed William across the face.’ He laughed again. ‘God’s nails, you should have seen the blood! They thought he would die, but stringy fellows like William are hard to kill. He recovered and came with us to France two years later on campaign.’
‘I remember that war. I was a student then.’
‘The campaign in ’23 was a pathetic affair, the soldiers did little more than raid the countryside round Calais. Put a few French villages to the fire.’ He chuckled again. ‘Sent the village women running out over the muddy fields screaming, skirts held up round their big French bums.’ Saddler looked up, enjoying my look of distaste.
‘There was this one village, all the people ran like rabbits as we came down the road. We went in to see what we could take from the houses before we burned them. Don’t look like that, master, spoil from stripping the countryside is the only money soldiers make from war. The French will take plenty if they land here. Anyway, there wasn’t much in this dump to take back, just a few pigs and chickens. We were setting the houses afire when this little girl ran out of one, screaming at the top of her voice. About three she was. She’d been left behind. Well, some soldiers get soft-hearted.’ Saddler shrugged. ‘So we took her back to Calais with us. The company cared for her, shared rations with her. She was quite happy, we sewed her a little dress in the company colours, and a little hat with the Cross of St George on.’ Saddler took a drink of beer and sniggered. ‘You should have seen her, toddling about the barracks waving the little wooden sword we’d made for her. Like I said, our mascot.’
Leacon was staring at Saddler, his face bleak. I fought down my disgust at the man. He went on, ‘Her name was Josephine. Jojo we called her. She learned some English from the men. Well, after a while the army was ordered to sail home, tails between our legs again. We were going to leave her behind, find someone in Calais to take her. But William Pile, your Coldiron, he said he’d take Jojo with him. He was thinking of retiring from the army and he would raise her to keep house for him. Maybe other things if she turned out pretty.’ Saddler glanced at us, leering. Tom Llewellyn looked shocked. Leacon stared at Saddler as though he were the devil.
‘Well, William did retire, but not in the usual way. As soon as we got back to England he stole the company’s supply money and disappeared. Took Josephine with him. We were sent to Berwick afterwards and kept on short rations, the officers weren’t going to put their hands in their pockets. Never heard of William again till now. He would have been hanged if he’d been caught.’ Saddler crossed his arms, still smiling. ‘That’s the story. Did Josephine turn out pretty, by the way?’
‘Pretty enough,’ I answered coldly.
Saddler frowned. ‘I remember that three months on short rations on the Scottish border. If you can get William Pile hanged that would be a favour to me.’
Leacon stood up and put on his helmet and gorget. Llewellyn followed. ‘Thank you, Master Saddler,’ Leacon said stiffly. ‘Master Shardlake and I have someone to meet and then I must go back t
o camp. We are grateful for your help.’
Saddler raised his glass and smiled at me. ‘Goodbye, sir. Remember me to Madame Josephine.’
OUTSIDE the street seemed more crowded and noisy than ever.
‘I’ll walk to the Godshouse with you,’ Leacon said. ‘You may need my authority to get in. I don’t have to go back to camp just yet, I just had to get away from Saddler.’
‘I understand.’
‘What did you make of his story?’
‘It fits with what I know of Coldiron.’ I smiled grimly. ‘I have a hold over him now. I plan to kick him out, but keep Josephine on if she wishes to stay.’
‘How does he treat her?’
‘Badly. But she obeys every word he says. She believes herself his daughter.’
Leacon looked doubtful. ‘Then she may not want to part from him.’
I smiled wryly. ‘A meddler may make a worse muddle, eh?’
‘That he may,’ Barak agreed pointedly. Then he scratched his head fiercely. ‘I think I’ve got lice.’
I shuddered. ‘And I can feel fleas. That tavern must be full of them.’
Leacon smiled. ‘You should get your hair cut, Jack.’
‘Everyone in camp has lice,’ Llewellyn added gloomily. ‘And I’ve lost my comb.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ Leacon said. ‘I wish you men would remember to keep track of your things.’
Barak looked out over the stinking Camber. Beyond, the masts of the ships moored in the Solent were just visible. ‘The foul humours of this place will bring disease before long.’
‘Well,’ Leacon said firmly, ‘here we must stay till the French come.’ He turned to Llewellyn. ‘Would you go back to camp? Tell Sir Franklin I will return soon.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I said to Barak, ‘Go back with him, Jack, take the horses and wait for me in camp. I think it would be best if I spoke with Master West alone.’
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. He and Llewellyn walked back to the tavern. Leacon and I continued down Oyster Street. Leacon said quietly, ‘Saddler was on the Scottish campaign last year, he told me about all the plate and cloth he took from Edinburgh. But he is right, soldiers have always seen spoil as the legitimate fruit of war, waited for the cry of “Havoc!” Men like Saddler though – nothing they see affects them, they have hearts like stones. Thank God I only have one or two like that under my command, like Sulyard, who insulted you. When Saddler talked about those villagers running across the fields – ’ He broke off.
