by C. J. Sansom
‘Probably out in harbour, on the Mary Rose.’
‘He may be ashore, or come ashore tonight.’ I said hesitantly, ‘We should try to find an inn in town. We may have to stay the night.’
He sighed and said, ‘All right, one night if need be. Jesu, that soldier, I thought, he could have been me. So I owe you one night here.’
I looked up at the walls as we rode on to the town, the soldiers patrolling to and fro along the fighting platform at the top. The great guns bristled at the towers, long black barrels pointing outwards at us.
Chapter Thirty-seven
WE HAD TO WAIT a long time at the gate. The soldiers were questioning everyone about their business in Portsmouth, wary no doubt of French spies. I said I had legal business at the Guildhall, and that got us through.
Portsmouth was even more crowded now, tents pitched everywhere within the walls, soldiers practising drill. We rode down the High Street, steering through the crowd of merchants and labourers, soldiers and sailors, English and foreign. Many of the servicemen, like the soldiers at the camp, were starting to look ragged and dirty. Heavy carts still lumbered towards the wharf, drivers shouting at people to get out of the way. The sour stench of sweat was everywhere, mingling with the harsh smell from the brewhouses.
Barak wriggled. ‘Shit, I’ve got fleas again already.’
‘Must have been from the camp. Let’s try to find a clean inn, then go to the Godshouse.’
We turned into Oyster Street and rode towards the wharf. The tide was full, the Camber filled with rowboats waiting their turn to deliver goods from the wharf to the ships. We rode almost to the wharf; from here we could see out across the low-lying Point to where the triple line of ships stood at anchor in the Solent. They looked even more breathtaking than on our first visit, for now there were well over fifty, of all sizes from the giant warships to small forty-foot vessels. Few had any of their sails up; even the Galley Subtle stood with its oars at rest. The very stillness of the fleet added to its solid might, the only moving things the flags on the masts of the large warships flapping in the light breeze. An enormous flag of St George flew from the foremast of the Mary Rose above the brightly painted triple decks of the forecastle. I saw the giant bulk of the Great Harry sailing slowly away into the Solent, some of its great white sails raised.
Barak followed my gaze. ‘Maybe Leacon and the company are there.’
‘Then they won’t be back for hours.’
WE FOUND an inn in Oyster Street. It catered for the wealthier clientele, No Brawlers or Chiders scrawled on a large sign by the door. The innkeeper charged a shilling to take us. He would not be beaten down, saying we were lucky to get accommodation at all.
‘I hear the King comes tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Ay. In the morning, to view the ships. The populace have been told to line the streets.’
‘There must be many royal officials seeking accommodation in town.’
He shook his head. ‘They’re all comfortable in the royal tents along the coast. If Portsmouth is besieged, they’ll ride off. It’s us poor citizenry who’ll be trapped here.’
We stabled the horses, took our panniers to our little room, then went out again. We walked back up Oyster Street, hands on belts for fear of cutpurses among the milling crowds, towards the open space in front of the Square Tower. On the platform soldiers with spiked bills marched and turned to drumbeats. A group of small boys stood watching and cheering.
There was a sudden tremendous crash that sent me jumping backwards. Barak flinched too, though the soldiers did not break step. One of the boys pointed at me and laughed. ‘See the hunchback jump! Yah! Crookback!’
‘Fuck off, you little arseholes!’ Barak shouted. The boys fled, laughing. We stared up at the Square Tower, where wreaths of grey-black smoke were dispersing into the sky. A group of soldiers bent to reload one of the huge cannon pointing out to sea. Practice, I guessed.
We walked down to the Godshouse gate. This time we did not have Leacon to help us gain entry; I told the guard we had business with a senior officer on the Mary Rose, Master Philip West, and asked where he might be. ‘It is a legal matter,’ I said, ‘important family news. We would not have come to Portsmouth today unless it were necessary.’
‘No one’s coming now if they can avoid it. You should talk to one of the clerks at the old infirmary.’
‘Thank you.’ We passed into the Godshouse courtyard. Barak looked at me dubiously. ‘Should we be lying to these people?’ he asked.
‘It’s the only way I’ll get to see West.’
‘You realize he may not be happy to answer your questions.’
‘I’ll tell him the information I have came from his mother. As it did.’
I looked around. Everywhere men in uniform or the bright robes of senior officials were walking and talking. We went up to the door of the old infirmary, where I told the guard my story about needing to see West. He let us pass inside.
The infirmary, still with its stained-glass windows showing saints in postures of prayer and supplication, had been partitioned off into a series of rooms. Through an open doorway I saw two officials arguing, a paper on the table between them. ‘I tell you she can’t take the extra hundred soldiers,’ one said in urgent tones. ‘The refit’s made her even heavier—’
‘She made it safe from Deptford, didn’t she?’ the other answered dismissively. He slapped the paper. ‘These are the complements decided for each ship, approved by the King. Do you want to go to Portchester and argue with him?’ The man looked up and caught my eye. Frowning irritably, he reached over and slammed the door shut.
A black-robed clerk passed, accompanied by a man in a lawyer’s robe. I stepped in front of him. ‘Excuse me, Brother, might you help me? I need to speak urgently with of one of the ship’s officers, Philip West. I believe he is on the Mary Rose.’
The clerk paused, impressed by my serjeant’s robe. ‘All the officers are staying on the ships now. I doubt they’d let a civilian on board. Perhaps you could send a message.’
That was bad news. I considered. ‘I know one of the army officers; I understand his company are out at sea today.’
‘They’ll be rowed back to harbour at dusk. There’s not room for the soldiers to sleep on the ships.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
The two men hurried on. ‘I want to find Leacon when he comes back,’ I told Barak. ‘See if he can get me aboard the Mary Rose.’
‘What, you’re going to try and speak to West on his ship? If it was him that attacked Ellen, you’ll be at his mercy.’
‘On a ship full of soldiers and sailors? No. And I’ll go alone,’ I added. ‘A private talk would be best. No arguments, it is decided. Now come, let’s pass the afternoon at that inn, keep away from these foul humours.’
Barak gave me a searching, worried look. I turned and walked back out to the busy courtyard. Near the infirmary steps two men in their thirties were talking. One had a stern face, short black beard, and a long dark robe. The other was familiar, a green doublet setting off his coppery beard, a cap with a string of pearls on his head. Sir Thomas Seymour, whom I had last seen with Rich in that doorway at Hampton Court. He stood listening attentively to the other man.
‘D’Annebault’s a soldier, not a sailor,’ the black-bearded man said confidently. ‘He can’t command a fleet that size—’
‘The militia between here and Sussex are ready to stop any landing,’ Seymour answered proudly.
Barak and I veered away so that Seymour’s back was to us. ‘So he’s ended up here along with everyone else,’ I said quietly. ‘And that was Thomas Dudley, Lord Lisle, with him. The Lord Admiral, in charge of all the ships. He was pointed out to me at Westminster once.’
‘Looks a fierce fellow.’
I glanced over my shoulder at the commander. He was known as a doughty warrior, a skilled administrator, and a hard man. Dudley caught my look and stared back for a second, his eyes dark in his pale face. I turn
ed quickly away.
‘I don’t think you should go on that ship,’ Barak said insistently.
‘I must speak to West, I have to see how he reacts to learning Ellen’s father’s body has been found. We’ll get out of Portsmouth first thing tomorrow, before the King comes,’ I added impatiently. ‘I’ll go on the ship tonight if I have to.’
WE RETURNED TO the tavern and ordered a meal brought to our room. Afterwards we tried to rest, but the endless talking and shouting from Oyster Street and the wharf made that impossible: and I was impatient, conscious of how little time I had to see West. Then we heard cannon firing again, very close, rattling the shutters which we had closed against the stink. The shot was answered by another, further away.
Barak jumped up from the bed and opened the shutters. ‘Christ, is that the French?’
I joined him, looking across Oyster Street at the Camber. The tide was going out, revealing the filthy mud underneath. Men were labouring at the cannon on the Round Tower. There was another tremendous crash and a burst of smoke.
‘Let’s see what’s happening,’ Barak said.
We went outside, meeting the innkeeper who was coming from the parlour with a tray of mugs. ‘What was that gunfire?’ I asked.
He laughed at my anxious look. ‘They’re testing the cannon at the Round Tower and over at Gosport. Making sure we can cover the harbour entrance if the French appear.’ A sneer crossed his face. ‘Did you notice a big capstan by the tower?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s supposed to be a chain with links a foot long stretching across the harbour mouth, that would keep any ship out. But it was taken for repair last year, and it’s never come back. So we’ll need guns if the French come.’
‘I thought for a moment they had.’
‘You’ll see and hear much more if they do,’ the innkeeper said. He walked away.
‘That shook me,’ Barak admitted. ‘Let’s get out.’
WE LEFT THE INN and walked up to the High Street. Outside the Guildhall a crowd had gathered to watch a strange-looking company of soldiers pass by. Instead of armour they wore knee-length tunics under short decorated waistcoats; their legs were bare and they had sandals instead of boots. Most were tall and strongly built, with hard faces under their helmets.
‘More mercenaries, by the look of them,’ I said. ‘I wonder where these are from.’
A boy next to us piped up. ‘Ireland, Master,’ he said excitedly. ‘They’re the kerns, they’re being paid to fight the French instead of the King’s soldiers.’
The Irish marched by, looking neither to left nor right. The crowd dispersed, and a man who had been watching from the Guildhall doorway became visible. It was Edward Priddis. He stared at us for a second, then turned and went back inside. Barak put his hand on my arm, pointing to an open window.
‘Look,’ he said quietly.
Sir Quintin was seated at a table, glaring out at us. There was another man beside him. He turned, and I saw that it was Richard Rich.
‘Oh shit,’ Barak whispered.
Rich rose and marched smartly out of the room. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, looking angrier than I had ever seen him, spots of red in his pale cheeks. He marched across the road to me.
‘What in hell’s name are you doing here?’ His voice was quiet as ever, but a vicious hiss rather than his usual mocking tones. ‘Why are you pursuing Sir Quintin Priddis like this?’ I saw a little tic jump at the corner of his eye. ‘I have been hearing about your disgraceful performance at the inquest into that woman’s death.’
I made myself look him in the face. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with the Hobbeys, Sir Richard.’
‘I am not. But I knew Sir Quintin once, and he has told me of your obsession with some supposed injustice to the Hugh Curteys boy, and your persecution – ’ he almost snarled the word – ‘of that family. You go too far, master lawyer. Remember where that led you once before. If you have come to trouble Sir Quintin again—’
‘My presence in Portsmouth is nothing to do with that case, Sir Richard.’
‘Then what are you doing here? Eh?’
‘I have legal business—’
‘What business? With whom?’
‘Sir Richard, you know such information is privileged.’
The flat grey eyes glared into mine, the black pupils like needles. ‘How long are you here?’
‘I leave tomorrow.’
‘When the King comes to Portsmouth. You had better be gone.’ He leaned forward. ‘Remember I am a privy councillor, Master Shardlake, and this is a city preparing for war. If I wanted, I could have Governor Paulet lock you up as a suspected French spy.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
WE WALKED BACK down the High Street. My mind was in a whirl. ‘Jack,’ I said. ‘This goes deeper than I thought. Rich is personally involved.’
‘Did you see his eye twitching? I thought he was going to strike you.’
‘I think he went back inside before he lost control of himself. So that’s it. That meeting with Rich and Seymour at Hampton Court was truly no accident. He arranged it, he set those corner boys on me. Rich is connected somehow to whatever happened to Hugh. There was something, there is something.’ I paused. ‘And Michael Calfhill died. And the clerk Mylling … If that’s so, the scale of this …’
‘All the more reason to get out of here. You know how dangerous Rich is.’
I considered. ‘He could have had me arrested if he wanted to, right there, on some trumped-up charge. But he didn’t. Whatever connects him to the Hobbeys and Hugh, he doesn’t want me talking of it, to Paulet or anyone.’
‘How did he learn you were being brought into that case so early?’
I spoke heavily. ‘The only other person who knew what my business was with the Queen that day was Robert Warner.’
‘Who you think might be connected to the Rolfswood matter too.’
‘And vulnerable to blackmail if he was involved. Blackmail is one of Rich’s specialities.’
Barak was looking round carefully as we walked. He said, ‘With all the people in the town it would be easy for Rich to get someone to knife you in the guts.’
‘No. This is where the Queen’s patronage protects me. If anything happened to me now she would leave no stone unturned to find out why. For all his bombast Rich cannot touch me.’
‘You think she’s that fond of you? Rich still stands high with the King; he’s been kept on despite that corruption scandal last year.’
‘The Queen would not desert me. If she began an investigation, who knows what might come tumbling out? No, Rich may watch me now, but that is all.’
‘Do you think Seymour is involved with Rich in the Curteys matter?’
I shook my head. ‘I think it more likely Rich and Seymour were both at Hampton Court that day, and Rich invited Seymour to wait with him for me to come out. It would have been an entertainment for Seymour and would help Rich intimidate me.’
Barak stopped suddenly in the road, ignoring a curse from a passing water carrier. ‘Look, can’t we just leave now?’
‘You can, but I’m staying. Until tomorrow morning, as we agreed.’
He sighed. ‘Well, for God’s sake keep a careful eye out. Come on, we’ll be safer at the wharf. Tonight we sleep with knives at the ready and tomorrow we get out of here first thing.’
‘What can it be?’ I asked. ‘What can connect Rich to second-rank gentry like the Hobbeys?’
He answered curtly, ‘Wait till we’re back in London, then you can try to find out.’
RETURNING TO Oyster Street, we walked towards the wharf. Across the Point we saw the Great Harry moving back towards the lines of warships with a heavy, stately slowness, the masts and raised topsail rearing high into the sky. The leviathan confidently manoeuvred its way over to a place in the outer line of ships, in front of the Mary Rose. A number of other ships had untied the big rowboats they pulled behind them, and these now moved carefully round to
the side of the giant warship. I made out tiny figures descending some sort of ladder to the rowboats. Two more warships, smaller than the Great Harry but still huge, appeared and made slowly for the line.
‘Looks like the soldiers are returning,’ Barak said.
We sat on a bench outside one of the warehouses, leaning our backs against the wall. I looked across the harbour to the Gosport shore, where another fort stood opposite the Round Tower. The sun was low now, in a fiery red sky that presaged another hot day.
THE FIRST GROUP of soldiers to disembark were strangers. They came ashore quietly, with none of the usual talking and jesting, some stumbling a little on the steps. A whiffler drew the men into line and marched them away.
Several more groups landed before Leacon at last appeared at the top of the steps. About half the company followed. Among them familiar faces appeared: Carswell and Tom Llewellyn, Pygeon and Sulyard. Like the earlier groups some wore jacks, others leather or woollen jerkins, and Pygeon wore the brigandyne he had won from Sulyard. Snodin brought up the rear, puffing and blowing as he mounted the steps. Like the earlier groups the men were unusually silent; even Carswell seemed to have no jests this evening. Only the oafish Sulyard seemed in high spirits, his swagger returned. The men formed a ragged line on the wharf, not noticing us in the shadow of the warehouse. One man cast off his helmet and scratched his head. ‘These fucking lice!’
‘Stop making your moan!’ Snodin yelled at him. The whiffler was evidently in a bad temper. ‘Whining miserable cur.’ Several of the men gave Snodin nasty looks.
I stepped forward and called out to Leacon. He turned, as did the soldiers. Carswell’s face brightened a little. ‘ ’Tis our mascot! Come with us on board the Great Harry again tomorrow, sir, bring us luck!’ The other soldiers looked on, surprised that I had turned up again. I heard Sulyard mutter, ‘Hunchbacks bring bad luck, not good.’
‘Fall out, men,’ Leacon ordered. ‘Wait over there till the rest of the company arrives.’ The men walked wearily to an open space between two warehouses, and Leacon came over and took my hand. ‘I thought you had left, Matthew,’ he said.
