Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  'He would. Guy, what do you think of Josephine?'

  He leaned back, considering. 'She is shy. Not happy, I think. But that is hardly surprising with Coldiron for a father. She too saw me reading Vesalius the other day. She turned away and looked quite sick.'

  'I don't blame her. She doesn't have a young man, does she?'

  'No. A pity, for she is good-natured and could be pretty enough if she cared anything for her appearance.'

  'Coldiron is always criticizing her. That does little for her confidence.'

  'I was in the hall a few days ago and heard him shouting at her in the kitchen. Calling her a silly, empty-headed wench for dropping something. She burst into tears. I was surprised to hear Coldiron speak to her in comforting tones then. He said, "You're safe with me." Calling her his JoJo like he does.'

  'Safe from what?' I shook my head. 'I plan to dismiss him, but I wonder if there is any way of keeping her.'

  'I fear she relies on him entirely.'

  I sighed. 'Well, I must be gone. To try and save Barak from the soldier's life Coldiron brags about so.'

  * * *

  AFTER THE STORM it was a cool, clear day with blue skies. As I walked along I thought about what I had discovered regarding Ellen. Like a good lawyer, I considered questions of organization, power. Some arrangement had been made with whoever was Bedlam warden in 1526, and kept going since. But by whom? Somehow, I did not know how, I had to rescue her.

  I walked down Cheapside again. It was another busy morning, more angry arguments going on about the new coins. I heard a couple of traders say the hailstorm had flattened many of the crops round London so there would be a dearth of grain again this year.

  I turned up to the Guildhall, and mounted the steps into the wide, echoing entrance hall. Master Carver was waiting for me, resplendent in his red alderman's robes. Beside him, to my surprise, stood the bearded officer from Lincoln's Inn Fields in his white and red uniform and with a sword at his belt. He looked at me grimly.

  'Good morning, Serjeant Shardlake,' Carver said heartily. 'I am sorry to hear of your clerk's problem.' He turned to the soldier. 'Master Goodryke wished to be here, as the matter concerns him.' The officer's heavy brows drew together in a frown.

  'Your man was impertinent, sir,' he said. 'His behaviour was a defiance of the King's authority. He does not possess a bow and did not even pretend to have been practising.'

  'That seems to be true of many,' I answered mildly.

  'It is no excuse. I'm told by the constable this Barak is of Jewish stock; perhaps that's why he shows no loyalty to England when we're about to be invaded.'

  I thought, so that story's got round. I forced a smile. 'Barak can be—a little disrespectful. But he is a loyal Englishman; he worked for years for Lord Cromwell.'

  'Who was executed for treason,' Goodryke countered sharply. 'I don't see any reason this man should be exempted because he used to work for a traitor.' He tilted his chin at me aggressively.

  I tried again. 'He has things on his mind. His wife has a baby due in a few weeks, and they lost the last one.'

  Alderman Carver nodded, looked sad. 'Ah, that is hard. Is it not, Master Goodryke?'

  Goodryke was unmoved. 'He flicked his fingers at me and told me to piss off, as though I were any common churl and he could shirk his duty where he liked. Many of the soldiers I've seen are unfit for service, but he seems a good strong fellow. He could make a pikeman.'

  'Well,' I said quietly, 'can we not come to some arrangement?'

  'Yes,' Carver agreed eagerly. 'Master Shardlake has acted for the Guildhall many times, I can vouch for him. And I have seen this Barak, he must be in his thirties now. Old for service. If you could show latitude I am sure Serjeant Shardlake would be willing to show his appreciation. Some contribution to your company, perhaps—'

  Goodryke reddened even further. 'This is not about money,' he said in a stern voice, causing passing merchants to turn and stare. 'That man is eligible to be called into service and needs to be taught discipline and loyalty.'

  Carver bit his lip and looked at me. 'Serjeant Shardlake,' he said, 'perhaps we could have a little word, if Master Goodryke will allow us.' Goodryke shrugged, and Carver took my arm and led me to a corner.

  'I miscalculated there,' he said. 'I thought he might be bought off. But Goodryke is a fierce fellow, he's got the bit between his teeth. He has been a whiffler for many years—'

  'A what?'

  'A junior officer in charge of training and discipline in military companies. He retired from the army, but joined the Trained Bands. He was only a watchman before and he is jealous of the authority the war has returned to him. He believes Barak has dishonoured our forces.'

  'Alderman, the welfare of Barak and his wife are important to me. If you can resolve this I would be happy to contribute a goodly sum to Goodryke's company, though heaven knows I have little enough free cash with the next instalment of the Benevolence due.'

  'Leave it with me.'

  'Thank you.'

  'I have not forgotten how you won those lands my cousin claimed from me, against the odds.' Carver raised his eyebrows. 'And I know how Barak must feel, the army wants gentlemen to be captains of companies and they asked me to lead a company of London men. I managed to persuade them I would be of no use. I'll talk to Goodryke's superiors. I know you get cases from the Queen: can I mention that?'

  I hesitated, for I did not like to use the Queen's name too readily. But I nodded.

  'As for Barak, make sure he doesn't get into any more trouble. I'll send a message as soon as I have news.'

  'Thank you.'

  Carver lowered his voice. 'I saw you looking on at the muster on Tuesday. To be honest I felt a fool sitting on that horse. This war—all because the King wants to hold Boulogne, which has no value.'

  I nodded in agreement. 'Indeed. Do what you can, sir. Please.' I turned away, nodding to Goodryke. He barely acknowledged me.

  * * *

  I WALKED the short distance to Fall Lane. It was off Basinghall Street. London Wall and the high towers of the Moorgate were visible at a little distance. The houses were prosperous looking, with fine windows of mullioned glass and beautifully carved doorposts, backing onto the wide gardens of Drapers' Hall. A merchant's wife walked past, accompanied by two armed servants, a cloth vizard covering her face.

  A small old church stood at the top of the lane. I saw the pointed steeple with its gleaming weathercock was new; this was a wealthy parish. Barak sat on the wall by the lych gate, looking pensive. He stood as I approached. 'The verger says Vicar Broughton will be along shortly,' he told me, then added, 'what news?'

  I told him of my encounter with Goodryke. His face fell when he realized the matter was not resolved. 'Tammy will have my guts.'

  'Alderman Carver will do what he can. He's on our side. The Common Council is weary of the King's endless calls for them to raise more men. But they haven't forgotten what happened to Alderman Read.'

  Barak laughed bitterly. 'I should think they haven't.'

  Read's defiance had been the talk of London in January. The King had requested a Benevolence from the tax-paying classes, a 'voluntary' tax to add to all the others he had levied for the war. Read alone had refused, and for his pains had found himself conscripted into the army and serving with Lord Hertford's forces on the Scottish border. He had been captured shortly after, and was now a prisoner of the Scots.

  'Has the Common Council no power left?' Barak asked, kicking at a stone. 'Londoners used to walk in fear of the aldermen.'

  I sat beside him on the wall, squinting in the sun. 'And they walk in fear of the King. And this Goodryke is acting in his name. But Carver will go higher up the chain of command.'

  Barak was silent for a moment, then burst out, 'Jesus, how did we get to this? There was peace with France for twenty years till this started.'

  'Perhaps the King sees keeping Boulogne as his last chance for glory. And he had his alliance with Emperor Charles last
year.'

  'Right worthless that proved. The Emperor made his own peace and now we face France alone.'

  I looked at him. 'If they succeed in invading us they won't be kind. Nor will their Scots allies. And from what the Queen said, invasion is coming.'

  'I won't leave Tamasin now.' He clenched his fists hard. 'They'll have to drag me away.'

  I rose hastily as a man in a white cassock approached. Elderly, stooping, with a long grey beard. I nudged Barak. 'Quick, get up.' We bowed to the clergyman. His expression was serious, but his brown eyes looked kind. 'Master Shardlake?'

  'Yes, sir. Master Broughton? This is my assistant, Barak.'

  'It is about the Curteys family?'

  'Indeed.'

  'So,' he said, 'at last someone has come.'

  * * *

  HE LED US into the church. The interior was bare, empty niches where statues of saints had once stood, stools set out for the congregation with copies of the King's compulsory new primer laid out on them. Broughton bade us sit, lowering himself onto a stool facing us. 'You are a lawyer, sir, I see. Do you represent Hugh Curteys? He was the only one of that poor family left.'

  'No. Hugh still lives with Master Hobbey, down in Hampshire. I have not met him. But a complaint against Master Hobbey's conduct of his wardship has been laid by his old tutor, Michael Calfhill.'

  Broughton smiled. 'I remember Michael well. An honest young gentleman.'

  'Did he visit you recently?' I asked.

  Broughton shook his head. 'I have not seen Michael in six years.' That was a blow; I had hoped Michael had come here more recently. 'How fares he?' the vicar asked.

  I took a deep breath. 'Michael Calfhill died three weeks ago. I am sorry.'

  The vicar closed his eyes for a moment. 'May his soul be received in Heaven, by Jesus's grace.'

  'Shortly before he died, Michael laid a Bill of Information before the Court of Wards, alleging that some monstrous injustice had been committed against Hugh Curteys. According to his mother he had recently been in Hampshire and had visited him.'

  'God help us,' Broughton said. 'What did he find?'

  'His Information does not say. But there is a hearing on Monday. I am going to represent his mother. I need witnesses who know about this wardship, sir. Urgently.'

  Broughton collected his thoughts, then looked at me directly. 'I knew that wardship was tainted. John and Ruth Curteys were my parishioners for years. When reform of the Church came they supported me in breaking with the old ways. They were stalwarts. I saw their children born, christened them, saw the family prosper. And then I buried John and Ruth.' His face twitched with emotion.

  'Did they have any other family?'

  Broughton clasped his hands on his lap. 'They came to London from Lancaster. Like many young folk John came here to seek his fortune. In time their parents died. When the plague took John and Ruth there was only an old aunt of Ruth's left in the north that she spoke of sometimes and wrote to. Michael came to me, concerned by Master Hobbey's interest in the children's wardship—I suggested he look for letters from her, and I would write to her. Sir,' he burst out suddenly, 'how did Michael die?'

  I answered gently, 'The verdict was suicide. What he found in Hampshire may have disturbed the balance of his mind.'

  'Oh, dear God.' Broughton put his head in his hands.

  'I am sorry, sir. But please, tell me what you can about the wardship. What of the aunt?'

  'Michael brought her address. By that time, he said, Nicholas Hobbey was already taking away papers and books of account. Michael argued with him, but Hobbey brushed him aside—Michael had no status.'

  'It sounds as though you knew Michael well.'

  Broughton sighed and shook his head. 'Michael came to church with the family every Sunday. But no, I never felt I knew him. Nor that he fully trusted me. I wondered if he was a secret papist, but I do not think so. Something troubled him though. But he loved those two children and did all he could to help them. We became—' he smiled—'conspirators, for the children's welfare.'

  'Michael's mother said Hugh and Emma Curteys were close.'

  'Yes. Serious, godly children.' He shook his head, his long beard trembling. 'I wrote to the aunt, paid for a fast messenger. It was already three weeks then after John and Ruth's death. Michael and I suspected Hobbey was after control of the children's lands, but not that it could be done so fast.'

  'Usually it can't.'

  'I waited every day for a reply from the north, but you know how long it takes to get messages from those wild places. Two weeks passed, then three. Michael visited me again, saying Hobbey was always at the Curteys house. And his lawyer too.'

  'Vincent Dyrick.'

  'Yes, that was the name. Michael said the children were afraid. He implored me to go and see Hobbey. So I did, I went to his house up at Shoe Lane.' Broughton frowned. 'He received me in his parlour, looked at me with the haughty arrogance of a man who worships Mammon, not God. I told him I had written to the aunt. Well, Master Hobbey only asked coldly how an old woman was going to drag herself two hundred miles and care for two growing children. He said he was the family's best friend and their neighbour in Hampshire, he would see justice done for Hugh and Emma. And then his wife came in. Abigail Hobbey.' There was anger in Broughton's face now.

  'Goodwife Calfhill mentioned her. She said Michael thought her a little mad.'

  'A screaming, raving shrew. She burst into the parlour while I was talking to her husband, screeching that I was a troublemaking ranter, making accusations against her husband when he wished only to help two orphaned children.'

  'But you had made no accusations.'

  'No, but when that woman started screaming at me, that was when I really began to fear for those children.'

  'How did Nicholas Hobbey react to his wife's outburst?' I asked curiously.

  'He was annoyed. He raised a hand, said, "Quiet, my dear," or some such words. She stopped yelling, but still stood with her eyes flashing fire at me. Then Hobbey told me to leave, saying I had upset his wife. Unwomanly creature. He added sarcastically that I should let him know if the aunt replied, but he had already made his application to the Court of Wards.'

  'Did the aunt reply?'

  'Two weeks later I had a letter from her vicar in Lancaster, to say she had died a year before.'

  'I suspect Master Hobbey had already discovered that.'

  'There seemed nothing else I could do,' Broughton said, spreading his arms wide. 'I talked to Michael. To be fair to Hobbey, Michael said the children were well taken care of, their needs looked after. But he said Hugh and Emma had no affection from Hobbey or his wife.'

  'That happens often enough in wardship cases.'

  'There was more to it than that. Michael feared Nicholas Hobbey planned to marry Emma to their son, and so unite their Hampshire lands.'

  'That would be David Hobbey.'

  'Yes. I saw him as I left the house that day. He was in the hallway outside, I am sure he had been listening at the door. He gave me an impertinent stare, a strange look for a child, something—triumphant about it.'

  'He would have been—what—twelve then?'

  'Yes. As ill favoured a boy as I have ever seen. Squat, fat-faced. Dark like his father, a wispy moustache already growing on his lip.' Broughton stopped, raising his hands. 'I am sorry, I should not have said that. He was only a child.'

  'Almost a man now,' Barak observed.

  I said, 'Unfortunately, to arrange such a marriage would be within Master Hobbey's rights once he had the wardship.'

  Broughton shook his head in disgust. 'It is ungodly. The sacrament of marriage turned to a bargain. And Michael said—he told me David had put his hands on Emma. In a way he should not. Hugh had fought him over it.'

  'So Michael's mother told me too. But then Emma died.'

  'God rest the poor child. By then the wardships had been granted and Michael had moved with the children to the Hobbeys' house, out of the parish. I only saw him once mo
re after that, when he came to tell me Emma had died and he had been dismissed.' Broughton shook his head. 'He said Abigail Hobbey showed no sadness at her funeral, looked on coldly as Emma was buried. I thought I saw despair in Michael's face then. And from what you say it seems I was right.' Broughton looked at me earnestly. 'Does this help you, sir?'

  I thought. 'Only a little, I fear. Is there anyone else in your congregation who knew the family?'

  He shook his head. 'Not well. It was only I that took an interest in the wardship. People do not like to interfere in such matters. But there was one thing I discovered. There were rumours that Master Hobbey was in debt.'

  'Then how could he afford to buy the wardship? And he had just bought a monastic house and was having it converted.'

  Barak grunted. 'Hoped to get Emma's share of the Curteys land by marrying her to his son. If so, he got a bad bargain.'

  Broughton looked alarmed. 'He still has the right to make a marriage for Hugh. What if he plans to marry him to someone unsuitable? That could be what Michael discovered.'

  I nodded thoughtfully. 'Possibly. Sir, I would be grateful if you could come to the hearing on Monday. At least you could testify you were unhappy with how matters were handled.' I needed every scrap of evidence I could bring. But there was still nothing a good lawyer for the other side could not easily dismiss. I got up, wincing at my stiff back. Broughton rose too.

  'Sir,' he said. 'You will see justice done? Right whatever wrong is being done to Hugh?'

  'I will try. But it will not be easy. I will send Barak back tomorrow to prepare a deposition for you. It must be lodged with the Court of Wards before the hearing.'

  'God will not suffer injustice to children,' Broughton said with sudden passion. 'Our Saviour said, "Any wrong done unto these little ones is done also to me." ' He quoted the Bible in a fierce voice; but then I saw he was crying, tears running down his creased face. 'I am sorry, sir,' he said. 'I was thinking of Michael. A suicide. In Hell. It is so—harsh. But God has decided that is where suicides must go and how can we question God?' Faith and desperation showed equally in his face.