by C. J. Sansom
My lips brushed a soft hand, there was a whiff of musky scent, and then Queen Catherine was gone, the maid-in-waiting following and closing the door behind them. Warner sat down again, and looked at me quizzically.
'The die is cast then, Matthew.'
'Yes.'
'Let me know what happens immediately the hearing is over, and if you have to go, I can select good men to accompany you.'
'Thank you.'
Warner hesitated, then said, 'I believe you have acted for wronged children before.'
I smiled. 'Did not our Lord say we should suffer the little children?'
Warner inclined his head. I could see he was wondering why I was doing this. I was unsure myself, except that children in peril, and judicial wrong, were two things that touched me closely. As did the wishes of the Queen, for whom I realized I felt more than friendship. Though there was no point in dwelling on that. As I took my leave, I felt a new surge of determination, what Barak sometimes called my obstinacy.
* * *
A FEW HOURS later I crossed the Bedlam yard once again. It had turned misty, deadening the clamour of the city, and warmer.
I had decided to visit Ellen that morning. The thought that she did not even have the formal protection of an order of lunacy had tightened my sense of responsibility even further. Two people had to know the truth: Warden Metwys and the keeper, Edwin Shawms. Metwys I had encountered during the case of my incarcerated client two years before; he was a typical courtier, who made no secret of the fact that the wardenship was for him nothing more than an office of profit. The sums that a man of his status would require to give up secrets were beyond my means. And Keeper Shawms was a tool of Metwys's. So I had decided, perhaps rashly, to see Ellen again, and try once more to find out what I could.
I knocked at the door. It was answered by one of the junior keepers, a heavy-set, slack-jawed young man called Palin. He nodded at me dully. 'I have come to see Ellen Fettiplace,' I said.
'Ah.' He nodded. Then he was pushed aside and Hob stood in the doorway. 'Master Shardlake,' he said in a mock-cheerful tone. 'I had not expected to see you again so soon.'
'I may be going away, I wished to tell Ellen.'
He stood aside to let me enter. The door of the office was open and I saw Shawms sitting behind the desk, writing. A fat, middle-aged man, he always seemed to wear the same slightly stained black jerkin. He looked up as I appeared, his expression stony. We were old adversaries.
'Come to see Ellen, Master Shardlake?' he asked in his growl of a voice.
'I have, sir.'
'Looks like someone's been at your neck,' he said. 'Some poor defendant had enough of being dragged through the courts?'
'No, just some common thieves, after money like all rogues. Thank you for your welcome, Master Shawms. It is always warm greetings at the Bedlam.'
'It's hard work for those who have to labour here. Eh, Hob?' He glanced sharply at Gebons.
'That it is, sir.'
'She is in the parlour. And you can tell her either to get old Emanuel to sign a receipt for his clothes, or sign it on his behalf. Tell her to bring it to me, and my inkpot.'
* * *
IN THE PARLOUR Ellen was doing what she did best, talking reassuringly to a patient, her voice calm and encouraging. It was the tall, thin man I had seen in the courtyard on my previous visit. They sat at the large, scarred old table, a quill and inkpot between them. Ellen was studying a paper, while the new patient clutched a bundle close to his chest and looked across at her apprehensively. As I entered, they both looked up. Ellen's face was transfigured by a delighted smile. The patient, though, dropped his bundle onto the table, stood and waved a frantic hand at me. 'A lawyer!' he shouted. 'They've sent a lawyer, they're going to put me in the Marshalsea prison!'
'No, Emanuel,' Ellen said, grasping his shoulder. 'This man is my friend, Master Shardlake. He has come to see me.' She spoke with pride.
'I've paid all I can, sir,' Emanuel told me, wringing his hands. He backed away, becoming more agitated. 'My business is gone, all I have are the clothes I stand in and those in this bundle. The court allowed me those, they sent them—'
I raised a hand soothingly. 'I have come to see Ellen, sir. I know nothing of you—'
'You deceive me. Even the King deceives me, his silver is not real. I have seen it. All my true silver is taken.'
'Palin,' Ellen called, as Emanuel dodged her grasp and made for the door. The young man entered and caught him firmly. 'Come on, matey,' he said. 'Come and lie down. No one's after you.' He strong-armed a weeping Emanuel away. I turned to Ellen. She was staring at my neck with a horrified look.
'Matthew, what happened?'
'An attempt at robbery. I am quite safe,' I added, making light of it.
'Thank you for coming again. It has scarce been four days.' She smiled once more.
'There was something I wished to speak to you about. But Shawms said something about signing a paper for him.'
'Yes, it is this, a receipt for Master Emanuel's poor belongings. He will not sign it, so I must.' She did so, signing her name with an elegant round hand, proof she had had some education.
She returned the paper and inkpot to Shawms's office, and then I followed her down the long corridor to her chamber. She wore the same light-blue dress as on Wednesday, and I noticed it was threadbare in several places. We passed the chamber of the fat old gentleman who had a delusion that he was the King. His door was half-open, and one of the keepers was replacing the rushes on the stone floor, a rag over his face against the smell, for the old ones, heaped in a corner, stank mightily. The old man sat on a commode, a tattered curtain for a robe and his paper crown on his head. He stared stonily ahead, ignoring the common mortals who passed.
We entered Ellen's room. As usual, she sat on her bed and I stood. 'Poor Master Emanuel,' she said sadly. 'He was a prosperous gentleman until last year, a corn merchant. He accepted payment for a large load in new coins just after the last debasement and made a great loss. He tried to hide it by borrowing and now his business has gone. His wits, too.'
I looked at her. 'You care about the patients, don't you, Ellen?'
'Someone has to care for those nobody else cares for.' She smiled sadly.
'At the moment I am trying to help a young man in that position.' I hesitated. 'And to do so I may have to go away for a short while.'
She sat up at that, an anxious look on her face. 'Where? For how long?'
'To Hampshire, to take some depositions. A week, perhaps a little more.'
'So far? I will be alone.' Her voice became agitated.
'I have a case in the Court of Wards. Representatives often have to travel to where the ward lives.'
'I have heard Wards is an evil place.'
I hesitated, then said quietly, 'It is where orders of lunacy are kept as well.' I drew a deep breath. 'I had to go there on Thursday. About this case. I also—I also asked the clerk if your records were filed there.'
For the first time since I met her Ellen looked at me with anger. Her face seemed to change, somehow flatten and harden. 'How could you?' she asked. 'You had no right to look at papers about me. No right to see those things.' She shrank back, curling her hands into fists in her lap.
'Ellen, I only wished to ensure there was a proper record for you.' A lie.
Her voice rose, cracking and breaking with rage. 'Did you laugh? Did you laugh at what you read?'
'Ellen!' I raised my own voice. 'There was nothing to read! There is no record of you there.'
'What?' she asked, her voice suddenly dropping.
'You are not registered as a lunatic.'
'But I must be.'
I shook my head. 'You are not. You should never have been sent here at all.'
'Will you tell Shawms?' Now her voice was small, frightened. In an instant all her long trust in me seemed to have gone. I raised a hand soothingly.
'Of course not. But, Ellen, they must know already. I would like to protect y
ou, Ellen, help you. But to do that I have to find out how you came here, what happened. Please tell me.'
She did not reply, just looked at me with terrible fear and distrust. Then I said something which showed how little, even then, I understood her. 'Ellen, the way to Portsmouth passes near the Sussex border, near the town of Rolfswood, where I know you come from. Is there anyone I could visit there who might help you?'
At the mention of Rolfswood Ellen's bosom heaved as though she were fighting for breath. Then she began not to shout but to scream hoarsely. 'No! No!' Her face reddened. 'They were so strong!' she shouted. 'I could not move! The sky above—it was so wide—so wide it could swallow me!' The last words were a shriek of pure terror.
'Ellen.' I took a step towards her, but she shrank away, pressing herself into the wall.
'He burned! The poor man, he was all on fire—'
'What?'
Her eyes were glassy now, I realized she was not seeing me, nor the room, but something terrible in the past.
'I saw his skin melt, turn black and crack!' she howled. 'He tried to get up but he fell!'
There was a crash and the door flew open. Shawms entered, furious looking. Behind him were Palin and Hob Gebons. Palin held a coil of rope in one hand.
'God's nails!' Shawms shouted. 'What the hell's going on here?' Ellen stared at them and instantly became quiet, quaking against the wall like a poor mouse trapped in a corner by a cat. Shawms grasped my arm in a meaty hand and pulled me away.
'It's all right,' I said. 'She's only frightened—' And then, when it was far too late, I stretched out a hand to her, but she did not even see me as she shrank away from Hob and Palin. Hob looked at me over his shoulder, fiercely, and shook his head. Shawms jerked my arm again, pulling me to the door. I resisted, and he bent close, speaking quietly and savagely. 'Listen to me, master hunchback. I'm in charge here. You come out of this room, or I'll have Hob and young Palin put you out, none too gently. Want Fettiplace to see that, do you?'
There was nothing I could do. I let him lead me outside, leaving Hob and Palin to stand guard over Ellen as though she were a dangerous animal rather than a desperate, helpless woman. Then Shawms slammed the door on them, pulled the little square viewing window shut, and turned to face me. He was breathing hard.
'What happened in there, lawyer? We heard her screaming from the other end of the building. Her that's normally more quiet and biddable than any of them. What did you say to her, or maybe do to her?' His glare turned into a vicious leer.
'Nothing. I only told her I may be going away for a while.' I had to say as little as possible, for her sake.
'Well, that's the best news I've heard since they put Cromwell's head on a pike.' Shawms's eyes narrowed. 'That's all? I heard her screaming about burning men, the sky swallowing her.'
'She started shouting when I told her I was going, I didn't understand any of it.'
'They'll say any sort of crazy rubbish when they're riled.' Shawms leered again. 'Doesn't like the idea of you going away, does she?'
I heard muttering on the other side of the door, male voices, something being moved. 'What are they doing to her?' I asked.
'Tying her up. It's what happens to those who make scenes. Be grateful it's not the chains.'
'But she's ill—'
'And those who are ill must be restrained. Then perhaps they'll learn to restrain themselves.' He leaned forward. 'This was your fault, Master Shardlake, for coming here so much. I don't think you should come again for a while. If you're going away, maybe now she'll realize you're not going to order your life around her, and that may do her good. We'll keep an eye on her, make sure she does nothing stupid.'
'Maybe it would be easier for you all if she died,' I said quietly.
He shook his head and looked at me seriously. 'That it would not, Master Shardlake. We've kept her safe here nineteen years, and will go on keeping her safe.'
'Safe from what?'
'From herself.' He leaned forward and said, slowly and emphatically, 'The only danger to Ellen Fettiplace is from people stirring her up. It's best for everyone if she stays here, grazing like a contented cow. Go and do your business. Then when you come back, we'll see where we are.'
'Let me look in that room before I go. See that she's all right.'
Shawms hesitated, then knocked on Ellen's door. Gebons opened it. Palin stood by the bed. Ellen's feet were tied, and her hands too. She stared at me and her eyes were no longer blank, they were full of anger again.
'Ellen,' I said. 'I am sorry—'
She did not reply, just stared back, clenching her bound hands. Shawms closed the door. 'There,' he said. 'See the damage you have done.'
Chapter Ten
AGAIN I CLIMBED the stairs to the Court of Wards. Barak was at my side, the Curteys case papers tied in red ribbon under his arm. We passed under the carving of the seal: Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor.
It was a beautiful, warm morning. I had walked down to Westminster, where I had arranged to meet Barak outside the court half an hour before the hearing. I found my assistant leaning against the wall, looking as worried as I had ever seen him.
'Goodryke called again last night,' he said without preliminary.
'By Mary, that man is obsessed.'
'Tammy answered the door, told him I was out. He ordered me to be sure to attend for swearing in in two days' time. If I don't they'll be after me as a deserter.'
'It's time to get you out of London,' I said firmly. 'It doesn't matter where.'
'Even if I go, Goodryke won't let it lie. You can hang for desertion now.'
Before I could reply I felt a touch on my arm. It was Bess Calfhill, dressed in black again. She looked nervous.
'Am I late?' she asked. 'I feared I was lost among all these buildings and alleyways—'
'No, Mistress Calfhill. Come, we should go in. We'll talk afterwards, Jack.'
We climbed the stairs, walked under the coat of arms. I was relieved to see Reverend Broughton sitting on the bench in his cassock. He looked solid, determined. A little further up the bench Vincent Dyrick looked at me and shook his head slightly, as though amazed by the unreasonableness of the whole situation. Next to him young Feaveryear was ordering papers into a large bundle.
'Good morning,' I said to them, as cheerfully as I could for I had been worrying about Barak and Ellen for most of the night.
Bess looked anxiously at Dyrick. 'Where will the case be heard, sir?' she asked quietly. Dyrick nodded at the door to the court. 'In there, madam. But do not worry,' he added scoffingly, 'we will not be there long.'
'Now, Brother Dyrick,' I said reprovingly. 'You are for the defence, you are not allowed to talk to the applicant.'
Dyrick snorted. 'The late applicant's personal representative, you mean.'
Barak approached Feaveryear. 'That's some pile of paperwork you've got.'
'Bigger than yours,' Feaveryear replied in a tone of righteous resentment, staring at the much smaller bundle Barak carried.
'Oh, mine's always big enough for the job in hand. So my wife says, anyway,' Barak retorted. Feaveryear looked scandalized, then pointed a thin finger at the documents Barak carried. 'Those are tied in red ribbon,' he said. 'Papers for Wards require to be tied in black.' He nodded at the black ribbon round his own files.
Dyrick looked up. 'The applicant's bundles are in the wrong colour ribbon?' He stared at me. 'I have heard of cases being thrown out of Wards for lesser errors.'
'Then you must tell the Master,' I replied, cursing myself inwardly for my mistake. I had missed the rule in my haste.
'I will.' Dyrick smiled wolfishly.
The court door opened, and the black-robed usher I had seen in Mylling's office appeared. 'Those concerned in the wardship of Hugh Curteys,' he intoned. I heard a gasp of indrawn breath from Bess. Dyrick rose, his robe rustling as he strode to the door.
* * *
THE COURTROOM was the smallest I had ever entered. It was dimly lit by narrow
arched windows set high in an alcove, the walls undecorated. Sir William Paulet, Master of the Court of Wards, sat at the head of a large table covered with green cloth, a wooden partition behind him blank save for the royal coat of arms. Beside him Mylling sat, his head lowered. The usher showed Dyrick and me to places at the table facing the Master. Barak and Feaveryear sat beside us. Bess Calfhill and Reverend Broughton were waved to seats separated from the body of the court by a low wooden bar.
Paulet wore the red robes of a judge, a gold chain of office round his neck. He was in his sixties, with a lined, hoary face and narrow lips above a short white beard. His large, dark blue eyes conveyed intelligence and authority but no feeling. I knew he had been master of the court since its founding five years before. Before that he had been a judge at the trial of Sir Thomas More, as well as a commander of the royal forces against the northern rebels nine years earlier.
He began by giving me a thin smile. 'Serjeant Shardlake. Master Dyrick I know, but I think you are new to my court.'
'Yes, Master.'
He stared at me for a long moment, frowning. I guessed he was annoyed by the Queen's interference in his court. He nodded brusquely at the papers in front of him. 'These are strange allegations. Please explain the matter.'
Dyrick half rose. 'If I may mention a point of procedure, Master, the papers of the claimant's personal representative are not in the correct form. The ribbon should be black—'
'Do not be silly, Brother Dyrick,' Paulet said quietly. 'Sit down.'
Dyrick flushed but remained on his feet. 'And the papers, such as they are, were filed very late—'
'Sit down.'
Dyrick did so, frowning. He had hoped to earn me at least a reproving word from the judge. Paulet turned back to me. 'Yes, Serjeant Shardlake?'
I made the best of my weak case. Quills scratched as Barak, Feaveryear and Mylling took notes. I explained Michael's long association with the Curteys children, his good character and record as a tutor, and his serious concern about Hugh after his recent visit to Hampshire. I said his mother believed his complaint warranted urgent investigation.