Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  Peel smiled at me. 'Accidents happen on ships, you see, Master Shardlake. Civilians who come on board at nightfall can fall overboard.'

  West bit his lip. 'I've got to go and get that food onto the ship, we haven't enough for tonight—' His eyes widened at the sound of footsteps. He stepped quickly outside, shutting the door and leaving me with Peel. I recognized the purser's voice. 'What are you doing in there?' he asked West. His voice was puzzled, but not suspicious.

  'Checking that last barrel of pork, sir. It's rancid.'

  'The supplies still aren't here. The cook says there's barely enough stockfish left with all the soldiers staying on board overnight. The master says you've to go over to the warehouses now yourself, bring those supplies across at once. Or we'll have nothing and there'll be trouble. Get one of the rowboats going back.'

  'Does it have to be me?'

  'You're the one that's supposed to be negotiating with them. Go now.'

  I heard the purser's footsteps retreating again, then the door slid open. 'You heard that?' West asked.

  'Yes.' Peel gave my shin a vicious kick. 'You're going to be trouble to the end, aren't you?'

  'Listen,' West said urgently. 'You must get off the ship, people will be asking who that boatman is. I'll deal with Shardlake later. I have to go now. After I come back I'll find a time when it's quiet, it usually is for a while about three, then kill him and sling him through one of the gun ports.' West looked down at me. His face was anguished, I realized that unlike Peel he did not relish coldblooded murder. But I knew, too, that he would do it. He was, as Rich had said, a man concerned ultimately with his own honour. He would die for his vanity, and kill for it too.

  * * *

  I WAS LEFT IN total darkness. I heard, faintly, footsteps and murmuring voices from the aftercastle above, an officer's whistle. I thought, Leacon and his men are up there, and Emma. There would be no taking her off now. I lay helpless on the floor. The smell from the barrel behind me was horrible. I felt a savage anger against West and Rich but also against myself. My obsessive quarrying for the truth about Ellen and Hugh had ended here. And Ellen: would West still protect her from Rich after this? Better I had never left London in the first place.

  I heard someone moving about in the cabin next door, but there was no way I could call for attention. I tried banging my feet on the floor, every movement sending sharp twinges of pain into my back, but I was so tightly bound I was able only to make a light scraping noise, too faint to be noticed next door.

  After a while I noticed tiny points of flickering light above and below me. Lamplight, I realized, coming through minute gaps in the planking. Darkness must have fallen.

  The smell from the barrel of rotten meat grew worse than ever in the hot, thick, stinking air. Twice footsteps sounded outside but they passed on. Then I heard bangs and grunts and muttering from outside, I thought from the companionway to the upper deck which I had descended. I wondered if West had fetched the supplies and they were being brought down to the kitchen. I heard a voice. 'Do you want some in the little storeroom, sir?'

  West's voice answered sharply. 'No! Down to the kitchen.'

  The noise went on for a long time, then ceased. Then I heard West's voice again, on an angry note. 'What are you three men doing here?'

  A Devon accent answered, 'We've to stay down here with the cannon tonight, sir, to make sure all is safe lest the ship roll. Orders from the master. There's a full barrel of gunpowder here, sir.'

  There was silence. I could almost feel West, outside, wondering how he might be able to get rid of these men, kill me, and dispose of me. Then, to my relief, I heard his footsteps retreating.

  For hours and hours I lay there, constantly moving my bound body to try and ease the pains that racked it, fearing that West might find some way to get rid of those sailors keeping watch on the gun-deck. All the time the dim pinhole points of light came and went, and muffled voices and occasional whistles sounded from the deck above. I doubt anyone on the Mary Rose slept much that night.

  Chapter Forty-six

  DESPITE THE PAIN, I found myself drifting in and out of an exhausted doze, starting awake from spasms in my back or shoulders. Several times footsteps outside made me start, fearing West was returning, but always they passed on. The noises of the ship quieted for a while, leaving an hour or two of uneasy near silence save for a bell tolling a change of watch. I was desperately thirsty, my mouth as dry as the gag Peel had stuffed into it.

  I dozed again, and found myself dreaming. I was riding into Hampshire with the soldiers, marching along the green, tunnel-like lanes. I was at the head of the company, beside Leacon. Suddenly he turned and said, 'Who's that?' I followed his gaze and realized that some of the soldiers I knew, Carswell and Llewellyn and Pygeon and Sulyard, were carrying a bier on which a body in white grave clothes lay. It was Ellen.

  I started awake. A voice, somewhere, shouting, 'Hurry!' Other noises were audible from above, footsteps and whistles, scurrying feet, and though I had no way of knowing I guessed dawn had come. Someone shouted for crews to move into position; I realized with relief that the guncrews had come down. They would probably be here the rest of the day, preventing West from dealing with me. His mission on shore and the posting of guards by the guns had made him miss the opportunity of dealing with me at dead of night.

  I heard whistles, then a steady rumbling that set the plank floor of my prison vibrating. Then another whistle and a series of clatters. It sounded as though the gun ports had been opened, cannon moved forward and then back. A practice? It must have been, for it happened two or three more times. From the noises, there seemed to be activity all over the ship. I tried to work out what people were saying, but could only catch stray words.

  It was impossible to calculate the passage of time. The room, which had cooled a little in the middle of the night, became very hot again, the stink of rotten meat even stronger. Sometime later I heard distant gunfire, whether from our ships or the French galleys I could not tell. At one point I heard a loud cheer from the decks above, a distinct cry of 'Got the galley!' There was more gunfire, sometimes close, sometimes far away. After one shot I felt a dull reverberation through the deck beneath me, and outside someone shouted, 'Are we hit?' Then I heard a number of men running down the companionway and continuing down to the decks below. I thought I caught the word 'Pump!' My heart raced with panic at the thought of being trapped in the tiny cabin if the ship was hit, but nothing more happened. I felt sick, and despite the pain the effort brought to my bound arms I leaned my head forward as far as I could, for were I to vomit with the gag in my mouth I would choke. Then I heard a knock on the door, a gentle hesitant knock, and a voice calling, 'Matthew?' It was Leacon.

  A wave of relief ran through me. I tried to move, despite the pain that flashed through my body, terrified he would leave. I managed to scrape my bound heels across the floor. 'Matthew?' he called again. He had heard. I scraped my heels again. There was a moment's silence, then a crash as Leacon put his shoulder to the door. Someone outside called 'Hey!'

  'There's someone shut up in here!' A moment later, with a tremendous crash, the flimsy door splintered open and light spilled through, searing my eyes.

  The voice outside called again, 'What in God's name's going on, man?'

  Leacon was staring through the open doorway, unbelievingly. 'There's a civilian in here!' he called back. He smashed his shoulder against the door again, making a gap wide enough to enter. The officer who had called out to him came across and stared in at me, wide-eyed.

  'What the hell—do you know him?'

  'Yes, he is a friend.'

  'God's holy wounds! Who the fuck tied him up in there? Sort it out,' the officer snapped. 'Get him off the gundeck!'

  Leacon stepped into the cabin. He took out his knife, cut my bonds and removed the gag. I lay on my back and groaned, sucking in air, unable for the moment to move.

  'God's death, who did this to you?' Leacon's face was tired, dirty,
streaked with perspiration. He wore his helmet, a padded jack and his officer's sword.

  'Philip West.' My voice came out as a croak. 'I found out—something—that he once did.'

  'You came on board to confront him?' Leacon asked unbelievingly.

  'Yes. What time is it?'

  'Past three o'clock.'

  'Jesu. I've been here since last night. What's happening? I heard gunfire—'

  'The French have brought five of their galleys forward again, but our guns are keeping them at a distance. We hit one. It trailed back to the main fleet, listing. There's no wind, neither our warships nor theirs can move. The French have used some galleys to land on the Isle of Wight. We can see fires. Just as well, if they'd sent them all against us we'd be in worse trouble. If there's a wind when the tide is right we're going to sail out against them.'

  'What's happening outside? I heard the cannon being moved, but no firing.'

  'They're making the guncrews pass the time with practice. This waiting is hard.'

  'Someone shouted something about a pump. I thought we'd been hit—'

  'Some men went below to see, but they don't think it's anything serious.'

  I sighed with relief. 'How did you find me?'

  'I overheard two sailors saying a lawyer boarded last night and went below with West, and the boat left without him. They said you were still on the ship, you never came back up. They said—' he hesitated.

  'I can guess. Hunchbacks bring bad luck. Well, this time their superstition saved me.'

  'I questioned them and they were definite. So I came down to look. I started by going along the gundeck, found that closed door and found you.'

  'Where is West?'

  'Somewhere on board. He went ashore last night to fetch supplies, but half the beer he brought back is bad. My men are parched with thirst. He's probably up in the forecastle with the purser. I told Sir Franklin I was going to try and find out what was happening with the beer.'

  'Thank you. Thank you. You have saved my life. How are the men?'

  'Tired and hungry. More than half are up on the aftercastle, including the section you know. I'm with them. Others have gone to the forecastle decks. But they're resolute, they'll fight and die if it comes.' Pride and pain mingled in his voice. 'I have to get back to them. Can you stand if I help you?'

  I forced myself to my feet, biting my lip against the pain. 'God's death,' Leacon burst out. 'West must be mad, leaving you in here.'

  'He meant to deal with me last night, but by the time he'd finished getting the stores some men had been stationed on guard. He and Richard Rich planned this yesterday. I thought I had made a bargain with Rich. Dear God, I was a fool.'

  He shook his head sadly. 'West is known as a fair, hard-working officer.' He looked at me accusingly. 'You should have told me he was dangerous.'

  'I did not understand how dangerous until yesterday. But Barak said I was using you and he was right. I am sorry.'

  'Where is Jack?'

  'Well on his way to London.' I took a deep breath. 'George, there is something else you will find hard to believe. Something Rich used to get me on the ship—and it's why your company was put on the Mary Rose. Yesterday you took on a new recruit. Hugh Curteys.'

  'Yes,' he answered, sounding defensive. 'He came in the afternoon, he wanted to enlist and I let him. I remembered seeing him that time before, and recalled what a good archer he was. He said his guardian had agreed.'

  I smiled wryly. 'Did you believe that?'

  'All the companies are under-strength. If I had refused he would only have got himself into another.'

  'George, Hugh Curteys is not who he says. He is not even a boy. "He" is a girl, Hugh's sister. She has been impersonating him for years.'

  He looked at me blankly. 'What?'

  'That wretched man Hobbey forced the impersonation on her, for gain. He has admitted it. George, please, take me up to the aftercastle with you. Let me show you.'

  He looked at me dubiously. 'Can you make it up there?'

  'Yes. If you help me. Please.'

  He looked me in the eye. 'You realize you should try and get off this ship, now. There are a few rowboats going between the ships and shore with messages.'

  'I must take Emma Curteys with me. I've got this far, against all my enemies could throw at me.'

  Leacon looked round the little cabin, shook his head again, then said, 'Come.'

  'Thank you again, George.'

  As I moved away, my robe caught on a splinter in the planking of the wall. I threw off the filthy, dusty thing, then tore off my coif too. In my shirt, I followed Leacon from the little cabin. As I went out I heard cannonfire. It sounded close.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, guncrews of half a dozen men stood round the cannon in positions of readiness, in their shirts or bare-chested. The gun ports were open. The air was stifling, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies. Each member of the guncrews stood in a fixed place: one holding a long ladle; another with a wooden linstock and smouldering taper, ready to light the powder; a third with an iron gunball at his feet, ready to load. The master gunners stood behind the guns, watching an officer in doublet and hose, sword at his waist and a whistle round his neck, pacing up and down between the double row of guns. The men lifted tired, strained faces to stare at us. The officer stepped forward, glaring at me. 'Who the hell are you? Who put you in there?'

  'Assistant-Purser West. He—'

  A whistle sounded loudly from the top of the ladder. The officer thrust out his arm to stop us moving. 'Stay back! Wait here!'

  The whistle had been a signal. The officer blew his own whistle and I watched as another practice followed, the crews swinging smoothly into motion, moving with speed and grace. The iron cannon were loaded with shot from the back, the bronze ones, which had been hauled back for the purpose, from chambers at the front. Vents on top of the guns were filled with powder and the bronze guns were rolled forward, the ropes binding them to the walls slackening. The movement made the deck tremble again. Each master gunner placed the taper next to a hole at the back of each gun, into which another man had already mimed pouring in a dob of powder from a flask. Then everyone stopped and waited, still as a tableau for half a minute, until another whistle sounded. The guns were hauled inboard again, and the gunballs removed. Everyone took up their former positions. The officer said, 'Good enough. We'll give them a hot cannonade!' He inclined his head at us. 'Get out, quick!'

  We passed between the guncrews. I remember one man holding a linstock staring at me as I went by. He was shirtless, with a short, scarred, muscular body, a square bearded face. He looked at me as though I were something from another world, an apparition.

  We walked to the ladder. At the bottom Leacon said quietly, 'Can you make it up?'

  'After all I've been through to get here? Yes.'

  I climbed after him, though the effort sent pain slicing through my shoulders. Fresh, salt air wafted down from above, making my head swim for a moment. Leacon reached the deck and helped me up. Again, through the stout netting, I saw the great masts rearing up into the blue sky of another hot July day. The sails were still furled, but on deck and up in the rigging sailors stood in position, ready to release them on command. The deck was more crowded than ever, everyone at battle positions. As below, guncrews had taken up positions of readiness beside the cannon. Half the blinds were open, giving me a view of the Great Harry and the other warships beyond on one side, and on the other the Isle of Wight, where, away in the distance, I saw smoke rising from several large fires.

  I looked along the deck. Archers stood at some of the open blinds, and perhaps fifty pikemen stood together, nine-foot-long half-pikes raised with tips poking through the netting, ready to thrust up at boarders. An officer with a whistle round his neck stood watching; he glanced up at the fighting top in the topmast where lookouts stood, the only ones with a clear view of what was happening.

  Near us, on the opposite side of the deck, three officers wer
e arguing. One I recognized as the purser. The second was Philip West. He looked haggard as he spoke to the third man, a tall officer in his forties, richly dressed. He had a dark brown beard framing a long, frowning face, a pomander as well as a sword at his waist. Round his neck he wore a massive whistle on a long gold chain. He was examining what looked like a tiny sundial. He looked up as West finished speaking.

  'If the beer's bad,' he said impatiently, 'they'll just have to do without.'

  The purser answered, 'The men are parched. And starting to murmur—'

  'Then give them what there is!'

  'They won't drink it, Sir George,' West said impatiently. 'It's bad—'

  Sir George Carew shouted back, 'Don't talk to me like that, knave! God's death, they'd best behave, all of them. The King is watching at South Sea Castle, and he'll have a special eye on this ship!'

  West turned his head away. He saw me then; his mouth fell open in astonishment and horror. I met his gaze grimly. There was nothing he could do to me here. Leacon stared at him too, angrily, then turned to me. 'Let's go up.'

  We mounted via the space under the aftercastle, next to the mainmast, and arrived on the lower aftercastle deck, where helmeted handgunners stood with arquebuses and hailshot pieces propped against the side of the ship. There were no blinds here, only portholes at eye-level for them to stick their weapons through. I had a view through a wide doorway giving on to the walkway between the castles, above the netting. Two sailors in check shirts stood in the doorway leading to the aftercastle, watching as a pair of soldiers carried a long box across the walkway from the forecastle end. On either side of the doorway the two long cannon I had seen from the weatherdeck on my first visit were positioned, angled to fire outwards past the ship through a gap in the rigging, guncrews beside them. The cannon were bronze, beautifully ornate. Looking back, I saw two lines of handgunners, their feet braced, their long, heavy weapons thrust through little portholes. If the Mary Rose grappled with a French ship, they would fire hailshot of metal and stone at the opposing crew.